Straight from the “What the Fuck?!” files, we bring you snortable asparagus.
As mind-blowingly ‘what the fuck’ as this is, it’s kind of awesome.
Okay, obviously, I’m all for imbibing spirits. I also like creative culinary creations (in the vein of molecular gastronomy).
Sangria or Mojito Ice Pops… Genius! The bastard child of 2 of my favorite things. Alcohol and Ice Pops. Really. Its sort of crazy… Ice Pops, though probably not really “food” is in the top 5 of my favorite foods.
But may I be the first to say that everything about Whipped Cream infused with alcohol is fucking disgusting. Especially when the marketing department calls it “Cream”.
Thank you, drive thru.
…just another refreshingly sad image found stumbling around on the interwebs.
This is fuckin’
Okay, I may have some sort of imbalance. Chemical or animal or something.
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.
I’ve resumed my quest (and it, at this point, has indeed become more or less a mysterious puzzle/quest) in trying to figure out which four days in 2001 I had called St Vincent’s my extended purgatory.
St Vincent’s… the hospital… NY, NY 1-0-0-something-something (1-3, maybe).
It began as mere curiosity. (had always been a lingering detail in the back of my head which my organizational slice of brain fed just enough to keep on a special sort of life-support… it sort of screamed, “I want the paperwork… the details, etc” in that sort of scream that one screams in their sleep wherein no sound is made and everything around one closes in.)
And for a long time this mere curiosity is all it could ever be, as I flailed around for the next 6 1/2 years or so, in one epic fog followed by another.
…my own version of the epic fog-thing, anyway. One in which complete detail-oriented-focus fogged the long-term consequential stuff…. you know, life in general and all.
Meaning, my intense micro-micro clarity was the tool used to obliterate any macro clarity or concept thereof that I might be able to grasp. Consequence-based future. Meth is strange like that. Strange and lovely.
And so, it was always there, the desire to obtain and read said paperwork… notes… anything… everything. There is a part of me that is a scientist by nature. As I flail in my epic fogs, I record the findings or, at the very least, random observations, if there is no theory to record findings from. I fancy myself a psychonaut writer. And I believe my ideas fascinating and possibly insightful. Awww.
But the thing is, I was (psychonaut writer). And they may have been (ideas, fascinating and possibly insightful).
And it all started out very very detailed. I mean, if you can dig that. It was all very adorable… I isolate and number each drug experience and categorize by type of drug, class of drug, location of ingestion, amount of ingestion, activity, combination, etc… Record all of the aforementioned into my little spreadsheet that I create and entitle: ADU (approximate drug usage). I mean, atleast, for approximately 3 1/2 years… before the very detailed specifics became a bit more muddled.
In so saying, even all these years post- …that, it’s easy to understand my overwhelming desire to get my hands on actual medical data that pertains to recreational drug use. MY recreational drug use. This sort of thing excites me.
Secondly, and just as importantly, I feel that it will validate my existence as a person that is, or at one point, atleast, had been, alive, on this planet. It gives me weight somehow. Prevents me from drifting off and evaporating into the atmosphere. *poof*
What the fuck is right. Why would I need my existence validated? And furthermore, how, would records of a hospital stay due to intravenous drug usage that led to a septic infection do this for me? A stay that I adamantly fought against…. didn’t think that I needed… ultimately, didn’t acknowledge.
Well, there you go… there it is… I just didn’t get it. The whole thing. The entire… whole… thing. That whole, I’m-in-a-hospital-because-I-use-needles-to-shoot-drugs-I-buy-from-the-guy-in-the-car-thing.
…wait, not the the guy in the car yet. It would have still been Washington Heights-guy, I suppose.
…I mean, but this whole thing… that’s another story.
This is my semi-catch phrase. “that’s another story”. Stolen, I’m sure… I don’t care. I use it frequently… so, catch-phrase it is. However, unlike when I’ve said this any time in the past, this is a particular story that I have not yet traipsed the fields of. Or even really considered (the weight… the validation… my need for these particular things). I might be lying… but I don’t feel like I am. My usual “that’s another story” presupposes a mischievous glint in the eye and railroad-track smile that work as a dam or fence, preventing “the other story” from gushing out and side-tracking the whole thing.
A digression prevention device, if you will. That’s how it functions for me. Just this time, my clenched teeth hold nothing back and there exists no knowing glint behind my eye. The Chesire Cat has long left me. … I mean, atleast as this particular story goes.
And so, it is what is. And for whatever reason these things feel to me as if they would fulfill certain questions or validate certain existences… I am now, again, on the hunt. With my newly cleared-head, in the very early part of this year, 2009… I feel that I am ready.
And with this, it would seem easy enough…
This has nothing to do with anything.
But is does.
No offense to the people who have dominant right hands… but….
this was the type of thing that I was not going to do.
Oh, you know… be all drunk and pill-ish… and influenced by events/episodics that don’t matter.
But who knows what I’ll remember.
So, I’m a liar.
Sensory issues. I just want to remember.