You know, just because:
You know, just because:
A Safe Place (NY Times)
…this actually exists.
needles in canada. and only canada.
to digress for a fraction of a second; BOARDS OF CANADA is awesome.
I’m ‘beyond’ the needle, yes. But only because my denial mechanism is such that it chills with balloons. It’s elasticity increases along with my blind third eye… like skin. Skin will stretch as much as it is called-upon to. My research is non-existent on this particular topic… but television has taught me about Obese Americans.. I have seen too many gastric bypass surgeries of people that I don’t know.
Whatever. Somehow people become 500 lbs. I don’t judge. Not the point. This is another story for another blog. My point is that a 16 year old compulsive overeater will not explode. Skin will accommodate. Stretch marks happen, yes… when skin is forced to quickly to expand… but it will expand.
…I haven’t touched a needle in such a fuckin long time. …I haven’t all those visceral things that I’d rather, at this point, blur as the general ‘visceral thing’.
And that’s what I’m saying, the denial mechanism that I possess is so elastic that it can balloon around this lie.
When it comes to this, I have to look away. I can’t think about the needle… I can’t look at the needle… I can’t watch a needle slide into a basilic vein… I can’t… “Intervention” or whatever the hot new “stop doing drugs/alcohol” show = fine. Someone pulls out a needle, and the belt and vein and spoon = cant. do. it.
alaglahlala (this is a drooling-type noise)…. the crimson cloud.
Whatever drug of choice. However destitute or homeless or old money-damaged a junkie… doesn’t matter.
Even my denial mechanism, though strong and extremely elastic, cannot compete with the sight of a nice, new orange cap on a B&D, 19 gauge, 1 or 1/2 cc syringe and the prospect of what lay underneath. B&D is the champ… but of course, it doesn’t have to be B&D… it doesn’t have to be a 19 gauge needle… short… long… doesn’t matter.
The point… I don’t know.
I’m so physically far away from my needle wielding junkie self; but I still have to look away. I can’t watch this in it’s entirety. So you see, it; whatever; this whole thing is not completely about drugs; it’s about the visceral, it’s about control; it’s about the a kid thinking that she is a psycho-naut… thinking that she is street but smart… it’s about the reconcilable notion of the aforementioned. Its about the taste of saline emanating from the sides of one’s tongue outward and in the back of one’s throat when one would shoot it when one ran out of drugs.
It’s not an original notion of course. But I don’t do original. Rather, I don’t care. I just ‘do’. Original is for ass-fucks that need to be original. whatever.
But this place exists.
Now, coming full circle, this place exists where one can go to stick a needle in whatever vein is still non-collapsed. And it’s okay… it’s actually the entire function of the organisation. Insite… or however they spell it. Are you serious?!
Even I’m not that retarded… or maybe I’m just jealous.
I still cannot wrap my head around this whole thing…. you know, because of the denial and all. I’m a proponent of non-absenance. Like, everything is continuous, not discontinuous. Like, the only option is never to touch a drink… WTF?!-type abstenance. Addicts are extremists (for the most part)… extremist treatment will never help an extremist.
Well, maybe it can, but it’s behaviorial and based in fear and maybe one will never touch the substance ever again… but they will never be the same…
Its not about being ‘the same’, per se. But if you are one that turns it up to 11 and you’re told that you will die unless you turn it down and live at 6… you are not really you. You will never really be you again. In this capacity, I cannot really comment, however… so far, I’ve done my version of, well, not dying… I am turned down though not to 6 and not anywhere near completely abstinent.
But in the same vein, I know that I can’t do needles. I don’t want to look, touch, PoP off an orange cap because I want to so badly. I need to do it. I salivate in time to a pavolivian dog.
In the end, what does this even mean? Maybe this is just my experience… and my junkie-dom was riddled with meth and cocaine… not a drug that causes the amount and type of physical dependency that a narcotic does. Though I have done speed balls and shot narcotics (just a lil trivia). But in my experience, I guess that I’ve pulled myself up from my bootstraps enough.
And I’m not a cultural messages person, so much (as I suppose that I am too self-absorbed and easily distracted)… maybe this goes beyond cultural messages. And I’m not like socialist… but treat people (even the junkies) the same as you would others (non-junkies)… I feel creating this place is too slippery a slope and almost going above and beyond to treat junkies better; welcoming us with open arms.
It’s a strange land that I currently have one foot in while the other stands tall in an even stranger land.
Wow… okay… thank you, drive thru… just beware the cops, I guess unless you are in Canada.
Marijuana, Once Divisive, Brings Some Families Closer (nytimes.com)
I’m a drug-person, not a pot person, but I thought this interesting.
Thank you drive thru.
…but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Greg Giraldo is dead.
I’m not a comedian-person so much. I mean, I like funny stuff.
I just remember… and this was before everything (before drugs and even generally evident dysfunction… if you could even dig that… generally evident, though (like publicly)… I mean, first signs of disordered consumption manifested the day after I was born)… this one quote.
I think he was on Conan… when Conan was in New York and I was in New York. I thought it clever (the quote and all)… I remember being a very very… very sad bergoning writery individual.
And I thought it was clever.
I had no idea just how pertinently clever until years after, at which point I dismissed it as retarded. …and again, just something a comedian would say. clever, in timing and language but floating in the mire atop any material substance that it could have.
I kind of know nothing about him and I don’t care. And people die all the time. And they die of O.D.‘s all the time, all-the-more.
But I think we take these things with us somehow. I mean, if they hit us at the right time and all.
It was just some version of mild electric-fence-shock that happened when everything in my affect was serendipitously open just enough.
I mean, I don’t even care if he rests in peace (I mean, beyond the fact that I don’t have a concept for “rest in peace”). Like, if I did, I wouldn’t care… if he did.
Just thought that I’d mention it.