Documento Uno

Ivan Solis

4/24/18

it’s 11 pm.

I have eight cigarettes and a half.

one large pan filled with water.

a small cup for water drinking.

two ashtrays.

no alcohol.

boyle’s lighter.

the planes leave in nine hours.

I hold the lighter and try to channel whatever fucked up energy her writing possesses.

steal that shit. sell that shit.

gian said.

try writing a poem. when he gave me the three cigarettes.

try a poem first. then a novel.

ten minutes ago I only had five and a half cigarettes.

my boss gave me three cigarettes. because he knew what was coming.

I’m down two cups of water already.

hydration is key.

all the dead homies said that hydration was key.

first cigarette goes off now.

so what am I writing about?

right now I’m writing about coming off acid, son.

right now I’m writing about fucking shit up, son.

right now I’m writing about the best generation. ever.

the feminists and the parasites.

the speed and the dope.

the scum of the fucking earth, man.

I’m not writing about a person.

I’m not writing about myself. I’m not writing about you.

specifically.

I’m writing about coming off the acid trip and having two joints that I forgot to add to the inventory.

I’m talking about having seven cigarettes and a half to write the novel.

and I’m ready, homie.

I’m fucking lit, son.

you hear that shit?

tick tock. tick tock.

let’s get fucking into it.

sophie gave me the acid eight hours ago.

she said the comedown would be marvelous.

she told me to write on the comedown.

and now I hear gian in the next room.

moving around. always fucking moving around.

looking for drugs.

we’re always looking for drugs, man.

I’m fucking killing the game.

in all respects, really.

pussy game.

writing game.

drug game.

friends game.

tinto de verano game.

ramen noodles game.

keeping in touch with your exes game.

all games. killing it.

it’s not even close.

richi keeps count for me. the last number was sixty seven. but he exaggerates.

do you want to talk about that?

pussy isn’t interesting.

dick never was.

let’s talk about death and love.

I’m five and I’m walking to music class, and the kids, the real kids, are singing.

Everything is full of singing.

…round and round, all through the town.

I’m holding hands with the first crush because even back then I was playing.

The sun is bright and the teacher holds my other hand.

I think, everything is beautiful and everyone i love will die.

tick tock. tick tock.

The thought stops me. I can feel my five year old hand reach reflexively towards my heart. Already out of breath.

The kids keep singing.

…and round and round and round and round and round and round……

does that excuse it? explain it? a little bit?

I was broken coming in, homie.

you can blame the violence/drugs/trauma.

but I was always gonna snort the lines.

which reminds me.

lighting of cigarette numero cinco.

lit that shit like that, son.

anyway, I was always gonna smoke the fucking cigarettes, man. I was always gonna watch all these movies, read all these books, fuck all these bitches, drink all this water.

I’d just been holding it off.

and I did. as much as I could.

I held that motherfucker back.

I’m holding shit back now.

the fucking shit I could tell you, bruh.

buy my fucking book, son. let’s sell the fuck out.

love the man.

fuck the man.

suck the man’s dick, homie.

let’s make racks off these white nerds. make them feel fucking progressive reading your shit, man. make them feel radical.

let’s make them forget about the word appropriation. let’s make this shit hot.

you fucking losers.

libra. and my name is chaaaaaarles.

now. I like a woman that’s quiet.

a woman that carries herself like miss universe.

imagine if I put that shit in a song.

bitches would stop speaking to me.

charles was cold blooded.

leo. and my name is paul.

see, I like all the women of the world.

and if you understand what I’m saying. I want you to take my hand.

paul, we understand what you’re saying.

cancer, and my name is larry.

and I like a woman that loves everything. and everybody.

and you know what ladies?

if you feel that this is you.

then this is what I want you to do.

MMMMhhhhhhhmmmmmHHHH yeeeAAAAAAHHHHHHHH. take my haaaaAAAAAANNNDDDDDD. .

make me take you.

to love land.

let me show you how sweet it could be.

sharing your love.

with larry.

that shit creepy.

just entered minor state of crisis.

realized I had one joint. not two.

fuck.

that means I only have a half joint left.

must use sparingly.

smoke it and eat the roach immediately.

hurley would call this a tragedy.

current inventory is.

four cigarettes.

half a bowl filled with water.

zero joints.

boyle’s lighter.

the cup is gone.

we raw dogging the water in this room, son. we bobbing for fucking apples, bruh.

fuck. I haven’t been back home in a minute.

it occurs to me that gian and I will be old men at the same time.

we’ll approach death simultaneously. he’ll be high. I’ll be a mess.

like I am now.

stupid. like now.

