dis orientation

hard cider: a sweet compromise between beer & wine.

i began with cider at about three in the afternoon, out on the front stoop, reading "harry, revised." pretty much ensconced in mark sarvas' story, i failed to notice that my roommate had returned, and had somehow found a seat for the spare bike hanging up by the back door. that, with lock & key, meant mental diversion. as much as i wanted to know exactly what was going to happen to the unlucky Harry as possible, the sun was extraordinarily warm, and there was enough of a breeze to make me long for the outdoors, for the whip of wind shearing over my face. my chance came with an invitation to go meet E's friends: S & C, nearby. so i stowed the book in my bag along with some other things, and off we went.

portland is a small town. and when i say small, i mean, it's a tiny weird curve of a peninsula, a fingernail clipping, in the atlantic. it is crowned by the east end, munjoy hill, which drops off at the eastern promenade, a street of large, Victorian houses with pillars & huge windows. beyond the promenade (and the small, sandy beach) are the islands, extending for miles: rocky clusters that, from above, look like pieces of the ocean have been torn out of the world.

all of that was to illustrate the fact that we biked about five minutes, maybe less. two? it would have taken ten to fifteen a pied. the exhilaration of the rabbit overtaking the tortoise. so, of course, sped by this new frenzy of motion, i ride home after a cider, try to read a bit more, but am consumed by new distractions. now, i can feel the alcoholic buzz creeping like electric moss over the surface of my brain. on the bike ride, the cuff of my pants was snagged in the frame of the bike. i was ill-dressed for such activity. i needed to change clothes. but what? then my train of thought completely derailed, and with a sigh, set down "harry, revised" again. it took a few minutes to decide, based on this new criteria, what to wear, and as soon as i was dressed, i was tugged out the door, back to the street. i was so tugged that i walked quicker throughout the house, although my steps inside are always sort of rapid and flat-footed.

the dismount is going to be a problem, i can tell. i like everything i do to appear practiced and smooth, even if i myself am not eighty-two percent of the time. i struggle with the bike, unfamiliar with it. i realize as i am unlocking it from the wall of the house something, a little darkling in my brain, about the way i treat things, which communicates into how i treat other people. i realize my discomfort - or at least, cautious hesitance when it comes to this bike, this thing that operates in a way i am familiar with and knowledgeable about, but if it broke, i would have no idea how to fix and it would become another rusty thing left behind somewhere in the trail of apartments. either that, or wait for E to be able to fix it, which means relying on someone else -

the dismount is going to be a problem. i stutter to a halt, applying brake pressure with my left hand, and ramp up onto the curb, tilting a bit to the right, and stepping down. then, i swing off of the bike, right leg rigid and awkward. this is something i am going to need to practice doing. i have very poor balance as it is. when the bike slows down, i find that the front tire wobbles, that i become very bad at steering. i do not ride with confidence: i am unaware of traffic patterns beyond the markings on the road and the lights in front of me.

so: hard cider. then a little whiskey, a red bull, beer .. none of these things are things i should have done last night, due to winter still being stuck in my craw - and quite literally, i do sound hoarse, i am congested and strange-sounding coughs scrape out of my throat. i am finding that my thoughts tend toward the why of alcohol lately. last night, i enjoyed the vague blur that occurred. events, people, conversations, drinks, cigarettes, all phased into one another, bled from bar to bar. i was able to converse (or at least, perceived that i could) comfortably, relaxedly.

eventually, 1AM came around, and i turned into a bit of pickled pumpkin. M. was one of the bars - the darkest one, with the dim pulses of red and blue, with the frizzy-haired bartender who always sees me at my drunkest. M. was dancing on the floor, white shirt unbuttoned halfway down. though he appeared intoxicated, his eyes remained steady. i found it very easy to pick him out on the dance floor, though the alcohol in my system had reached a boiling point. i needed to chill out.

i could hear the sound of tiny things, cracking, in my ears.

a few cheap beers later, i stumbled up the hill to the bike, where i'd left it locked on a NO RIGHT TURN sign. surprisingly, somehow, lit a kretek cigarette (bummed from - or donated to me by - B) pressed play on my iPod and shot off down the empty streets. i became exhilarated. took the long way home. circled around the block, around the deserted playground. sped around the west end until i became disoriented, chose a street that looked promising and sped off down that one. i'd chosen the wrong one, of course, and was headed in the opposite direction of home - although it doesn't matter. everywhere goes everywhere in portland. you can't really get too lost. just keep going, and you'll either see the ocean, the park, the highway, or congress street.

maybe that's why i chose this city to become a drunkard in. you can't really get lost. there's no real danger. you can ride your bike down the streets at two in the morning and there's no one to say different. you can ride your bike drunk down the streets at two in the morning. as long as you watch out for the shiny gloss of police cars gliding their way by, like weird white eels in the inky night.

supposed to rain today. i am watching the clouds roll in.