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Monday
Tuesday
too long, get ready
on addictive drugs:
where do you start. i've been slowly accumulating addictions since high school, and even if i'm not selling myself on the street for heroin, i'm acutely aware of the gravitational, inescapable pull of addictive substances. the nonsensical insensitivity with which you need something you know isn't helping you. alcoholics anonymous is a creepass cult as far as i'm concerned, but one thing they like to say hits home pretty hard, and that's that alcoholism, or rather the craving for booze itself, is a kind of insanity. maybe they mean it as an excuse, as a shelter under which they can hide their willpower, but i think of einstein's great definition of insanity--doing the same thing again and again, expecting different results. i'm not just talking about trying to quit (which this definitely applies to), but the whole ritual, the whole psychological paradigm an addict adopts. the same goes for cigarrettes, whatever, anything you want to break free of but feel utterly unable to, like it's become such a part of your deepseated psychological makeup that you're not even sure if you want to give it up, if you'll still be your little individual self if you 86 it.
now, three cities in canada are getting ready to prescribe heroin to junkies. if this sounds like a bad idea to ya, get the fuck off of my blog right now; you're not gonna get any of this because you haven't experienced any of what i'm talking about. the damage inflicted on drug addicts, while yeah, largely is their own fault (fault's such a messy term, though. is it a schizophrenic's fault she's crazy? the interaction between conscious and unconscious is where fault seems to manifest in most people's minds, but what about those whose prefrontal development's been stunted from an early age? those who haven't had the chance to develop the fine-tuned 'self-control' we put so much stock in? but i digress and this is too philosophical for anyone to really agree on or probably even listen to anyway), is propogated by and large, in americaland, usa, by governmental controls. if you're at the point where quitting pushing off (or insufflating, or drinking [fun fact: alcohol is the only drug from which the withdrawal can actually kill you], or whatthefuckever) is going to cause you more pain, suffering, and possibly long-term damage, than continuing, you tell me what you're gonna do. so these people, who need a slow, gentle release from this shit, become major criminals, and cost us zillions (do not actually know the number) of dollars rotting in jail, instead of getting treated for however much (even if it cost the same as jailing them [it wouldn't] the humanitarian aspect would be worth it) and becoming a productive member of society who can actually give back.
i'm not saying drugs never hurt anyone. i'm not saying that the mindblowing drug cartel violence our southern brothers are bearing and inflicting can be swept under the metaphysical rug. but think more of hunter s. thompson, who while running for sherriff of wherever in colorado he ran for sherriff (under the 'freak power' party, the logo of which by the way is a six-fingered hand clutching a peyote button) advocated simultaneous legalization of all drugs and punishment by indefinite lockup in the stocks for drug traffickers and profiteers. if these drugs were not illegal (and thus have an artificially repressed supply [and arguably increased demand--everyone knows we want what we can't have even more {microeconomics, bitch}]), dealers would be hard-pressed to make money and have little incentive to gun down 17 teenagers at a rehabilitation center in mexico (god..). i feel like you all already knows this. of course you do. but fuck, why is it taking so long to do something about it.
back to canada. in one of these experimental rehab clinics for heroin addicts, they had groups of people who were treated with methadone (a pharmacological cousin of heroin, often used to wean junkies off their habit) and people who were just given a fix of heroin. two a day i think. in the methadone groups, 1 in 5 patients improved in some way (they had a few categories: physical and mental health, association with non-drug users, and criminal acts). BUT GET THIS: 55% of the heroin-administered heroin-addicts improved. and of the patients who improved the most, pretty much all were from the heroin-administered group.
we're inching toward a reasonable attitude toward 'drugs' (i'm talking about the currently illegal ones), finally, after a long and insane moratorium on even scientific research on them (here i'm talking mostly about psychedelics. and weed) stemming from racism and xenophobia, and hippies, a little bit. me, i'm guardedly hopeful.
