Tag Archives: ketamine

evolution & the unavoidable nostalgia

The folks at 23rd Street have decided to change things up a bit (for this post, anyway).

You know, mixing up the way the 1 1/2 people who actually read this… we’d like to think, “Best Underground Blog about Drugs by an Author on Drugs”, receive information. We are all media, all the time.


Yes, words are nice when read… but they may be just as nice when listened to after being stripped from the actual ‘picture’ that they were once attached to, manipulated for optimal quality and placed nicely on a single unread post on a single unread page on the vast interweb that, like a pre-pubescent boy, grows increasingly at an ever increasing and incontrollable rate. The 90 degree palm tree bends backward to a place that… awkward… to a place that is only millimeters from where it is comfortable. But even the slightest of backbends sends the vestibular into chaos. Disoriented and uncomfortable but with the 90 degree angle in it’s sight all the time. Teasing. Or atleast, that’s the, sort of, social experiment going on here… if anybody were to ask. Yes, in addition to media, we, at 23rd Street, are all social experimentation, all the time… and no one is immune. Even you, dear inconsistent reader(s).

Wait… don’t go away…


It (sound bite) is from “In Plain Sight”. Yeah, I’ve quoted that show more than once before. I must like it, huh? hmmm, nope. I cannot, in good conscience ever say that I like the show. The lead is a completely unlikable, self-righteously sarcastic (unendearingly so), twist-the-knife-mean, unredeemable crack-bitch!!! But then, I cannot, in good conscience ever say that I’m not obsessed with it either. The writing and the premise… And though a certain professor, in what seems to be a completely different time, once said that narration in film [and tv] can be a cop-out… I’ve always had a soft-spot for narration done well. I also had a special place in my heart for said professor (read: huge-ass crush). The important part being, that is what the writers do on this show: kick-ass narration. Also, they had me at “a suitcase full of meth”.

So, there’s that internal struggle voiced in the written word.

Digressive justification aside, grand evolutionary modification is sometimes required on-the-fly… leaving one displaced in a sort of non-religious purgatory or more self-referentially, in limbo. Letting go. And though the sound bite above mentions old friends and things generally external… letting go of a general concept of who you think you are is, evolutionarily-speaking, more traumatic.

Because, then, now what?

Maybe that’s why we [you know, drug addicts] relapse into drug-addicted drug users once again. For those who don’t have an idea, things might be easier… calming, even, if they did have a general idea of who they think they are. …even if it is a crack-ass junkie. …better than not knowing what one may be at all. Definitely better than, suddenly, not being anything. And infinitely better than all the bad things that, overtime have been drilled into their developing brain, that they have, over a lifetime started to believe about themselves. These things that drugs might keep at bay. This is all conjecture, of course, but it makes sense that habitual users of anything would like certainty (in whatever form it may come in). And for this, I defer to wikipedia (I know, I know… but I think it gets a bad rap):


1.  perfect knowledge that has total security from error, or

2.  the mental state of being without doubt

Objectively defined, certainty is total continuity and validity of all foundational inquiry, to the highest degree of precision. Something is certain only if no skepticism can occur.

I adore certainty. I am just lucky that my sense of self didn’t rest entirely on being a junkie. I was always functional. Without meth, there came that fear that I’d no longer be able to communicate at the level that I had attained while high… but there was always something there beside meth. And unlike other drugs, methamphetamine wasn’t recreational for me. I used it as a tool. Like, I didn’t take K (ketamine) so that I could be a better verbal communicator at my job. I took K to get fucked up! Everything… name it, I did it, in spades… but only with the “fucked up” endgame in mind. In the beginning, though, I did try to use coke in the same manner I eventually started to use meth in… but nope! Though both stimulants, I cannot tell you how different these two substances are. But I suppose I’ve written about this before.

Point being, my entire sense of self wasn’t entirely crushed and dissolved when I stopped being a junkie. I was still acutely obsessed with everything drug, of course. But that passes with time, fades a bit into the background. Still there. Always there. But much much more diluted.

Which brings me to Steve-O. That “Jackass” guy that did retarded shit on that retarded show. He writes an article on The Huffington Post: The Dangerous Business of Celebrity Memoir Writing. Apparentally, he has written a memoir called “Professional Idiot”. The article could have just as well been called “The Dangerous Business of Memoir Writing”. Not because I don’t consider him a ‘celebrity’. I mean, the definition of that word has been and continues to be completely sodomized in the worst possible of ways. It could be on “Law & Order: SVU”. I suppose that the title was apropo because it was in the Entertainment section of the Huffington Post or whatever.

All this aside, however, and similar to what Jerry Stahl has written regarding his plunge into writing “Permanent Midnight”; Mr. O writes:

“…recounting my worst behavior with brutal honesty presented some problems. First off, I’ve often found that there is no greater trigger to make me feel like getting loaded again than telling stories about getting loaded. I couldn’t be more grateful about the fact that I haven’t had a drink or touched a drug stronger than Advil in more than three years, but let’s face it — up until drugs and alcohol start ruining your life, they can be a lot of fun. As I recalled the sort of amazing, ridiculous, reckless, insane shit I got up to while I was wasted, I couldn’t help but get nostalgic for those bad old days. Strangely, even retelling stories of me at my lowest made me yearn for exactly the things that put me there in the first place. I guess that’s why I’m an addict.”

This is not an original sentiment, but it is true.

To bring it back around again, one can say that to evolve, one must let go. But as an expert, there is denial or suppression. One can just not think about things. And maybe the way one can tell that one has really evolved is that one has the ability to look back without destroying themselves.

So, there you go. As Eddie Vedder once said, “Its evolution, baby!” That is what we have for you today at 23rd Street.

It's Evolution, Baby!

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

In the land of dreams… pt I

Okay, I may have some sort of imbalance. Chemical or animal or something.

To elaborate…

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.


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