Sobriety

Sobriety is a distant lover's claw-scratches, long since healed, mostly forgotten, and unnecessarily mystified

I find myself in some kind of lost pet situation. I'm looking damn hard, under every corner, obsessively compiling clues, traveling to the ends of the earth, and in the end I still have no goddamn idea what it is I am looking for. I am looking very hard for something. I don't know what this something is. The only sensible solution is to search harder.

Why am I so masochistic? I hate these human people that surround me, and I keep going in further. Keep stretching it out, wondering how everyone else experiences happiness so easily, seeking to fit my puzzle piece in, and as consistent as broken clockwork it never does.

And what of these altered states of consciousness I keep traveling into? I wonder what the point is. Like a cheat code to enlightenment? Philosophical confirmation of the nonsense of perception? Or just a way for dumb kids to get fucked up? I sometimes compare it to a sort of literary poseur lifestyle, gateway to copying one's idols without understanding any inherent tragedy of their art, me a wannabe fuckup pretending I was in a book.

There's a dark side to it. There is a risk involved. Perhaps the greater the payoff, the greater the death trap. Or perhaps I'm simply an idiot and I never learn.

Meanwhile, after being ripped off last week (3 more tabs of Ex and they did nothing?! I can't be that medically deficient in serotonin, can I?), and a backup of funds so I am applying at jobs incessantly with at least a dozen restaurant applications fulfilled. But Ramsey is here and every single night we got to go somewhere new. Poetry readings in Long Beach, garage rock in LA, clubbers in Hollywood, and on Friday we settled for fire-spinners in Laguna, OC. Friday night I heard about it and we went down Pacific Coast Highway, a longer drive than I thought, to check out a little beach I've never been to.

I don't know Laguna that terribly well, but I took the directions as given and we found our way down the stepping stones into a rocky beach. It was foggy, and dark, and it was like a dream. A beautiful landscape I'd never seen before, giant rocks and big waves. Not like the flat scapes of Huntington, or Venice, and surely nothing like Long Beach. "This is what I've been looking for," Ramsey excitedly said. "Something you can't see anywhere else!"

I concurred, it was a beautiful sight. We walked around and found another path to the fire-dancer scene. A little mini-Burn, and I coincidentally bumped into a Burner I already knew by the by, and it was rather chill. So I decided to eat the eighth of psilocybin fungus I'd been saving, as this seemed as delicious an opportunity as any. Takes an hour or so to kick in hard, but I watched with intent eyes and heavy breathing, as hula-hoops attached to burning coal and spun, like glow-sticks of the ancients, lighting the sand as a microcosm reflection of the stars above.

It was cool for a while, and I had no right to any complaints. Then the tide came in deeper, and my shoes got wet, and technically the beach was closed off this time of night anyways. So we walked upstairs, climbed over a fence to exit (there would be many fences to climb over this night), and talked and met with some people, and then went to a girl's house to drown our sandy shoes in sweet hose-water. And being cotton-mouthed as chemicals tuned in pictures wavy in front me, I proceeded to drink of the hose-water and look around.

So, with these new people I was meeting, we decided to hit up the nearby bar district. I wish I brought my iPod and sunglasses, detach myself into my own world, but the car was the other direction and I was full-in to experience the loudness and the brightness. And we walked down the sidewalk, past the Orange County art galleries and guitarists and drunk college kids sneaking behind the PCH off-streets, arriving somewhere or other, always going never getting there.

I tried to keep up a good conversation while on my personal trip. Drugs, I find, must be taken again and again, more and more, if you are to re-learn how to walk and talk and connect (and then, hopefully, be even better at it while sober). It takes a lot of experience to get used to the new set of controls, like playing on familiar video game but on new system's controller. I thought that I'd been getting better at it lately. Get fucked up again and again and again, like any other practice in life, and eventually it becomes easy. Evidently I was wrong, and later on I did indeed freak out a little bit.

Frat bars, it turns out, are a goddamn terrible place to typtamine trip. We walked to Hennessy's and I sat next to a Finnish neuroscientist-doctor girl, but really I was all alone, and watched them eat while the paintings on the wall vibrated to interesting colors as liquid patterns emerged. Also, hanging out with academic types tends to make me feel stupid. I, but a humble novelist, am completely unable to thrive in a schooling environment. Either I'm not smart enough or I'm too smart, and I have no idea which, but I'm no good at it. I was in no condition for philosophical conversation anyways. I didn't eat, just sat around, wandered up the stairs on occasion to see the shitty band, and periodically stepped out to bum cigarettes, and make awkward phone calls, with my weird cell phone device that all of sudden was much brighter and 3D-ish than usual. Most of all, I enjoyed sitting on the floor and looking at the hieroglyphics of the sidewalk pavement.

One time I stepped out and asked a group of college assholes for a cigarette, and then this slutty blonde drunk girl stepped up to me. "Can I ask you a question," she asked, "but don't be offended." "I'll probably be offended," I joked. "Are you gay?" she said. "No." Fucking dammit. Well, I get that from time to time. She was very touchy, caressing my chest, and I touched her soft arm in return, and she recommended that I meet her at the other bar Ocean's later on. "Come down, it'll be hot." And then I noticed her pulling up her skirt and showing off her crotch and beautiful bubbly ass, to an audience of onlookers, feeding from the attention. "Whoa," I reacted. "I'm an amateur stripper!" she yelled. "Hell yeah," I said, "everyone should do whatever they want all the time." This girl was fucking crazy and I thought it great.

So Roxanne met up with her friend and called me and soon arrived, and then the Laguna fire people left, and then me and Ramsey looked for other shit to do. I demanded we go to Ocean's next door, and then I immediately regretted it when we got there. The blonde girl, flirting with a million other guys and now done with toying with me, told me some random fellow was "my boyfriend" - obviously lying just to fuck with me. Whatever. The good lord would not see to grace me with a sex scene to write about on this night. Fuck Him. Fuck her. Fuck everyone.

