Category Archives: Free

How Do You Plea…?

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.


Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

…enter title here…

I have.

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.


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.

…bad metaphor.

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.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

…One More Night in Hollywood…

I don’t write… ever.



“and it’s one more day up in the canyon… and it’s one more night in Hollywood…”

i fucked everything up.

…i mean, it’s not all grandiose like that… but maybe it is. maybe people were hopeful that i could deal. but i didn’t even try.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

lies, lies, lies v 2.0

I suppose the whole 2.0 thing renders lies, lies, lies the original. …the first.

Lies, Lies, Lies





or whatever.

And whereas in any medium other than tech-shit, the original is the best. Superlative, even…. pure. When entering this Brave New World of version-istic technology… of a product revealed with such melodramatic grandiose gravitas (bullshit)… innovation, as no one could have ever imagined, showered unto the masses… the original is just a test subject. The hype, like millions of smoke screens (à la a foggy carcinogenic smoke-filled bar in Manhattan in the late 1990’s), protects (hides) its status as ‘test subject’ saving its reputation as ‘so fuckin’ cool… so, like, right now… I’m dying… I totally just died because this thing is so fuckin’… I can’t even… I just… I can’t deal’ and the pseudo-communist (more dirty hippies in communes; less “we don’t need no education” meat grinder marching) idea of ‘everyone’s opinion will be heard’…

woah, I digress.

I’m done with all of that. right now.

I’m just sayin’, that whole original lies, lies, lies thing… it happened. The call-in. All that.

And maybe I want to cover all my bases (ass), but:

Things one may want to know (or not)…

I was drunk at the time.
It was approx 1 1/2 years ago.
Yes, I may sound like a child. …but I’m so fuckin’ not 12.
Adderall is a raging dirty crack whore mirage.


so… oh and these call-in shows where celebrity experts (regardless of experience and degrees attained)…. I mean they cater to-, strive on, rely on… the damaged, crack whore who may or may not find some comfort in listening to a ‘professional’ on the radio.

all like, “maybe they care… about me”.


…I mean, all intentions may, in fact, be pure. And this is all the stuff that I could have gone without learning.

… one rarely just falls into an open man-hole cover of “celebrity”- anything.

It happens.


…I need to take a shower.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I Left My Right Brain in New York

06 Jan 2010

I left my right brain in New York

…when I moved away.

…5 years ago.

I guess this was always sort of my intention. This move isn’t as spontaneous and all “look at that chick do crazy spontaneous things without thinking about them” as an indefinite trek across the country with no job nor place to stay awaiting me might, at first, appear. There was a degree of rationalization masquerading as conscious decision-making present.

Go to this new town, straighten-out, do my version of the business thing (in the appropriate business)… and return somewhat balanced. Able to converge the right and left hemispheres of my brain, I would not spiral out of control for my art and/or art-induced lifestyle.

Or that was the rationalization anyway.

Then there is also the whole “what if” thing that happens when one is ‘over it’.

All about mass destruction and creation and learning and things having to be soooo interesting and being sooo passionate that your heart explodes in a mass blood shower over all of your internal organs every single second of every single day. I mean, it is pure… it is lovely… it is what everything actually should always be all the time. It is, in a word, me. Characteristically and, at certain points, retarded-intense. And, yes, sometimes… melodramatic. I can dig it.

But keeping up this sort of momentum for an extended period of time (especially after Frank up and disappears with his car and his hat that I think he may wear and, most importantly, this meth-addicted chick’s meth) becomes a bit more difficult… then alternatingly somewhat questionable.

Though not really “questionable” in a way that your author would allow her brain to recognize. I mean, this sort of thing had been my thing my entire life up until this point. I was all eat/drink/sleep this bleeding-heart version of ‘creativity’ and stimulation since I was born. Well, not that specific version. It had snow-balled, yes. But why shouldn’t it? And so, I didn’t really know, understand or care to value anything else.

This is where the “what if” came about. What if… I just decided to do the opposite (even though I had no experience of what that was)? What if I tried to do the adult thing… the responsibility thing… the not living in a proverbial crackshack in Chelsea thing?

What if… I tried to live amongst the normal people… and then possibly, one day become them-thing?

I’m lying though, really. The impetus… the catalyst for any of this “what if” and “maybe this sucks so I should change things” was simply… the question: what was I going to do without meth? How would I be able to function?

And in this self-preserving manner, the broader truth of what California is had to be kept under wraps. You know, what this place actually is. Empty, shallow, devoid of any stimulation or movement… you know, the yushe (usual). Plus, this sort of pre-thinking destroys anything that might be able to flourish.

24 Feb 2010 (update)…

So, it has come to a head. All of the aforewritten, old news. Or rather, now actualized, redundant to think about.

I have raped this town to the degree of which I have the capacity to do so.

Its time to go back. Actually, its time to go forward.

The thing is, though just a general blur of a plan, I actually have learned certain skills non-inate to me with my head-first slingshot rubber band fling into an unknown world. A world of talk and selling, name-dropping and nepotism, cultivating relationships based on personal gain; the world of the middleman. And momentary identity crises and personal opinion aside (I hate it)… this is a large part of how the world works in general.

And I actually learned.

Now, I’ll certainly never be a wheeler-deeler or anything resembling this sort of thing (by choice and by skill) but that was never the intent. The verbally retarded, mute, real-time communicator version of myself that existed five years ago has evolved through this whole process. Absorbed this sort of thing. Right brain/Left brain moving just a bit closer toward each other in the sandbox.

