Tag Archives: Speed

Amphetamine of the Year

We, at 23rd Street, cannot go idly by when a post is dripping with this much speed:

Amphetamine of the Year [Motherboard]

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Also, our ridiculous degree of love for VICE & Motherboard, et al apparently knows NO bounds. We exist in a benevolent metastatic spread of delight & elation.

Happy Friday!

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Drug Kit from the ’60’s

Some people like vintage clothing (including your author)… but this is what I’m talking about:

Courtesy of xaXor.com. Don’t really know what it’s [web page] about… don’t really need to, because everything about this is amazing.

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a stranger in strange times…

aka ‘the text, the livingroom on ludlow & the homeless-penn-station-shuffle’.

14 Aug 2010
A Stranger in Strange Times: This is what I am.

To begin:

Late in the week: My friend E texts me…. doesn’t know where I am. Nobody really knows where I am these days. This is not metaphorical, mind you. There are literally a handful of people that actually know my physical location. And this, simply because I’d neglected to mention the fact. Where ever I may be, the aforementioned text also says that, where ever I am, he would be in both of the potential places that I would be, at certain times and invites me to 2 separate soirees in two separate cities on two separate coasts… you guessed it, approximately two weeks apart.

  1. That Saturday (three days?), he will be downtown at the Living Room on Ludlow playing with his band.
  2. The aforementioned some later time, he will be in that opposite coast place, at his apartment/duplexy home, co-hosting a barbecue.

In keeping with the adult theme (not like dirty adult… just like actual ‘taking responsibility for your person and your actions and thinking beyond the next 2 seconds-adult), I want to be where the barbecue is. I want to go to the semi-domestic-type barbecue that I’ve been invited to with his girlfriend and young-adult chatter. I want to pretend, again, that I already am something that I’m, currently, half-commited to be. I really really really kind of want this.

Alas, I am 0 for 1. I am not in that opposite coast place now; far away only in space… but space counts, I suppose as much as time as far as practicality goes. So…

Going back to number 1, I will be downtown and available to see a friend on Ludlow Street on that Saturday. No substitute for the adult-soaked Mid-Wilshire barbecue and/or a growing semblance of evolution, but as good as I can get at this point? Sooooo, I go.

Annnndddd…. ACTION!

It’s really not like that, however. I decided to tell E where I was and actually go and not just surprisingly show up somewhere a la kiko of years past because I was rockin’ the adult thing. And because I thought that I may be able to transcend location (space, whatever). With my friend E, I feel that I had started this sort of thing. Respect and general relatively mundane adult behaviour. …I say ‘relatively’ mundane …to syringes and speed and benders that went on for days. In any event, I kind of really didn’t have any sort of business going at all, what with my no-money and no-job and no-actual anything and all. I went because it seemed like an adult thing to do. Or atleast, it resembled the closest thing that I could grasp as adult. Sooooo….

Subway downtown.

And this is where “action” should really be called.

For routine’s sake, I suppose… subway downtown, wine in a Coke cup with a straw. Didn’t need to get my drink-on… just thought: It’s wine in a cup with a straw. It’s also around 9:30pm and I’m completely sober… these things somehow = ‘this behaviour is okay, makes sense and therefore, I don’t really have to think about what I’m doing, ergo… learn and adjust potential behaviour’. Really, it’s embedded routine and a taste of autonomy vs. chill the fuck out (this is not five years ago, you’re not going to W 4th to see the guys play The Bitter End, you don’t care about being fleetingly fun and cute and… whatever).

Anyway, in the end, as traced from the beginning “fleetingly fun and cute and whatever” wins out… routine, man… it’s fuckin’ routine, man. And now, I can’t say that I don’t know how it happened, all wide-eyed because I’ve just told you.

