Monthly Archives: October 2009

The Swinging Moods of Schisty McSchisterton

I don’t know if there is supposed to be a “c” anywhere in that title… but…

…this is bullshit.

I tried it on. I did. but…

the blog (ing) thing…

I just…

it’s just…

….like meth.

But nowhere near as effective or awesomely fuckin’ ahhhhhh….

I think I gave it a chance. A sustained go-around. I don’t know. All of the sudden… it has re-become was it was. Not devolve… it’s not devolution, more… a realization of a freeze… or non-movement.

Or, better, lateral bend and jumps and squats…

I’ve been in the same mundane, retarded place for-ev-er!

Just the blinking lights in front of my face have changed in pattern, swirled a bit differently. so much so that it seems like growth.

Fuck.

Nietzsche would roll over in his grave.

So… game over.

Not that anyone reads this…. cares… or what-the-fuck-ever.

I censor when I need not censor because it’s in ‘public view’. What the fuck is that? That’s the anti- heal.

Information is key. Giving up information makes one weaker and weaker. Or so I abide.

So, I’m just going to get over that whole thing. Because no longer will I write anything that isn’t as accurate as it can be… as me as I’m able to distill.

Writing was my only pure form of expression… language… at certain points in life. And now I rape it with metaphysics… too many layers… too much. Rape it hard… so hard and so frequently that I feel that it’s okay and, more than okay… normal.

There’s something wrong with that.

I am doomed to continue this pattern of lateral mundanity.

Lets make the same mistakes over and over kiko!!!

Fuck that!

Later proverbial skater as the folks at 23rd street hang their hats.

 

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In the land of dreams… pt I

Okay, I may have some sort of imbalance. Chemical or animal or something.

To elaborate…

Somehow, I find myself walking down a public sort of street, but it seems underground a bit or in a warehouse… though it isn’t. It’s a bit dark…. gritty. But not in a dirty way… in a cool, semi-industrial blue way. The shadows a saturated black. And not sad at all. Not even moody. Refreshingly comfortable in a non-committal way. I wear a cool windbreaker or something of that sort and walk all self-contained like one walks around in New York. Definitely have a messenger bag. A sophisticated, refined but ultra true rapscallionism.

I pass a dock-worker sort of fellow (blue-collar). He is behind one of those large, wheeled, metallic devices… a very large hand-cart, I believe would be the best description. On this very large hand-cart very industrial-sized flour bag/ice bag-esque bags. They are the size of an industrial sized flour bag and sort of flat as well. But they are clear plastic and hold a crystalline substance inside. Just stacked upon each other. Maybe sixteen of these bags…

The dock-worker yells passed me to dock worker #2… something to the effect of “don’t take any of these”. A warning definitely. We all know they are a shipment of illegal drugs.

And I somehow know it is meth… or rather, the thing that I want. I don’t think my mind even differentiates what this substance is. It doesn’t need to because somehow it’s probably symbolic of something much larger than meth or even drugs. It is just “what I want”. The all elusive thing that I want.

I think, and though these are huge bags, and there is the impending doom of the consequence of taking one, I hesitate in my gait, my brain hiccups and I side-step back and sort of grab one with me. I run a bit, but know that I am seen.

By this time, the cops, on foot, have been chasing me. They haven’t seen me, however… I mean, specifically me, I’m sure of this. They just give chase to the individual who has swiped the bag. I don’t remember the sensation of running, but I appear to be sort of concealed by turning a corner. Then somehow, I am running toward them. A medium build to thin black woman (you know that if she wasn’t wearing the cop uniform, that she’d be attractive)… like a cop from a procedural on CBS or something, I think and cop #2 in the background. I drop the bag by some Indian kid and run passed. They never suspect a thing.

Then, I remember that I have some left somewhere. This doesn’t make sense, of course. I guess it just means that its meth.

My surroundings take on sort of a Möbius Strip existence at this point. The aforementioned jammed-packed action went down ‘underneath’ somewhere. A darker place, generally. When I remembered that I had a bit of this drug left, with me, in my possession, somewhere in a general home sort of place. I walked up the Möbius Strip and appeared into the fresh outdoors. Like an open skate park. This place was somehow “my place”. Not my home, in the literal sense because it wasn’t a structure. But I walked along the Möbius Strip and found myself at home in the sun shine.

I’m not sure where the crystalline substance in the bag came from. But I feel like it came from my bag… the bag that I had been carrying with me the entire time. I’m not sure why I needed to walk toward my home up the Möbius Strip. I know it was a left over portion of a gram of meth in a clear baggy. Or atleast that’s what it looked like. Very familiar anyway.

Maybe I all just made it the same thing. What, with the stuff on carts and all. Maybe my brain just needed to reconcile. And the cognitive miser I am… that’s what I do. Another strange thing about this… I remember having no desire to actually do the substance in the bags on the carts. I suppose I always have a general notion that having drugs is better than not. Whatever sense that makes.

In any event, somewhere along the line… I suppose that I do the drug. I don’t remember actually ingesting it… I know that I don’t shoot it. That would be another dream altogether. ha! I mean, I guess this part is maybe irrelevant. I end up in this place that maybe further down the Möbius Strip possibly again, where the place starts to bend and twist. It’s darker again, but an open-ish place. There are possibly 16 people or so sitting in nice columns/rows. Indian-style. A nice accepting pseudo hippy sort of vibe.

