Ketamiami

The phone rings.  I answer it thinking it B, we’re supposed to meet and discuss work and he has packages for me.  He’s my first contact in Miami.  He is generous to a fault.  I never ask anyone for anything, but somehow feel comfortable enough asking him.

“Hi B.”

“You wish it was B.  It’s M, B’s secretary.” His voice is brilliant.  I feel outclassed.

“Hi M, B’s secretary.”

“We’ll pick you up.  We’re outside The Flamingo.  Come down to the gate”

“Okay.”

I've developed a love-hate relationship with this reality show-calibre place that is The Flamingo. It's South Beach distilled. All the young and (augmented) beautiful on the hunt for sex and money. It definitely feels like home - but at the same time there's something deeply disturbing (and moldy) woven through the walls. It's a luxury slum, impoverished and extravagant all at once.

I jump on the train knowing that I won’t be able to get off, I don’t ask where we are going or what I should wear, I just throw on a loose dress over some tight-legged pants and figure it’s best to be comfortable.  Also better too warm than too cold, so it’s the white disco fall jacket and I’m off.  The elevator takes forever and they call again as I hit the gate.  It’s good they did as I realize I’m a million miles away tonight when they do.  Out of it and fully present all at once.

In the car I meet M, not actually B’s secretary, and N.  We’re all veteran Burning Man folk.  B claims to have organized the night to maximize that.  B’s driving through the streets of Miami and it’s obvious in seconds that M is 5-star brilliant and insightful.  I can’t figure out what I feel about him but am drawn to him like a magnet.

We’re driving South on Alton into the heart of South Beach.  M is mumbling a mile a minute and when I ask for him to repeat himself he does so without being self-conscious.  Some of the first words out of his mouth are “Would you like some K?”

I’m out of context and have been travelling so long that I have to ask “Did you just ask me if I want some K?”

“Yes.”

I pause.  I think about it.  First time drug experience, here and now?  Not sure. 

“No, but thank you.”  I am still thinking about it.

I can tell that M and N are high, but I’ve never been around smart people on K and have no context for the high.  Having no context becomes a theme for the evening.  I realize how depressed and reclusive I’ve been.  I realize that Miami isn’t bringing out the best in me – I’m not taking care of myself.  There are destructive forces here and I don’t have defenses for them yet.

We arrive at Monty’s – where people are eating raw shellfish and other seafood both indoors and out, around a pool illuminated in dark blue.  There is a thatched roof on one of the bars and we head there, I drink a double shot of tequila which M buys.  He questions my choice of tequila, neat, no chaser, no lime – in much the same way I questioned his offer – wanting to make sure he heard me right.  There are many people, burners mostly, the Miami young and creative elite.  I talk with all, but mostly B and M.  B is advertising me and my Burning Man accomplishments.  I am proud and embarrassed and distracted from my other conversations because of his introductions.

“I want to get in the pool” says M.  I do too.  I want to throw off all my clothes, bare my socially unacceptable body, and jump in with a huge splash.  M shows me photos of his motorcycle accident.  Cigarettes and motorcycles.

There is a matchmaker.  B talks about the Russian ballerina that she found for him for $500.  He says he was with her for four months – which is a long relationship for him.   She is now asking $1500 for a Thai woman.  I smile and ask if she can find me a man – an eccentric genius that treats me both like a princess and a partner in crime.  B nods in M’s direction and winks at me.  I take the hint and open myself.

With some liquid courage I confess to M I said no to the K because of not wanting my first time experience to be here, at this random crappy alcohol-infused place.  He lights up at my virginity.  He is charming and brilliant and holds my hand through my arguments without pressure – and then holds my nose as he ramps me up on a timer he sets on his phone for every eight minutes.  I am tickled by his handling of the situation.  He gifts me with care and accuracy.  I haven’t done a new drug in almost a decade.  The drip tastes pure. 

“Just the tiniest amount” I say nervously as he preps my first bump.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you” is his response.  I wonder if he knows how intently I am listening to him.  I can’t help it.  Everything he says shows deep understanding of me.  Is it accidental?  He seems so much like me.  Irreverent.  Defended by a huge brain.  Above the law.  Self-destructive.  Distracted.  I don’t know whether I like these in myself or him.