i've saved my favorite bit for last, though. all this talk about gently helping, with compassion and tolerance, etc. etc., drug addicts, ignores one critical, wonderful, explosive discovery: iboga. iboga, or rather the active component, ibogaine, is a rare west african psychedelic derived from the root bark of a certain plant. it produces about 4 hours of dream-like, often repressed childhood-related, memories and visions. this is followed by a period of intense introspection that can last from 2 hours to 2 days (!!). this is more than the intense, self-awakening vision quest we've all wanted since we saw that one simpsons episode feat. johnny cash (rip), though. post-ibogaine trip, one (read: many/most) no longer craves whatever they have been addicted to! it's lost its glamour, its all-consuming magnetism. sounds too good to be true, but there's some good (read: foreign/illicit) research that's been done on this. all kinds of compulsive behavior can be cured by this too, including ocd. it seems so insane and specific for all your addictions to be miraculously purged, but this is what the reports say. granted, doesn't work for everyone, but the fact that it does reliably work blows my mind and gives me some real creepy hope, for myself and everyone. a little research hints that this whole effect is due (or somehow related) to an amplification of glial cell-derived neurotrophic factor, which is a brain protein that protects all kinds of neuron (yeah right, as if you gave a shit). this article says it better than i could though (written, as it was, by an ex-junkie who was cured by an ibogaine trip): http://www.guardian.co.uk/theobserver/2004/jun/20/features.magazine67. the poor fuck knows what he's saying, or rather what i want to say. listen to this shit: "The irony of the drug experience is that it comes from an outgrowth of genuine longing, a reaching out for meaning, a yearning for transcendence and salvation, and it ends with sitting in a darkened room staring miserably at the wall."
i don't know just where this is going, but i'm gonna try for the kingdom.. if i can.
-rgr
ps why'd i write this? if anyone has any idea, please let me know.
where do you start. i've been slowly accumulating addictions since high school, and even if i'm not selling myself on the street for heroin, i'm acutely aware of the gravitational, inescapable pull of addictive substances. the nonsensical insensitivity with which you need something you know isn't helping you. alcoholics anonymous is a creepass cult as far as i'm concerned, but one thing they like to say hits home pretty hard, and that's that alcoholism, or rather the craving for booze itself, is a kind of insanity. maybe they mean it as an excuse, as a shelter under which they can hide their willpower, but i think of einstein's great definition of insanity--doing the same thing again and again, expecting different results. i'm not just talking about trying to quit (which this definitely applies to), but the whole ritual, the whole psychological paradigm an addict adopts. the same goes for cigarrettes, whatever, anything you want to break free of but feel utterly unable to, like it's become such a part of your deepseated psychological makeup that you're not even sure if you want to give it up, if you'll still be your little individual self if you 86 it.
now, three cities in canada are getting ready to prescribe heroin to junkies. if this sounds like a bad idea to ya, get the fuck off of my blog right now; you're not gonna get any of this because you haven't experienced any of what i'm talking about. the damage inflicted on drug addicts, while yeah, largely is their own fault (fault's such a messy term, though. is it a schizophrenic's fault she's crazy? the interaction between conscious and unconscious is where fault seems to manifest in most people's minds, but what about those whose prefrontal development's been stunted from an early age? those who haven't had the chance to develop the fine-tuned 'self-control' we put so much stock in? but i digress and this is too philosophical for anyone to really agree on or probably even listen to anyway), is propogated by and large, in americaland, usa, by governmental controls. if you're at the point where quitting pushing off (or insufflating, or drinking [fun fact: alcohol is the only drug from which the withdrawal can actually kill you], or whatthefuckever) is going to cause you more pain, suffering, and possibly long-term damage, than continuing, you tell me what you're gonna do. so these people, who need a slow, gentle release from this shit, become major criminals, and cost us zillions (do not actually know the number) of dollars rotting in jail, instead of getting treated for however much (even if it cost the same as jailing them [it wouldn't] the humanitarian aspect would be worth it) and becoming a productive member of society who can actually give back.
i'm not saying drugs never hurt anyone. i'm not saying that the mindblowing drug cartel violence our southern brothers are bearing and inflicting can be swept under the metaphysical rug. but think more of hunter s. thompson, who while running for sherriff of wherever in colorado he ran for sherriff (under the 'freak power' party, the logo of which by the way is a six-fingered hand clutching a peyote button) advocated simultaneous legalization of all drugs and punishment by indefinite lockup in the stocks for drug traffickers and profiteers. if these drugs were not illegal (and thus have an artificially repressed supply [and arguably increased demand--everyone knows we want what we can't have even more {microeconomics, bitch}]), dealers would be hard-pressed to make money and have little incentive to gun down 17 teenagers at a rehabilitation center in mexico (god..). i feel like you all already knows this. of course you do. but fuck, why is it taking so long to do something about it.
