I'm cleaning my room for the first time in months. I haven't been here in longer, as I've been living the life of a college student bumming sleep in friends' dorms for the past semester. It's Christmas Eve and as I ruminate on how this year has turned out, I fold clothes and pile them like Eiffel towers on my bed. I listen to my iPod on shuffle and sing along as I change to moving m stack of books from one corner of the room to the other. Cleaning is just a matter of replacement, I've found. You move things from one undesirable place, usually somewhere inconvenient and open like the bed or the floor, to another undesirable place, usually somewhere already crammed with countless other things that have been moved like drawers and closets fitted with doors ready to precipitate open and spill its contents. And so life goes.
I sigh a deep heavy sigh and twirl around to face my cleaned room. I am met with the unforgivingly cruel glare of Alex from A Clockwork Orange; John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, both intent on shooting me; John Lennon, shaded glasses hiding the expression in his timeless eyes; the old man on the stairway headed to heaven shining his light ahead of him to light both our ways; David and several Madonnas and Modigliani's babe and Chirico's statues and Monet's girls all staring glassily my way; and Gonzo, good old heart-achingly human Gonzo, boring holes into my mind as though searching for that sweet, sweet naively and hopefulness that I cradled six months ago when I was on top of the world and had figured out the secret to happiness.
Which was, I thought, Just Being and going back to the Sixties (not just the Hippie Era, you know, but the whole beauty of the time, the glorious insight to what people really are). And I remember that time when I thought drugs were perhaps a good thing if you used them correctly and goddamn I was going to use them ( correctly) and live a life that everyone only dreamed of but was too chained down by responsibilities to live-- travelling 'round learning philosophy and religion and people and hitchhiking and jumping trains and learning learning learning about the world. Oh, but Gonzo, you knew best, because not several months after those giddy-hearted days, I spiraled into a depression that left me cold, distant, disillusioned, unmercifully apathetic, and completely unable to connect to any other human being. Gone were the days of salvation, of precious Hope, of soaring dreams so common of the adolescent.
Blinking my eyes in the hard light of the lamp, I raise my hands to the ceiling and whisper woefully to the lonesome fan,