Monday, 21 March 2011

How do you do…drugs

This is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s confusion or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely intentionally coincidental.

“Just say no,” never really felt right. Even when you didn’t know better and all you saw of drugs was fantastically negative, something didn’t quite fit. Adolescence made you altogether curious for the surreal stuff and bored of the real stuff. In desperate dire need of release from parental, social, geographic and insitutionalised controls that two cans of Skol, didn’t quite cut.

With spots and pubes, masturbation marathons and having a crush on 85% of the opposite sex whilst aspiring to adulthood and still being classed as a child. Frustration and rebellion planted its flag firmly on your crater rich face.

If we’re lucky, we find others who share this similar inclination, this desperation to not to continue the humiliation of our current situations, this firm desire to experience the hidden side of ourselves.

Your gang were like dumb revolutionaries that haven’t understood that they’re revolutionaries yet. Instinctively desiring and discussing things they know bugger all about due to the internet being about 6 years off useful and the only book in the library featuring drugs, is that of ‘Mushrooms in our Forests’ which simply shows an outline of a magic mushroom above a red box warning the various sentences you can get for possession of said pencil line.

We attempt to barter, get ripped off, and buy things from shops with whimsical titles like ‘the mystical well’ that claim many things and deliver none.

So a friend who’s not a friend of a friend who’s also not a friend gets us some hash. We roll it, smoke it and say we like it at first when we don’t, it makes us feel ill all over our friends mum’s toilet and down her stairs. It makes things hazy and strange, but there’s a pleasant a collective level we now have at an age where everyone’s up and down all over the shop. Weeks pass, smokes continue, you start to feel like the 60’s were amazing, you get a flowery top, you get some flared trousers, you grow your hair, you offer free love and wait, until through sheer embarrassment you have to except that flirty fat friend.

You want to persist; you desire other things, like some explorer of your unknown, so you find those pencil lines in a cowpat. When the road turns blue and the sky opens up you realise nothing will ever be the same, you’ve found the matrix before the reference was even relevant to Ted Theodore Logan.

The smoke gets ingrained, you want to know more so you watch Bill Hicks repeatedly for an undisclosed number of years gathering evermore minute inflections until you think he’s some sort of messiah everyone needs to watch. You have music that accompanies use, which you now term ‘sessions’ with anything that you have to do within that session a ‘mission.’ You have times, tools, games and people who join you in your hazy stale smoke rooms with cracked red glazes, giggling into the ends of hours while devouring tons of utterly filthy food.

You repeat this process more times than you can remember because your memory’s shot as is your chance of finding a special someone outside the limited smoking groups you blithely wander in and out of unaware of the seemingly growing hopeless undercurrent.

Motivation is so lost, lazy people are openly mocking your hygiene. Finally you’re sick of the monotony and about a week later you calm it down, you buy some apples, start drinking more, you go out and ride your bike, smoking cigarettes, and ask your dope guy for those other things he does, yeah, pills.

You don’t know shit, so you start going to places with bad music but good people who tell you about other places with slightly less worse music and you go there too. You meet characters that turn from strangers to friends to soul mates and back to strangers in hours.

You find a few people who want to race further, who really want to fly. So you crazy off, it feels like it’ll never stop and it almost doesn’t. But though you deny it to even yourself the mornings start to hurt, they tear through thought like barbaric shysters, making you a stupid zombie within the encircling cast of Dawn of the Dead. So you drink, you drink because the drink softens it, the drunken cold grey is preferable, as long as the curtains don’t twitch, living in a forced twilight, scared of the outside, dirty sweaty drunk shambles of our former sparks. From bravado and freedom to boxed-in beasts, this is our fun but even we tire at being caged animals.

End of part pill.

Into the age of synthetic genetically manipulated highs, manipulated legal highs, sharing time with the traditional and the upstarts. The cocktails change, the feelings vary but the result is usually a shambles but isn’t that now part of it? Numbing one part leaving another amused. Speeding one, speeding all everything doesn’t stop but there isn’t enough time for it all, you can’t say or do everything, there isn’t enough time!

New ones, gritty ones, cutting sharp ones. Powders and pills, white but not pure, anything but, hit and miss, dud or good? The reasons why have become hazy, is it a disassociate, is it a desire to share or alienate, the feeling isn’t exactly spectacular, it’s often a hazard, losing things, making fools out of ourselves, accidents, incidents, fights, this is maybe not good.

But what’s the choice; sobriety while all around is vibrant and dramatic. Booze, boozy booze, woozy booze, lulled, depressed, blurting, loud, stupid drunkard? Crack? Heroin? All choices are just that but society hasn’t publically embraced all lifestyles and persuasions, Absinthe bars? Coffee shops? Ket halls? Legality would help yet considering you can’t legally smoke a hookah inside a hookah bar the very idea of a progressive drugs policy seems ruefully whimsical. So this current mismatching will just be that, painfully current.

Through all you are learning and forgetting, heartfelt and heartless wondering and unable to think in ecstasy and in grief all and nothing in those things called drugs in, that thing called life.

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