Category Archives: Free

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

This blog has, recently, become less specifically ‘drugs’ and more ‘whatever idea or soundbyte sort of makes sense and somewhat justifies my existence at this point in time or justifies from a moment in the past my existence now’.

And I remember. Buzzing about Manhattan. Between Job #1 and Job #2 [which were technically the same job in different locations] or Job #1 and School… or Job #1.5 and the crack shack [home]. This time that exists in between… that one has to ‘kill’ we spent in the Barnes and Noble on 6th Avenue. The Barnes and Noble that doesn’t exist anymore. Shooting up in the bathroom, then finding a calm but buzzing about internally.

See, I was still a writer then… and as I writer, I read. I DEVOURED books. And in the air-conditioning, in the Barnes and Noble on 23rd Street and 6th Avenue,  I killed the time that actual life wasn’t fit to kill. Walking amongst the stacks, opening the books, on a quest to find something that was good enough to be read… but really, on a quest to find something, anything [like now] that either makes sense or somewhat justifies my existence.

In so doing, I came upon, “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”. I felt above it or just like, ‘no’, somehow. I think it was written by a 13 year-old or something and it was probably really meta-. A young would-be writer writing about writing with words in a book that he’s written. I opted instead for “Well” by Matthew McIntosh. A novel told in a stream of consciousness manner about the sadness of the pacific northwest [one or two pages stained with a mixture of a squirt of blood/saline/some drug]. Anyway, I probably really just felt angry and resentful that this sort of thing (“Perks…”) could be on the shelf all popular and shit. …that this sort of watered-down bullshit could pass these days as meaningful. But mostly, I probably was jealous.

Anyway, so now, it’s a film. A thousand years later.

And so a million years later. And Ezra Miller is my boy… Logan Lerman & a short-haired Emma Watson, not bad, either. It reminds me of “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh” in tone [the book, not the movie]. …yes, there was a film.

And well, I can never not fall in love with a coming-of-age story.

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unsustainable

Not like sustainable fuckin’ local ass food.

I mean, I’m all for it actually, but that’s not what this is.

This will be short and to the point. One thing has become clear to your author:

We, at 23rd Street, have been living an unsustainable existence. We can’t keep on going on like this. Nothing (we wouldn’t say good) but productive will come from it.

Most of these posts are the same. Touch on the same concepts and fears and blahblahblah-rapateta. They blur. They sometimes illuminate. But it’s repetition… repetitive. The same thing over and over and over again.

And sometimes… just sometimes… in a minute fragment or a secret-hidden sentence, a point is made that we, at 23rd can actually say is insightful. Whether we listen or choose to act on it or not, is another story.

Because, you see, this isn’t about you or a “community” of drug users that are in recovery or not. This is the most selfish of endeavors.

…and with that, maybe we’ve alienated the 1 1/2 individuals that actually read this.

But we, at 23rd Street, are trying, somehow, to save ourselves.

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still staring at the hexagons

It was a Wednesday. Mid-week. I am best, theoretically-speaking, mid-week. I have a couple of hours to kill, so I decide to do what I’d always done when I find that I need to kill time. I walk approximately 30 blocks down Madison Avenue toward 23rd street, stopping by a Starbucks here and there to end up at Madison Square Park. I sit on the bench. And stare at the hexagons on the ground.

It all sounds very easy.

I had done this a million times before. Different parks. Usually, it was Union Square Park. Yes, so I had done this a million times before… until it was second nature… but this is now. I hadn’t killed time in this manner in what seems like a million years.

And, I am buzzing.

Not drug-buzzing (though, there is a part of this that we will get to later). The natural internal buzzing. The inability to ‘just be…’, to blend in with what surrounds one and give way to time. That buzzing of years past. I’d include the poem here, but this author is too protective of random things that keep the world in place.

Anyway, that buzzing. The buzzing of indecision and uncertainty.

Somehow, I go with it. Sit on the bench… initially stare at the hexagons… look toward the hexagons almost for some semblance or answer or something. I think cerebral thoughts. I remember that I sort of cherished this sort of moment. My brain crazy with stories. Currently, though, I am blank. Just stare… blankly outward. And I wonder, god, what have I done?

Catastrophizing as your author does.

It isn’t a catastrophe, however. I take the uncomfortable-to-write-in moleskin notebook that is small enough to carry places out of my bag. I write, “so, I don’t know what the middle-ground is. Maybe there is no middle-ground”.

deep.

At this point, though shifting, I am still primarily in cerebral territory.

Yes, I acknowledge the buzzing. This misguided sort of energy. I also acknowledge the blankness in my head. Then, I think of the ADD drugs. The speed in a pill. And this is what I speak of when I say, “middleground”.

I, for the most part, in the broadest of definitions, finally got what I want… what I once thought that I need. …in a legal way that is regulated, even.

And now?

Now, I write, “I can’t do it without the drug… I can’t do it with the drug, either, maybe [as evidenced by today]. By “it”, I mean, “life”.”

Eventually though, I shift (or rather, my cerebral found some cerebral spinal fluid to float within), and as always, it is time that has determined everything. Time. Don’t misunderstand, I didn’t again become the bursting-at-the-seems, artist-writer, of years past. This would be impossible. I can never go back. And though, I could barely wrap my head around how it is I am how I am now or how this version of me has evolved from that one, I recognized the fact and had to light a candle for it’s death.

Metaphorically, speaking.

Kind of like when people die in dreams or whatever. The whole representation of a death of a part of one and the resulting opening of a door. It’s always sad.

But, I guess… “deal with it… because this is just how it is now.”

So, as I sit, wait, stare at the hexagons and increasingly become more a part of my surroundings; I wonder how I could possibly proceed from here.

This [post] would possibly be more interesting if it were more ‘multimedia’. And we do have something.* But… this is a writer’s post. And thus, you get words.

*update (04 Jul 2011): Okay, fine… at 23rd Street, we are a glutton for multimedia:

Just another parable from the folks at 23rd Street.

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the truth in the lie

“There comes a time when every kid peeks behind the curtain and sees she’s not the only one putting on a show. Fathers, mothers, cops and robbers… every member of the PTA, all playing dress-up… all in their masks: The constant Halloween. That first peek behind the curtain… the lifting of the mask, it’s a disorienting moment. The solid ground beneath you slips away to quicksand. Along with all you thought you knew. But you realize, as days and nights go by, that there’s a kind of truth in the lie… that the mask is often more revealing than the face that lies beneath… that because the person that you pretended to be (the mother, the father, the sister, the cop) became, somehow, the person that you are.” -In Plain Sight

It’s not that straight-forward… it’s not as discontinuous as a mask can provide. But it applies. I remember being obsessed with the notion that no one could ever really know any one else. …that no one could ever see all sides of another person and that the lens used to view would always have a neutral density subjective filter placed upon it. In fact, I wrote my first screenplay based on moments witnessed… pieces of the puzzle of who a person may or may not be. Put it together… figure it out. Or not.

I’m sure this isn’t a unique experience by any means, but at that time (and for years following), I felt the invincibility of my person. But more importantly, no obligation to “be something”. It is personal freedom to the highest caliber. Left with no burden to even exist at all. I can’t be sure why I felt so safe sticking needles with stimulants in my veins. But that’s not true, either. I guess that I believed nothing certain about myself except for my invincibility. My ability to, for lack of a better term, stand outside of all experience and observe. Rendering all of my actions, merely actions. Needles and coke and meth and ecstacy and dilaudid… anything, by this definition became things that couldn’t touch me because it was impossible.

And somehow, everyone else was so subjective that everything that they did affected them. They were fully-formed human beings with very strong views on character and people. …fully-formed human beings, unchangeable but affect-able.

And in this manner, as well, I was not a drug addict. I was a person that performed an action. Buying and doing drugs is the same as going to Rite Aid for eyeliner and walking across 23rd Street to work. Even, level… the same.

This is why I hold this time in such high regard. I created a way in which I could do anything. And I did. The error in this manner of thinking is that one is not invincible. And though it makes it completely possible to do everything and chalk it up to an “action”; though there may be no burden to exist or be something, every action will and does affect the person that you are. As under-developed it is or as much as one has created a mechanism wherein they can deny the existence of it at all. Everything affects one… you… something, because, like the rest of the human race, you are a person.