And I do feel different. More whole. Comfortable with existing in life. Free. …er.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Exactly one week ago today, she was a different person.

Exactly one week ago today, she was a different person.

This is a lie.

Exactly one week ago today, she supposes that she was a very similar person to the person she may have been a week before that moment and/or today. It had seemed like she may have been a different person as she sat suspended in time and space and novelty and permanence because she sat, or floated rather, within time and space and novelty and permanence. You know, the whole DeLilloan, “when there is enough out-of-placeness in the world, nothing is out of place”.

The surroundings had changed in ways that it was too hard to make sense of. But that was what was grand. Life-changing. This is what made her feel like a different version of herself. A version that may have resembled the version of herself “before”. This “before” version that all future versions of herself would be somehow compared to.

There was a bit of that comfort. …though she wasn’t really this “before” version nor was she really that different. Probably.


Tagged , , , , , , , ,

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.


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.



Tagged , , , , , , ,


Literally, one breaks the fast. A meal consumed that breaks or is a break of the fast induced by the human circadian rhythm (ie sleep).

It’s like… I’m waking… in a perpetual state of waking. This passive construct of the “-ing”. aluhghahh… passive constructs kill me. As a young writer, negatively reinforced away from the passive construct, I cringe while I read any word anywhere that ends in an “ing”. You know, in a twisted pseudo-Pavlovian mind-fuck.

Hey man, atleast I’m not drooling.

But the thing is, within the passivity of it all… this wake (ing)… this continuous motion, slow and half-conscious and foggy, maybe in all of my sophistication, I’ve rendered myself somewhat useless in detecting the small small slight non-horizontal non-lateral moment that may be currently taking place. Maybe some headway is being made. Ya dig?

Just because I’m still in that “changing states” state of wake (ing) doesn’t mean that the aforementioned concept and general home doesn’t have within it increasing levels.

It’s just that the proverbial breakfast to possibly follow is soooo bright and stringent and complicated that the wrestle out of wake (ing) appears so very simple in comparison. And when something seems simple… one forgets that there is a progression. Especially when the simple seems so difficult to one.


You just fuckin’ wake up. That’s it.

But, no maybe.

I continue to gain an increasing level of consciousness. Like, metaphorically or whatever. Still wake (ing)… yes, and that’s boring. But, maybe that’s just how it is.

The breakfast thing is sooo far away. It seems so far away. None of this is literal, mind you. It’s just that breakfast seems like a different animal… discontinuous… like a dream.

How can I be expected to take on this animal while I’m still not even fully awake?

But maybe we’ve learned something here… that it maybe slow. It is slow for your author here. Right now. I just… it’s like…

I’d like to be on with it already. But, if I can’t even deal with wake, every step of breakfast… all the choices and then dealing with the consequences of these choices.

…I’m like pre-school here. Swinging on the monkey bars in Alphabetland.

…but I was the cutest lil kid in Alphabetland.


Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


I got nothin’.

My current main conundrum remains an ever increasing uncertainty.

A failure to thrive… is the term they use. But that’s not completely accurate.

I believe that I’m far enough away from the smash/bang/pingpingping of daily meth usage that I’ve been rendered a different person. But, you know, that’s what I may have always thought. …in intermittent periods of limbo.

Just, this time… it’s different somehow.

I mean, it’s exactly the same. Maybe it will always be exactly the same…. I think the passage of time has continuously molded the period “AM”… After Meth.

So, it’s time and experience… not the drug. Whiplashing for a prolonged period off the drug will always be the same thing. Always. It’s just with each successive go-at-it, the whiplashing and the limbo have evolved into a different experience. Objectively always the same.

I mean, objectivity doesn’t exist. But my reaction is the only thing that has changed.

And so, this time, though I feel like maybe, ‘this is it’ in the best possible manner. ‘This is it’, in a ‘the end’ of drugs manner. I feel thoroughly dissatified. An ennui. Some sort of mid-float. Some sort of indifference. To everything. Hidden affect.

I don’t think that it’s lost. Just hidden.

And, of course, this is expected. …with the surrender of a CNS stimulant… dissatisfaction, loss of affect, blahblahblah… but this is the steamrolled version. The invidious version.

I believe I’ve reached some sort of optimal point wherein denial can no longer accept itself as it’s own means of survival. Meaning… I’ve done this shit too many times.

The drug binge that lasts years.. then the mild fall-out. Then the ultra-directed meth binge that lasts two plus years, and the yummy syringes and crimson cloud… followed by the painful psychological fall-out. And then the cut. The decision to not think about it, not do it, like ‘spaces’ on a mac. One stops using space #2. Completely. Done. What was that?

Mac ‘spaces’ are discontinuous. And therefore, rendered completely different animals. Disconnected. An intellectual awareness of exactly what went down. Vivid pictures. An absolute ability to recall the fine details of all past. Laterally.

You know everything. You can describe these past events in the most specific of detail. You can even describe how you felt. That you knew that you felt a certain way emotionally.

But somewhere, somehow… it all became merely intellectual knowledge. Even the emotional.

As in, you know you felt these stringent, specific feelings. You can describe them to a T. But somehow, you, right now, in this moment, are sooo detached from these images and emotions that you can describe and understand so well.

And, so… you know things in your life… in your head. but for the life of you, you cannot feel them.

See, I told you… I got nothin’.


Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: