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We are all we are all we are all we are all we are all we are all we are all.
Fuck away any sliver that made me feel small, Do you want me anymore Do you want her more Is my tummy too big are my tits too small Freaks Are Good as are we all I don’t care if you’re fucking her and I know you are.
That’s what Free Love is: free enough to not give a fuck.
Freaks Are Good. Love For All. Black is Beautiful blah blah blah but all love’s washed out by the drugs and the druggies don’t look sexy, or happy anymore, how can I condone Oneness with the bum spit on the street guts leak outta mouth no no I need to Be Here Now this is a nice party with nice people Freaks are Good and We Will Change the World.
I know you are fucking her and instead I will OHHHHMMMMM, practice conscious breath. Half my friends are Zen, 50% are anarchists who talk like they want to be black and I don’t really want to be anything but I like the parties. I like not paying rent. I like washing my hair in the sink and I don’t like stealing groceries andandand
I contemplate my toes/stare into the abyss.
I don’t have (real) friends. I hate dropping acid tuning out and coming down/up. Sometimes I wanna go home then I feel like shit having the option. You say I can’t connect to the greater all ‘cause I want to iron my hair, wear heels and eat red meat
What if you AREN’T fucking her? What if you REALLY wanted to discuss Communism in a quiet room? What if Freaks aren’t good but FUCKED and what if it ISN’T okay to be okay what if okay is awful, what if I won’t leave behind anything worthwhile.
Half my friends are going to India. The other half are feminists. Old boys with glass eyes aver it’s the end of the world but for me it’s beginning or maybe it’s the same thing.
“I like your headband.” someone compliments me like it means something like this headband is an extension of Me ‘cause isn’t that what a compliment’s about, really, CONNECT with this reflection of your Self and I know the right thing to say is Thank You but I stare into space and for some reason she stays.
“Are you okay?” she sits. She has little tits, like me. Little tits are in, look at Twiggy, why worry, why do I worry about my tummy my hand’s on it all the time people must think I’m pregnant.
I look at this person who is another Me she could be Chinese or it could be the lighting but that doesn’t matter ‘cause race is over at least that’s what my white friends say so I say,
“Bad trips are the worst.” she says.
I am gripped in beautiful panic. I hallucinate peacock feathers in her hair, maybe they’re already there.
“You’re with him, aren’t you.” (Everyone knows who I’m with, everybody knows “him.”)
“Sort of.” I try smiling. “We don’t OWN each other…”
“Sure.” she tries smiling back.
Silence is only as loud as its awkwardness.
I look at this girl. She’s probably a lesbian. Or a feminist. Or pretending to be both. She probably ran away from her parents like everyone else. Everyone except me.
She asks if she can hug me. It’s the most real thing anyone’s said. The most real any of us have ever been. I don’t think I could ever, ever be as compassionate as this and the hug ends too soon for us both. I excuse myself with Sorrys and Laters and head for the bathroom and I hear you fucking HER in the bedroom SO MUCH FOR COMMUNISM so I ditch the bathroom for the stairs and the stairs become pavement and pavement becomes a payphone.
I dig to the centre of the earth for a nickel.
“Hello, I’m calling to report a disturbance. There’s a terrible party going on and I think they’re smoking MARIJUANA and…”
What if Oneness is bullshit? What if Oneness and Separateness are the same. Maybe there’s nobody here but me an experience all at once limited and illuminating I think I’ve made every wall a window even though you say all I produce is unoriginal ‘cause it’s all been done before and I’m a woman.
Well fuck you. Fuck everyone in your stupid pad and fuck your daddy who pays your rent ‘cause you’re “above” materialism. I want to go back and tell the nice girl to get out but it was her choice to get in.
My head swims, spins. I’m a sinner and I’m okay with it. Freak may be Bad but it’s all I got and that’s better than fake friends, or bad boyfriends.
The sirens signal my exhilaration. I don’t know what I want but I know what I don’t and we’ve all gotta start somewhere, better to start with nothing than too much.
I think of the girl. Her genuine smile. Gentle touch. Maybe in another world we would have kissed and run away to Cuba or wherever, maybe in another world she’s me, but I’m here right now and I’m nothing and no one and I run off the curb and hail a cab I can’t afford and it’s amazing.
I am running off the centre of the world. I am a new beginning.
I am in danger of being extraordinary.
C E Hoffman
C E Hoffman is very alive.