Just a moment of your time.

He peered through the glass sitting on the desk, amused by the refraction and distortion of the screen. "maybe the world should always look like this." he thought as he sat up and looked once again at the image on the screen, this time unfiltered through empty glass. "we fucked like gods in our time." our time... It echoed through his head. This was nothing more than an image of her, not perverse in any way, just a frozen moment in time. He took this one just to remember always how beautiful she was that night. The air became electric and the stars smiled down on them, if but for a fleeting night, the rest of the world had melted away. "fuck this", he growled as he slammed the laptop shut, and prepared to adjourn for the evening.
A cigar clutched in his lips had long since extinguished itself, he tilted his head back, and that familiar rush set in, glazed and spinning, the room mocked him with it's refusal to sit still. He wasn't concerned with the state of his mind, afterall he was trying to erase it, to forget is a mercy shown on the weak.
"memories", a simingly bizarre utterance for the still-life company surrounding him. It only made sense when paired with the unspoken visions racing through his head.
Even the greatest memory has bittersweet twinge to it, because it is past, and even the most powerful recall can't bring back the actual experience, just some skewed version, like looking through a glass. All good things pass, and so too do the ties that merged and formed those blissful nights.
He stood, half balancing on the chair, as he adjusted to the gravity, and the motion of the room. "too much... Or not enough." he grinned, it seemed he could only speak in half-thought, incomplete sentences, not that it mattered as the words range off the walls and fell forgotten as quickly as they were uttered. Henturned and began his path to the hallway, and as he walked his mind once again traveled to distant lands of yesterday, sure there were bad moments too, like when she said she hated him, he knew it wasn't genuine, but in that moment the white-hot flame inside her believed it with every syllable that escaped her lips. It was followed by several syllables, all of which hushed under the ringing sound that permeated from everything. "I hate you." that was all that was left of that memory, the rest just flashes by with a churning ball of shame that swells in his stomache everytime he recalls it. Sure, time patched up wounds, settled things in the passage of days, but they were never the same after that. A slow painful demise, anchipping away at a tiny crack in the perfection of what once was. It's never fast, always a slow denial of the hearts true intent.
As he walked he made a purposeful choice to will his soul back to the present. The room swirled into existence once more, he could smell the cigar still wedged between his lips. The dull aroma of burnt tabacco, suddenly became so familiar, strange how it seemed unpresent all these minutes as he walked, because his body was on auto pilot, while his mind was immersed in the waves of life. Life, none of us see it, except in the rearview. It's wasting us away, and we can't appreciate it, until it's written, can't be altered. "wait! Fucking wait..." he looked back at the chair he occupied several minutes ago. "minutes? What the fuck?" turning the hallway was every bit as far from him as it was before his mind drifted, yet even in his state he knew he could multi-task enough to think and walk at the same time. Indeed he knew he'd been walking, but had managed to barely move an inch in his feeble attempts to walk to bed, to retire this evening and make it but a memory. The whole room mocked him once again, with it's refusal to sit still, yet nothing in it was living, except for him. "god, is this some nightmare? Have I fallen asleep already? Maybe I'm still sitting at that desk, slumped and snoring."
It was common in dream to try for a goal that froze him, something not to be accomplished. It usually meant he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. And his soul couldn't manage to travel far past the trapped bodies physical range of sight. A prisoner that wants nothing more than to awake and escape the surroundings.
This felt different though, dark and ominous, while paralasys is usually dark, it comes with an understanding that with time it will pass, no matter what demon may be sitting on your chest, you focus on the tangible and wish for wakefulness, though each second an eternity spent in hell. But no, this had no such purpose, no creatures or shadows lurking, just a stillness that couldn't be changed.
He'd spent so much time dwelling on the past, had he somehow become a moment frozen in time? It didn't matter if his life progressed from here, because he knew the best had passed, this stillness brought with it a sick calm. "who cares if I ever reach that door? I don't even care, so why should anyone else?" it'd pass as another forgotten moment, just like the words he spoke, that had fallen off existence.
A perpetual photograph, not even a good one... Stuck walking, he did struggle at first, in his head his arms were waving violently, he was running, he could even see the illusion of movement his brain was projecting to make sense of the synapse refusal to fire and propel him forward. He knew he wasn't really moving though, if anything he felt a calling to return back to the chair, to sit a dwell on the image, the more he became aware of it, the more insistent it was, it was painful to do anything that would consist of forward momentum, and now this beckoning to reverse? Would it stop at the chair? Would it matter? Maybe he'd feel pulled backwards until he was undone, dwelling on the past so much, maybe he'd have to witness all the pain and joy reconstructed, happy beginnings at the ending of each chapter, yet he knew even if he could re-experience everything, it'd still pass, it would end, even if it ended at the start.