This club, blasting shitty hip hop music, filled with trendy well-dressers who can't dance, and among them I felt so ugly. So unconfident. So terrible at the simplest human maneuvering. Louder and louder, glass breaking, near-fights, aggression mounting, I panicked, surrounded by freaks with giant heads and shark-faces and Amazonian Asians. I could taste the hatred. It was a complete nightmare of narcissistic hollow nothingness, of which normally I should fit right in as such, but with such exaggerated lighting-bolts of perception so clearly digging into my soul I was ready to bleed protoplasm out my ears. O my God, fuck all these people.

I hate you I hate you I hate you you hate me we hate all God get it over with and kill this sinful blight of pathetic animal fake phonies of lies lies lies lies no truth lies lies and I am no better, death kill hatred fuck fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK liar killer get it over with lonely lonely lonely NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU goddammit this fucking sucks

This was an absolute nightmare. A panic I've never dealt with before. And all you can do to cope is fake that you're fine. But I'm no good at it. Simply put, I didn't like being stuck inside me. It didn't make any sense. Why must I be stuck inside this thing?

Last call and then we left. Thank fucking God. At this point I was sobering down anyways, but the lingering experience still resonated. "Fuck!" I said, "I hate all these people so much." "How are you doing?" Roxanne asked. "I am an embarrassment, a void, a lifeless fuck deserving to be taken out and shot." "Um," she reacted, "sometimes I feel like that." "Good," I said, "fuck everyone."

The others were peppy and ready to continue the night about town. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be asleep. But it was still a walk to get to the car nonetheless, still time for quietness and a transition to relax, and I did feel better by the time we got back to starting point. "Let's go to the beach!" they said. Okay. I split up and wandered alone; and I turned off my phone, daring myself to throw it in the ocean but I don't have the guts evidently, and went off to my own thing. Ah . . . now that I was back at the car I could get out my lovely iPod, my only friend that hasn't betrayed me, and so I jumped over the gate on top of the cliff, sat on the sand, listened to some music, and looked at some waves.

Ramsey and Roxanne and friend were off by the rocks, sitting around having conversation. Ramsey, by the time I joined them, looked great as he sat cross-legged on a science fiction scenery, no doubt contemplating all the mysteries of Creation. "You know," I was saying, "I don't think it's fair that we don't get to hang out with Trent Reznor (music: I wanna be everything...I wanna fuck everyone...I wanna do something that matters). Or Connor Oberst, or Neal Stephenson, or Grant Morrison, or whoever. It's not enough that I listen to the music, and read their books. I want in! I feel entitled to be their equals, and discover the secret society of fame." "I know," he agreed. "When is it my turn?" I said, "I keep digging so deep, searching so hard, and I don't have any goddamn idea what I'm looking for." While Roxanne tried to say wise things about "detaching yourself from the lust for results," I just didn't agree. Not really. Deep inside I goddamn want results and I admit it. "You should leave me alone," I told Ramsey. "I need everyone to avoid me if I'm ever going to write anything that matters." "Okay man," he said, "it's cool." "HA!" I laughed. "I just can't offend you no matter how hard I try."

"Let's go skinny-dipping," I suggested. No disagreements; we walked over the rocks to the other side of the beach, alone in the darkness, and I took off my clothes and ran into the bitter cold water and jumped inside. The others took off their clothes too, Ramsey and Roxanne and her monkey friend. But they wouldn't graze the seasalt past their toes. "Get out of there," Ramsey yelled to me, "you'll get hypothermia." "I won't!" I screamed. "I'm going to live in the water from now on!" I told Roxanne, breasts bouncing, to jump inside. "It's cold," she said. "Life is suffering!" I retorted. "Life isn't suffering!" she said, "don't say that." "No, I said, "life is suffering and that's okay. Just jump inside the cold, and sure it hurts, but then you get used to it and it's not such a big deal anymore. That's what life is about." "You're crazy," she said, perhaps not entirely inaccurately. "Well," I accepted, "if anything my philosophical fallacy is a common one; to expect that what works for me should work for others. I have no right to tell anyone else what to do." I still think life is suffering though, and I still recommend that everyone jump in the cold, because the only non-naive optimistic viewpoint worth a damn is that: life is suffering and it's not that big a deal. At least that's my conclusion lately.

I've never hung out with Roxanne and Ramsey naked before. Really, like everything in life, as I've been saying, it's not that big a deal when you go through with it. Nudist lifestyle, who cares, I'm down, because where all animals underneath. Perhaps I should be ashamed of my shriveled cold manhood, shrinkage in bloom, but I didn't care. And I screamed and I sang and the ocean sang back, and for a brief unrelenting moment I think I kind of felt alive.

"I'm going to be sober from now on man," I promised (I lied.) "This is just such bullshit. I can't handle it." Sand in my nether-regions, skinny-dipping dared and done, I put on my shorts and so did the others. I listened to my iPod, but still waded in the cold (Placebo said it all: Since I was born I started to decay ... Now nothing ever ever goes my way!). By all rights my iPod and my cell phone too, thoroughly wet in this instance, should be completely broke by now. But they still work even today, and hence I have nothing to regret.

I did wish I had a girl of my own to hang out with, to be naked with and all. Sometimes I want to fall in love and believe in something pure, and sometimes I want meaningless sex with every slut in the world and a right to brag about nothing. Then again, I talk a good nihilist game, but what am I really doing about it? I'm not so good at either path. At least I had acquaintances to accompany me, and I least I could fake a little bit of connection that night.

So we eventually dressed and walked back, and I was totally good to drive by now - neurologically sober but stomach in whirls - and they decided to extend the night by finding a Jacuzzi to steal. Dropped them off at Roxanne's car, and followed them down to a gated community somewhere in Orange County. Luckily, synchronicity with us, a car left and it opened the gate and we sped inside right after. I suspect though that these gated communities have "white beam" technology, and will let us in as long as we're all white. Or, if not, I think that's a good idea for an invention down the line. Patent-pending, don't steal the idea from me.

