Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Words for Mercenaries: Associates and Appearances
Words for Mercenaries: Associates and Appearances: "'This is the world I sought out, the land of the perpetual night party, day swallowing night and night swallowing day, the crank compressing..."
Associates and Appearances
"This is the world I sought out, the land of the perpetual night party, day swallowing night and night swallowing day, the crank compressing time like some divine piston on its awesome downstroke. We've been at this for three days now - or is it four? Tweakers, lokers, slammers, coming together swearing eternal allegiance and undying love for one another only to wake up after the binge and realize you wouldn't piss on one of them if there head was on fire"
- Val Kilmer (Tom Van Allen/Danny Parker)
The Salton Sea
In the slippery convaluted firmament of drugs, under-the-counter or over-the-counter, legal or illegal, by proper design or falsehood, healthy or unhealthy, with legitimacy or illegimitacy, whether you got them from a friend's friend, or a flakey dealer you trust to show up more often than not, or some one who knows some one who knows some one else, they are never any fun unless you can do them a lot. They never any fun unless you can pursue them with reckless abandon. They are never any fun without exorbitant use, ignoring that universal instinctive feeling, the voice that bursts into the forefront of your mind imploring you to stop when you've had too much too fast.
There are times when the person can wake up after ignoring the voice. There are times when the person can't. It depends how far he's gone, how far he's pushed his luck with that one drug he likes so much and so often. He pops it in his mouth followed by a hearty gulp of liquid, he snorts it with a shortened straw or dollar bill in either nostril, he smokes it in a pipe from the headshop, he turns it into vapor and inhales the fumes from a light bulb, he rolls into paper, he melts into a spoon and injects into a previously blackened, ruined vein with a hypodermic needle, he even purchases it by the bottle in the whiles of legality from the liquor store, and hopefully he's smart enough not to drive. Hopefully he let's a friend drive him home, the friend asking himself how long he's been the responsible party and is that any fun at all? He does it for his friend in the hope that this friend will do the same for him. He chooses this over peaceful pursuits, he chooses this over the simple idea of entertaining a foray into peaceful pursuits on that Friday or that Saturday of Saturnalia at the peak of midnight.
Regardless of any type or fashion, any rigged statement of legality that only induces greater desire to do some thing one shouldn't, there is a universal truth that supersedes it all, that nullifies it all no matter how much rules from an outside source are set in stone. No matter how long some overly certified, overemphasized, self important rulemaker sits at a desk and materializes a sheet of paper with pros and cons, there is only one universal truth that stands between life and death. Edgar Allen Poe, some one very despondent, spiflicated, addicted, and very qualified once wrote, "Have we not in the teeth of our best judgment to break that which is law simply because we can?" Therefore any discourse or argument with the subject of legality must be eschewed or forgone for the sake of more thorough examination. Contrariwise the law is necessitated at times not by way of providence. Most of the time they are necessited when a body or bodies must be zipped up in a larg black bag and taken away. There is nothing prejudicial about the law herein. Just put your lofty notions about the law away for a moment, a small, innocuous elapse no matter how sharp or persistent a pang of ego strikes the turgid conflicting mental accumulation of your by-the-book morality.
The one universal truth is the voice we all have when things have become too much, when things have simply become insufferable and seamingly deplorable. There is nothing too difficult about escaping the path of a moving vehicle traveling at high speeds unless the person concerned is decidedly suicidal. When drugs are concerned there is more subtltey involved. The person always has the voice. Every body has the voice. Good people may dismiss themselves; they have it all the time and take it for granted. However, the voice, the conscience is always present. It's there effectually or it has become a neglected annoying moral excrescence of I-can't-I-should-I-will-I-won't-I-never-will. The voice is present in the ennobled rulemaker's head before he decrees or writes a statement of law. Therefore his very qualified thought is first and the law is merely a regurgitation. Yes, yes, it's so important. There there, you can't live without it. It's your drug. Just try not to do it too much too fast. We understand.
The universal voice is trying to get it's point across in a young man's head. His track veins wouldn't look any better if makeup were applied. His bleary, glazed, strained, bloodshot, and lifeless eyes are encircled with unwholsome patches of sleep deprivation. His drug has consumed him. Before it was just something he did. It wasn't a pastime yet. As he went the ratio shifted entirely and he could nothing else but support his drug. He was given to ennui and the distaste of anything beside. His ego was getting the better of him. The people he troubled himself with were his friends.
