I. Nine Nightly Commencements
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you drink Svedka and see what shows up on your Instagram feed.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you’ve refilled your Svedka for the nth time and watched and sent Vicente and Chris and Scott and maybe Travis seventeen videos in four minutes about such lovely topics ranging from gnome cults to comical takes on mass shootins ‘n’ lootins to one existential meditation on the ubiquity of a rusty kitchen pan.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which the Svedka is doing what it’s supposed to do and you’re all alone on the couch and cackling because each successive video is more unhinged than the last, as if in real time all the creators are in competition, forced to work harder and faster, one-upping each other in this tossed salad of content capitalism just for you.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you’re bargaining with yourself about the amount of Svedkas you’ve had—the last couple pours have been light pours, so this next pour oughta be a heavy pour and then we’re even, pardner, you can call the last five drinks three—while watching ultra-right wing videos on your secret X account.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which the Svedka tastes like holy water and you’re studying a deranged but admittedly arousing video of some half-naked Southern influencer with a pleasing tattoo on her peach-shaped ass, with a cross necklace, ahegao-eyed, while being choked by a hand attached to a corded forearm—all that power presumably belonging to more body offscreen—before the camera pulls out and she starts laughing as the man’s hand throws a cupcake at her face.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which your explore page is a flesh-toned cornucopia of Russian whores who, well, they must be eighteen, surely there are checks and balances on this app, not just addictive sex negative slights of hand, plus that comedian in Austin who does a pretty good Trump, and Leonardo DiCaprio, he’s never far from your explore page; and you’ve had half the handle of Svedka and start thinking maybe this is all some sort of conspiracy, a secret mission to accelerate the collapse of society and radicalize basically decent white men like yourself.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you sigh and start talking to yourself, alright pardner, you sent it, this was a good one, but you really oughta get some sleep and kick the sauce for a couple days at least, lest you really become the degenerate your social media thinks you are, it’s gone too far when you know what a groyper is, plus you’re more likely to see a UFO if you set down your phone and heal from brain rot, but why do lesbians associate UFOs with oppression, wait, before calling it, real quick, make sure you didn’t send any stupid DMs, OK, good boy, yep, just Vicente and Chris.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you’re in bed and trying to avoid looking at the window because you suspect the Shadow People are there, between infinity and the glass, feeding on vulnerability, visible if you only slip and look at them, smiling wide, teeth bared and thorny, that’s when they take you, come on guys, not tonight, you’re surrounded by light, you tell yourself, boundaries are nice, you tell yourself, but also how good does the darkness feel, real good, wait, nevermind, damnit, listen, Shadow Person, wouldya just let me untangle my charger and get some sleep.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you unsuccessfully focus on the words in your book on Christian Mysticism, before browning out and drifting apart in vaster blacker regions of other space, super-essential darkness, where existing is more peaceful, or at least a little restful, well, whatever, you only need a couple hours so you can get through tomorrow, as painlessly as possible, and begin your scrolling—like a poisoned sacrament, more delicious every time—just as you always do, all over again.
- Nine Daily Commencements
Thus commences the portion of the morning in which you lie in bed, six AM, needing to piss, hearing the hiss and whine of the radiator, the trucks and gruff shouting on the street, and think, when exactly did you go to sleep, coulda been one AM, coulda been four, there oughta be a way to cross reference this, but since you don’t text or DM in the deep night, the last signal is still lagging, at least an hour behind when you actually went to sleep, god, drinking is stupid, there’s no point to it, plus you had horrible dreams in which you argued with people you haven’t spoken to in years about things that have never happened in spaces that don’t exist, at which point you force yourself to go piss.
Thus commences the portion of the morning in which you just pissed but somehow have to piss, and are squeezing your eyes shut, trying to imagine an immense and awesome white light at the crown of your cranium, a light which will bless you, bathe you, forgive you, the exact opposite of the Shadow People from last night, and the groypers, yes, let’s take the path of light, and hopefully usher in a couple more hours of sleep.
Thus commences the portion of the morning in which you give up, get up, and have tried (unsuccessfully) to not see any roommates or open any apps before having a cup of coffee and reading a few pages of your book on Christian Mysticism, what should be a simple ritual but always proves impossible, instead you’re back on Instagram, double-checking your DMs from last night, thinking, why are people so close-minded, no one’s an artist, the same people who fight for the Native Americans are the same ones who think what they believe in (Skinwalkers) is dumb.
Thus commences the portion of the morning in which you wash your face, kneading into the flesh, getting deep into it, thinking this may solve the issue of puffiness, desperate to eradicate all visible evidence of your depravity, and take off your shirt but avoid looking at your body, because always it looks more tired and worn down than you’d like, which is something you think female writers in their 30s probably think about a lot, Red Scare, and you know what the solution is, but come on, let’s be realistic, what’s wrong with a drink now and then, anyway you’re taking a few days off.
Thus commences the portion of the morning in which you look over your TO DO list and decide that everything can wait until tomorrow, nothing is that serious, what’s more is tasks are stifling, people do tasks, not artists, people take care of themselves, not artists, and why were you being so dramatic about drinking, you’ll probably drink today, why not, the point of drinking is actually this hangover, when hungover anything feels possible, you may step on the street only to start levitating, or see a celebrity, and become their friend, dehydration is for mystics, which is why you drink, lest things get too fantastic, you have to temper these strange forces, a drink already sounds pretty good if you’re being honest, at least it’s an option, an honest option, which is what you do, you’re honest, unlike everybody else.