We went to the closed pool area and jumped over the fence, and disrobed once again. This time there was far better lighting than the dark beach, more to be ashamed over, and even more symbolic to just not give a fuck and hang out as the vulgar animals we all are. No doubt insomniac apartment residents stared from their windows, but we didn't care. It was a memory to cherish, fighting the dawn, hot bubbles soaking into the skin, penises floating, soul siblings together.

Selfish asshole that I surely am, I've been a bit mean to Roxanne of late, secretly behind the scenes. Disconnected, and resentfully so. But in actuality she was a good friend, and know now that I should be grateful. Ramsey, and that other guy too, cool people to share the night with and pretend it will last forever. I have no right to this hidden anger, these people are just trying to do good and I am lucky I have them.

But all things must end, and we jumped the fence out the other side, and I drove with no shoes to the toll road to the 405, and made it home to sleep before any birds chirped and the sunlight got the chance to interrupt my perfect nighttime bliss.

I'm fine now. A bad trip can be the ultimate therapy. It's an accelerated perception, as in the course of several hours years of reality rush through your brain. In one moment the whole world is darkness and it hates you deeply (and you know you deserve it). Soon after, its back to a yin-yang equilibrium, with positive interpretation if you like that outlook, and you wonder what the big deal was you were freaking out over. I am recharged and upbeat after a terrifying experience, and I would never take it back.

Still, maybe I should learn something by now and maybe shouldn't rush to the next experience. During my previous declarations of sobriety, I told myself I wouldn't smoke for the next 24-hours. I stuck to it the next day, and actually it was rather easy. I don't think anyone is really addicted to nicotine, I think we just all like the habit of it. I gave an honest try to get addicted this past year, and I suppose I'll keep on trying until my specified quite-due date of next year. I want to experience that suffering of addiction-and-quitting, if only the universe would let me. I haven't suffered nearly enough to deserve to be alive, you see, and I'll take whatever little attempts I can scheme in.

I don't know. I don't fucking know anything, truth be told. Have I gotten this ridiculousness out of my system yet? There's still so much more. I'm still promised to a host of future neuron re-wiring experiences with various other degenerates, its still on the schedule. It would be rude to choose straightedgism at this point. Heroin, acid, DMT, ayahuasca, dilaudid, tweak, Ecstasy, coffee, cigarettes even, and booze booze booze (I do know I'm done with pot though). Hell, maybe I'll add cocaine to the list too while I'm at it.

Do we ever grow out of this? Is it always to be necessary? That's what I'd like to figure it out, and I'd definitely like to learn it the hard way. I know I haven't learned all I can learn just yet. I certainly know of more than a few drug addicts, or at least mind-explorers, who I thoroughly respect as brilliant people who've greatly added to our pool of culture. And likewise, I know certain other respectable humans who went through it and now since despise drugs, and lead a far more disciplined lifestyle than I seem to have the innate willpower to muster.

I think I'm almost ready to get it all out of the way and try the sobriety thing. I gave myself a date, but now I want to push that date sooner ahead because I'm getting a bit sick of it all. Conversations about scoring, on and on and, "so let's meet this guy this time, and that other gut that time, and I heard someone can get this, and did that other shit arrive yet, let's see if I can buy some at this place, or some more at that place." And then you wait, sweat it out, and waste your money on poison. And honestly it's a dull lifestyle. There is nothing worse than being bored. Can I do better? Or am I destined for dull burnouthood?

So, no job yet confirmed on the horizon of my timewave ... and I just decided to spend a mere $140.00 on a ticket to San Francisco. Leaving in a few days. I figure I should go somewhere new, the stir-craziness has risen to the surface and every once in a while I have to get the hell out. I have no idea what I'm going to do when I arrive to SF. Something interesting should happen. Can't bring drugs on a plane though, and I really should be on a budget and not spend any when on that when I get there either.

I guess I'll do shit, and observe it, and meet some humans, attempt a communications, and come home to write about. Please wait patiently.

Well, my gentle readers, do tell me, was this all self-indulgent enough? Or, dare I claim, is this thing I live interesting?

Encourage me to keep going. We need all the help we can get.

Topsy-Turvy-Nothingness

June started out stressful with roommate drama right off the bat. I thought it was going to be cool that a couple was going to move in, _____ and _________, and that makes two roommates so therefore rent would have been that much cheaper. But then they broke up and it was drama ever since. Probably all my fault, all the pressure I gave them by presenting the opportunity to move in together. They went back and forth forever, first _____ backed out and it would have been only _________, and then the opposite - therefore I needed to find a third roommate quick if I was going to continue to pay cheap rent. Just tricky to find someone cool with a living room situation.

____ was lingering for a week, and that was fine, but his situation with his friends finding a place in LA near the studios didn't work out and he was going back to his folks soon. But in a monumental luckery that I don't deserve, he left his car here and said I could use it for the rest of the month. Helped out with getting to work for sure. I called this other guy - ____, a Russian - who was next on my list and at the last minute it worked out and he moved in. But then _________, who already paid, said that her ex would be the one to move in instead. He had no job and she already paid; and sadly I had to be an asshole and stick up for my own financial stability, and I made an ultimatum that neither would move in and I'd have to find someone else

Then suddenly ______ decided to move in! My world has been topsy-turvy ever since. He texted me mysteriously one day in the early dates of July - "Hey you still need a roommate?" "Like next month?" I responded. "In two days," he answered. Hmmm . . . I thought. Maybe just maybe this would work out. He met me after work one day in the horrible heat of dead Cypress, Orange County. How surreal. There was ______, my boy since high school, except with his head shaved, and he had a big clunky van leaking transmission fluid but my bike fit inside it nicely.