back to canada. in one of these experimental rehab clinics for heroin addicts, they had groups of people who were treated with methadone (a pharmacological cousin of heroin, often used to wean junkies off their habit) and people who were just given a fix of heroin. two a day i think. in the methadone groups, 1 in 5 patients improved in some way (they had a few categories: physical and mental health, association with non-drug users, and criminal acts). BUT GET THIS: 55% of the heroin-administered heroin-addicts improved. and of the patients who improved the most, pretty much all were from the heroin-administered group.
we're inching toward a reasonable attitude toward 'drugs' (i'm talking about the currently illegal ones), finally, after a long and insane moratorium on even scientific research on them (here i'm talking mostly about psychedelics. and weed) stemming from racism and xenophobia, and hippies, a little bit. me, i'm guardedly hopeful.
i've saved my favorite bit for last, though. all this talk about gently helping, with compassion and tolerance, etc. etc., drug addicts, ignores one critical, wonderful, explosive discovery: iboga. iboga, or rather the active component, ibogaine, is a rare west african psychedelic derived from the root bark of a certain plant. it produces about 4 hours of dream-like, often repressed childhood-related, memories and visions. this is followed by a period of intense introspection that can last from 2 hours to 2 days (!!). this is more than the intense, self-awakening vision quest we've all wanted since we saw that one simpsons episode feat. johnny cash (rip), though. post-ibogaine trip, one (read: many/most) no longer craves whatever they have been addicted to! it's lost its glamour, its all-consuming magnetism. sounds too good to be true, but there's some good (read: foreign/illicit) research that's been done on this. all kinds of compulsive behavior can be cured by this too, including ocd. it seems so insane and specific for all your addictions to be miraculously purged, but this is what the reports say. granted, doesn't work for everyone, but the fact that it does reliably work blows my mind and gives me some real creepy hope, for myself and everyone. a little research hints that this whole effect is due (or somehow related) to an amplification of glial cell-derived neurotrophic factor, which is a brain protein that protects all kinds of neuron (yeah right, as if you gave a shit). this article says it better than i could though (written, as it was, by an ex-junkie who was cured by an ibogaine trip): http://www.guardian.co.uk/theobserver/2004/jun/20/features.magazine67. the poor fuck knows what he's saying, or rather what i want to say. listen to this shit: "The irony of the drug experience is that it comes from an outgrowth of genuine longing, a reaching out for meaning, a yearning for transcendence and salvation, and it ends with sitting in a darkened room staring miserably at the wall."
i don't know just where this is going, but i'm gonna try for the kingdom.. if i can.
-rgr
ps why'd i write this? if anyone has any idea, please let me know.
Monday
moress dreamss:
1. went to party in abandoned house with nick m's parents (??)
2. public sex in my front yard
3. in a field with people and david v, who got out a GIANT bag of yayo (actually they were pills but you know dreams) and some wine in a plastic bag. authorities came and i elected to hide the wine bag down my pants. instead of hiding the other bag, we just left it there and decided to say it was there already and we didn't want to touch it. they questioned all of us, with max f explaining that he had climbed down a lamppost and THERE IT WAS. i tried to corroborate this, but i was so incoherent they just figured it was mine. don't know what happened to that wine in my pants
other news:
they named a spider after d. bowie. heteropoda davidbowie. guy like that probably gets lots of animals named after him. when are they gonna start naming bugs after me?
1. went to party in abandoned house with nick m's parents (??)
2. public sex in my front yard
3. in a field with people and david v, who got out a GIANT bag of yayo (actually they were pills but you know dreams) and some wine in a plastic bag. authorities came and i elected to hide the wine bag down my pants. instead of hiding the other bag, we just left it there and decided to say it was there already and we didn't want to touch it. they questioned all of us, with max f explaining that he had climbed down a lamppost and THERE IT WAS. i tried to corroborate this, but i was so incoherent they just figured it was mine. don't know what happened to that wine in my pants
other news:
they named a spider after d. bowie. heteropoda davidbowie. guy like that probably gets lots of animals named after him. when are they gonna start naming bugs after me?
