Devolution - a real-life story of drugs, wonderment, and art

Yesterday was surreal; I blame the government. I woke up at two and by the time I left my apartment at six the sun had already set. But it was too early for the streetlights to be on (thank you, City of Evanston), so I rode my bike in the pitch black, shooting around bends--praying that I wouldn't hit an invisible ditch and topple over onto my unprotected head. The cold and the speed of travel ignited my senses, but I was blind and unsure what laid in front of me. I couldn't see the stop sign at the end of the block. I couldn't see the lip of the curb jutting outward at the corner. But I also couldn't see myself--a camera shot of near-black in which I seemingly didn't exist. I was still woozy from the Benadryl I took the night before and I wondered whether I passing through a dream--through another world with a different set of rules. Turning at the corner, I hit the lip and the force of the collision shot upward into my tailbone. I was definitely awake.

Until 9pm I frantically struggled to churn out a paper--a treatise on the American Dream in Jack Kerouac's On the Road--some garbage that I half-believed, but ranked just second on my To-Do List. I had to finish quickly because, that night, my friend and I were to shoot a five-minute film for a competition. I still don't know why. There were no cash prizes to be gained--no renown to be had or even wanted--no reason, except that we thought it would be fun--thought we'd take pleasure in the joy of creation--thought we'd relish the opportunity to beat some pretentious filmmakers at their own game, and to laugh at them afterward--HA,HA,HA--because all their talent and effort didn't mean shit.

When I finally left for my friend's place I shuttled down on my bike--a beeline down Maple Ave--all the while thinking, thinking; my thoughts are most clear when I'm in motion. As I biked, I knew what would happen that night. I knew that our script was just some pretentious crap and that we'd throw it away--that after a bowl or two we wouldn't care anymore and the night would just devolve. We'd be ourselves--be real--because we didn't know any other way. I couldn't picture what would happen, but I knew it would be something worth recording and so, as I rode, I resolved to turn this night into a piece. Into this.

When I arrived the inevitable happened: we smoked a bowl, trashed our script, and decided to do something else. At least I think we did. But maybe it was the drugs acting through our limbs and voices. Maybe it was generations of hopes and expectations bleeding through our DNA and shouting for us to be ourselves. Maybe it wasn't a conscious decision, but something written in the grand scheme of Life--something preordained and determined, decided when matter first exploded in the Big Bang--just another step in the chain reaction. I'm thinking the drugs. But who cares? What's important is what actually happened. Right?

So we went Gonzo--guerrilla filmmaking at its core--a conscious attempt to depict reality on camera--to capture it and bottle it up--ready to sell to the nearest store. But while dicking around we realized how impossible that was, because once on film we ceased to be people--we ceased to exist in the real world. Instead we were movie stars--actors--inhabiting not my friend's apartment on Ridge and Davis, but his apartment in the world of the film. We were no longer friends, but characters who seem to be friends--who suggest through jovial interactions that we like each other. And with the camera on we had to move, move, move to create a plot--to avoid the boredom not fit for screen--dashing and swirling until the recording ends.

And the paradox consumed us, until we stopped trying--until we stopped fighting the wind--until we turned around and let it push us forward--until we ran along with it and decided this was no longer a movie about depicting reality. Now it was a movie about making movies--the process of creation--how we cannot film the world without altering it and how we didn't care-- how we would do it anyway.

"Oh shit, that's meta."

"Totally fucking meta dude."

That word became our catchphrase for the night--repeated at every possible juncture for maximum effect. In truth, we didn't really know what it meant, but we had a general idea--a loose definition--and it was convenient. It fit. And before we gathered the wherewithal to actually look it up online, the camera pulled us out of the room--down the hall, past the clock by the window--its hands silently moving along.

And as we went on the deck for a cigarette, I wondered who was making this film. Was it me? The drugs? My character on screen? And I wondered what force was pushing us along--building toward some apex--something--that I couldn't see now, but would soon--that, when apparent, would seem like it was always there. And as I had this thought and tried to put the camera down, my friend pointed to the next window, shouting

"Holy shit, they're filming too!"

And so the camera scurried to my hand and pulled me to the ledge, directing itself toward the action--another group shooting for the same competition. And we laughed and laughed about how meta this was--about how strange of a scene we'd encountered--about how this almost seemed meant to be.

I stared down at my watch--the hands moving along. What were the odds? That we were here at this exact moment--at this exact time. That we were filming right next door and that they were shooting right at the window--right at the only place we had a clear view. God, were you reaching down and pulling the strings--roping us along as little puppets in Your Eternal Game?

No, I don't believe in You. Fuck off.

But if not God, who and when? Was this night decided at the Big Bang? Was it decided when my ancestors fled Russia and Poland? Was it decided at birth? Maybe it was decided when they gave me the camera. Maybe when we sat down and hammered out our terrible script. Maybe when I popped two Benadryl the night before. But maybe it was decided on the bike ride over. Maybe it was decided when the streetlamps failed to ignite. Maybe it was decided when the glass pressed against our lips--when the lighter SCHWIPPED and the smoke entered our lungs. Or maybe it wasn't decided at all. Maybe things just sometimes devolve.

And my friend wondered what would happen if the other group saw us--if they turned their camera right at ours--an endless loop--a circuit--formed instantly--before any of us realized what we were doing--how goddamn stupid we were being--that it was just a coincidence and nothing more.

But it was for the sake of art and we wanted it--two cameras pointing at each other--a double helix of narratives intertwined at that exact moment.

"Oh shit, that's double meta."

Or maybe infinite meta. We weren't too sure. But the idea--the lull--made sense in our heads and the camera begged me to call out--to get the other group looking and to finish what we conceived. And I tried--I really did--but they were shooting their take and I just couldn't do it--I couldn't ruin their efforts any more than we already had. It just wasn't in my character. Besides, who put the camera in charge?

The scene devolved further and further as the drugs swirled in our heads--the nicotine amplifying the weed amplifying our most childish wants. And so we played the "Penis Game," shouting and shouting--pushing it as far as we could. And we laughed and laughed, realizing that we had ruined their shot anyway. We wondered how much they must hate us now--how much fucking vitriol must be coursing through that room. But who cares? We were having fun and it's not our fault we enjoy this twisted shit. It's just who we are. It's in the script.

And I'm here now--in the present--wondering if I could ever escape--if I could ever be just a person again and not a character--if I could ever be a resident of this world alone. The clock hands turning; my own hands typing, I look up, seeing nothing but the contours and strings. And I wonder when this piece was written--when its shape and content were determined. And I think back to the bike ride--back to the decision--back to when I played God for the night and determined not what would happen, but how. And I wonder why I made that curious choice--why it felt so natural--like the wind blowing at my back, pushing the bike along; directing us--just characters in a piece--actors in a film--bit players in an endless puzzle--until the hands finally stop.

Maybe it was decided when they gave me the camera. Maybe when we sat down and hammered out our terrible script. Maybe when I popped two Benadryl the night before. But maybe it was decided on the bike ride over. Maybe it was decided when the streetlamps failed to ignite. Maybe it was decided when the glass pressed against our lips--when the lighter SCHWIPPED and the smoke entered our lungs. Or maybe it wasn't decided at all. Maybe things just sometimes devolve.