We checked out the beach in Huntington, and came back to my place where he got along with ____ and ____, and then he showered, and then immediately the first night we checked out Hollywood. _______ told me about a bar, but by the time we got there she was leaving, and we went to another bar for karaoke. I did White Stripes and then Bob Dylan, it was pretty great. And ______ walked around Hollywood and realized that it's just the same as any other hip urban scene in America. "Everywhere is everywhere," he said, and I do concur. And we put two more things of transmission fluid in his big clunky van, and drove back to Long Beach, and slept on my floor.

The next day was Saturday and we decided to go to San Diego. ______'s friend _______ just moved there a few days ago and we figured we'd visit. I only donated twenty bucks to gas, but still I joined him. And as ______ has now discovered, everywhere in Southern California is much farther than you'd think. San Diego wasn't a bad two-hour drive, and we did get to use the carpool lane, except when got lost in downtown San Diego for a bit. That's really the only part of SD that I know, via Comic Con, but soon we got to _______'s boyfriend's apartment and I learned of new parts. Firstly though, we got really really high. I hate that I keep doing this. They had some good weed, and I hate how I am always offered good pot and I can't handle it. I'd rather get shitty pot. THC just doesn't work with me; other drugs certainly do, but not this one. I am curious as to why everyone else seems to love pot so much, but I always have bad experiences again and again. Next time I am offered I will experiment with sobriety, and see how I act around a bunch of high folks. ______ though, who I've never seen high before, was at the pinnacle of comedic sponteneousness. Good for him I guess. To me he turned into a surreal cartoon character, betwixt the fake TV landscapes of the city, and again I reiterate that I just didn't like it. I embarrassed myself while we were driving, my perspective all off, and I yelled "NO OH GOD YOU'RE GOING TO HIT THAT CAR!" at a simple parking backing up. I felt pretty stupid. I'm just too self-conscious for downers.

So we went with _______'s boyfriend, who seems a cool guy, to Normal Park or somewhere, and I was unable to communicate. Everyone was talking about smart shit and I had no idea what. It was like being a stupid little kid. I danced at the bar for a bit, it was a daze, and thoughts went swam thru my head too fast to catch. While they ate a restaurant I ended up passed out in the car vibrating at too high a frequency for any kind of fun. Then I slept on their couch, ______ on the floor, and so on.

Next day we decided to go to Mexico. I kind of wanted to go to a Erik Davis event in LA, kind of in a hurry to get back, but oh well this was presented and I went with it. Last time I was in Tijuana was with ______ a year back, and it was rather awesome then, and here I was again. I didn't bring my passport though, and ______ didn't even have one, but we were assured it was no big deal. Later on when walked thru gates I was asked "Are you American?" "Yeah," I said, and was let in. It was pretty easy. As long as you're white, transport is simple.

We went to some bars, cheap booze, I got absinthe too, rode on an electric bull, and walked the perverted alleyways of Revolucian. I really dig Tijuana. It's like, reality. America is the fake version of the world, this is the real undiluted anarchic madness that the rest of the planet has to deal with. Everyone yelling at you to buy shit, sex for sale on the street with no hidden qualms, everybody sincerely wants to sell you drugs (I didn't buy anything though), pharmacias at every streetcorner, and fake jewelry to buy for your loved ones. I love it.

I felt bad that we were hanging out with girls, but still we went to the strip clubs. Such vulgarity. "No cover charge!" we were assured, "and free margaritas for the ladies!" Ugly Mexican chicas displaying it all, guts and tits and pussy, and for barely no money! It's disgusting. It's real. It's humanity. Let us be honest about. So we drifted to a few more places, usually at my insistence but nobody else argued. No guilt. I cut myself off from the direct obvious sort of whoredom though, and I never did get a massage. Next time I go, I promise to myself, I shall not leave without an orgasm. Somehow or another . . .

Meanwhile, the weekday comes and I have to work. On Monday there was a meeting about how nobody is allowed to screw around on the internet anymore. I didn't really listen, but I cut back a little bit. Tried to minimize windows, keep my youtube bullshit to myself, not get in trouble. But mostly I just did whatever I want. My philosophy on rules and authority is to politely nod and say you'll behave from now on, and then when the boss isn't looking go do whatever you want. I mean, shit, I still got my work done. I simply googled superhero trivia and political columns inbetween. Data entry is soul-crushing anyways, I can't handle taking it too seriously. Glad to be a productive member of society.

When I returned the money to my estranged non-roommate _________, wrote a 300 dollar check, I then needed ______ to pay me for the room and board. We went to the US Bank across the street and then it turned out he had like a hundred bucks in the bank. Shit. Lesson kids: don't drive cross-country in a big van and expect to have money when you get there. So I guess he'll owe me 270 eventually, and its cool, but I really do need the money eventually. He's getting a job, so I've heard, and I'm sure it'll all work out, but it's still a bit worrisome.

On Thursday we took the bus to downtown LBC to meet at a couchsurfing.com party I heard about online. ____ joined us. I thought it was somehow related to the art walk thing they do here from time to time, and we walked around for a bit. I was wrong, thinking of the downtown LA art walk that was on Thursday, while Long Beach's is on Saturday. Nonetheless, I already committed to a psychedelic adventure. I'd been sitting on this eighth of mushrooms for a week or so, waiting for a fun opportunity to look at pictures and interact with people. For the first hour nothing happened and I was disappointed. But while sitting around at the wine bar I started acting stupid. It got wavy, but it in a fun way. Unlike pot I was able to keep my composure, and though the world got really fucking weird, I could still mumble something equivalent to intelligent conversation. I walked about Pine street on my own, bought cigarettes from 7-11 and forgot how the credit card machine worked, and giggled at the absurdities around me. Downtown at Pine street is really fucking strange at night. Flashing lights like a video game, go-go girls in the windows at the clubs dressed like furie sexy space creatures, and the sidewalk pavement revealed secret hieroglyphics to me. I even crossed the street all on my own.