K unveils itself as a social lubricant and I feel myself getting high and expressive and outgoing.  I dissociate a hair more, but I’m also more keenly aware of how dissociated I am at baseline – so it plugs me in as well as distances me.  I turn out to be a hardhead as I am with everything.  I wish I weren’t.  I hate how needy it makes me seem when I ask for more.  I think of the descriptions that people have given me for the experience over the years.  None of them apply. 

I watch myself analyzing myself analyzing.   Who is this M?  Is he good news?  Is he bad news?  Does he like me?  Do I like him?  Do I want to fuck him?  Does he want to fuck me?  Could I marry him?  Does it matter?  What about this drug?  Do I like it?  Is it making everything slightly non-linear?  And what about Miami?  What about this place of constant celebration?  What about these party people?  What about the complete lack of consideration, the rudeness, the third world mentality? Could I live here?  Could I live here for part of the year?  Is this just a vacation spot?  Why am I drawn here?  Viva la fiesta!  But what goes up must always come down.

I am stretched.  M asks me if I have taken a walk yet.  I walk to test the process of walking.  It doesn’t feel much different from having some alcohol in my system.  It takes some concentration.  My muscles feel relaxed, but the connections aren’t dissolved.  I am glad for yoga and my trained meridians.  I walk over the hole without falling in.

I watch B leaning on a post.  There is something open in him that was closed before.  I want to give him a hug and thank him for all he’s done for me, but I know we’re bros and that’s not cool.  He confesses he is high as fuck.  I wonder if he wants help.  I don’t want to be his helper.  I tell him that I’ve heard it’ll all be over in an hour.  I tell him that I couldn’t have told he was that high if he hadn’t told me.  I watch him relax.  He doesn’t want people to know he’s out of control.  I understand that.

I’m a little out of control.  I spout off about illegal drugs in ways I shouldn’t, not to strangers, not in Florida.  It feels good to pull myself out of my cocoon and be loud and opinionated and unapologetic.  It feels like being a teenager.   For a moment I am unconscious of myself.

All too soon the experience begins to fade.  The rest of the night is sad and sinister – seems as though we are chasing something.  We are invaded by the timbre of Miami – everyone on the move for the next parade, the next party, the next pussy.  We head to a Ted’s Hideaway for no ostensible reason.  I don’t think they are drunk enough to chase their buzz.  I am not drunk at all.  I’m not high either.  I want to be. 

The bar is loud, and useless.  It’s a dive bar in South Beach, but not divey enough for me, nor classy enough for me. It inhabits that uncomfortable mid-zone where I can’t enjoy myself.  It’s full of the runoff, not the riffraff.   B and I talk about work and money and investments and real estate.  We walk there and cab back, just blocks.  We compete for the cab against a group of women in high platform heels.  M says they are called “Bambis”.  I chuckle.  I am unsure why we are doing any of what we are doing.  It would be more fun to be in a comfortable place, nestled in conversation – or on a dance floor covered in sweat.  That’s not what they want though – they want to chase the dragon.  It’s the weekend, it’s the WMC, it’s Spring Break. 

Soon enough we are back in B’s penthouse on floor 15 of The Flamingo, where your floor number determines your status.  I stop on the 8^th floor and bring up my vaporizer and have some weed for the first time in weeks.  The weed is nice.  It wrings the vulnerability out of me.  I’m back behind the wall.   N goes on and on about my Burning Man contributions.  I accept the flattery, smiling.  I don’t know what else to do.  He’s drunk and high, and a nice man.  It feels like Burning Man.  All I get there is praise.  I don’t even hear it anymore.  Instead I chase the ones that don’t praise me.  N leaves and it’s me and B and M.  They talk of The Flamingo and buying vs. renting and vacation rentals.  Real estate is a common topic in Miami.  Landlords and ladies abound. 

I have no control or say and don’t try to voice any.  M wonders about a female friend of his.  He brings it up until I can’t help but have heard about it, then he gives it context by saying “I’m not invested”.  I get it.  He doesn’t want any ties and wants me to know that.  There is talk of women.  I see they want to fuck the women they can’t talk to.  B talks about double booking any arrangements with women because we can’t make up our minds.  I mull that over and realize that he’s right, and that it’s profound.  I want to pick that apart, but the conversation moves on.  They talk about meeting up with two young women M has been texting at a strip club.  M feels guilty for discussing them like objects.   I remind him that feeling guilty for being honest won’t get him anywhere.   M asks me to accompany them.  Twice.  I decline the invitation.

