There is a taste left in his mouth, something like a gamey shit and dog meat. The intoxicated retinue did what it normally does not do when it carries off and dismembers a body that far. Namely, it put him back together and left him. The taste and the dryness smack at his lips and in his mouth. He tries to recollect the events that found him face down in the unfamiliar ground, while he so clearly wants to remember falling asleep beside a beautiful body after making love.
I took thyrsus shortly before I arrived at her room and not long after I left mine. The two staffs of chemical joy were still dripping on my tongue in alternating repetition as I shafted myself up that narrow staircase to her door.
The light fell on one-half of his body making him feel unbalanced, shoulder pressed against the outer wall in casual acceptance of the ataxic effect. The lights in the staircase appeared remarkable to him. He almost always came at night and the lights cast artificial haze that follows the length of the wall down each set of stairs and onto each landing. But he could not picture the source of light. They were just the lights that were there, unfolding their artificial sky on each landing and trying to stretch their covetous fingers through the window to the artless and natural sky.
The same globe light cover was in the corner of the second landing. I remember I confused it for a balloon hovering on the ground. Yes, that was the first sign of the quick drug…simple visual hallucinations. I had paused and looked down at the drive and my motorcycle, probably whispering heat from the engine. My body was positioned forward, up the stair, but my head was cocked back at an angle looking out of the window and I smiled. I am not sure what I smiled about except the simplicity of the act in a self-aware and wry sort of way; ; as if trying to pause in the moment – observe, appreciate and capture it – made it the perfect moment that never existed.
He knows without exploring his memory further that there would be no chain of events crashing through the brick wall he clearly sees blocking his memory’s path. It is those ideas which are the easiest to grasp which are the most offensive and final. I know that if I pursue a recollection of how I made it here I will fail. I know this for certain. This knowledge defies justification by its barrier and continuous detours. Its simplicity is that I know something happened to me; some laid-out matters of fact that just were, but although my spear of inquiry should rebound against the boundary and demonstrate that something must lay beyond it, I can only except what is given.
Thus he knows that there is nothing certain but that he is where he is, wherever that is, right now. He is confident that he ingested two staffs of thyrsus then two more with her, admittedly, a high dose. He has a clear image that he lay down with her and the imagination that she transfixed a part of him. He has the curves of her body vaguely mapped out with tactile memory. There are flashes of scenes of two entangled bodies still playing for him on a screen somewhere behind his eyes.
Why do my limbs and joints feel like they were stretched and pulled from my body? Where am I?
On the couch of Procrustes? He is not so sure.