*The rest is mostly written LIVE-like on a blackberry wordpad as I progressively get drunk. (that’s why it reads like I’m on crack)

Later…
I walk up the stairs from the subway… somewhere downtown. …somewhere downtown east, even. hmm… Disoriented (as exiting any subway station, for anyone… even the most embedded of denizens of this city are), I am ‘between’… among, a sea of others. …must ….manage ….energy of ‘winning the stairs’.  Must go up as fast as humanly possible. However, vertically, horizontally, everything-ly, I am between… among and possibly burdened by the external. …however, it’s not a burden; it’s a sea of people that move. One adjusts their speed or pace and ‘winning the stairs’ in one’s real-time, becomes, a concept though so singularly focused, comfortably adjustable here-and-there. In that way, I might, leg-half-lift’d, wait a millisecond more for the person in front of me that might also wait for the person in front of them in the same manner as I  (or conversely struggle just a bit with the pace). But the sea of people move but we all adjust and somehow become one. But somehow, we all remain intensely individual.

So now, I slo-mo clop up the stairs in the intensely individual pseudo-socialistic adjustment bureau that I find myself in. It smells like NY… late summer. This is comforting. This is something familiar; something familiar that strikes one over the head like an all-engulfing mallet (smashing an entire hemisphere of one’s brain to absolute minutiae) with no effort on the part of any party on any side of this ill-conceived metaphor/simile.

I stare, though. A wide-eyed stare that I once rocked as ‘my thing’. …a million years ago. Similar-to anyway. …the stare. Familiar again in a displaced manner; a displaced tone. The same low energy. This low-energy concerns me, however. I know its not the same… Its not as naïve and sweet and pure.

I may have depleted all of my dopamine or actually, it seems, serotonin receptors yesterday…. at T‘s place. I forget that I’m not the severe, ritualistic alcoholic that I was just a few months ago… Physically. And physically, I handle it in the way that only a novice/born-again-whatever can.

Everything is up for grabs now. This is grand without saying. But the ritualistic and unfamiliar just catches one sometimes… Off-guard and all. …when they are presented in such a stringent and spontaneous-like manner. I’ve spun so many things in so many directions too many times, most likely. And now, when I can ‘check myself’ for a second… Even the most familiar is based on this spin. The familiarity is incongruent, discontinuous, piecey… and dizzying as a result.

And I know enough to know better (atleast I’d like to think so), but its still a jarring prospect that nothing can remain the same.

Drinkdrinkdrink… watch the band. Hug people. Say hello to others. drinkdrinkdrink. Say hi to E, talk as much as we can above the music; but there is something going on. Something that doesn’t involve me, probably. I sense this, so I go… (he tells me that he is kind of offended, though, that I hadn’t mentioned the whole picking up and definitively moving to the other coast)

Even later…
And so, some cute-kiko version of the beast has been unleashed… Moremoremore. And walking on ludow, I need to focus on getting to the F or something. I am not hungry… But I needneedneed, somehow now. And need equals hunger? Then… Katz’s… Yeah-yah! I don’t but I do… Want roast beefish things inbetween bread… Even though I actuaLly can’t fathom chewing and esophageal southward movement of ‘stuff’ to eventually fester in my stomach. Then food pregnancy. But for some reason… I want for anything. More alcohol; consumption of food…. Something… Moremoremore… Something, please. I go in… it’s all confusing… and really all I really want is more drink.

This is not drink. And so, finally, I end up at the Egyptian boy.

Oh, I hadn’t mentioned the Egyptian boy? There is an egyptian guy. Or boy. I am again in penn station and again, I am confronted with time. Slow… Fast… Passage, time. What-the-fuck-ever. The egyptian boy works the place that sells the french fries (grave fuckin yard style… the working of the boy; not the style of the fries). I see this as I pass (off of the uptown a,c,e… Whatever) I am as drunk as my body can accept (abnormally… Incongruently)… I am also poor as fuck.