“You guys can go though, have fun”

“Oh, can we?  Thanks for the permission Miss D.  Will you stamp my pass?” M’s teasing shocks me.  It’s not gentle.  I like it, I like that he gives me shit – but at the same time I don’t like what it says about my personhood.   I’m not one of the guys, nor am I a young slim girl they would design an evening around.  I’m extraneous.  I’m a novelty, I’m not a priority.  

I want more of the drug just to get more personal attention.

Fuck that.  I’m out.

Lucifer in Los Angeles - Chapter Three - Murder

I peer out of the tunnel to see the overcast sky match the river’s fixed course concrete bed in tone.  A burst of color wheels by, purple spandex and early-morning motivation atop an expensive and relatively new bicycle.  Young, taut, fresh, fit flesh shines out in the morning light, diffuse though it is.  I suddenly realize that I am starving.

Innocently exercising to extend her life - Sally never suspects that she’ll end it in the river.  She’s left Jed at home in bed, sleeping peacefully.  She likes to be gone in the mornings, because that’ when he wants sex - and she doesn’t want sex.  She never wants sex, she just wants to keep moving - so she doesn’t have to think about anything.  Thinking about things lead her down bad roads.  Scary roads.  

Jed paid for her bike though, that’s nice of him considering she only lets him have sex with her once a month.  She tries to time it so that he doesn’t realize it’s once a month, though - but let it average out that way.  She hopes she isn’t damaging her vagina with even that much.  Jed is an agent and she knows that he will soon get her a good part, because she takes care of her body better than anyone else.  She knows that if she just lets Jed have it once in a while he’ll put her on a pedestal, so she pretends to be one of those kind of girls.  Deep inside that’s not how she feels though.  Deep inside she doesn’t ever want to be penetrated by anyone.  She wants to cage off anything deep inside.  She makes sure her body knows who is boss.  *fsk fsk fsk* that’s the sound her pedaling makes.  It keeps her centered.  She needs to be centered.

All of this flashes before me in a blur of purple spandex.  A flash of my former power gives me such hope, but it is crushed by the smell of her sweat and the contents of her mind, heart, and soul.  Before I’ve realized what’s happened I am devouring her body.  I shudder at the animal instincts and yet take deep pleasure in them.  The metallic taste of her blood bothers me so I dig into her organs. I am feasting on her intestines when Janine finds me there, blood and entrails dripping off of my chin, grinning and slurping.  Muted sunshine glinting off the blood covered bicycle beside me. Sally’s face frozen in shock.

Janine crumbles to the ground sobbing.  Before I know it I am at her side, I want to soothe her, to take her pain on with my own - still throbbing in my head and temples despite the sleep and food.  I want to suck it out of her, to relieve her, to save her and protect her.  I sing to her a lullaby with no words.  She tries to push me away but my rocking and cooing relax her and she leans into me crying.  

“I was hungry, I didn’t know. That’s the most action Sally will ever see.  I won’t do it again.   I have to leave.”  I try to say something to get her to stop crying, and the promise not to repeat the murder is what does it.  She calms and nuzzles into me.

“So do I, motherfucker - the police on they way for a nice neurotic white girl like that in seconds.”  I am surprised to see her know what kind of person Sally was.  It makes me wonder whether my flash of information was psychic or just human intuition.  Janine races to her hole to pack her belongings.  I see that she is used to doing this.  It is unceremonious and unsentimental.  I am glad I have not put her out.  I walk to her and put my hand on her shoulder.  

I realize I have true emotion for her.  “Janine I will give you money, when I have it.  You will have all the drugs you need.  You will never fight again.  I will find you in the river”  She shakes her head, I am not sure if out of disbelief or incredulity.

“No shit Sherlock, I live here all the time.” she says.  Then she smiles at me and puts her hand in mine.  “Good luck, Angel.  You definitely not human, don’t think I don’t know.”  

“I wish that were true.”  I admit.  “I am not sure what I am.”  

As she walks away I realize she has left in my palm a balloon containing 200mg of black tar heroin.  I reach up to my face and find it wet.

San Francisco

I fall in love with San Francisco over the course of a two week stay in October, 2012.  

