Solipsis
sink into myself, diminish into a ball of hatred
I found this piece when I was searching through some unpublished things recently. It’s a story about performing at a friend’s loft party on a visit to LA many years ago. Its sultry shadows and vibe of smoky indistinction between sleep and waking life felt apropos to share at this mid-summer juncture in the northern hemisphere.
Enjoy the sun,
xx
Solipsis
High afternoon sun fills the sky, diffuse and blinding overhead like a glowing, heated blanket. A mirage rises like an enchanted mirror over the barren white sidewalk. I worry about my skin, unaccustomed to this hard relentless light.
The corner deli is like an oasis, imparting a sense of calm: the seltzer I buy in multiple is only an excuse to come visit. Inside, it’s filled with bright, crinkly wrappers and glossy paper; chips, candy, tabloids and cigarettes. Their presence is strangely comforting. At the counter, neon scratch n’ win tickets sit in crisp rows under scuffed Plexiglas. A man is mumbling to the clerk to run his regular lotto numbers.
Next door is a sign shop, its windows hung from top to bottom with words spelled out in neon and LED: NAILS OPEN HERE TATTOOS SUSHI HOT FOOD DELI SORRY WE’RE CLOSED. Large powered fans waft noise and air smelling of fresh hot plastic out into the street.
My mouth is dry and my throat hurts, and words feel like pennies in a bank account slowly draining down to zero. I’m performing tonight and think I should minimize talking to save my voice, but don’t want to do that. I hop into the passenger seat of a friend’s vehicle and talk flows freely as we cruise through unfamiliar neighborhoods. The conversation falls from our lips and in my memory later it feels like silence: voices drained out channels of inner solitude, empty talk running down a stream to an empty river for a time.
As the sun fades we arrive at a deserted block where all of the buildings are fortressed off from the street by some overt protective measure: metal roll gates, iron window bars, or boards nailed to facades. The entrance to our destination is heavy, dented steel, slamming shut into a high-ceilinged lobby lit by dirty fluorescent bulbs. I walk to the top of an echoing staircase and am greeted by a longhaired guy who leads me across the wide loft to examine the sound system.
The space is lit with halogen tubes and feels refreshingly cool. Its concrete floor is painted a warm grey. It smells clean, like latex and dust.
I’m alert but pleasurably drowsy as I set up and test the microphone, gazing over at the far wall to a huge panel of windows to catch a view of the city: a landscape of glowing empty buildings, lines of traffic, and inhospitable sidewalks. Visions of dark techno ruins –
“So Bladerunner,” I say to nobody in particular.
After sound check I make my way into someone's empty bedroom to lie down. In the strange bed I drift off, slipping in and out of consciousness while the sounds of people and music in the room outside grow louder. Half-asleep, I dream short reveries, flashes of color and sensation:
The sound of birds and a faint smell of honeysuckle float in from an open window. A bouquet of orange ranunculus sits on a wooden side table. Some people approach. One of them snaps my picture in front of a giant desert plant. We sit in a restaurant, where I open a fortune that reads, “Everything you touch turns to gold.” Their faces and names, so familiar to me in the dream, melt away.
I wake up and it’s time to play. The room outside seems incongruously busy when I open the door, still sleepy. People glance up unsmilingly as I wade through them.
I take my place behind the microphone, feeling strangers eye me indifferently: a young crowd of thin baby-faced girls and mean-looking guys in shorts and sunglasses. Bathed in blue-green tinted light, I pull on a pair of leather gloves and climb a nearby ladder, carrying the mic with me. I sing a song about wandering:
Lights up when I disappear…
Someone passes through the night leaving death in their wake.
Lights off means I’m still here.
I sink into myself, diminish into a ball of hatred.
Turn the key, make sure it’s locked tight.
The audience looks bored.
Rub it out, and watch it fade white.
I stare at them, stonefaced.
I drew – a line through - who knew – I’m blue…
When the set ends, I move to the side of the stage and remove my gloves. A half dozen figures mill around in the dimness. Everyone else seems to have moved over to the windows to smoke. Friends emerge one and two at a time and I’m relieved when someone suggests dinner nearby.
We spill out into the street. I’m feeling the jet lag or the aftereffects of the sun or the strange vibe of the moonlight, clear and white in a blackened sky streaked with outlines of palm trees flooded by streetlights below. And the air is such a comfortable temperature.