Tag Archives: balance

a minor detail

So, I have this minor lingering ‘thing’ (that would probably be addressed if I had ever gone to rehab or NA… but then, this blog wouldn’t exist, atleast in this manifestation, if I had) that plagues me and prevents me, in part, from easily sliding back into the human race.

Like, what the fuck do people do? As leisure and all of that?

The way I see it, this issue has developed and built upon itself in a slightly exponential manner via a few channels.

a. Relative sobriety, for me, meant that I needed to find substitute behaviour. The aforementioned substitute behaviour would have been work. Work for work’s sake. Very ‘meth’, if you will. Meth behaviour without methamphetamine. This, in itself, is very suspect. Though I might add the physical quitting of the actual using of the meth is far and away the largest step in the correct direction. …or atleast, that’s what common sense seems to dictate. And furthermore, I just need to add, I am naturally very inclined toward repetitive, action-oriented meth-like behavior in general. Some might classify this as slight OCD, I might (read: do) classify these people as retarded.

Okay, back to why this is suspect… I began working at a new place, but continued doing things that I’d been doing my entire professional time in Hollywood. …things that I could do with my eyes closed, both-hands tied behind my back …oh, and high on meth and drunk on white wine. For more detail, see: ‘this took a bit more planning…’ And this may seem a bit backward, but I had been doing these Hollywood assistant-type things, at this point for about two years high and drunk. Yeah, there were about two years before that where I wasn’t. But I wasn’t very good, either: shy, learning and really just unaware of everything. And so, I was sincerely afraid that I wouldn’t be able to continue to do these things in the way that I’d finally learned to do them (communicate on the phone, blahblahblah) if I wasn’t. …high and drunk. So, it became a very focused effort to get to work on time and do my job as well as I could. Plus, one thing at a time, man… I mean, I didn’t even know that I’d be able to function in any sort of human capacity in general without the glory of intoxication.

And it may strike a longer sympathetic chord when I remind one of the fact that Hollywood is Hollywood (behind the scenes business-ness or not)… meth makes you skinny with minimal effort. When one’s only expenses are meth and 2 buck chuck… the money that would have gone to food now goes to cute, funky clothing and highlights. And not to digress too much, but the alcohol drops one’s normal filter and heightens one’s warmth and humanity and certain degree of no-holds-barred honesty while meth acts as a strange but directed filter on the ‘normal’ filter that alcohol dropped. Then meth brings forth the stagnant ideas floating around the brain while the alcohol soothes the anxiety that the meth ideas bring forth. It all balances out in a way that, on paper, seems like, “why bother doing any of this?”.

I can’t say anything to this other than “try it”.

So, in the end, I was obviously able to do my job. And because obsession is rooted in fear and I am me… it, like most things, became a highly ritualized no-brainer. But a highly ritualized no-brainer that I lived and died by. I came in early (imagine that) and stayed late. I did nothing else. …well, except for the court-ordered weekly DUI alcohol program that wasted my money and ate my soul for three months. But after this, it was seriously almost three years of nothing but work, weekend hibernation, work… you get it.

Toward the end of my Hollywood tenure, I did become more comfortable in my own skin and thus went out just a bit; slightly dipping a toe here and there back into the land of eating disorders not-otherwise-specified… oh, and drinking half a bottle of white wine a night, after work. All mild stuff (not excusing any of the behaviour)… but it is what it is. I was milder in my self-destruction and older in my time-line. So, as it goes, the intoxication became less absolute, dramatic and spiky… and more the equivilent of a bud light or something absolutely… slow and exquisitely mundane.

…to be continued. (I mean, because you can’t just have an a.) that way).

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Focus

So, this second… this very second… and only this second…

I am completely focused.

In this second, my potential focus has been realized. It is fading quickly… so I really have only so much time before the dullness shades in and I pass out. So I have to work quickly…

oh, and I’m drunk. FYI.

..heh… yeah…

But in recognizing this fact…

It really is no different.

…I mean, as before.

I take prescription speed. Legally prescribed by a doctor.

do my thing… then, i need to calm the extra buzzing.

…Alcohol sounds wonderful in this capacity.

So again, as before, I drink the wine that will balance the speed.

a la “this took a bit more planning”

and I reach this, basically the same, (though comparatively mundane) superlative place.

It’s the same.

I mean, it’s not. But it is.

I’ve learned and stretched time as much as I have. In a manner that I can function. All due to the cessation of the illicit, illegal form of speed that one acquires shadily.

So, time has stretched… but whatever. the focus has been shaded-out… and I’m over it. Or it’s over me.

the end.

 

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This took a bit more planning…

Date: 27 May 2007

Location: Los Angeles, CA 

This took a bit more planning, I realize.