I didn’t think of myself a drug addict for a very long time. And then, I secretly (or not) reveled in the idea that I might be one. And then, I held onto the definition for dear life as one of the most important components of who I, as a person, am. Basically, I accepted a certain version of day-to-day reality. Age, evolution and the fact that to “be something” is now an obligation. And though it took that “decade under the influence” and longer, even… it feels more like a swift, half pirouette. Where my head has snapped, more quickly than the eye could detect, to a position exactly opposite of where it was half a second ago.

And though I’ve always been able to hide it well… I felt that I was internally, somehow (and inconsistent with everything I’ve said here) inherently, a drug user. Furthermore, I was a person… subject to all the personal consequences of action and experience.

And there you go.

Now what?

This is the grey zone. Because I was always a functional this or that and because I didn’t technically make a statement to the effect of “I’m not doing drugs anymore”… because I’m not in recovery… because I still drink; I felt things hadn’t changed enough. Fuck, who even knew that I was a heavy drug user to begin with to know that I stopped using drugs at all?

Furthermore, I didn’t make this decision.

In a way, you could say that my actions made the decision and I carried-out my actions. But, it’s not that simple. Even a month or so prior to this time, if my dealer had up-and-disappeared (as was the case), I would have gone scouring Los Angeles for meth. And I would have found some. I had, I believe 5 separate meth dealers as detailed in The Bus Ramblings… in Los Angeles in roughly 2 years. Only Frank in NY (and he wasn’t just meth… and that spanned atleast double the aforementioned time). But this time, in LA, I was just over it, somehow. But also, I can probably also attribute maybe 75% of the “just over it” to the quality of crap-ass meth that I was getting.

None of this matters, of course. And though I finally felt a pathetic-ness of being a drug addict, there was a HUGE-ass part of me that reveled in drug culture, drug experience, drug everything. I was just now aware of just how much I couldn’t talk about it. And without the drugs to make me forget about this whole thing, felt exceedingly stifled. And not only this… but because I had krazy-glued this notion of myself as a drug person into my fiber… I felt like a fraud; a liar. …and a bit digressively, empty.*

*to be addressed in a future post.

But this is where the quote comes in, one might see themselves as a definitive thing and thereby fraudulent by acting in seemingly unnatural ways… I suppose this would be the mask they speak of, but:

“…you realize, as days and nights go by, that there’s a kind of truth in the lie… that the mask is often more revealing than the face that lies beneath… that because the person that you pretended to be… became, somehow, the person that you are.”

It feels unbelievable… incorrect, even. But time… small increments of moments and then; the whole thing… I mean, if you stick around long enough… it sounds retarded, I know, but it starts to feel possible. …And sometimes, when one takes stock… if one’s privy to that sort of thing, one realizes that, in one’s own continuous manner, it’s been happening the whole time, maybe? Slowly; molasses-ass slowly, but happening none-the-less. I don’t fuckin’ know. I just know that I’m different now than when I started this whole thing (when I thought that I’d never really be able to do the adult thing; do the responsible-thing… I’m a great actor. I could pretend tremedously, but would also only ever be excited by what I really am: a drug addict)… I just know that it is possible to change while still remaining the same… if that makes any sense to anyone. And I do believe all of this rests on time… the passage of time.

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A Safe Place …really?!

A Safe Place (NY Times)

…this actually exists.

fuckin‘ canada.

needles in canada. and only canada.

ONE PLACE.

to digress for a fraction of a second; BOARDS OF CANADA is awesome.

I’m ‘beyond’ the needle, yes. But only because my denial mechanism is such that it chills with balloons. It’s elasticity increases along with my blind third eye… like skin. Skin will stretch as much as it is called-upon to. My research is non-existent on this particular topic… but television has taught me about Obese Americans.. I have seen too many gastric bypass surgeries of people that I don’t know.

Whatever. Somehow people become 500 lbs. I don’t judge. Not the point. This is another story for another blog. My point is that a 16 year old compulsive overeater will not explode. Skin will accommodate. Stretch marks happen, yes… when skin is forced to quickly to expand… but it will expand.

…I haven’t touched a needle in such a fuckin long time. …I haven’t all those visceral things that I’d rather, at this point, blur as the general ‘visceral thing’.

And that’s what I’m saying, the denial mechanism that I possess is so elastic that it can balloon around this lie.

I’m lying.

