Tarnished Silverlake, CA

After arriving back from a frizzle fry scrilla sucking 9 months in Hawaii and a 3 month landing pad in ticky-tacky Orange County suburban catacomb, I set my sights on a newly gentrified area in LA called Silverlake. The only apartment I could find, that kept me in the city and in affordability was living in this place in Silver Lake, for what seems a Millennia, but only by three months of human time. This is no writers exaggeration for story sport. These are and have been the true times of thick dripping slow molasses motion that has been my many of frightening living situations. Slow, thick, sweet, dark and only consumable in small doses. These experiences to me feel and appear so vivd and have so much depth at every moment, I have trouble really getting it all in and out to grasp whether this can even really have been possible at all!? So much information for one moment, it almost freezes me to shut down. I want to silence it. At times for sanity and contemplation. And others, so I can fully conceive and convey all matters appropriately, without dribbling off the plate.

   The Silverlake house (apartment?) was really a basement they had cemented in.  There were no windows, heat or electricity, though I was able to run a chord through from the house.  There was an array of new tenants down the "hall" (particle board make-shift accidental funhouse inspired hallway) who were always male and would always ask to bum cigarettes.   A multitude of people that would live there were homeless and I did sleep with mace near my bed.   I had to walk down on the side of the mountain on cobble stone rocks that broke their path as they neared my “quarters” at the bottom corner of the house.  There were no path lights to illuminate the way down into my cave. 

When I met the owner, I could see that this was a foul situation, but manageable. He was weak with a meth addiction combined with acute psyrosys of the liver. His body stood tall at 6’ and his arms and legs looked like fried chicken wings, yet his stomach was extended at 7 months pregnant. This man wouldn’t win a fight with me. We both knew it. All he wanted was my money every month for party. Sooner than later I learned that John was an ex male prostitute from New York City. His last lover had passed from AIDs and he inherited the house. It was originally a very lovely home tucked on the hillside of SilverLake, a forest tree filled mountainside nook in East LA that the “fags founded, before the faggots came in and ruined it…” as John would put it. He was right in some regard. It became ridiculously gentrified and unaffordable, as what commonly follows the gentrification-neuterization process. He had sectioned off the house piece by piece over the years to pay for the S&M parties that came with favors. I had to walk through his “bedroom” to get to the bathroom and the kitchen.
Some times, I would come home from work and interrupt a party. They had leather fuck swings with chains hanging from the ceiling and the usual yellow dust lined out on plates. They would politely cup their balls as I walked through, very politely trying to discuss politics, in a friendly humor. When I would shower, the shower curtain would blow in and I would squeeze to the wall so it wouldn’t touch me, especially the blood stained bits…but toiled!…was the wall better?! Constant internal rationalizing, “lather…ooo…don’t touch…tippy toes…Shaving was an act of ballerina acrobatics and I still today owe my flexibility to it. In fact, there were nights I would pee (okay, number two too…just sometimes!!!) outside (like a dog) rather that meet the company lurking behind the door.

Johns mouth whistled when he spoke and really only had one bottom tooth showing in his rotten disfigured mouth. He would slur his politics and disorganized thought process. Moving through topics that jumped from stone to stark lacking cognizable relevance. Though, just to keep you hangared in, sprinkles of logic would dust the top of that doughnut enough to give you hope and solidify that he wasn't a complete moron. You can see in his eyes kindness that wriggled restlessly and truthfully. Not only does he mean well, but he does his best to do well...in his own way. (This experience was so vivid I fear I may lack the complete capability to properly convey it).

    Though the situation was unpleasant, I reminded myself to see the human in there.  I think that’s why they treated me with respect.  John’s face showed much empathy through his own dark and troubled mind.  You can see the wanting and need for love and exception that he attempted to hide, through both shame and an inner-knowing that he probably didn’t deserve it anymore.  His "bedroom" always smelled of dirt and death.  A musty smell of age and long drug use.  I would plug my nose from the inside so others can’t see my disdain, a trick I have taken with me to many cities over the years.  I don’t mean to hurt people with my perception or point out the putrid slipping existence in their lost and forgotten lives.  They are full aware of who they are and how cruel would it be to make it obvious?  This is not my job to let them know how painfully ascertainable it is that they are dying.  They know.  All they wanted was a little peace and happiness before they go.  Why not humor them?  John even wrote a book defending his unapologetic attitude about his meth addiction titled “Tina: That Crazy Party Bitch”(or something close to that).  I’m sure he’s dead now, but he would be proud I told you, not ashamed.  And good for him.  If your going to do something, have some fucking balls and stand behind it, even if they are shrinking bags of dust.  Shit, I hope I still have the signed copy…I’m sure Casey does.  

  Occasionally heroine Casey who lived upstairs in the same sectioned off house, would invite me up to his apartment for wine (for me) and heroine (for he).   He had the whole house packed so tight with musical instruments that the furniture was now compromised.  You just had to laugh, it was just one big circus.  What was I going to do?  Just laugh, really, I couldn't stop smiling during all of this.  It was just so ridiculous it could only be funny.  Although, there were some nights when I would have to question God and order...what the fuck was I doing here?   Casey was my age and a musician from the same area I grew in, surprisingly.  He was also an audio engineer for a major production company, we will not mention.  His last day on the job he admitted to his boss, with a grin on his face, “I’m a heroine addict!” And they regretfully let him go, but they would have kept him on if it weren’t illegal.  They loved him there so much, truly, he was such a charming, brilliant man.  Don’t let the addiction fool you.  He knew what he was doing was wrong.  Didn’t care.  That was his journey at the time.  He also was one of the few men I knew personally that could play every instrument well.  
   We would sit side ways on couches and passing ciggy’s from behind.  We had to get up to ash in the ash tray, which was on a side table across the room, caddy corner from behind the couches and one of the piano's.  Madness. It was all madness.   If anyone would question that my last name doesn’t ever so suit my journey, I’ll claim them equally as mad.  (Madden, indeed).
   
  In living there, I almost regret my obsession with The Labrynth as a child (and teenager…lets be honest, now) because it appeared I had conjured the whole movie into my existence.   I was living in the goblin city, with goblins and ghouls widled down by the wreck of the world.  I was conversing with whack-heads who were trying to “always have a good time” and requisitioning  to "remove my head" or at least take it off  its conscienceness.   Bag ladies in Skid Row were real avatars of their puppet interpretations and not much different than their counter part Beverly Hills shop owners trying to convince you to collect junk to replace your loss of spirit and childhood wonderment, only to end up collecting more on the outside as each inner cell vanishes.  So many little worms meaning well but giving you bad directions while waisting your time and heroine David Bowie’s living up stairs in his rock and roll world dream, trying to convince me that..”If you just let me rule you, I’ll be your slave..”

  I found myself reaching out to others, friends, mostly, hoping someone, at some point would give me relief.  But as always  and it is true for all (most anyway) we are really the only ones who can help ourselves, in the end.   And I'm glad I did because the skills I learned and the experiences I had will always be mine.  
 
 What was I doing here, I would wonder?  My best friend had just graduated from law school and is now running her own firm.  My cousin was in law school and most of my friends were buying property. 

I kept hearing the beckoning of a song by a punk band, ECP that begins with the sentence: “Fuck off and die”. Precisely.
"Whatever", I would tell myself, "I’m going to wash all the negative out after I leave. It'll be over soon...right?"