We all walked about for a while, had some conversation, and though I didn't reveal what I was on I felt like I was exposing my new roommate ____ to a bad influence. He's such a good 19-year old kid, not into this shit, and he even confessed that he actually enjoyed high school. It's okay though, I'm trying to learn how to not to judge people around me. They're just different. Not better or worse, just a different species with other concerns. I was okay by the time we took the last bus home, babbling and singing all the way as the psilocybin died down and I had to get to sleep if I was going to wake up at 6 to get to work at 8 in the morning.

Friday I went to work like any other day. Woke up all damn early and typed away, while sneaking in a MySpace check or two, and listened to Democracy Now, and read from my Stephen Hawking book on break - on the hunt for trippy science fiction ideas, and it seemed an okay average day. Then a few hours in my boss tapped me on the back. I went to the office. "Ray," she said, "we told you that you cannot be surfing on the internet. It isn't respectful to not listen to your managers when you're clearly told what to do. We're going to have to let you go."

Fuck a job. Fuck them all. How are they going to condition me for two months in a lenient cool atmosphere - in which I do indeed get quite a bit of work done by the way - and then all of a sudden expect me to be a good soul-less worker bee in the span of this particular week? Just like that?

"I apologize," I said. Well, to be fair I was hired as a temp technically, and thus I will interpret this as a lay-off, not a termination. I packed my shit and headed out, the daylight up in the noon hours and the whole day ahead of me. I went down to the coffee shop across from Cypress College where I usually hang out after work (though I don't expect to hang out in dead Orange County much anymore), but it was too early for any of my friends to be there. I called up my shroom source though, and waited a while and then he came down with a half-ounce. I spent 85 dollars, which was highly irresponsible considering my inevitable future financial woes, and then ______ came down and we talked awhile too. We'd meet up at the bookstore poetry reading in Long Beach later on.

I did have an obligation to buy this, I must add, because another guy at the bookstore said he'd buy a fourth from me. I divied up my portions, and later on when at the bookstore I sold it for fifty-five. That adds up to me buying the other half of the pile - my own fourth - for only thirty bucks, and that's not a bad deal. Somehow or another on the same day I got fired I sold drugs for the first time in my life. What am I to interpret of this? So I read a poem I had just wrote, ______ seemed to enjoy the scene, hung out for a bit, and ______ was there too, and then he joined us on the ride back to crash at my place for the next inane day.

Saturday was the topsy-turviest of all. I hung out with ______ and ______ and drove all about Los Angeles County, and if I may be permitted this corny statement I must say that it felt great to have real friends. I'm glad they get along, because this is the first time in years that I've had real friends to hang out with. Not acquaintances to party next to and then not care about, but real deep people with some kind of sincere human interaction between the subtext of conversation. Really, it was a cool day.

First we went to eat at my old restaurant job, where I pathetically asked my old manager if they needed any busboys, and to no avail (fuck that place too). There was a lot of shit going on in the city to sort, a bonfire beach party in South Bay, a show in downtown, but I needed to get to Hollywood first. It wasn't timed very well, and Hollywood was the opposite direction from South Bay - especially since the itinerary involved being in downtown LA later in the evening, and in the end we didn't even go down there. But in Hollywood I met up with _____ who I hadn't seen since we viciously fought over hierarchy positions. Well, we're MySpace friends again and it's all in the past. I fear she didn't get along with ______ though, even though they're both from New Orleans. ______ is guttural downtown literature, and _____ is all Hollywood popism, and I love them both but they're pretty different vibes. Still, ______ gets along with everybody and he was humorous as usual. I picked her up and drove around Hollywood Blvd for a while, killing time, and I wanted to go that art gallery and see if I could talk to James St. James. Lo and behold he was there, and I got him to sign my book, and I talked to him about writing for a bit. It was highly productive, and I got his email address and everything. I'm glad to know a semi-famous author, hope it works out in the future. He's quite swell.

Deciding not to go to the beach, we went down to the strangest-emptiest warehouse section of downtown for the Rock n Roll BBQ show, ate at Jack in the Box, I wandered into a porno store, and then we went to see the show. I hadn't seen ____, or rather '______ ______' in ages and ages. Not since ________ broke up with me! The Spanks were all totally nice. They put on a nice show too. But the venue was totally dead at this point, so early at only 7:00, and as people trickled in me and ______ scoured into the corner to pop some X.

He bought it from somebody at the coffee shop, and I paid him back the day before, and I was ready to see what this shit is like. I missed the mark back in the 90s when I was a kid, back when Ecstasy was far more fashionable, but we came upon it and I figured why the hell not. I took some two tabs of white 'Man on the Moon' and he took some orangy 'Buddha', and it took an hour to kick in. I worried that it wouldn't do anything. But then an hour later I slowly found my pupils dilating and my veins hyperactive. They mix that shit with different chemicals, and while I hear that the source of MDMA is dwindling nowadays - which I suspect might not work on me anyways due to my medical diagnosis of serotonin imb____ce. But my theory is that it was laced with amphetamine, white means "ice" I guess, and it was the speed portion that made it so much fun. I was shivering and talking a mile a minute of nonsense to every model girl about in the vicinity, teeth chattering, hopping all up and down, neck barely attached. Perhaps rolling isn't my thing, but then again perhaps tweaking is. Of course, this is a fucked thing to get too into, and don't let me end up like those anorexic crazy people on the corner that we all ignore, but every once in a while may I be permitted for a hyper sped-up nighttime experiential energy?

In my excited state, I decided to give ___ a call. I left her a message, "blah blah blah! And destiny is just around the corner!" Funny, no matter where I go and who I meet, it always comes back to Cincinnati girls. I mentioned that while tripping on a fourth of psilocybin recently I had visions of her. Later she called me back, and synchronously she had recently also gotten fired. She laughed about it, a great attitude to have for sure, and mentioned that she's thinking about going to Burning Man. "Yeah," I said, "and we'll hang out naked in the desert!" ______ came over and I let him talk to her. I overheard them talking about her kid, and his needing a father figure, and I said to him: "I'll be a father figure." He nodded and smirked. "Tell her I said that," I said to him. He covered up the phone and said, "I'm not saying that." Well, probably smart in retrospect.