The rest of the night/day goes:
1. sleeping in the transitional place between penn station, nj transit and armtrack? or whatever that other thing is.
2. major headache hungover, can’t deal.
3. sitting miserably downstairs against a penn pole
4. weird child molester-looking guy talks to me. he is not a child molester… but I feel that he is autistic. I say this multiple times. He says that he is in sports. Um-hmm, sports. He rarely speaks, but when something is awesome to him, he prefers the term “fantastic”.

I don’t fuck him or anything. I mean, this is all just too mundane. and, yes, Leon, I am a stranger in a strange land… in strange-ass times.

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…enter title here…

I have.

I’m almost certain that I have.

…lost that child-like wonder… that absolutely exquisite limbo… that comes with limbo. The moments in-between things. When one can be anyone, anything, in any town… anywhere. This complete freedom of not being responsible for yourself… pretending.

And everything… anything’s possible.

That giddy-ness, that complete molecular dissolve into surroundings. I can’t feel it anymore. There is something eery. I can sense some sort of slightly nagging absence of something inherently. …not something enough to be something.

The denial has become anxiety.

And, I hate to say this, but I think it may be the prescription stimulant. It allows me to communicate, to be direct, to actually pull things from my brain, to understand what I’m thinking… to not seem like a slow retard…

But to what affect?

A level of anxiety that presents itself in subtle ways. But a level of anxiety that’s not me, maybe. Because, maybe, I don’t like the entire genetic manipulation-esque function of the drug. Pill. Long-acting. Swallow. Ahh. Good.

Maybe speed should just be speed. Not acceptable in societal norms. Not made long-acting. Not for children.

Because maybe that dulls the senses. And maybe…

…it’s too good. It’s too comfortable a thing to know that a pill will make you okay. It’s just easier to take the thing that makes it possible for you to wake up in the morning and face the world.

AND MAYBE THAT SHOULDN’T BE OKAY.

Because, then, it’s harder to actually deal with anything that actually exists that’s bad.

If I’m shooting up (in my lovely, engorged vein) ice that has been procured by the guy in the car that I see everyday (night), and we have to be discrete and beware of cops (or whatever)… I mean, he is a drug dealer that delivers explicit and illegal substances to me.

…as routine as this will become in my two and a half year daily dance… it’s not routine enough that you don’t (somewhere, atleast, in the back of your comprehension of life) understand that

…the pills are nihilistic. My pills are nihilistic. That is my conclusion.

And nihilism is to bad as searching for bobby fischer is to good in kiko realm.

…bad metaphor.

But, beyond this… what can I possibly do about any of this? (as I no longer have anyone in my corner)… as I’m in a hotel room, in the mid-eastern most part of new mexico… driving away. From the immediate familiar to a familiar that (even after five years, maybe a bit raw… and will always be a bit trapping).

Somebody help me!

Wait, nobody cares.

I have to help myself.

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lies, lies, lies

…based in truth.

thank you, drive thru. nothing to see here.

*FLASH* …that thing from Men in Black.

 

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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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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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Everything = Speed

I’m completely obsessed with speed. I just realized. Meth and speed.

Case in point… this last post.

I’m wasted drunk. I am confused by Twitter. I try to convey my confusion through my ramblings.

It always comes back to speed… ADHD children and their kiddie crack… meth…

If we scroll down:

Twitter = crack
Trader Joes = meth
Doctors = pills = pharmacopeia = meth

I can only compare anything that I ever observe or process through speed. It just always comes full circle. Ask me a question about anything… my answer will probably veer toward some sort of analogy related to how speed is administered in society or how speed is injected intervenously… I may drift off into Ketamine territory or something once in a while… but for the most part: Speed!

Anything… I can probably connect cats to speed, give me a word that I don’t know the definition of… I’ll probably phonetically connect it to speed.

Contact Solution… speed
The Oscars… speed
Hair clips… speed [I already have one for this… but this is another story]
Ramen Noodles… speed [another one I already have a story for]
A non-working Palm Treo… speed
White Eyeliner… speed
Black Eyeliner… speed

And so on and so forth.

I guess on 23rd Street, everything equals speed.

 

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