.,.,.I wanted a place where I wasn't limiting myself by fear of certain potential readers. It's funny, cause they wouldn't probably read anyway, but the slight chance was inhibiting expression. My wife E is one of the feared potential readers, and I've given out links at times to people too close to me in real life, and that can cause headaches. I could of course just not post, but there's the thing about being potentially readable, even if it's a self-flattering fairy-tale, or even the thing about being theoretically readable far in the future by alien surveyors of the Sol information microcube archived before civilization got turned into a dead two-dimensional painting by hyper-dimensional travelers cleaning the Dark Forest of potential rivals like some roided-up sinophobic new american century project.
So I'm posting in a new way, just writing about things straight-forwardly, instead of coding and metaphors, although I'm trying to do this thing where I have my cake and eat it too, take trips on dxm yet have the happy marriage, be in a relationship but also be able to write, indulge in cryptic poetics and also just convey information, for the edification of myself, mostly, cause there's this sordid compulsion in the social media era, of exhibitionism, even if it's for no one.
So yeah, I'm being a goody good boy for the most part, and a good husband [pretty good at any rate], and faithful, but I also believe in drugs. Certain ones, a sophist's discernment, doctoring myself. I can never totally turn my back on the dextromethorphan sacrament, I'm the prodigal son, the lapsed catholic reclaiming my birthrite.
I think vaping is the new MSG. They don't want it to be OK. They don't want you to enjoy it. They. Them. You know.
It's hard to quit because the negative consequences are so few. Except the artificial expense. The Sin Tax, the mafia government's cut, whatever. Also, there's something creepy about turning myself into a glitchy machine whose functionality is dependent on the short nicotine timer. I don't like it when I'm impatiently pecking at the button with increasing, ever-more-futile efforts like a trauma victim in the hospital bed being weened off the morphine IV by the nurses.
And there's something troubling about the steep curve of diminishing returns, forcing me to take frequent tolerance breaks, like I fail to do anymore with caffeine. It's such a silly game. I'm wired up with what sometimes seems too many chemically dependent circuits, but then, it's all a chemical circuit in'it, some voice deep inside sooths me into believing. No, that's not all there is, there's magikscum of dissociative drugs, and there's the people I love, organic realness, and there's a society I don't know whether to be a martyr defending or shrug off, or just admit I don't know nothin about nothin, I'm just a confused old man in the woods.
There's the thing about never being very precocious, so middle age is gonna hit me late like most things, maybe I'm not even there yet, but oh boy, what a crash it'll be. If I can survive beyond 47, the most depressing age according to data, then maybe I'll get to the real don't give a fuck golden years and enjoy that, if there's anything left in the world to enjoy.
I can take tolerance breaks though, I can go on nic gum, boring responsible gum, and I can even get off that too and get nic free, and I can even get off zoloft, until I start feeling sadness too scary to bear, and run back to it. I can get off these things for a little while. I can get off booze almost all the time, and that is one of the really evil ones, so that's good. I can keep my fentanyl in a bank vault, open it telepathically with the auto-destruct command when needed, if last-ditch geo-engineering fails to fix the planet, and instead turns everything to ice, with the remnants of humanity left to fight it out on a never-stopping train circumnavigating the frigid world and serving as an emblem of wealth inequality.
One part of the movie Children of Men that I think of more and more, that I never gave its due, is the premise of the government-issued suicide pills that are advertised on TV, with the cheery slogan: "You choose when." And real life is rhyming with that close to home with all the hoopla about the Medical Assistance in Dying program in Canada, the assisted-suicide fast-track. I have complicated feelings about that.
I wonder if I can captive-audience someone through the thin gruel of emotional blackmail into reading my selfish words through laundering in what is professedly a letter to a friend, but is really just a blog entry, another wordwank. It might almost work, it's hard to quit something that almost works because it's so close, it might as well be working, burning the credits of long expired favours, like bunk acid.
Mostly I can keep vaping and being on SSRIs and trazodone the tranq because maybe I just breezed through the midlife crisis without even noticing, or maybe it's still waiting for me, but regardless, I can enjoy the benefit, having lived this long, of not feeling the dumb compulsion to be pure somehow, that's an idealism I can happily leave behind.
I'll also post the only music I can manage over the long lame lately, which is facile and clumsy improvisations. But there was something worth a novel or a series in the title: The Art of the Possible. Which is what they say politics is, but I'm trying to stay away from politics on this blog. But there's rich thematic resonance from the epigram that extends to many things. What I meant when I came up with it while playing stemmed from the obsessive thought, what can I possibly come up with, in tense real-time, with these hands of mine that are lagging so far behind my rushing thoughts? The limitations of technique and imagination. What sort of compromise do I have to make with reality, to serve others, like the mockingly theoretical readership, listenership, or public?
