Lucien is as nervous as I've seen him, shivering not at the November chill wafting around the city street but at the gravity of what he's done, but it's not a regret dampening his shoes like rainwater infecting cotton socks, rather a fear that his apartment is inadequate, that he is inadequate, that I will hate living with him and immediately renege on my promise to reside in a place that seems cozy enough from what average praises I've heard of it from Lucien, and it's somewhat disheartening to see that Lucien Carr, a man who never backs down and never steps away from his previous words, is doing both of those things.
I don't say anything to him, though, because I can infer from his bold character that his masculinity is too fragile for the comforting vows of a friend who is inching closer to his heart with each day, and he would probably fire back expeditiously with a philosophical spiel about how we are all going to die one day and how his anxiety means nothing in something as near as our immediate future, and I'm not prepared to deal with that, especially since he expects me to sort through whatever the hell it is that he's rambling about as if it's relevant to what we're discussing at the current moment, because as far as I can tell, Lucien isn't comprised solely by philosophy — he has organs, he has blood, and he has a brain that can fabricate lies to hide it all, but philosophy is only a quadrant of that brain, which means that he has other portions of himself that need to be properly addressed, whether that's by a professional psychologist or his new roommate.
I'm going to enjoy dwelling in the home of this living embodiment of poetry itself -- though I'm not quite sure what it is that he writes, if he's even selected poetry at all -- and I realize that it will be a struggle on both parts, but what writer isn't a mess? There will either be a chaotic double trouble that I will require myself to clean up after each shitstorm, or there will be complete and utter oblivion for some inexplicable reason that haunts us both but is never elucidated, a form of subtle teamwork that we never would've predicted though cherish nonetheless, and it might be terrifying, but everything wonderful in life is always a bit of that.
Why would you be a flower when you can be a storm? Why would you be alluring when you can bring men to their knees? Why would you allow others to bestow qualities upon you when you can snare them yourself? Do not settle for the products of people you do not understand. Drain the juice from existence and not once gag at its bitterness. Be your own set of factors. That is what Lucien and I are striving to achieve by residing in the same cramped quarters for who knows how long, maybe until we crumble like I know we will, because that's inevitable in every relationship, though I shouldn't be spoiling memories that haven't occurred yet, as I'm becoming even more nihilistic than Lucien is.
And Lucien Carr is also beautiful as he promenades across the sidewalk beside me, hands on a swing at the playgrounds of our childhoods, nervousness deteriorating with each second we spend next to each other without a single complaint from anyone about our near future, and we're cooling down from the heat of our miniature existential crisis to the point where Lucien has begun to speak again.
"Just to warn you, the apartment is incorrigibly messy, so watch your step if there are any loose manuscripts or coffee stains. I don't really know what's there presently, as I was rushing out of the house to the library after a prolonged stretch of ebony skies and spite."
I laugh, propelling my arms back and forth with more velocity than before. "It can't be much worse than my basement."
My basement hovers between total pandemonium and just enough clear space to accommodate my constant position near my computer that also reaches towards the bed and the door so that I may escape to seize food and then promptly return to my writing, and that's about all I need for my chambers, but I assume Lucien isn't living in a basement and demands an elongated area for a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a sitting room at the least, and more space means more clutter, whereas my mind at the computer is the only thing in the basement that's cluttered for me.
"That's what they all say," Lucien negates, "and they're all completely wrong."
Who would be there to say that? Lucien is a solitary man, something I noticed when I first conversed with him at the library a few days ago, as he was dog-eared into the shadows of the desk with a book whom he never stowed away to assist the library patron called Allen Ginsberg who is now his new roommate, and I must've been his premier of those, because that level of excitement I witnessed at the diner surrounding living arrangements is typical of those with a penchant for first times.
"What, have you tried living with other people?" I scoff.
Lucien is the person to be adventurous, never quieted by a fear of anything, because if you were to examine his brain, the amygdala would be on a permanent vacation in hell, and even when Lucien daringly descends towards the same destination, he'll stay away from it then, so there's nothing to propose that Lucien has never desired a roommate until now. That, or I'm the special one who eroded the last phobia he sustained in a matter of days.
"No, because I've earned quite the reputation from house guests who proclaim that exact phrase you just did."
This can be resolved, though it's too late for that, but if Lucien is willing to broach my past mistakes, then I can broach his. "Have you even tried asking?"
A churning wave of uneasiness collapses over Lucien's face, a hatred for admitting his faults. "Well...no."
"Then I'm glad to be the first."
Truly, I am, because Lucien's life buzzes by so hastily that I have no idea what the hell is going on. He's done it all, coming back for more if it was worthwhile but never lingering for too long because there are other events in which to partake, and each day he devours more and more of the marrow of life with no remaining land that he hasn't conquered, so to find that the terrain of sharing an apartment with someone is unvanquished is amazing to me, because I could be the first time that he loves.
This first time might not be so glamorous as I had once foreseen, as we're steadily approaching his apartment, which is obviously shielded behind a veneer of elegance when the insides must be atrocious, like pathogens in water that disperse cholera to the unsuspecting victims who live off of its source.
The exterior is lovely, the traditional model of those circumscribing it, with a horizontal array of alabaster panels and navy blue window accessories and navy blue accents and navy blue everywhere that white isn't mandatory, which leads me to believe that Lucien really loves navy blue, as no one else on the street matches his hectic style.
It's evident that Lucien has removed a lick of time from his day to garden, though the bushes planted in front of the house like shoes are still healthier than the bushes of other people his age but not healthy enough to suggest that Lucien hires a rare groundskeeper. To be honest, he probably just dumps chemicals he knows to be fruitful onto the plants and moves on with his busy day of writing and tending to obnoxious library patrons who don't understand the difference between poetry and prose.
I can deal with scraggly bushes. They're no problem, just as long as the rest of the estate is sufficient, because if it's not, then I might be living in the sharp leaves of the greenery rather than the creaking twin sized bed that's in every obsessive writer's home, and I'll soon discover where I'll be staying for as long as Lucien and I share the apartment, as he's twisting the knob to the front door where the game changes forever.
Okay, so I was hopelessly incorrect. From the moment I step inside with my fingers stained ivory by fearful compression, I recognize that this place is much worse than my basement, but it's nothing that a bit of tidying can't fix up, though "a bit" is an inappropriate phrase for this wreck of an apartment.
Lucien endures a tiring life, so I pardon him partially for the misshapen state of his home, but there are still inexcusable details about it that I just cannot ignore, no matter how frantic he is to meet his self-imposed deadline on whatever draft he's penning with those wondrous words of his, like the soda can tabs reclining on a section of his porch that spell out the single word of "why", which I suppose is an interesting question, suitable for him and his philosophy, but lord knows the Homeowners Association will be showing up at his doorstep with a knife to his neck pretty damn soon if he continues to showcase these indecipherable acts.
Conceivably, there will be many more of them, as this is only the beginning, and I'm sure I'll be acquainting myself with someone affiliated with the HOA just so my rowdy friend won't be evicted from our only place to stay besides the dingy basement that can only fit one lonesome writer, not two who add a ruckus when together, but I'd much rather make a ruckus in a wide apartment so the echoes of our screaming only clang against the walls, and this is the perfect place to do it, imitating the dying our minds have been experiencing since we breathed in the chemicals of this earth with the tattoo of blood from our mothers upon fresh skin that his weathered ever since, but all things cease six feet under the dirt, and let's just call this apartment our grave.
~~~~~
A/N: I like the idea of Lucien having a fiery vendetta with the HOA
fallibilism: the belief that no knowledge is definite
~Dickota