I don’t got cash to make it back home, man.

fucking money man.

I was making so much fucking cash and I was miserable. Which is a cliché but fuck you because it’s true.

I was fucking miserable. I was doing-blow-off-of-tits miserable. I was sending my homies racks.

I was sending my dead homies racks.

I was miserable.

I got ten euros to my name now. if mila ever gives me the change and the book.

she made it look simple. right?

write it. sell it. put this quote on the back.

I’ve been overcomplicating this whole time.

I’ve been overcomplicating my whole life.

came in with the only three things I ever needed.

water. sunlight. pussy.

the essentials.

fuck the money. I’m trying to explain happiness to you ignorant assholes.

I’m trying to make you understand that pussy and money and labels and big publishing houses and the drugs associated with them and most especially love won’t make you fucking happy, man.

I mean…it will.

but for like forty seven days.

it’s all downhill after forty seven days.

gian says,

if it works it works.

but that shit don’t fucking work.

still. lola bought me three grams of pot last week.

and richi filled the fridge with prosciutto and cheeses on monday.

I’m naked in a room with two dying flowers.

writing like the world closes tomorrow.

seventeen people want me dead.

and I feel fucking fantastic.

I’ve been at a fucking villa in italy for a week now.

I’ve been in rome for a year.

the joints stay lit. the wine stays dry. the women stay wet.

When he turned twenty-three the doctors told him he had twenty-five more years to live.

Stage One. Individuals experience mild symptoms that generally do not interfere with daily activities. Tremor and other movement symptoms occur on one side of the body only.

or, you know.

tick tock.

that shit’s boring, son.

what I’m trying to say is that all I know is people dying.

and people getting fucked.

and. and. and.

I’m supposed to write about what I know.

so I can write about two things.

we can all only write about two things.

I hope your two things are dope.

because right now it kind of feels like your world is in my palm.

it kind of feels like I’m about to fuck your shit up.

ya’ll built on faulty foundations, son.

all it took was a couple of bitches marching with their tits out to see your fucking boy’s club for what it was.

all it took was a dying latino to show you pussies how to write like you’re dying.

we’re all dying, bruh.

I just got an expiration date tattooed on my forehead.

I got my right hand stamped at the entrance. got my left nut sucked in a porta potty.

I don’t know shit.

but you don’t either.

you don’t hear the ticking.

at least I know what I’m writing towards.

the planes leave in seven hours.

I gave myself eight, son.

I gave ya’ll a handicap on this bitch.

I gave ya’ll advantage.

aren’t you fucking embarrassed?

I gave myself eight hours, bruh.

and now it’s 12:59 in the motherfucking A-M.

I gave myself eight hours to fuck your shit up.

and all it took was two.

4/24/21

I meet him and everything else feels wack. embarrassing even

a lot of it feels fake. feels like looking for shit

most of y’all feel corny

and everything is happening simultaneously

we’re meeting in his apartment and he asks me what I’m reading and I think it’s a test and I say the bell jar and he says he hasn’t read it and i feel like I failed

the first subject-only email he sends says “hi bich”

we’re in the ethiopian bar and he’s explaining that, essentially, it’s all about style

we’re in sezze and he says “a pan that heats fast burns fast” and we think it’s a metaphor for writing but he burned the eggs

before that we’re hungover in his apartment and he’s saying “this is chelsea” and time is speeding up

we’re driving back from the airport and he lets me play range life three times in a row

after I read the sad-news-email I smoke a thousand joints and cry for a week and my wife tattoos mtvm on my hands and my hands are bleeding but I’m smiling

we’re in his castle with the writers and his husband is explaining italy

in the bathroom, he explains that some drugs are better than others

that life without pain is a drug

we’re meeting in his apartment and I'm smiling just like now

the last subject-only email he sends says “hey man u around this week?”

i’m not around

Ivan lives in Costa Rica.