They are all high some how… but in a hallucinogenic psychonaut way wherein they are searching for meaning or something. The way I determined they were high is that, in front of each person, there was a sort of computerized square. A seismographic cube of sorts. One could tell how high or not they were or how far they had gone to reach answers or be enlightened or whatever one is supposed to do by the movement in and around the box. Some pulsated some contained pulsating waves… always some color changing. Strange stuff. But at the time, nice and comfortable.

I realized that this was what I was on. And again, it seemed familiar though I didn’t have a definition for it. …only the, “oh, okay… I know what this is. I’ve done this before”. I suppose that I didn’t need a definition for it.

Upon waking (not that I woke then… ohhh, there is still soooo much more, my friend), the closest thing I could liken it to was a non-typical hallucinogen: K. But, again, this is probably irrelevant.

But, at this point, I wasn’t even high… feeling anything, what have you.

And FUUUUUCKKK… seriously?! that is when the real games begin…

…to be continued.

 

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Reality

My perception of reality is distorted, just a little bit, I think. Not in a cool, quirky way… not in a sad veiled way…

A neutral/mostly undetectable/non-affecting way.

I think that’s it.

the follow

To refresh the palate, like ginger is supposed to do during a sushi dinner. Though, honestly, I never eat the ginger as it’s crazy stringent and thus, not a pleasurable experience… so I can’t be sure that it actually cleanses anything.

Very much like this. The Follow is absolutely, can’t-deal, kick-ass. Wong Kar Wai and Clive Owen. And the fact that Clive Owen can be one of those actors in a Wong Kar Wai film. And the fact that I interned at The Shooting Gallery in NY (I guess in between my long drug jags… and possiblydefinitely before the needle). It’s all so reminiscent and mildly adorable as interpreted by this version of myself staring downward at that version of myself in a moment partially frozen in time.

But my point… much like ginger, The Follow, only in name (given by the author and the author that doesn’t dig the ginger, at that) cleanses the palate. It’s actually the anti-ginger (if ginger does what its said to do), now that I think about it.

…or maybe not. …who knows? My metaphors can only go so far in the daytime.

It’s real function?…

…That its AWESOME! In the most lackadaisical, non-intrusive way.

Yet another interlude brought you by the folks at 23rd street.

 

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unique IV’s

I mean, what do I have to do to get people to read this thing? I’m being as honest as possible. Like, dull knife to the chest dragging down with a compensational force… or whatever. Lips sucking and sucking and drinking… sooo thirsty… soooo sooo thirsty from my heart. Like, all pink and dehydrated wrinkle waiting for the blood to pump through again.

and this is the metaphor for my entire being.

but the thing remains. just because I give it my all…. just because I’m as honest as I can be… just because I feel that I’m giving as much as I think that I possibly can… doesn’t mean that others can detect it any more… or less than when I was below the radar…. than when I thought that all my information was the only thing I had. parts of my body that I would give away or something. All the thoughts, feelings and ideas kept within me because they were my only weapon.

Information is power. And, for the longest time, this was the only power I could wield.

And so, whatever… what the fuck… I’ve given pieces and pieces and pieces. Everything. I’ve done what I think is the thing that I’ve always prevented. I’m giving up ‘power’.

But what I’m realizing, more and more, is that no one cares. Not in this like cyncial post-apacolyptic way… just, I realize that all of the things that I’ve held… grasped so tightly… held so near and endowed with so much importance and power really is nothing at all.

People do it all the time. …say how they feel and all. The earth doesn’t come to an end. The person they speak to doesn’t all of the sudden have all-access power over them. Moreover, frequently, the person to whom they speak doesn’t catch the candid, honest nature of what is being said to them anyway.

It’s like signals being given off. Signals that are so powerful that you believe they may destroy you. But you realize that any signal, regardless of it’s importance, can only be as effective or utilized as the receptacle receptive.

whatever.

this whole thing started out as “unique IV’s”. I suppose I digress.

I was just going to say that I’ve been away because I’m engrossed in my quest to obtain enough unique IV’s in order to crack surrounding WEP. ie… I don’t want to pay the RussianWHORE for shoddy, intermittent, crappy internet service anymore. Thus, I’m trying to learn. It’s all very strange.

I totally digress.

always.

 

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American Idiot

This is awesome. Green Day is awesome. Musicals are awesome.

I dig. You know, Green Day was there in my laconic suburban ennui, riding around in cars to the closest 7-11 and Tower Records (to stuff as many CD’s in my cute cargo pants and walk out undetected… until I was caught, that is). Long days and apathetic nights, suicidal summers and loud local bands blasting my ear drums to oblivion.

I mean, I’m not all Urban Metropolitan New York. 😛

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AA [Anonymous Anonymous]

So this meebo box you may see toward the bottom of the right side of this page o crack commonly referred to as the 23rd street chronicles… gives you, the reader, a completely anonymous way to rap with me, the author.

… if you so dig and all.

I dare you.

I’ll probably respond back, in real-time, with some sort of semi-lucid gibberish that passes for insanity… but I’m awesome. sometimes, anyway.

It’s all anonymous-like. And thus, the only fleeting connection (the word “anonymous” and it’s loose association with > general support groups by way of NA, AA, whatever else-A) that I will ever have with the concept of recovery.

Or else, that’s the general consensus right now.

Bear in mind, I have no answers. But I’m awesome. And it’s free. And anonymous.

…wait, did I mention, it’s anonymous. 😛

Awaiting your thoughts with bated-heart. Catch you on the flip side!

signed,
anonymous

 

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