The crane is gone. I didn’t hear it leave, almost as if the several tons of metal sneaked off rather than face me in the day. Perhaps the city felt the spirit of my veiled threat. Perhaps my yard just seemed a better place to overnight park the crane than any of the miles of uncovered macadam and concrete between the ends of the construction zone. It’s gone and the tress remain, such is the important part.
I’ve never shot heroine, but I’ve had morphine shoved into my veins at full bore. I can’t imagine there’s a huge difference between the two. Heroine breaks down into morphine in one’s bloodstream, forming hydrogen peroxide bubbles in the brain, which in turn form black spotted pits in the cerebral cortex, eating memories and causing one to pass in and out of waking moments without awareness of the unconscious interims. Morphine is easier on the brain but takes a toll on the autonomic functions and the filtering organs, making the former untrustworthy and carving scars into the latter. Explaining the sensation of opiate benediction in terms of acceptable drug use, it feels like the crescendo that plays at the climax of your favorite song while you’re nigh on blackout drunk.
A friend of mine doesn’t really care for music. He enjoys it, has his favorite songs, but for the most part he could take or leave it. He has intoxicants he prefers.
I like music. It’s the main thing I miss in the desert. Even booze gets old in the sand. I can’t imagine going a day, writing more than a few passages, without something playing to augment or ameliorate some mood I’m in. Alcohol makes it all the more effective.
I’m a cup into a bottle of Malbec and on my third spotify song jump. Morphine might have been more fun, but it’s too satiating. There’s no need to write, no drive. One’s contented.
I think my days of all-consuming contentment are over. My theory on drug use is that there is an unhealthy margin that makes up the majority of it. If one can truly treat it as a recreation, or better, as a recreational addition, then that’s fine. Otherwise one has to make it his life and gain something from it. Weekend pothead or Hunter Thompson. Anything in-between is a compromise that turns you to pulp. You’d be too strung out to do anything, too brain dead to care. But you wouldn’t be screwed up enough to be interesting.
Booze and cigarettes are no different. No one’s ever been more interesting for smoking cigarettes. Cooler, maybe, until the bad teeth, stale smell, and burn marked clothes kill the image. I smoke cigars, but they’re become a cultural commonality, something that even jackasses who don’t know to take off the labels partake in. So, if you’re looking for social credit, they don’t grant you anything more than a Camel might.
Adrenaline’s good, but there’s only so many times you can jump out of a tree or off a bridge before the jolts slow down and your knees catch up to you.
In the locker room of my kwan, three senior level students, one a shen shung and one a sifu, sat around discussing injuries. Minor, persistent ailments that don’t show, the sort of thing old men get together and brag over. I never consider my classmates or teachers old. Only one is out of his fifties. I never considered them mortal, and I realize I begrudg them their human discussion.
I’m tired of mortality. I’m tired of being reminded that there are no fixed points and that there is no permanence. I’d like to go back to solidly believing that death is only for those who believe in it, and people like my teachers, like great (living) artists, like survivors, will only die when they’ve become open to it. I’d like to go back to believing that the time I died on the sterile table was enough, that having come back, I needn’t die again, needn’t age or grow soft. I don’t want to stop swimming upstream. I don’t want to be broken by it, or even more horrifying, to stop because I’ve decided I want to swim with the current.
For the next few weeks I’ve decided to go back to being immortal. I shalln’t die and I will re-invest in the idea that, since I’m alive today, and have been alive in nearly all of my memories, there’s no reason to expect a difference tomorrow, or the ten thousand tomorrows after.
Rambling done. My foot hurts and there’s wine to drink. And my knees ache when the temperature changes so drastically during the day, and you know, my hip hasn’t been quite right since the surgery and…