EP: You Really Got Me by the 13th Floor Elevators
1978 Austin Records RE-1
Favorite Track: You Really Got Me
That wasn’t the right snack. I ate the one reserved for Mad Cyril’s birthday. The consciousness-popping snack. I’m in for it now. What a morning. Woke up in yesterday’s frivolity. Sweat slime like the back of my tongue. Shoe curiously destroyed. Then, in the shower, I went to loosen my bladder but let go off my bowels instead. And now, I’m watching my eyesight improve from behind the mask that I call my face.
Damn. The painting of Beets is amazing, her flame-licked curls captured perfectly in slopped carmine pigments. Hair that is dripping thick water onto my carpet. Bony teeth smiling back at me even though her eyes are closed. What color were her pupils again? Pupils? I mean irises. Do I? Do eye? Hahaha, I’m laughing out loud and she laughs back and then I’m remembering this morning shower and now I’m belly over and hers was next to mine only four months ago as I took in her scent every night, processed it, and turned those memories into habits, habits I would take for granted or granite or Grant the president of the United States that she once said I looked like but do I? Do eye? Here I go again…
Well, work is out of the question today, but luckily I already called off. Or was that yesterday? Doesn’t matter much. I’m just going to sit on this couch. Yes, this couch–the only safe couch in the county. No body is going to get my head if I sit here and watch the sunshine turn my window into a Gate to Hell. She bought the couch. It is her couch. We would cuddle and watch Mst3k and throw popcorn at each other. I found one in her bra once and it was the saltest. What did I just think? That is a normal thought for a single man sitting on his couch, right? I mean, we were seeing each other. I’m allowed to eat things that touched her skin? Did I eat her skin? Was it her sweat that made it so salty? I’m getting off this couch. Too many habits, not enough sunshine.
I must get outside. My brain is screaming for outside. Yes. Yes. Not a couch. Not a couch in the entirety of outside. Here I go.
Oh, this is the bathroom. I shouldn’t be in here. It smells like yesterday, which was a mistake, which was filled with remorse about Beets, and a nightclub, and innocent flirtations until I found out she had a boyfriend, and then yesterday dissolved into the day before which was really heavy with the liquid tension, and then the lights all turned auburn and curled and all I could see was her eyes crying paint at me, all over my carpet…
Back on the couch. It may not be sunny torture and full of tanned devils, but at least I can sit down and not smell my sobs. Oh. My. I put my feet up. Damn. That feels good. I can survive this now. Just need my feet up. Brain screaming feet up. Beets loved this couch. Our first was on this couch: kiss, sex, and I love you. I can feel the first kiss in the coils of the couch. I can hear the sex when I pat the cushions. I can taste the I love you every day I wake up, but it is gone before I can go to sleep happy and I must wander in the darkness with no love to guide me.
On my feet again staring at Beets. The whole color palette is wrong. Her forehead was dull, her chin was fiery. The lips in this painting: too many strokes. She never had her eyes closed around me. Just the hair is right.
The last night she was here she said to me, “I’ll be back” and then she never was. For four months. My brain is screaming just the hair is right. I could go outside where the starflames have burned everything in their wake. The summer flowers are already wilting. Beets may be outside. She often wore sundresses and no socks and sometimes I spied hair on her legs but it always was just right.
I left the apartment. The couch. The bathroom stink. The painting that didn’t really capture its subject. Now I’m lost in the dark. So I close my eyes. I shouldn’t have eaten that snack. I doubt I’ll make it to Mad Cyril’s bash now.
But that’s life. Four months is one lifetime. Now, time to start another.