He peered through the glass sitting on the desk, amused by the refraction and distortion of the screen.

I'm taking new medication, it's not agreeing with me thus far, but I know it has to get into my system before I can adjust.
I'm writing right now because I can, because it's the first breath I've taken in days. I've crammed a whole lot of nothing in front of my face to avoid any actual thought or creativity. Filling my days with rampant bouts with mindless television, to shedding hours lost in video games. Nothing with substance, even my dreams are effected, the less you live while you're awake, the less you'll enjoy when you're asleep.
Severe antisocial behavior, a tiny circle of people that even manage to reach me via txt, and I spend whole days with my phone off lately. I'm doing good if Incan walk as far as the kitchen a few times a day... Just leaving my room is forced and uncomfortable.
Awkward doesn't begin to describe the way every small task has become... I fidget, I'm restless but tired. Bored but unmotivated. I am stir crazy, yet I can't imagine the pressure of leaving the house... The weight of the air, the open sky. I need walls and ceilings, and they get smaller everyday.
I can't just sit here and waste away, and I can't keep complaining in this, "woe is me" bullshit either. Last night my mind kept wandering to how much I miss my kids, and my brother. I cried... Sobbed uncontrollably, for just a second I cracked, then composed myself, as if I had to prove myself or be tough for someone else sake'.
I want to get better, I want to be me, get lost in creativity and pursuit of knowledge, rather than killing time. I want to care about something when I wake up, a reason to keep breathing. The whole point of new medication was to improve my disposition... Not agitate a frail and failing mental state.
Chemicals will adjust, and I'll wake up one day and feel different, changed. I'll leave my shell, I'll shed my skin and feel like me again, it just hurts waiting.

When the same four walls that saw the birth of so much creativity become a tomb for my illness, I could SCREAM, but it wouldn't matter.
As far as anti-social agoraphobes go, I'm living the life. Holed up in a remote part of nothing, some days... Like this day, it enflames so much, I can't leave my room, much less the house.
I'm pretty sure there's a moral here, some lesson, some way I can help others that suffer with similar problems... But right now I just feel damned by a prison of my own making. The world still spins, lives carry on, I'm in a grave with afterthought, I'm expired, but still smell ok. I very literally watch dust gather on the things around me, some days its surreal to think I've been in such slow motion that the things around me could show age. Now I'm going to type four more paragraphs spewing the same self loathing, feel sorry for me bullshit, before I finally shut up and roll over. That's how this ends... I hate to ruin the end of a great mystery, but I don't want you getting all excited that hope springs eternal; no, our hero rolls over, and twitches for a while, until he either falls asleep, or succumbs to some similar urge.
For the sake of argument, let's say tomorrow everything was suddenly ok, I could find motivation, what would I do? It's a really good question, seeing as I've cut myself off so well, there are only a handful of things I can do with motivation, but I'll give it a go.
I'd make art, that'd be wonderful, I've gathered all these pieces for art, and really just need to assemble them. I'd take a walk with my camera, like I always used to do... Maybe set it to black and white, and just take pictures because I enjoy it, not because I have something expected from me. I'd light the fire in my heart, and compose music, not just a song, but two or three all stemming from the same angle. If I were really motivated? I'd get on a bus, I'd put this all behind me... Maybe just for a week or two, or maybe for good, walk away from what I know and take a risk, get on a stage again, fall in love with something new... Just live, and exist somewhere healthy.
Instead, I think I'll upload this and roll over.

