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Tale of the Glass Faces pt 2 before/after I tend not to throw stones when surrounded by glass faces and the slithering of leathery feet across the floor. People, indeed, I tried to admire and respect, laid bare by their falsities and insecurities, only the more apparent that they are more willing to tear others down then grow themselves. Their deniability is plausible. Indeed, it is complete, and all they need. All I can do is sigh. Some people wonder why I do drugs. Others get to know me. I have to say I have certainly cut back. My life is not nearly the pharmeceutical fiesta it once was. And I truly think that drug abuse is okay. For some people. For others, it turns them into pigs. In the past, I did drugs to hide. There is no place to hide anymore. Anyway, as I saw my friends mill about having a grand party, I sat alone. Tending the fire. Occaisonally, people would come along and engage me. I was courteous. The patterns were all clear. Their self-involvement. Their lies and schemes. Two of the brothers whom I've held dear, their flaws are the worst to see. The selfishness. The insecurity. The complete lack of compassion or charity. What once were glittering orbs are now the dead eyes of a shark. Black. Souless. Their fingerprints over anything and everything involving me. The minor betrayals day after day that add up to so much landfill over time. I wanted to believe. The good hearts. The strength of character. Only existed in my mind. The punk rock blared through my house. This is fine. I like punk. I also like a lot of other things, being musically inclined. They are rabid. They define themselves by the music they listen to, forging an identity from a stolen soul, I only hope the corporate masters didn't sell it to you first. Drugs flowed throught the house. Or rather, specifically, in back rooms and clandestine meetings. People lined up like pigs at the trough. It disgusted me. Gross, would be the word of choice. I sat and tended the fire. A slow hispanic kid, sometime criminal sat next to me, and smoked some pot with me. He meant well, but conversation was difficult. I snuck into a back room to see my friend from LA. I needed...a break. A break from the examination. From the people. From the sounds of slithering eating up my ears. He was busy doing monumental amounts of drugs. Eyes like a shark. a:"Hey." la:"What's up? What do you want?" a:"Just wanted to smoke a ciggarette." LA turns on me with an accusatory posture, his body tense, he look demeaning. LA:"Is that ALL you want?" Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it was an invitation. Sure as hell was more tense than any other invitation to anything I've received. Who knows, he was doing drugs idly as he sat around all afternoon. I looked him dead in the eye, unblinking. a:"Yeah." It was jolting. His face off in shards of glass. The greedy addict showing his guise. The insecurities. The bravado that belied the truth. The constant need to be heard, to be the center of conversation. Figuratively stepping on my toes, no matter what I did. Always. The lies. The exaggerations. The attempts to bully me, until he saw me for who I am. The bullying of the weaker around. I felt sad and agitated. I went and sat by the poker table. Guys playing cards and screwing each other blind. Games of seven card that seem to be made up on the spot. I glanced at the time, and felt more agitated then ever. I left and went to my local bar. A bartender who works there is the apple of my eye currently, and I am tongue tied around her. She has excellent taste in music. I sat down, and she came from the back. I ordered and became aware that all the guys at the bar were currently there to drool over her, and resented my presence. The bar lights were low. The music cool and soothing. She walked down the bar, and we caught eyes, both smiling genuine smiles. I think she likes me. She always calls me darling, or sweetheart, or honey. I eat it up. And when I touch her, she touches me reciprocally immediately. I wonder how long until this crush fades. She asked me if I was all right, and I told her what was going on at my house. We chatted for a bit. It felt great. Two o'clock came, and I got up to leave. She was right behind me. I turned and put my hand on her arm. "Thanks, sweetie. This was just what I needed." She watched me as I left, and the guys around me shook their heads at me. They hate me. I must be doing well. Back at the house, the party was degenerating. The card players were crooked as hell. I had my second wind, but the level of disgust in me was rising like a bile tide. Eventually there were more people in seclusion than in evidence. The lecherous wives. The cheaters and finks. And the conversations that swirled around me. I caught so many of them that were directly about me. As if I wasn't there. The pretention. The deception. The lies in shark like eyes. Eventually the partied died, until it was me and three skinheads I didn't know, sitting around, with everyone in seclusion. Decent guys, I think they are no longer "practicing" hate mongers. They shuffled away from me. I bothered them for some reason. I got ready for bed. When I got up at six, the pigs were still around the trough. Their lies weaved a carpet at their feet. Their deceptions and self deceptions furiously defended. And I reflected it is much the same everywhere I go. Its just that friends will always show you their face.
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