Friend is a loose word in extreme drug circles. Alcohol plays a different role, but may be just as pernicious and belied. The commonality that binds them is only the drug, not compassion or the virtues of friendship. After all, a dealer is there to sell you something. Friendship and business are mutually exclusive. The dealer doesn't want to be your friend, the very responsible one in charge of driving you home - bless his heart. Friendship therefore is for other people. It's not his thing whereupon friends become associates. A casual observer who doesn't know any better is decieved by appearances.
There is nothing prejudicial about drugs herein. They are fine by themselves. They are inanimate. One or two of anything can't be all that bad. The prim business ladies have their surcease of xanax, oxicodone, or oxicotton. It makes them feel better after clipping their wonderful legs on the corners of desks all day, after the encroaching pain of beautification and stiletto heals, getting things done in business for themselves or some one else. The buttoned-up businessmen may have those things too if they like or maybe just one whiskey neat. There is beer on days hot or cold, just good ol' marijuana for sensible people, both, or whatever and whathaveyou.
Bells are ringing in the young man's head, the voice is speaking, but he isn't listening that heedfully. He's been taking his drug too long for that kind of sensible fortitude. He sits alone in the bathroom of his functional apartment. This time his associates aren't there to associate with him. His friends are few or not at all. In any case he is alone and has internalized for some time. No loved one or member of his family has intervened too strongly at this point. He has the misfortune of interalizing when he ought speak up, cry out for the help we all need. He has internalized habitually and irrevocably for this the last time he takes the drug. First the ratio shifted. Then he surpasses the ratio altogether. He is a goner. He sits on the porcelain goddes with his kit at his feet. He tightens a rope or a belt around his arm for blood flow. Usually he taps at the needle pushing that spurt of excess out. Not this time. He fills up the needle with heroin. He aims for the blackened protuberant vein he's used the most. He punctures the vein highhandedly - no alcohol swab - and pushes the entirety of the heroin into his bloodstream.
He drops the needly any where and waits. The euphoria of the drug suffuses his body. His eyes swim in the back of his head. He has grandiose reveries and fantasies until...he- he starts to convulse and tremble. He foams at the mouth. He writhes and wriggles. He cries out. No body is there not even associates or appearances. He dies and that asy they say is history.
Some time after funereal goings-on a loved one may ask one of his friends why he didn't do anything to thwart this terrible death. The friend recalls great times doing the drug and special the other was when he did it too. The loved one is enraged after the fact asking, "why didn't try to stop it?!" The friend is stupefied, standing in mental paralysis, indifferent, apathetic, never really concerned from the get-go. He is an associate and the loved one is passed appearances.
- Val Kilmer (Tom Van Allen/Danny Parker)
The Salton Sea
In the slippery convaluted firmament of drugs, under-the-counter or over-the-counter, legal or illegal, by proper design or falsehood, healthy or unhealthy, with legitimacy or illegimitacy, whether you got them from a friend's friend, or a flakey dealer you trust to show up more often than not, or some one who knows some one who knows some one else, they are never any fun unless you can do them a lot. They never any fun unless you can pursue them with reckless abandon. They are never any fun without exorbitant use, ignoring that universal instinctive feeling, the voice that bursts into the forefront of your mind imploring you to stop when you've had too much too fast.
There are times when the person can wake up after ignoring the voice. There are times when the person can't. It depends how far he's gone, how far he's pushed his luck with that one drug he likes so much and so often. He pops it in his mouth followed by a hearty gulp of liquid, he snorts it with a shortened straw or dollar bill in either nostril, he smokes it in a pipe from the headshop, he turns it into vapor and inhales the fumes from a light bulb, he rolls into paper, he melts into a spoon and injects into a previously blackened, ruined vein with a hypodermic needle, he even purchases it by the bottle in the whiles of legality from the liquor store, and hopefully he's smart enough not to drive. Hopefully he let's a friend drive him home, the friend asking himself how long he's been the responsible party and is that any fun at all? He does it for his friend in the hope that this friend will do the same for him. He chooses this over peaceful pursuits, he chooses this over the simple idea of entertaining a foray into peaceful pursuits on that Friday or that Saturday of Saturnalia at the peak of midnight.