It is not love at first sight.  I lived in the Bay Area for 6 years and never loved any part of it.  I’ve always appreciated it on a theoretical level - as the end of the spectrum and the pinnacle of progressive, leftist civilization in the United States.  I never liked it close up though.  It always felt to me like that over-achieving, note-taking, well-put together, charming and strikingly gorgeous hot girl in college that you wish you could be like until you get close and realize she’s a diet-pill using bulimic virgin except for the rape.  

San Francisco pokes holes in the veneer of leftist theory by having more street people than any city I’ve been to.  I have to frown as I watch hundreds of people and cars passing a homeless beggar, a black man in an oversized army coat resting his back against the cool stone of a downtown San Francisco building. Those that want the government to take care of people are the very people that won’t take care of each other and so I, the tourist, stoop to drop a dollar in the hand of a grateful man.

This visit, though - my perspective shifts.  I realize that this person and so many others that can’t make it without assistance flock to San Francisco as a testimony to the city’s tolerance and generosity.  As are all the other populations that are celebrated in San Francisco and not elsewhere.

The food is fresh, nutritious, and conscious.  More so than any other city in the United States.  I can eat everywhere I go - refreshing after being accustomed to bringing my own food everywhere.  I happily stick to a restricted diet and still enjoy new flavors and combinations at the hands of Bay Area chefs both gourmet and everyday.

It is over tapas in Mountain View with my friend translating his Russian supervisor and my English questions that the deal is struck where I will sell Chinese-made robots for a Russian company.  It is over tea in the Castro that me and my friend of many years and few in person hangouts agree to write a book about using nutrition and therapy to manage cyclothymia.  The Bay Area affords fractal expansions of opportunity.

I am in a fancy medical marijuana dispensary in the Mission that also provides alternative healthcare counseling to patients seeking cannabis for their maladies.  The product is lovely, the packaging is amazing.  The design speaks to the Asian influence in San Francisco - it is zen, vaguely Japanese.  The products are stacked in removable boxes that are color-coded by their drawers - seems to me each would have room for about a pound of weed, or a few dozen brownies.  They form an ever-changing mosaic against the back wall, where they live on shelves.  There is a rolling ladder like you’d find in a library affixed to a layer of the shelves so the budtenders can reach the top of the stack.  Everything is made from wood, the lighting is bright but subdued, and I am smiling as I’ve just passed a lesbian security guard so confident and dominant it made me tingle even though I don’t like the women.

A stagehand nearing his 60th birthday whispers to me while my rec is being validated that if I say he referred me we both get “free pot”.  I go along.  He tells me about his life, and how he found a ticket to Maui for $150 online and is going there to relax for a bit as he lived there for seven years.  He is writing a book on the history of rock’n’roll and he doesn’t stop talking to me, to the budtender, to anyone that will listen.  Until he gets his “free pot” - then he’s off like a rocket.

He tells me and the remarkably patient, tuned in, and supportive budtender stories that skirt the lines of what I know is legal to recount in a medical marijuana dispensary.  I smile as we are not hurried, mentioning that I have given up on not getting a parking ticket.  They both ask if I should run and feed the meter.

“No worries.  It will be my gift to the City of San Francisco.”  They both react negatively.  I smile - you never appreciate what you have.  I’ve been told a number of times in meetings this visit that San Francisco is in the midst of another boom - people are flocking here at an alarming rate.  It is very difficult to find housing in San Francisco, and when possible it’s shockingly expensive.  

As a tourist, I find this pressure produces pleasing results - high-end everything, grateful newcomers, and status based on how long someone has been living in the community - these aren’t bad things.

The stagehand tells a story about how he was rolling a joint in the park and a police officer asked for his recommendation and then ran his name.  Beaming with pride at having no priors at age 59 - he smiles as he delivers the punchline:

“The cop told me to watch out, my pot was blowing away.”  In his face is such gratitude, this man that’s been smoking pot longer than I’ve been alive and now - for the first time in his life - can hardly believe that he’s free to do so.  

I’ve seen that look before, on a man’s face at the Vapor Spot Bar at a rooftop Hollywood benefit for medical marijuana that I won tickets to from a dispensary.  He looked the same generation, in his early 60’s - but clean cut and clearly closeted about his use.  And on another man, about the same age, late 50’s, early 60’s - as I was smoking a joint in the neighboring lane in traffic waiting to enter the freeway - he leaned out of his SUV so overcome with admiration for my open and carefree use he couldn’t quite get out the words to communicate that, but I caught his gist. It’s a beautiful look to see on a man’s face - the joy of bringing something once hidden and shameful out into the open to be shared, sometimes even with pretty young ladies.