Sunday
Friday
HILLO HERE IS A MUSIC SONG I HEARD
I HOPE YOU LYKE IT
shades of purple mainlyyyyyy
the clarity and sharpness too,,,,,
,while the mountains just push right through
herds of elk to RETURN TO THE PLAINS
plainly sky shades blue
endlessly mountains they PLANE TOWARD THE SKY
endlessly plains parallel sky
illusory they APPEAR TO ME
illusory at points horize
but no points exist
no point exists,,,
.../..//../././.
sunrise/sunset etc etc etc
w/e
I HOPE YOU LYKE IT
shades of purple mainlyyyyyy
the clarity and sharpness too,,,,,
,while the mountains just push right through
herds of elk to RETURN TO THE PLAINS
plainly sky shades blue
endlessly mountains they PLANE TOWARD THE SKY
endlessly plains parallel sky
illusory they APPEAR TO ME
illusory at points horize
but no points exist
no point exists,,,
.../..//../././.
sunrise/sunset etc etc etc
w/e
Monday
dreamz
dreams gathered in stone sleep on grant's uncomfortable love seat:
i'm in high school, taking a class in native american physical education. this consists of dancing in a circle around a fire and shaking a spear. may or may not be wearing a feathered headdress. leader then commands all 'gingers' to leave, and i know that this includes me. jake c also leaves. we go to the locker room and put on p.e. type clothes, though we are unsure whether we should do this, because the class seems almost over. in the locker room also are a girl with her ears split--they look as if they have been vertically sliced halfway through and allowed to heal--and a girl who is momentarily lindsay w. w tells the other girl a story about throwing acid in another girl's face, and how her face wrinkled or something from it; ear girl is not impressed. we put our original clothes back on and go outside, where sean william scott indicates that he was chosen to be captain of the dodgeball team, the first dodgeball team the school has ever had. i wonder why sws is in high school and think that he probably only was made captain because he's like 30. he declares that there is only one spot left open on the team and that a tournament will be held to decide who gets it. i decide to enter, look down, and my yellow converse have turned green.
thoughts: do you think laptops cause infertility? does it only apply to men? is it the heat in your lap? or electromagnetic waves? radiation?
i'm in high school, taking a class in native american physical education. this consists of dancing in a circle around a fire and shaking a spear. may or may not be wearing a feathered headdress. leader then commands all 'gingers' to leave, and i know that this includes me. jake c also leaves. we go to the locker room and put on p.e. type clothes, though we are unsure whether we should do this, because the class seems almost over. in the locker room also are a girl with her ears split--they look as if they have been vertically sliced halfway through and allowed to heal--and a girl who is momentarily lindsay w. w tells the other girl a story about throwing acid in another girl's face, and how her face wrinkled or something from it; ear girl is not impressed. we put our original clothes back on and go outside, where sean william scott indicates that he was chosen to be captain of the dodgeball team, the first dodgeball team the school has ever had. i wonder why sws is in high school and think that he probably only was made captain because he's like 30. he declares that there is only one spot left open on the team and that a tournament will be held to decide who gets it. i decide to enter, look down, and my yellow converse have turned green.
thoughts: do you think laptops cause infertility? does it only apply to men? is it the heat in your lap? or electromagnetic waves? radiation?
Saturday
punched in the face for the very first time:
so joanna accidentally antagonizes some fucks outside the saloon by asking them if they had rides home or whatever (which they took very aggressively). followed by some dick in a black shirt who takes everything we say aggressively/calls me +dylan neves cox (he was there) homos (we are wearing tight pants). he doesn't like us laughing at that, > morgan +joanna try to get us to leave. but don't for some reason. then i see this huge white guy in a white shirt quickly approaching and, smiling, i am tumbled backward over the bike rack i was leaning against/sitting on. dazed, spit blood on ground. laughing/crying, quite surprising, we get the fuck out of there. make joanna give a bum (who talked way too long) a cigarette/watch her faith in humanity shatter. white guy's wife gets out of a car and comes over to ask if we are okay. i say i am okay.