The chair feels cold against my back. It's staring at me from the table, if I blink first it wins.
"go ahead, pick me up" it says. It's chamber opens and the six pills fall out. "now I'm not even loaded, it's safe". The trigger feels freshly oiled, my palm sweats and heats the cold steel. It doesn't talk now, it doesn't have to... It's where it belongs. I hold it up to my face, I peer through the orange plastic at the world outside, the label skews the corner of my sight, everything is bent and imperfect, but it always has been.
13. 14. Where was I? Lost count again, it gets harder to concentrate as they take their turn dissolving.
My heart beats, I feel the blood coursing in my arm. "you chose this path" says the bottle, it really didn't have to remind me.
The floor is cold on my face. "why is the world sideways? I ask, with only silence as an answer. "here we are again gravity, just you and I." she doesn't answer, she can be a fickle bitch at times like this. She'll hold me in her warm grasp, but it's just a facade, to promise I won't move. It's too heavy anyway, the floor is suddenly soft, the softest thing I've ever felt. Just out of my reach, the cap sits, mocking me. The only thing within my reach... Reach, lift and pull. The world is upright now... I think. Bend my neck to check, and a wave sends half my body sideways with it. The only thing in my vision that isn't a blur, is the LED display on the microwave. It's 3:32, and once again I've fallen just short of my goal. There's always tomorrow.

The Lost Art of Drug Abuse part1

The lost art of drug abuse.
Yes, I very purposely placed that word abuse in the title. The assumption is that if you were or are pro-drug culture you'd choose a word other than abuse when speaking about it. I use the word abuse, because as much as it expanded my mind, and shaped who I am today, it also ravaged my body, and took some part of my soul with it.
Psychedelics are a topic of choice, most intellectual spiritualists will list a period of consciousness expansion, opening your mind to what the average bystander takes for granted. The magic that's in the air, in front of us every waking moment, of every day.... Every moment of slumber for that matter. You can pluck a note from the waves in the air, as music pulses through your psyche. Those moments when you have to breath in deep and shiver, because intense forces all align in a moment and you sync with the moment. How many of us are here, right now? We are spread across our fears, our past, laundry, what we have to do tomorrow. But what about now?
Energy, amazing sparks of life flow around us always, we can reach out and grasp it. Let it flow into our fingers, until it ends up deep inside our souls. This part, actually has nothing to do with drugs, I'm sober now, and as far as illegal drugs, they are part of my past, but I do not regret what I learned from those times.
There were horrible moments, bleeding from my head, walking down a dirt road, I was dying and nowhere. I was 16, and the promise of a drug deal led me to the brink of death, it wasn't the first, and far from the last time that intoxicants would lead me to the fringe of this mortal life. I've been poisoned, overdosed, and even let a common cold almost kill me. I have had my head smashed in enough times that doctors don't even know how to put me back together. Modern medicine, and psychology falls just short of being able to rewire what's disconnected inside of me.
I remember my first beer. My first toke off of a joint, I remember when I outgrew marijuana. My first experience with LSD was just a couple weeks after my first joint. It didn't slow down, it was all encompassing. Skateboard, sex, and drugs. What started in a friends empty house with Nirvana and chili peppers on a small stereo, quickly led to warehouses, half pipes, with DJs spinning Front 242 and Kraftwerk. Those were times of self discovery. One moment pulsing music, the next a giant room of people, all silent, drawing on whatever paper we could find.
Sitting on a warm summer night, feeling the grass between your fingers, as you watch the treeline flow with you. Love and addiction, seeing all the beauty that gets wasted on normal eyes.
It's dark, cold, and we always end up in this stupid alley, because cops seldom walk this area. The pipe passes from mouth to mouth, what's in it varies by evening, trends and years. It's the other side. Even the psychotropics that led us in spiritual moments. Also found us on bathroom floors, trying to remember how to breath... Numb fingers, everything has layers of filth, that stick out, mocking you, making sure you don't forget what you swallowed that night.
Who was your first friend you saw in a casket? Heroin and meth have replaced those recreational trips. Full blown habits had us, they were in control, not us. Remember getting high before you left for the funeral? It made it easier to cope. Everyone shared bottles and cans in the parking lot, toasting to our friend...
I remember being "taught" that snorting 1-2 No Doze, was the same rush as swallowing 5, it came on faster and more intense. I remember watching someone cry for three hours because they had swallowed over 20, and thought they were going to die. What did you snort first? Are we not allowed to speak of things? Has this suddenly changed into a dark topic? We don't want to remember those moments. Even if that first night was happy, once you let one powder into your nose, what was the difference? You enjoyed this... You might as well inhale this too. I remember the first time I was poisoned, sick on a psychotropic, one I won't name, we would trip for four days, after losing every shred of sanity for 8 hours. My fingernails turned dark purple and I knew, instantly that I'd taken too much. I rode it out, tried to find the entertaining side of it, but it's hard when your heart is beating in your throat. You are sitting slightly beside yourself, everything is off. The wall is breathing at you. When I dropped to my knees after smoking meth for two days, I was finally "awarded" a big line of cocaine... "Shit, I just fucked up." knees, everyone is staring, muffled "is he?", "are you ok?" then it kicks back. I was lost for a moment, and now I was welcomed quickly being too high, overdosed by definition. I stood, my face flush and hot, then cold instantly. I knew I had just damaged myself, I laughed and lit a cigarette, as the strippers sat back down.
My present for my 16th birthday, my first line of meth, pure from California. One line and before you know it three days have passed. I drank a pint of hot damn 100 proof that same night... I didn't feel drunk until the next day. 10 am and I start laughing, everyone is snapped out of their trance. "remember that hot damn I drank? I'm drunk now!" those first few years meth just came around on occasion, the ingredients to make it weren't illegal yet, so there was an actual high, now people are doing this disgusting mix of things they call meth. It wakes you up, but you hate yourself the second you feel it, if I walked away regretting any drug, it was meth.
Heroin makes you slump, write poetry in your head, thoughts are all you have, you're swimming in consciousness. Where dreams meet this world. You can hear everyone, your senses are there, but you're not. I had a rule about needles, a line I'd never cross, except the one fucking time I was pushed to. "I'll do this once, then never ask me again." I kept my word, I never shot up again. I smoked my heroin... Ate it in capsules a couple times. I'd already had my bouts with opiates, in pill form. In fact, my father was the first person to accidentally introduce me to opiates... The hellfire and brimstone preacher, gave me two bottles of coda-clear, I'd had a dry cough for two weeks. That was gone by the next day... Sitting in a corner at school, talking with a friend, I pulled out a spoon and the bottle, took two teaspoons. A few minutes later in class I felt so relaxed. "what's in this?" I pulled the bottle out: 90% codeine solution. I'd heard of codeine. Chug, right there in class. By the end of school both bottles were empty, I was laughing at everyone in wood shop, and just walked out... Balls deep in my first opiate high. It was not a wasted experience, it was a blur of walking, laughing and sex. It takes forever to cum when you're that high on opiates, not for lack of trying though.
To be continued in part II...

