Tag Archives: Ecstacy

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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Treating Agony With Ecstasy

99 tablets of Ecstasy on the Wall

yummy

I must say, I do this alot these days…

…if by “alot” one means “almost exclusively”.

And by “this”, one means “linking to other articles” without actually instilling any of my own insight and/or opinion thus rendering 23rd street a sort of torrentz of drug blogs (i.e. a meta-search for recreational/illicit/psychological drug-stuff).

It is what it is.

Treating Agony With Ecstasy (discovermagazine.com)

I suppose, with a bunch of physical/vestibular upheaveal, I am having trouble distinguishing what I might feel/think about anything. Though, I can tell you that I feel strongly that “Ecstasy” should be spelled “Ecstacy”.

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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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Where have all the E-ple gone?

Speaking of Ecstacy… MDMA… an analogue of amphetamine…

I realize that I’m writing more and more about history than anything else. Present history. Recent previous history. something…

I’m just thinking about the death of the rave scene.

But it’s not dead. It never died. And it existed long before the late 1980 – early 1990 kandy kids first stepped foot into Twilo.

It’s just that… it bubbled to the surface, I suppose. And society embraced…

There are a whole bunch of factors, of course.

The least of them being a weaker, more pampered generation of youth. And the connotation of Ecstacy.

“It’s not really speed… not an actual drug. Like… cocaine!… so it’s okay”

Its strange how many people… adults and kids alike.. embraced it. Strange.

Strange that it was okay.

But I digress. This whole thing has been one huge-ass digression.

Jai Ho from Slumdog… is a softer, less techno, ethnic version of Paul Oakenfold… I mean, the drum and bass and the euphoric riff of it all. It’s grand that way. Almost Jungle at times… poseurs would categorize as “Goa Trance” and be… well… WRONG! and categorically, the poseurs that they are.

It may be drum and bass/jungle but it certainly has a beginning, middle and end. Verse, chorus, verse. Very traditional in this sense… very American (like a progressive trance Bollywood version of a non-alcoholic Billy Joel).

…..

Okay, so I’ve just been burned to a slight crispy broil… due to the aforementioned Billy Joel reference.

But giving nothing more than anything away… I know suburban New York. The boroughs that lay beyond even the dirty outer boroughs. I know that shit for better or worse.

I’m granted the derogatory slurs of my own. So fuck you.
…in the nicest possible way, of course. 🙂

In any event, I mean, just hearing the song… I want to be at a rave right now… rolling on Ecstacy that is neither speedy nor dopey… pure MDMA… or whatever.

A version of me this second… older and, yes… wiser?… putting down the speed and embracing this version of my reality. Going for the sensual ecstacy while leaving the shear driving happy hardcore beats behind.

The escalating driving and pounding and go-go-go!. I am a machine. To the beat… forever.

My open hand, in a wave of recognition slowly closes as my fingers fall into my palm weak with weary.

Maybe I’m actually learning something…

…lets hold off on that theory.

 

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Ecstacy & Statistics

I’m not so much into statistics, but the following would probably become awesomely meaningful if viewed while rolling:

Bear in mind, glow sticks & lollipops also become awesomely meaningful when viewed while rolling.

Just another short interlude from the folks at 23rd Street!

Later Skater!

 

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Bluelight

For all psychonauts looking for information or a ‘community’, please visit:

BLUELIGHT

I haven’t frequented bluelight for a loooong time, but for the years that I did, it was a great resource for all things associated with drug use. Intelligent, insightful information, trip reports and anything else one could want… and one would need.

I believe it originated as an Ecstacy/Rave board, but during my time on it, it had evolved to include all other drugs, trip reports, meet ups, prescription drugs, physical/psychological addiction, methods of administration, etc. Even help and/or recovery… if one were into that sort of thing.

I’m not sure how it’s evolved further, but on the surface, atleast, it seems to be even more comprehensive and specialized. Check it out.

sparklr

 

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Story ’bout a Girl… [told in 3 parts… maybe 4, my attention span severely truncated as a result of my rendezvous with every chemical everywhere] part 1

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… as well as straight-jacket, “calm-down”-rooms in psych wards. In a very small school, in a relatively suburban New York, the gymnasiums are lined orange. …I think?… Here, I believe they are some sort of navy… ….I don’t mark the moment. …too into ‘the now’, I can’t. I don’t think that I’m tired. Just a waning meth/wine buzz that I cannot see as a buzz anymore. Regardless, this is some sort of cot or bed… something…. and so, it advises… suggests, rest. This coupled with my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of large grey, rubber garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… I mean, it all points me to “sleep”… or something. But I think that I’ve now decided that I cannot be tired… really.

And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the creeping knowledge 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 now, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison in California.

The Side-Track Second:

Despite everything else, I look pretty kick-ass, I must say. My hair is still passable as awesome and I am wearing this weird trendy-like sea foam green t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensemble completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone [shout out to Diesel]… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger-prints and confiscation of “personal property” ie. Ricki’s-bought Yak-Pak-default-bag complete with a thorough search and itemization: count my cash; remove all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… most of which I’ve never removed prior], I am sent to a random “room”… square-ish, box-like, small… a wooden bench tacked-on or possibly extrudes from three sides. On the fourth side… a categorically lockable door with a large window into the inner-goings-on of the precinct. Or the precinct’s inner-goings-on of me… whatever.

Slam, click, lock… I freak. Where did my arresting cops go? My Stockholm Syndrome flairs.

They are gone. Most likely to the relatively ‘normal’ side of the hill…. where I should be. But I am here. Held against my will in a room I cannot escape. A seemingly million miles away from my current abode and upwards of light years from the home that I fled in a city that I love. And they are gone…. forever.

Somehow, it becomes okay, I guess… “Hold on tightly, let go lightly”.

Off to the holding cell and my first introduction to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses… Cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California, there is no reason that cold, cold air should be 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, she watches some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blares it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air.

Like I’m rollin’ and the music stops and the trip goes horribly awry: my senses hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and, thus, rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I am not on Ecstacy].

And now, we’ve reached the point wherein I stop receiving information about what is presently happening and will happen to me.

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