thoughts: split lip doesn't hurt. just numb. nose feels tweaked though, even next day. do not think it is broken. encinitas surprisingly dangerous place. if someone calls you a homo after midnight, do not laugh at them. and never ever let joanna talk to strangers.
so joanna accidentally antagonizes some fucks outside the saloon by asking them if they had rides home or whatever (which they took very aggressively). followed by some dick in a black shirt who takes everything we say aggressively/calls me +dylan neves cox (he was there) homos (we are wearing tight pants). he doesn't like us laughing at that, > morgan +joanna try to get us to leave. but don't for some reason. then i see this huge white guy in a white shirt quickly approaching and, smiling, i am tumbled backward over the bike rack i was leaning against/sitting on. dazed, spit blood on ground. laughing/crying, quite surprising, we get the fuck out of there. make joanna give a bum (who talked way too long) a cigarette/watch her faith in humanity shatter. white guy's wife gets out of a car and comes over to ask if we are okay. i say i am okay.
thoughts: split lip doesn't hurt. just numb. nose feels tweaked though, even next day. do not think it is broken. encinitas surprisingly dangerous place. if someone calls you a homo after midnight, do not laugh at them. and never ever let joanna talk to strangers.
Wednesday
Monday
Saturday
dreamz
some dreams:
1. i walk into a publishing office and get the attention of some old lady publisher. i start bullshitting some 'anthology' story and try to get her to publish it. when she asks me the name i write 'quahog quam quandary' or something, but i can't write legibly and it ends up becoming a drawing of a man's face.
2. i'm in a big glass building when suddenly it starts pouring rain outside. everything outside the window glows bright white and when it fades we are on a strange shoreline. some horse with wings or something walks by and grant and i both say it's an archeopteryx and we conclude we have traveled back in time. we turn the building into a kind of ship, but get caught on what looks like a pirate ship and are turned around, crashing back into the shore. i try to hide in a pit close to the rocks, but everyone says i don't need to. police come and take us all away. i try to explain, showing them my macbook as proof we are from the future. but there is nothing on it that convinces them.
3. (maybe a continuation) i'm in a house where people are being held and brutalized by police (i'm noticing a theme). they've captured a girl who is the leader of something, but are still beating the others until they 'give her up'. seeing it's a lost cause, two of us start running away along a dirt road. i follow, going through bushes where the road curves. i get incredibly tired, but i keep running. it feels like we are in slow motion. we run up hills and on grass until we get to some suburban homes, where we notice a police car following us. we split up, and as the cop gets out of his car, yelling to my friend that he will 'find him in the irish weeds', i run up to his car and open the door.
then my cat wakes me up
1. i walk into a publishing office and get the attention of some old lady publisher. i start bullshitting some 'anthology' story and try to get her to publish it. when she asks me the name i write 'quahog quam quandary' or something, but i can't write legibly and it ends up becoming a drawing of a man's face.
2. i'm in a big glass building when suddenly it starts pouring rain outside. everything outside the window glows bright white and when it fades we are on a strange shoreline. some horse with wings or something walks by and grant and i both say it's an archeopteryx and we conclude we have traveled back in time. we turn the building into a kind of ship, but get caught on what looks like a pirate ship and are turned around, crashing back into the shore. i try to hide in a pit close to the rocks, but everyone says i don't need to. police come and take us all away. i try to explain, showing them my macbook as proof we are from the future. but there is nothing on it that convinces them.
3. (maybe a continuation) i'm in a house where people are being held and brutalized by police (i'm noticing a theme). they've captured a girl who is the leader of something, but are still beating the others until they 'give her up'. seeing it's a lost cause, two of us start running away along a dirt road. i follow, going through bushes where the road curves. i get incredibly tired, but i keep running. it feels like we are in slow motion. we run up hills and on grass until we get to some suburban homes, where we notice a police car following us. we split up, and as the cop gets out of his car, yelling to my friend that he will 'find him in the irish weeds', i run up to his car and open the door.
then my cat wakes me up
Monday
Sunday
went to santa barbara the other night for tooby's birthday. regained consciousness as i was walking out of a sorority house, scrapes all over my legs, without my phone. wandered the streets of sb for an hour before i made it back. got home and slept all day.
moral: take it easy on the vicodin, roger.
moral: take it easy on the vicodin, roger.
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