I wish it were easier to edit these.

I'm several hundred words into something, and must take a break, I'd rather post it and edit to add to it. But it's a pain on this iOS. I know what I'll do...

In my years, the lines begin to blur, between spirituality, music and art. They all feed from a central energy. I think I've learned to respect creativity as a blessing, and to offer up what is held inside of me, dark or glorious, sometimes both in one. I bless my studio space regularly with cedar, sage and incense. It has to be a space of peace, one that can flow; where I can plug in at whim and capture what's in the air in that moment.
When the juices just aren't there for music, I try to write, as I am now, about life in general, or to plan, something I've really just learned to do over the past year. Sit back and breath, make an outline, or birth an idea. The same as my spiritual hypothesis were formed, I pluck inspiration from the same tree for music. Some people may question how I can be so fervent about music that currently has so much instrumentals, but often those speak to me more than any utterance a throat could form.
I plan on having some consciously expanded sessions, sitting with instruments I'm less than comfortable with, and just playing, until I find phrases worth recording. Letting the music speak in a more natural flow, less structure, less programmed and more ethereal. And then of course, chopping it into tiny slices, flipping it upside down and laughing at it.
There's not a moral here, I hope you weren't looking for one, it's really just me decompressing and planning some free sessions to take the next album sideways, from things expected from me.