When it comes to this, I have to look away. I can’t think about the needle… I can’t look at the needle… I can’t watch a needle slide into a basilic vein… I can’t… “Intervention” or whatever the hot new “stop doing drugs/alcohol” show = fine. Someone pulls out a needle, and the belt and vein and spoon = cant. do. it.

alaglahlala (this is a drooling-type noise)…. the crimson cloud.

Whatever drug of choice. However destitute or homeless or old money-damaged a junkie… doesn’t matter.

Even my denial mechanism, though strong and extremely elastic, cannot compete with the sight of a nice, new orange cap on a B&D, 19 gauge, 1 or 1/2 cc syringe and the prospect of what lay underneath. B&D is the champ… but of course, it doesn’t have to be B&D… it doesn’t have to be a 19 gauge needle… short… long… doesn’t matter.

The point… I don’t know.

I’m so physically far away from my needle wielding junkie self; but I still have to look away. I can’t watch this in it’s entirety. So you see, it; whatever; this whole thing is not completely about drugs; it’s about the visceral, it’s about control; it’s about the a kid thinking that she is a psycho-naut… thinking that she is street but smart… it’s about the reconcilable notion of the aforementioned. Its about the taste of saline emanating from the sides of one’s tongue outward and in the back of one’s throat when one would shoot it when one ran out of drugs.

It’s not an original notion of course. But I don’t do original. Rather, I don’t care. I just ‘do’. Original is for ass-fucks that need to be original. whatever.

But this place exists.

Now, coming full circle, this place exists where one can go to stick a needle in whatever vein is still non-collapsed. And it’s okay… it’s actually the entire function of the organisation. Insite… or however they spell it. Are you serious?!

Even I’m not that retarded… or maybe I’m just jealous.

I still cannot wrap my head around this whole thing…. you know, because of the denial and all. I’m a proponent of non-absenance. Like, everything is continuous, not discontinuous. Like, the only option is never to touch a drink… WTF?!-type abstenance. Addicts are extremists (for the most part)… extremist treatment will never help an extremist.

Well, maybe it can, but it’s behaviorial and based in fear and maybe one will never touch the substance ever again… but they will never be the same…

ever

again.

Its not about being ‘the same’, per se. But if you are one that turns it up to 11 and you’re told that you will die unless you turn it down and live at 6… you are not really you. You will never really be you again. In this capacity, I cannot really comment, however… so far, I’ve done my version of, well, not dying… I am turned down though not to 6 and not anywhere near completely abstinent.

But in the same vein, I know that I can’t do needles. I don’t want to look, touch, PoP off an orange cap because I want to so badly. I need to do it. I salivate in time to a pavolivian dog.

In the end, what does this even mean? Maybe this is just my experience… and my junkie-dom was riddled with meth and cocaine… not a drug that causes the amount and type of physical dependency that a narcotic does. Though I have done speed balls and shot narcotics (just a lil trivia). But in my experience, I guess that I’ve pulled myself up from my bootstraps enough.

And I’m not a cultural messages person, so much (as I suppose that I am too self-absorbed and easily distracted)… maybe this goes beyond cultural messages. And I’m not like socialist… but treat people (even the junkies) the same as you would others (non-junkies)… I feel creating this place is too slippery a slope and almost going above and beyond to treat junkies better; welcoming us with open arms.

It’s a strange land that I currently have one foot in while the other stands tall in an even stranger land.

Wow… okay… thank you, drive thru… just beware the cops, I guess unless you are in Canada.

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…and in other news for the self-destructive…

I ♥ Pills

I ♥ Pills... thank you, FDA!

Vicodin: Feds Lower Painkiller Dose In Vicodin, Percocet (AP & Huffington Post)

I love adorable things. Misleading language is more a lawyer’s thing… “painkiller dose”… so cute… but I’m into it. I mean, read this bitch. It’s good for me! “Good for me” as I would love all non-narcotic ingredients in narcotic medication to go away. Especially the most benign and most easily prescribed. I’m not a downer person… I’m not specifically a narcotic person… but I am a drug person. FDA? you’d like to save my liver while getting me more easily physically addicted to narcotics… you have my blessing.

But I may be a bit subjective. …just a little.

I mean, is this the FDA or pill companies that want more clients more easily addicted to their product? I don’t care. Actually, I do. I like it (for me) and it works (for me). Just get me a fuckin’ doctor to prescribe me… golden!