I also called ________ and left a silly message. "We should all do drugs and love everybody." ____ left a message too. Then later while I was in the car he called me back: "Don't call me! You're a nihilist! You'll never understand!" "Man," I said, "whatever I'll respect your wishes and I'm hanging up now." I erased his number from my phone. It was unnerving, but a cruel side of me also found it entertaining how easy it was to rile him up. Ah well, whatever with that guy. Fuckemall.

____ said that we should go to Hollywood for this other show, and he said that he'd even pay for us, and so we headed there. ______, only slightly drunk (tho I was not allowed any alcohol while rolling), drove the car and followed along. We went to Safari Sams, and missed that band, though I realized that _____ was the one playing there! How synchronous. It didn't go over well actually. I said to her: "So how's your immigration going? I was thinking, like, you should marry an American and that would be easier." "Like marry you?" she said. "I do!" I declared. It wasn't actually so witty at the time.

Later I talked to _______ on the phone, and it turned out she was at the other venue back in downtown. "Let's go there!" said ______. He drove, and then he ended up driving backward on a one-way in downtown as we realized to honks, and then I suggested we pull over and I drive the rest of the way. I had since popped a third tab, but it didn't work as well, and I was good to drive. When we got there it was fairly dead, and _______ asked for a ride to Pasadena to get her van. "I don't know," I said. "Okay!" ______ answered for me. So I agreed, but first we went to eat. I didn't particularly want to get finagled into a ride, but it wasn't the end of the world or nothin. We ate at 101 Café on Fountain, the night tying together as that was where I picked up _____ earlier. _____ briefly dropped by. I was thoroughly burnt out by then and only ordered soup, and ate two spoonfuls, and couldn't eat anymore.

______ drove to Pasadena to an auto shop. I'd never been to Pasadena before actually. Dropped her off and _______ gave me the worst directions of my life, to take the 210 to the 605 to get to Orange County. I should have gone down the 5. I drove thru an hour of emptiness to get to Cypress to drop off ______, who'd long been passed out in the backseat. Boring drive, but I was awake and sober and it wasn't too challenging. Me and ______ got home past 5 AM. And then I went to sleep.

Sunday I was completely burnt out. I woke up at noon, watched television, and then took a nap. I was supposed to catch up on reading and go to the gym and do all this productive shit, though I did read one comic and did go jogging, but most of the day I was fairly braindead and only watched cartoons. Hazards of pills I suppose.

The last few days I have been applying at tons of restaurants. Domenico's surely sucks, but I think I'd rather work part-time and get tips versus a soul-crushing office gig. I need time to write, you see. Of course, that would be the long term financial plan. I must be pragmatic you know. Lately I am proofreading Rob Woodard's new novel, and he's proofreading mine, and once it's as polished as its going to get I will send The Parade out to a new round of queries. Feeling rather uncreative lately, spent and used up and out of words; and I think all my destiny lies in this one novel. Its either this or I will never accomplish anything in life. Better make it happen.

And now I'm sitting on days and days worth of drugs, and I got to find some interesting events to get fucked up at in the coming weeks. I bought more Ecstasy from a local drug dealer I accidentally met, and I have plenty of mushrooms, some people I know are supposed to get some acid pretty soon (haven't done acid since I was sixteen!), and then there's the complex mail-order scheme I'm in on with ______ to get some dope down from his hometown.

Thus continues my quest to become a pathetic drug addict. It's a literary cliché, and who am I to argue with tradition? I used to avoid it when I was a kid, didn't want to become the stoner loser that is my father. But now I think that I shall instead avoid becoming my father by simply outdoing him. Sadly, ______ seems to hate me for it, and sent me an email declaring that we can never be friends as long as he is in law enforcement. But then again, we've been continuously emailing back and forth several times since he said it would be the last time; and I think he's not rid of me yet. We'll hang out soon again I suspect.

The true fact is, everything and everyone is a void. The truth is . . . that there is no truth. There is no morality, there are no honor codes to stand by. Let us get along and not kill each other, and let us be disciplined in whatever it is we do; and that's plenty for the world to go by. Don't be fooled into believing there is some inherent meaning in any of it. These silly human animals strut around pretending to do what they do, tricked into cosmic circumstance, but the best we can hope for is to reprogram the underlying absurdities of our brain's neurochemistry and make up a fun Reality Tunnel. Otherwise, God doesn't care and the primates are full of shit if they think otherwise. I intend to be an artist, and scam my way through life, and contribute nothing because there is nothing to contribute. It's all empty and dark and the whole wide world is a fraud. That's the good news. That's the trick that should make us happier if we understand it. And that's what I'm attempting to fool myself into believing, anyhow, and that's what I'll pretend to live by.

Ayahuasca Tourist

“Ayahuasca is a traditional indigenous sacramental tea primarily made of two plants, Ayahuasca (B. Caapi) - the “vine of the Soul/Dead” - which contains the Monoamine oxydase inhibitors (MAOIs) Harmine & Harmaline, and the admixture Chacruna (P. Viridis) which contains Dimethyltriptamine (DMT) - the first recognized endogenic (meaning naturally produced within the human body) psychoactive substance. MAOIs prevent the digestion of DMT by enzymes in the human body, thereby allowing it to become orally active. The sacrament served in ceremonies with the _______ is prepared according to traditional Amazonian methods.”

Literature is such a bad influence. I used to be a good clean kid. Then I read books.

Then I read Grant Morrison interviews. Then Robert Anton Wilson, and then RAW on Tim Leary. As discussed, I recently read on Dan Pinchbeck’s adventures in shamanism-- 2012 the Return of Quetzalcoatl. And Disinfo Press books on magic-- Generation Hex and the Book of Lies. Lately I’ve been deep in the Archaic Revival by Terence McKenna. P. K. Dick’s VALIS experience. Crowley. Icke. Countless junkie memoirs and esoteric texts through the ages.