Bottle between my legs… wrist twists and twists a wine key drills further and further, pierces the foil seal then take no mercy on the cork revealed…

Thank you, unmentioned restaurants, for the fledgling wine keys in my bag, car… everywhere! One must always be prepared! And furthermore, the skill. Constant opening of similar wine bottles with speed and accuracy. For this, if nothing else, a shout out, peace, props.

Well, of course, there is something else…

Head pops up… leftright… left right… never down…

…where my right wrist twists and twists and twists. Determined, automatic but somehow careful not to pierce the black leggings with the lace mid-calf.

Man, its fuckin’ hot!

…in the driver seat… of the Celica. Where my wrist twists and the sun basks in prime-time, ninety degree angle and bakes me, through the glass of the windshield of the sunroof, oven-style, squeezing every last drop of water in my body into a chemical bead on my forehead. Lick me… you’d probably catch a buzz. Dehydration city, baby!

Sometime in the vicinity of 2pm… possibly later… but as long as my eyes did not catch a glimpse of the digital glow, nothing was ever definite, I perfect the skill of the blind wine-cork-pop.

A parked car in a random, dead-end, side-street. miracle mile. ha!

Wait!

…stop!

okay, now…

I am a drug addict! I know this.

But what the fuck is this?

Where do my hands desperately twist toward? What is this cork?

Some kind of car-ass wino? In Los Angeles? …California?!

Um, okay… NO.

Pokey-poke Chelsea junkie, train-track smile, bopping across 23rd… yes.

But… what the fuck is this?

But my wrist twists and…

…POP!

… I remember ‘what the fuck this is’.

In an effort to keep the scales more-or-less aligned… manage, maintain the buzz or more appropriately, myself… I have found that a liquid lunch is much to my advantage. Nicely timed. Liquid lunch. Ahhh—-!

During the morning period [say 9am – 1pm] I would work the opposite angle [alongside my actual job, of course… which I love, don’t get me wrong… and is, for me, categorically the best job/occupation I’ve ever had, hands down!… but that’s another story].

Preceding this morning period… up at 6:30am, a shower and sit ups, push ups… all sorts of ‘ups’ came makeup alongside a glass or two of cheap white [where ever my threshold lay that day] in the form of what others have called, “2 buck chuck” from Trader Joes on Santa Monica… followed by a bump or three of cheap white…. in the form of… in the west, they call it methamphetamine. In the west, it’s also pretty much a crap-shoot. But, oh so, lovely. A cousin, brother, some distant relative of it’s sophisticated eastern counterpart [also another story].

I can dig it.

Off to the aforementioned job. The Celica; a perfect, though somehow indescribable blue. Heads out of the garage in East West Hollywood toward Gardner [where there is a traffic light] and heads down… down… down… the meth straightens and focuses and brings a wonderful glint to my train-track smile. But, most importantly, creates a synthesis with the alcohol.

I am SUPERB!

I am what I always should be.

And down, down… the same path… the same mix on the CD [at the same point everyday… the same song hits]… on Gardner, I hit 3rd? maybe [where the Grove is, whatever]… and the light is always LLOOOOONNGG. Exquisitely long enough for me to finish the cute metallic thermos of the remainder of aforementioned liquid white. I mean, there’s that park just passed that library and a 7-11 and the long long light…. oh, and that Washington Mutual that is not the user-friendly bank it’s said to be.

Not so much a ‘grimace’… just a ‘probably not water in that cute metallic Urban Outfitters‘ blue-pink thermos’**… as the last drops trickle down onto my dry tongue.

**UPDATE… 26 May 2011**

Scrounging around the Celica that no longer turns on, but still looks awesome as hell… the author finds under the driver seat (where she left it, after she threw it, when the cops decided to search the car, in the time that took place just before the events details in the “Story ’bout a Girl…” post) the exact cute metallic Urban Outfitters’ blue-pink thermos that she so often imbibed from… and some would say, saved her life (in a balance sort of way)… and by ‘some’, the author means… the author herself. It will always have a place in her heart. Click >>here<< for the picture. Yes, it did used to have a pink dome cap that was connected to what can only be described as shredded connector-thing. And yes, when opened, much of the top was corroded and all of the bottom was a petry dish housing for the bastard child of wine, metal, and oxygen. And it reeked. But, then again, alot of things are different now.

Down… down… just passed Miracle Mile… I arrive to the house on Cloverdale… park… and enter.

After a morning of bumps here and there [maybe two, three at the most] in the unlockable bathroom in the exquisitely covert house where we conduct hardcore mainstream business… I tip the scales a bit too far left and a liquid lunch in the pretty kick ass car… sweltering, but pretty kick ass was welcomed with open arms to reset, in essence… the balance.

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