I order a gram of Dutch Flowers, a gram of SFV OG, an outdoor OG Kush pre-roll, an indoor OG Kush pre-roll, and a Space Queen pre-roll, and as testament to the luck of the stagehand - we both get a free pre-roll of Maui Wowie.   I do not fail to notice the digital Volcanoes, three of them, sitting on three tables with benches on one side and simple, Japanesey wooden stools on the other.   At one of the tables sit three people with two mouthpieces and bags, playing a simple children’s board game, a giant stack of which sit in a basket by the desk next to the verification counter.  One of them is in a wheelchair, and obviously using medical marijuana for a serious condition.  I smile as I hand my ID over for Volcano fixin’s to one of the staff.

15 minutes later the Dutch Flowers gram is gone, and I’m pleased to no end to have a Vaporizer high after weeks of smoking.  The packaging for the medicine is pleasingly sleek but non-medical.  I am tired of the medicine bottles and happy to see something less wasteful.  Even the rolling papers are branded.  On my way out the man who trades me my ID for the Volcano Easy Valve Set that I decide is preferable to the ancient one I own that now resides in a storage space in the San Fernando Valley tells me that he likes my hair.

I get lost on the way back to my car and consult Google briefly, then figure it out on my own.  As I approach I see the traffic cop entering the ticketing info.  I know I’m fucked, so I slow down and smile.  

“It took longer than I thought.”  He turns and looks at me, a young black man with braces on his teeth.  “I know, I get it.  I’ll pay, no worries.”

“No.  Just go.” he says as he turns and is in his cart and off faster than I can thank him.  

I grin.  Thank you San Francisco.

Gateway

I am 9 and it is summertime.  Beautiful, humid, upstate NY weather with the cicadas and soft breezes.  Naked outside weather, not too hot to sleep weather.  It is an early night for us all - I am in my bed and hear my parents snoring - my father a roaring drone, my mother softly on occasion.  I know they are asleep and I rise from my bed still in my favorite navy blue sports shorts and red tank top trimmed with navy.  I put on my socks and shoes quietly.  


My shade is open as I am prepared.  This is premeditated.  I know what I’m doing, and where I’m going.  I planned my escape by leaving my shoes in my room, my shade open, my clothing on, my pockets full.  I make little noise as I slip out of the open window.


My belly is already heavy as I scrape across the sill and let my feet to the ground.  It’s never comfortable, but I’m proud to be strong enough to still get in and out silently.  I keep to the shadows as I cross the lawn - it’s a full moon tonight and the streetlights are on even though there is still light in the sky.


Once I hit the road I am free.  A wave of pleasure crosses over me.  I’m unseen, untracked, and can do as I please.  I know I still must be wary of neighbors spotting me so I hurry quickly down the street and listen for sounds from yards.  I am getting away with it.  I pass the neighborhood friend’s house and note that their lights are out - they are asleep too, all six of them.  I am out of risk of their prying familiarity with me, and their numbers baffle me.  I’m an only child.


After the big fir tree is between their house and mine I slow down.  I savor the time alone, breathing deeply - trying to inhale a store of this uncaged being.  I feel oppressed by childhood.  Moments alone are the only time I do not.  I desperately crave to have adult experiences so that I can feel that increased level of choice and independence.  It never goes away.


At the bend in the road I take a left through the cul-de-sac as I’ve finally found a big shortcut.  Usually it scares me to do it at night, but tonight I feel infused with courage.  And power.  I walk through someone’s lawn to a path through a dense patch brambles and junipers. At the end of that path the grassy, dark field behind the police station.


Here my policy is to walk to my destination with purpose.  Even when officers have noticed me, I’ve never been questioned.  My heart quickens every time, with the danger of the cops and the nearness of my journey’s high point.


The convenience store shines flourescent light on my desires.  It is designed to be what it is - a beacon.  I go straight for what I want.  The clerk recognizes me and smiles his enabling smile.  

“Thanks champ!” he says to my exact change. I wonder whether he knows that I am a girl.  People often make that mistake, or simply can’t tell.


On the way home I quickly eat one candy bar after another, until the 2 Zero bars, 3 Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, 2 Twix, 4 Peppermint Patties and the giant Hershey’s bar are gone, gone with the $12 in smaller bills and coins I’ve had in my pocket all day.  Scrounged from the couch, borrowed and stolen from my parents and friends’ parents.  By the time I hit the path again, all of this is gone.  When I pass the police station I transfer my remaining loot to one hand and give it the finger with the other.