Thus commences the portion of the morning in which you feel adrift, aimless, unsure of what to do next, write perhaps, but what’s really the point of writing, what’s really the point of anything, especially when there are groypers, and so many dead loved ones, does anybody remember 9/11, all of them falling, barrels of monkeys, you were talking about drinking, which lends purpose and clarity to almost everything, and is what writers do anyway, isn’t that right, writers drink, it’s romantic, was, because now people are drinking less, all the same shit, Woke Boloney, the left agenda, which is ruining everything, which is exactly why you’ve spent the last half hour scrolling your secret X account.
Thus commences the portion of the morning in which you’ve stepped outside, it’s Manhattan, cold air smacks your face, this wind will probably take care of the puffiness, and there’s energy, culture, lore, you walk in one direction, then another, the creativity is flowing now, this is the stuff, New Yorkers persist, you can feel it on Thompson street, a clear view of One World Trade Center, did you know there’s a she/they now, and a they/she, this isn’t intellectually serious, your father was serious, people need to get off their phones, step outside, a little fresh air will take care of this silliness, and you, you’re not perfect, let’s be fair, you have certain outdated prejudices, you enjoy spending time down the MAGA rabbit hole, when did that happen, but why’d you feel so aimless before, this is a joke, it’s art and it’s everything, but always better when approached with a certain laissez-faire.
Thus commences the portion of the morning which transitions into afternoon, which is an honorable time to start searching for a bar, one which you won’t enter yet, but circle around, walk past once, then once again, like a shark, saving for a few hours later, before attacking it, do you have skin cancer, until then you’ll see people, every minute dozens of ‘um, they’re all the same, but unique too, they all feel pain and have been lonely, or lost in toxic relationships, have difficult family members and deaths, and you would take any one of them by the hand, gently sit them down on the steps, take off their shoes, peel off the socks, damp and crusty, retrieve the water bucket and the soap, and wash their feet.
- Nine Twilit Commencements
Thus commences the portion of the afternoon which becomes early evening and you make your way to the chosen bar, called the United States of Julie Norwitch’s, where you drink beer and read a sentence or two of your book on Christian Mysticism, before giving up and returning to your phone to send pictures of your beer to all your friends who for some reason haven’t started drinking yet, and ask them if they know what a groyper is.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you wonder if this is it, this is life, and if this is life, is this how you really want to be spending your time, and if not, then how else should you be spending it, tell me, and does a life like this wear on you, over time, in ways that make the space between life and death thinner, so by living this way, you are letting the Shadow People in, which is maybe what makes it art, but aside from that, by drinking this way you’re assuring that when you die, there won’t be peace, only groypers left.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you’ve had a couple drinks and they make you glitchy, it’s hard to talk right, this is the transition period, where you transform from the version of yourself who is not a monster, to the version of yourself who is, it’s actually remarkable, the way you’re two people, but not the people that you think.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you’ve transitioned smoothly enough, it’s better now, you could go for hours, it’s just this other you, this waxed mahogany bar, this mustard glistening glass wall, this sickly green cellphone’s glow, and this tall dark figure with the hat towering in the corner by the booths.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you order your last round, then hit the streets, walk around, catch your reflection in passing windows, your shadow collapses and spreads on cobblestone, so much history, the heady fog of the past, bricks upon bricks, layers upon layers, and where are you, you’re not really sure, if you’re more this material, this creaky sac, or the shadow.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you hit your last bar, it’s called Johnny Rasputin’s, everything is blacker here, shapes less defined, bartender shifty, the drinks don’t taste too good, the clientele aggressive and faceless like AI art, your wallet harder to handle, the folds tricky to navigate, crumpled cash on the bar, vomit on the floor, and a stained glass purple window with Christ and his blood pouring into a chalice, and pride, yes, pride somewhat locatable in the musty air, you must kill it, be humble, soldier on and self-flagellate, reach for God, whereas other people are ridiculous.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you’re back at the apartment, looking out the window, and in grey buildings across the street are silhouettes of people, they look just like you, they’re navigating their own kitchens, bedrooms, and screens, and in that way it’s nice to be part of something, a city, but not the one you think, an underbelly, a city of freaks, because these people are walking backwards, have contorted limbs, bile gushing from their mouths, and sticky wings, bleating, bleating, bleating.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you retrieve the Svedka again to sober up, sit down on the couch, and get back to your Instagram and X accounts, ole reliable, I really miss you, and your body is really nothing but an automobile, which takes Svedka to move, translucent gasoline, and the motion is essentially just the motion of navigating your thumb on the cellphone’s screen, in search of groypers.
Thus commences the portion of the evening in which you cease to be, there are only moments, but not this moment, nor the next one, nor the one before, but all moments, the grand total of all these commencements, not a moment actually, but a divine and wretched movement, that will be leftover when all else is gone, because art is not about the art, but more akin to music, and what’s important is that you dance, past this and into ecstasy, everything up to now and afterwards has been ritual, all for a fleeting stab at bliss, it’s happening, you become one with God, but careful piggy, it’s not the God you think.
