29 Sep 2006


I rambled to Roxe about the almighty value system last time I was on coke. I love calling it coke, cause it’s classique, cocoa in ornate script, beyond cola. Freud got a lot of mileage out of it, he must have had a good connection. But it's gak to me. Just compresses my conscious awareness of the rich spectrum of life's pleasures into a narrow band, bringing me back to that garish bichromatic dichotomy, quick wringout of vitality. Thank god I don't have a good connection. I’m a psychoanalyst like everyone else, but I can’t find any way out of my own labyrinth, so I certainly don’t want to supercharge the trip.

The almighty value system. All it takes is a week of sobriety and I can talk myself into putting the art and music and words on the shelf again and going back to the bar – to get high on low society, subvert my sober values and obligations to be cool, shrug off the burden of stylistic integrity. So I can ramble again. I like saying Roxe. Stokes my imagination. Strokes an alter ego, Alt-F4, control alternate delete, inhibition’s end, a quantum experiment. See where that takes you. Me. Who?

The run of the mill value system, personally tailored. It's complicated - it's social dynamics - it's interlocking layers of cultural programming, carried genetically, broadcast epigenetically, stretching back to antiquity. I'll never figure it out. I'm a groove pattern on vinyl. I'm gritty, scratched, analog. Haven't used the needle yet, I guess I've got enough holes for now, though they did IV me saltwater at the hospital. In the Welfare Cosmos, every citizen is allotted fifty grams of fentanyl in a bank vault for use thirty days prior to death. So if you're on schedule, citizen... you're good to go. I wonder about some people I know. Where they may be going. Prepositions - from here, they seem to matter. It’s not time for my fentanyl yet. So I’m making due with gigapiano. Potential samples on the horizon. I could buy them, or I could rent an apartment for the short term, build a bubble, be another casino bum, finally float into the profiteer’s lair, hey, for the price of future despair give me shelter, short lived like a Monopoly venture, the game will be over soon, enjoy it now, take a Chance, cause the community chest’s broken ribs are poking through the skin and it’s just an ugly scene.

I don't feel the sickness right now though. Maybe because I'm in the interlude - between healthy art-driven life, and the burn of debauchery I may soon feel, kinetic energy, what keeps the cycle of entropy going. Funny to read about old fixations - times when I was so giddily obsessed with those... what were they called? Entheogens? Ah yes. The mind-expanding agents. Not that I really invited them to turn my life upside down, I just liked the idea of it, the abstraction, and the elvish edifice shimmering across the chasm of human values - the unattainable elves. When I realized drugs actually had the power to do what I was writing about, for real... I wasn’t sure if that was actually something I wanted, though it took a lot of de-conditioning to realize that. It’s nice to know I can go there I guess, but... no, it's not nice to know that, it's kind of freaky. Hallucinations aren't free, they tax your sanity.

No matter what I go through, I can never get hip to state boundaries. I can never detach from the wheel of life and lounge comfortably in the godchair, taking it all in. Dispassionately - obviously that's not an activity for the Christian god, or Allah, or any of those assholes. But it seems the most God-like thing to do, to me. And I guess that's why I'm here. Because I'm not dispassionate. I still have passion. Passion for passion. I'm here to feel. Squeeze feeling out of this horrific moldfruit planetrip. That’s why I dropped into this dioxyribonucleic niche, someone’s gotta play the role. Of a creature whose taxonomic tag bears the name “Jonathan Deon”. Parental patterns dubbed me thus, daubed in anglo-christian symbolism.

Would I want to retire to the God chair? Sometimes I feel like I would. Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a partner. Sometimes that fentanyl tempts me. Five hundred well-fed rock stars can't be wrong. Deadhead bedspread cosmonauts, craving icy celesta. Under the bridge, he said. So archetypal, I have to wonder if it's even real. Maybe cartoons exist. Maybe they exist when you draw blood, wherever you draw blood. Does it matter? A mansion, a bridge, a bedroom - anyplace will do when you're filling holes that have lives in them, families, concept albums barely begun, burying your dreams with drugs. I have faith in fentanyl. Like I had faith in God, the dispassionate God of enlightenment, that ground zero glory hole. Careful what you wish for, I said. A phrase I coined, millennia-ago, as some street corner prophet, or maybe Brian of Judea.

I'm always caught in the moment. Well, that's what emotions will do to you - override the intellect. Emotions seem to define reality, they’re always stronger than the wispy thoughts. They’re the load bearing structures of reality. And they’re chemicals. Chemical composites. Complex chemistry. Organic chemistry. That's what we are, unusually complicated beings of the molecular level. The cutting edge, in some sense. At least in the sense that makes sense to the densely ramified matter we call the cerebral cortex. Brown Algae beat Low Grade Psychgnosis in the Grohman Narrows beauty pageant, but it was a close call. Douglas Fir was a controversial judge, because there’s no accounting for taste, and those fucking trees are biased against brainwaves, anyway.

And that's why I can't stop talking about drugs, even after I stopped doing them. Because we are drugs. Our thoughts are enabled by mother nature's multi-faceted apothecary, variation I for you, variation II for me, barely binary, on a distant limb of the genetic tree, a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. Luke Skywalker was not from around these parts. But he was closer to the bright center of the universe than he thought.

Paint peeling from my hoarse bark, rustbloom over the slickgrate. Tyred of the fyre, deus never got the smackdown he deserved. Still more hopscotch games to play with language, the chalk washed off in the rain last night, the new pattern looks familiar but I can't quite remember why, hazey daze, hazel stopped by again, crazy, there was an interchange, somebody rasped out an ozzy melody, somebody riffed on it, we played four-square on the school grounds, the asphalt pavement, the ball was lost down the street, tumbled down that steep Josephine tilt, it's nobody's fault... It's still tumbling and I'm still here - not wanting to grow up, not thinking about it much though. My worries are more here and now, because I forget how to think long term. Retrograduation. Let's go to Lakeside. Stop by Dairy Queen on the way, get a blizzard. Reeses' pieces blizzard. That's the ticket. Like keystone city on the holodeck. A dream of electric sheep.

1 comment:

globber blobber said...

I love this.

cutoff - Cutoff from nothing, it's okay, there was nothing there anyway - wallfacer, door closing, wallfacer project... let's cut ...