…I mean, I do enough liver damage with alcohol. eh…. Thanks!

Number 2:

Promoting Anorexia: An Interview With Kenneth Tong. This Was No Hoax (Huffington Post)

I have less to say about this because I’m currently drunk-ish and haven’t actually read the entire thing. But, I love balls-to-the-wall! And I love the synthetic pyschological “disease” that it may or may not speak of.

love/hate… I could never be the best.

whatever.

…and so it is…

 

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The Nines

The Nines. Is the only thing that accurately depictes the manner in which I was once completely unaware. …I am, the author, afterall.

It’s a movie, by the way.

Incidentally, or maybe not so incidentally, it’s sad I think, that I will probably never see jasen again.

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StoryTime! …yay!

Its as straight-forward as it sounds. Story Time = a Time for a Story.

On with the show.

02 June 2007…
I don’t know if I’m tired. But I find myself on a cousin of the vinyl/plastic-y comfort of the mats that line all high school gymnasiums. In a certain New York suburban abyss, they were orange; here, I believe they are some sort of navy…. With my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the fact that I just ruined my entire life and/or the fact that I now share quarters with crack-addict middle-aged women felons in the felony tank somewhere in Van Nuys. I don’t even know where Van Nuys is. I understand that it is in ‘The Valley” though. A place where, unless required to by a work commitment, or a medical emergency, one really has no reason to be. No reason to travel over the wondrous Hollywood Hills to Burbank or Sherman Oaks. It’s like living in Manhattan and going into Brooklyn or Staten Island . Useless and time consuming.

But for not better, and much much worse, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison. I must side-track a second here and say that I was looking pretty kick-ass. My hair was still passable as awesome [growing out, but still boyish short and adorable at that] and I was wearing this totally unconv-trendy-like almost sea foam green Diesel t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensem; completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger printing and confiscating of bag complete with searching through and itemizing; counting of my cash; removal of all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… some of which I never take off]. I am sent to this random room then to holding cell; where I’m first introduced to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses while cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California , there is no reason that cold, cold air should blow on anyone. Though it is the valley, I suppose.

I am allowed to keep my jacket. In the holding cell, there are no scratchy blankets or useless sheets; and my exposed shoulders and bottom of legs POP with goosebumps. There is this one other chick in there when I get in. Sort of young like me watching some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blaring it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air. It’s like I’m on an ecstacy trip gone bad wherein all of my senses are hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I was not on ecstacy]. And this is also when I stop receiving information about what is presently and will happen to me.

I was arrested in West Hollywood probably a quarter of a mile from my house. The arresting cops were really nice. I dug them. And asked them a lot of questions about themselves. I mean, I was freaking out a bit, this was not part of the night’s plans or anything, but why not make it fun? There was this one rookie cop that was totally fresh off cop academy or whatever. I asked the other guy, seasoned and such if he’d ever killed anyone. He had not.

TO BE CONTINUED.

heh… I always say that.

It’s not a lie unless I die without continuing…

p.s. the fact that I got caught was surprising to me. kiko is above the law, you see. I mean, the rules never applied to me before this relatively ultimately debacle.

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just do it!

yes, I said that I was going to finish that last post ‘a minor detail’… this will happen… probably. Do not take the existence of this new(er) post as an absolute proverbial white flag in the aforementioned efforts.

It will probably happen. I think about it, so… whatever.

Anyway, today I’d like to address something that has been plaguing me for the greater and latter part of my existence. This would be my irrational need to shrink away from the external while completely shutting down my own awareness and consciousness of anything I may be feeling or thinking in times of ‘action’. For I’ve been most successful in achieving whatever goal in said ‘times of action’ when I just go about… mostly empty-headed and lightly glide as a result.

…well…

okay, so… as a child, I realize my rational thinking or thinking in general may prevent me from experiential awesomeness. Ie. I’m not jumping out of the fuckin’ plane if I think about it. But I want to jump out of the plane. Simple logic: don’t think about it. Just do it. Plane jump. Yay!!!!!

Nike slogan or not, this is probably how I became a drug addict riddled with periods of disordered eating habits. And that whole adorable notion that I fancy myself an artist and special and all.

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