So where is the shamanic drug scene inwhich I get to apply this knowledge? How am I to be enlightened already?

Baring occasional and infrequent psilocybin experimentation, I haven’t gone all out. Not yet.

And then I did, and it’s about time.

A few months back H_____ recommended to me a group that performs native South American ceremonies, engaging the powerful ayahuasca psychedelic. I put the information on the back burner and it took a long time to get around to it, and then I read more books and was further inspired; and so I emailed the A_____ B___ group and I committed to a ritual.

Timewave-crunching and I eagerly awaited; I followed the preparatory instructions and spent all week on a healthy lifestyle. I didn’t smoke cigarettes. I already don’t eat meat so the no pork part was easy. I even fasted the day before. I avoided coffee, which was difficult. No sex they said (simple enough for me and my track record lately!), though I also forced myself not to masturbate for five whole days and this was an exceedingly horrendous challenge, but I made it with my balls intact and a surprising amount of free time at my disposal. (All those lonely 3:00 AM’s away from internet porn . . .)

(Yet, as for the alcohol restriction . . . well the night before I found myself at a poetry reading and free wine was available, and I got a tad drunk, and I really was not supposed to do this. It completely escaped my mind. In retrospect, this explains a few things about my reaction. Well, such are life’s challenges and I dealt with it.)

I got a ride all the way to the city of T_____, CA. Through winding dangerous mountainy roads into unincorporated hippie town, and I was worried because I showed up a half-hour late, but once again I shouldn’t have worried about being late because it was still to be many hours before we began.

I made it to the strange address and walked into the house. My ride drove away. Kind smiling faces greeted me; they all wore white, as instructed. (but I don’t own white pants. I wore grey jeans. Jeans are comfortable to me anyways; I sleep in my jeans, and some find that strange). I found a spot on the floor and set up my meager sheets and pillow. Unprepared, I was given another blanket and a sweatshirt for warmth. “Here, take this shirt. It’s made out of bamboo!” “Thank you, what a selling point.”

Such nice happy white folks. With names like Elijah, Satchi, Touch-Eyes, and John. 18 in all to sit around in a circle, 10 guys and 8 girls. And a funny dog wandered about. I had no plans for a ride back home, but I figured I could ask someone later, and sure enough I met C________ and she said she’d drive me to an LA train stop the next day. I sat next to a fellow Israeli M____. D___ was there, glad I recognized a familiar face in, and I talked to her about journalism and Tarot and the coming experience.

A lesson in extreme patience. We waited for hours, in meditation and yoga stretches and taking naps on the floor to the sounds of an Australian dijiridoo. I kept my phone in my backpack in the other room, which was good or otherwise I would check the time incessantly. Here was timelessness.

F______ finally arrived and we were set to begin. Boys and girls were separated. Followed by more patience as he set up the altar and slowly explained the rules for another hour. “Be quiet. No talking. Go to the bathroom slowly and quietly. Make sure you bring a Tupperware container with a lid for your purging.” (I never did throw up, though my stomach would boil over painfully and I wished I did.) “No drinking water for the first hour. Keep your eyes shut. Sit up straight.”

I brought my stack of twenties and paid. I paid a lot more than I reasonably should have, but I paid for the ritual as well as the chemicals. “Any student discount?” I asked. “Starving artist fund scholarship?” “No,” they answered. “Your personal sacrifice is a necessary and important aspect.” Fine, I was willing to part, but it was worth asking.

“There is a good energy here today,” he said. “This is an ancient ritual, passed down through the millennia. Keep your intentions clear.” (I intend to be a good human being),
“and one at a time I will call you up and ask you your tolerance level, and anoint you with oil, and your journey will begin.”

The lights were turned off and in the darkness, led by a candle, I sat before F______. I asked for a medium dosage of medicine as he analyzed my aura and mixed together a concoction, and I drank from the little ceramic cup. Ayahuasca is thick and bittery tea and kind of sweet. My throat burned. I chewed on ginger. My mouth grew dry but I wasn’t allowed to drink water.

I crawled back to my space and sat in a meditation posture and I awaited an effect. I had my little mantra and sat still and breathed in pranayama breath and visualized the Anahata hexagram and attempted to open my heart chakra and all that usual daily junk.

But when it kicked in, I realized, this has nothing to do with Eastern meditation. This is quite something else.

This is not about being still, finding your center, transcendental, nothink, Zazen, or any kind of chackra workout. This is shamanism, and this is a dance.

I rocked back and forth and my neck was wobbly and I opened my eyes and I looked around at all the strange black-and-white heads, and my stomach bubbled, and I listened to the annoying Spanish singing, and I started seeing things.

Everything in extreme contrasts of black and white, my neighbors in charcoal skin. And then the colors, the little Red-Green-Blue pixels like when you look at a TV screen too close, because I’m looking at the universe too close and perceiving something inbetween. Unable to look straight, no focal points, pupils flowing and my vision dripping like water, and everything was fuzzy.

I closed my eyes, and the pictures came.

I grabbed my notebook and I scribbled notes so that I would not forget.

I was confronted with my own superficiality.

The machine-elves that McKenna spoke of, the weavers of reality, they came to me as silly little 80s pop culture references.

Characters flashing before me

Because this is the mythology of my youth.

I weep for this fact.

(On some level I found a new level of letting go; never having cried openly since childhood.)

I saw Ninja Turtles toys and cutesy monsters and video game characters.

I saw the mysterious pyramids of Mario 3 and there was a secret underneath.

I realized that I am a deeply superficial person and this is all nonsense.

These are no more mysteries. I’m too well-read. I know too much. Passion escapes me, reality is intellectualized and questioned and I could interpret this a thousand ways and all that work would be missing the point.

Even if aliens came through the door I wouldn’t care; I would question it, and it would never be real.

The aliens came, and they agreed with me.

