I claim that I drove (instead of fly) across the country because I wanted to ‘appreciate the physical distance between these two places’ bypassing any cognitive miser-dom associated with LAX > board plane; and viola!, 6 hours later, JFK > exit plane. I oftentimes don’t ‘get it’ you see. This ‘it’ varies from situation to situation. Sometimes it’s a general central idea; at other times, its a wide-scoping, long range truth that I’ve been one of the only people unable to ‘get’. I guess the latter can specifically be attached to certain periods of hardcore drug usage and things of that nature’s lovely cocktail that I’d created with a quart of denial and equal part glee. The former (general, central idea) is less dramatic, more incidental and I’d suppose easily attributed to not paying attention.
I also suppose that this could be correct… though too general and very easily submerged into a sea of ADHD or Dyslexia. …wherein schedule II stimulants are forced upon blahblahblah… I believe I’ve made my psychological diagnostics argument many-a-time before. In short, I believe I may not completely pay attention because I’m just a careless listener, whom, at this point has become easily bored (due to past illicit and current less-illicit/dr prescribed drug-usage coupled with my most current years spent listening to people that love to hear the sound of their own voice ie. Hollywood agents, managers, actors and producers… and their mini-me’s in the form of assistants). …not that I don’t miss Hollywood, the west coast or the business. But I digress.
And so, I felt that it might be better, quality-of-life-wise, if I did it this way. Drive instead of plane-ing it, I mean. It is a grandiose, dramatic and, most importantly, typical move for me, yes. Much harder than need be, possibly impossible, and interpretively unneccessary. But the experience was not for experience’s sake. It’s great to be able to tell a good story… which this could be given the state of my car (which, itself, is yet another story… and has possibly been accounted for, in fragmented bits-and-pieces on this very blog ….oh how meta-). Right there, I have two possibly interesting stories. So, that argument can be made, Mr. Lawyer for the Plaintiff. …which, I guess would be the notion of experience for experience’s sake and a good story. Or my car?
I also have motive. As a sometimes practicing former writer, this sort of thing is probably always bubbling, however muffled or forgotten beneath the surface. This, I suppose would be akin to the genetics argument.
But I plea, not guilty, to these charges. And my reason? Again, I needed something this big to ‘get it’. Because, I knew that I may not.
I’m almost certain that I have.
…lost that child-like wonder… that absolutely exquisite limbo… that comes with limbo. The moments in-between things. When one can be anyone, anything, in any town… anywhere. This complete freedom of not being responsible for yourself… pretending.
And everything… anything’s possible.
That giddy-ness, that complete molecular dissolve into surroundings. I can’t feel it anymore. There is something eery. I can sense some sort of slightly nagging absence of something inherently. …not something enough to be something.
The denial has become anxiety.
And, I hate to say this, but I think it may be the prescription stimulant. It allows me to communicate, to be direct, to actually pull things from my brain, to understand what I’m thinking… to not seem like a slow retard…
But to what affect?
A level of anxiety that presents itself in subtle ways. But a level of anxiety that’s not me, maybe. Because, maybe, I don’t like the entire genetic manipulation-esque function of the drug. Pill. Long-acting. Swallow. Ahh. Good.
Maybe speed should just be speed. Not acceptable in societal norms. Not made long-acting. Not for children.
Because maybe that dulls the senses. And maybe…
…it’s too good. It’s too comfortable a thing to know that a pill will make you okay. It’s just easier to take the thing that makes it possible for you to wake up in the morning and face the world.
AND MAYBE THAT SHOULDN’T BE OKAY.
Because, then, it’s harder to actually deal with anything that actually exists that’s bad.
If I’m shooting up (in my lovely, engorged vein) ice that has been procured by the guy in the car that I see everyday (night), and we have to be discrete and beware of cops (or whatever)… I mean, he is a drug dealer that delivers explicit and illegal substances to me.
…as routine as this will become in my two and a half year daily dance… it’s not routine enough that you don’t (somewhere, atleast, in the back of your comprehension of life) understand that
…the pills are nihilistic. My pills are nihilistic. That is my conclusion.
And nihilism is to bad as searching for bobby fischer is to good in kiko realm.
But, beyond this… what can I possibly do about any of this? (as I no longer have anyone in my corner)… as I’m in a hotel room, in the mid-eastern most part of new mexico… driving away. From the immediate familiar to a familiar that (even after five years, maybe a bit raw… and will always be a bit trapping).
Somebody help me!
Wait, nobody cares.
I have to help myself.