Regardless of any type or fashion, any rigged statement of legality that only induces greater desire to do some thing one shouldn't, there is a universal truth that supersedes it all, that nullifies it all no matter how much rules from an outside source are set in stone. No matter how long some overly certified, overemphasized, self important rulemaker sits at a desk and materializes a sheet of paper with pros and cons, there is only one universal truth that stands between life and death. Edgar Allen Poe, some one very despondent, spiflicated, addicted, and very qualified once wrote, "Have we not in the teeth of our best judgment to break that which is law simply because we can?" Therefore any discourse or argument with the subject of legality must be eschewed or forgone for the sake of more thorough examination. Contrariwise the law is necessitated at times not by way of providence. Most of the time they are necessited when a body or bodies must be zipped up in a larg black bag and taken away. There is nothing prejudicial about the law herein. Just put your lofty notions about the law away for a moment, a small, innocuous elapse no matter how sharp or persistent a pang of ego strikes the turgid conflicting mental accumulation of your by-the-book morality.
The one universal truth is the voice we all have when things have become too much, when things have simply become insufferable and seamingly deplorable. There is nothing too difficult about escaping the path of a moving vehicle traveling at high speeds unless the person concerned is decidedly suicidal. When drugs are concerned there is more subtltey involved. The person always has the voice. Every body has the voice. Good people may dismiss themselves; they have it all the time and take it for granted. However, the voice, the conscience is always present. It's there effectually or it has become a neglected annoying moral excrescence of I-can't-I-should-I-will-I-won't-I-never-will. The voice is present in the ennobled rulemaker's head before he decrees or writes a statement of law. Therefore his very qualified thought is first and the law is merely a regurgitation. Yes, yes, it's so important. There there, you can't live without it. It's your drug. Just try not to do it too much too fast. We understand.
The universal voice is trying to get it's point across in a young man's head. His track veins wouldn't look any better if makeup were applied. His bleary, glazed, strained, bloodshot, and lifeless eyes are encircled with unwholsome patches of sleep deprivation. His drug has consumed him. Before it was just something he did. It wasn't a pastime yet. As he went the ratio shifted entirely and he could nothing else but support his drug. He was given to ennui and the distaste of anything beside. His ego was getting the better of him. The people he troubled himself with were his friends.
Friend is a loose word in extreme drug circles. Alcohol plays a different role, but may be just as pernicious and belied. The commonality that binds them is only the drug, not compassion or the virtues of friendship. After all, a dealer is there to sell you something. Friendship and business are mutually exclusive. The dealer doesn't want to be your friend, the very responsible one in charge of driving you home - bless his heart. Friendship therefore is for other people. It's not his thing whereupon friends become associates. A casual observer who doesn't know any better is decieved by appearances.
There is nothing prejudicial about drugs herein. They are fine by themselves. They are inanimate. One or two of anything can't be all that bad. The prim business ladies have their surcease of xanax, oxicodone, or oxicotton. It makes them feel better after clipping their wonderful legs on the corners of desks all day, after the encroaching pain of beautification and stiletto heals, getting things done in business for themselves or some one else. The buttoned-up businessmen may have those things too if they like or maybe just one whiskey neat. There is beer on days hot or cold, just good ol' marijuana for sensible people, both, or whatever and whathaveyou.
Bells are ringing in the young man's head, the voice is speaking, but he isn't listening that heedfully. He's been taking his drug too long for that kind of sensible fortitude. He sits alone in the bathroom of his functional apartment. This time his associates aren't there to associate with him. His friends are few or not at all. In any case he is alone and has internalized for some time. No loved one or member of his family has intervened too strongly at this point. He has the misfortune of interalizing when he ought speak up, cry out for the help we all need. He has internalized habitually and irrevocably for this the last time he takes the drug. First the ratio shifted. Then he surpasses the ratio altogether. He is a goner. He sits on the porcelain goddes with his kit at his feet. He tightens a rope or a belt around his arm for blood flow. Usually he taps at the needle pushing that spurt of excess out. Not this time. He fills up the needle with heroin. He aims for the blackened protuberant vein he's used the most. He punctures the vein highhandedly - no alcohol swab - and pushes the entirety of the heroin into his bloodstream.
He drops the needly any where and waits. The euphoria of the drug suffuses his body. His eyes swim in the back of his head. He has grandiose reveries and fantasies until...he- he starts to convulse and tremble. He foams at the mouth. He writhes and wriggles. He cries out. No body is there not even associates or appearances. He dies and that asy they say is history.
Some time after funereal goings-on a loved one may ask one of his friends why he didn't do anything to thwart this terrible death. The friend recalls great times doing the drug and special the other was when he did it too. The loved one is enraged after the fact asking, "why didn't try to stop it?!" The friend is stupefied, standing in mental paralysis, indifferent, apathetic, never really concerned from the get-go. He is an associate and the loved one is passed appearances.
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