I demanded an apology from God, for giving up all the mysteries too easily.

I weeped and weeped. Then I laughed.

I wanted to sleep but F______ made me sit up, which was probably for the best.

I realized that I don’t believe in anything and I will never be passionate, because I just want to think about what I’ll write about later and never live in the moment of the experience.

I wrote this down.

I tried to throw up but I couldn’t.

Ten thousand colors and words banged through my head at once and I couldn’t keep up.

I walked to the pink bathroom and looked at myself naked before the mirror.

I cried and cried.

It was terrifying.

I don’t know why everyone says this is about peace and love and light. It’s not. It’s a horror.

I realized that my path, my contribution to the Great Work, my True Will, will never be about peace and love. I’m not like these Jesus-lookin guys and these smiling white girls. I am here to experience suffering and darkness. I’m here to be scared and confront the bullshit.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

I don’t believe in fear, I am not into that. But I do believe in terror and sometimes you got to embrace your own inner darkness in the process of getting over fear.

You can learn more from a bad trip than a pleasant one.

I listened to the sounds of breathing and gagging as they threw up around me. My stomach was in so much pain and yet I wouldn’t purge.

F______’s singing went from Spanish to English. “We are all children of light, its okay it’s all right.” In Spanish, for me, it was in the background and not entirely unpleasant. His English singing was far too distracting. Luckily, I use earplugs in my own meditations and brought some with me, and that helped.

And the buzz went down, and I had an experience and I’m still here and life goes one. I wanted a second dose. But I was too eager, the second batch was too small, and I didn’t go deep enough.

I was on the threshold of experiencing something real, but I limited myself and couldn’t make it far enough. It was too physically painful. It was easier to think about cartoons and the sad loss of Western intellectualizations. Perhaps the remnants of alcohol in my system ruined it. My heart was never opened, just my head.

I napped until sunrise, as they sang and danced and sat. I don’t know what’s so special about ayahuasca. It was extreme, but it wasn’t that terribly different than my marginal experiences with mushrooms or even just getting real real high via pot. Drugs never seem to work on me correctly.

I think the ritual was more important than the actual chemicals. And this is what makes me uncomfortable.

Afterwards he ended the ritual with conspiracy theory talk, “sovereigns don’t have to pay taxes or follow laws according to the Constitution” (so I’ve heard but never seen proved) “America is dangerous and the dark powers taking over is just around the corner.” Again with NWO/Illuminati meme.

Apparently F______ is moving to South America tomorrow to start his own temple. Honestly, I worry that he has the makings of a cult leader. He has much wisdom, to be sure, much to be learned from and very trained in these arts. But all idealistic movements present extreme dangers when too organized.

Many a legitimate religious experience has devolved into just another control mechanism, and I do not wish to be a part of it.

Spiritualists who demand that everything be cosmic light goodness, “we are all beings of light,” and tell us to follow their rules and eat right and be good people and avoid suffering . . . they are too positive and ignore the nature of immune systematics. Bad things are good for you too. Bad things tear you down so you can be rebuilt stronger.

I must reject all idealism. Nobody should tell you how it should be. Because it already is what it is. The universe is already perfect, only our attitudes need to change.

Yet I still try, ceaselessly, to be a good person. I think I do. I usually fail. I self-sabotage. But I believe I try. Just let it be a personal quest, please, let me go up and down and figure it out for myself. Don’t make me join your movement.

And the ritual ended with the morning’s beautiful bright down. I awoke recharged, as I always do after terrifying trips. But I wish I went deeper. Perhaps another time.

They all spoke of lightness and happiness, and I kept my darkness to myself.

I exchanged a few emails and perhaps made friends, at some fruit and homemade chocolate, goodbyes, and I left with C_______. She was very nice and we had a good conversation sharing our experiences. We all have our own issues to deal with, but she seemed to be more optimistic than me. Hungry and weak I was dropped off at the Temple/2nd stop in downtown. I walked the two stops over to the 7th/Metro Center train stop, so I wouldn’t have to pay for the transfer, and I absorbed the energies of the weekend Broadway Mexican markets of the city. I walked with my pillow and sheets in hand, as if I was homeless. I forgot my sunglasses and had to bare the sun with no shielding. Perhaps this is a metaphor.

I have had time to reflect, and I am left with no proof. Aside from the occasional synchronicity, I have experienced little evidence that a spirit world exists. I am left with an atheist attitude and I only have other people’s that assures them of an other side. How do I find this for myself? How do I know anything exists outside of our own heads?

I mean, I paid all this money for an extreme traditional psychedelic trip and I still haven’t seen God. What more can I do?

That’s fine, mystical atheism can work too.

Skeptical psychedelia has its benefits.

Anyways, I prefer Discordia and Chaoism to your pseudo-religious rules.

Westerners experimenting with other cultures. So condescending. Always worth a try.

And still I weep, for there is no more mystery worth finding.

I’ll continue my journey another time.

-------------------------------

I’d like to share what I’ve been able to gather from my notebook, my scribbles in the darkness:



ALL these
sounds of breathing

Average

sit up straight

site: sharp black on whites

Don’t like eyes closed



I have drunken the bitter
and it
by ginger

thick tasty ayahuasca
burns my throat. followed

I sit. One hour as yet.

no drink. No effect

And Inner Child anointment

Be the best human you can be.

toilet rules:

sit rules : :



I weep for the
mythology of my people

NINJA TURTLES
and thats what it be



I started crying
is superficial and
I
WRITE!!!!

boo hooo you faggot whine

Anyways, Its strange

the Mario 3
pyramids.



Some enemy of my childhood!
Don’t let me forget!

Inbetween all these
sorta video game lil memories....
and Zigzagging !!!..



I want the
box on my head
like a good jew



I cry I wish
I was loved.

I’m not
I’m not very

good at being a

I’m sorry.. I wanna be a boy



I want you
to apologize God!

Because there’s no
more mystery and I’ve
overthought it.