I’m high all the way home.  Ecstatic, flushed, warm, filled.  In the present moment feeling no anxiety of time passing. As I clear the final stretch a pacified numbness sinks in.  Regret sings when I haul myself back into the house, but I’m too apathetic to listen.  I don’t want to be back here.  Gone is the freedom.  What’s left is the teasing I’ll get tomorrow for my body.  This thought crashes me, and I hit my bottom bunk bed and am asleep to escape the gas and discomfort and self-flagellation.  


Tomorrow, or maybe in a couple days - or maybe, maybe even a week I’ll chase the dragon.  My grownup quest with the rainbow's end proving my identity as an eternal child.

Lucifer in Los Angeles - Chapter Two - The River

The Los Angeles River is not aptly named in that in many parts it contains no water. The first thought that goes through my mind upon gaining enough lucidity to ascertain my surroundings: “Well at least I’m not wet.”

I drag myself to my feet and stumble over chunks of concrete to the nearest prop I can find, a rusted shopping cart. Every movement bounces my wings and bones dig into flesh and nerve. I quickly turn my back to the cart and let the wings rest inside it. Feathers push through the cheap metal grid and add to my feeling of being a caged bird. I blankly stare at the grass pushing through the concrete.

A vision, I’m sure, naked and pulling a rusted shopping cart behind me to support my useless wings. None of the wheels turn so the scraping sound of metal on concrete adds to the display. Two grooved tracks stretch out behind me as I make me way, slowly aiming for the edge of the river. I bend to rest my hand on the river’s sloped side. The concrete is rough, sandblasted, I realize, to remove graffiti. There are staggering statistics on the millions of dollars spent annually by Los Angeles taxpayers on removing graffiti. The River alone is responsible for upwards of 2 million dollars a year in graffiti removal. What’s left is an off-color scar that stands out as it’s own form of abstract and unintentional marking. As territorial as the throw-ups by aspiring gang ladder climbers, the non-graffiti of anti-graffiti efforts join the tags and murals on the spectrum of street art.

I run my hand against the etched surface noting the honey in the light and that this signifies darkness soon to come, the first hints of what the film industry refers to as “magic hour”. I must find clothing. Shelter. I know what the dark will bring.

I hear laughter. Without my powers my senses are difficult to pinpoint. Pain fogs any assessment. I feel enhanced and retarded all at once. I can’t find the source of the laughter and for a moment I wonder if it’s from within.

Then I see her. Leaning barefoot against the riverside clutching a tattered backpack. Skin like chocolate, hair like fire. Black as night at the base, red in the middle, fading to orange and platinum blonde at the tips of her short afro. She looks half Persian, half African, and clearly homeless. She wears a large oversized men’s t-shirt that overlaps almost seamlessly into blue sweatpants with a college logo flaking off on her front flank she slaps now in laughter at me.

“Angel, you sure are some sight. What exactly you fucked up in yo’ life to get yo’ nekkeed ass here?” Her accent is southern black with the velvet tones of Farsi woven through. I wonder at her heritage, and how she ended up here.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. It never occurred to me that I might not be able to speak. The sandpaper of stuck gears that rasps in my tubes when I try doesn’t encourage a retrial. The throbbing in my head is relentless and concentration does not help.

“You mute?” She looks at me with a blank stare, curious at first, but then she seems to drift off. Her eyelids flutter and close and then snap open. I realize that she must be on drugs. She aimlessly scratches her foot and I see needle marks. My eyes trail to her arm, to deep and weathered tracks woven into her skin.

I try to find the source of my voice within me. Nothing is there, there is no response, no feeling - no awareness. Dead air. I open my mouth and squeeze my throat and concentrate, trying to catch a wave of pain and urgency and ride it - when I do it feels like I may vomit again. Instead a low keening emerges and then a gargled growl and in a low voice - I speak my first words

“My name is not Angel, it is Lucifer, and you must give me your opioids.”

“Give you my WHAT?”

“It is the only thing that will make this pain stop and you must give it to me now.” I lurch forward and grab at her backpack, which causes her to jump to her feet.

“I don’t know what the fuck you talking about lady, but I been nice and shit and you want something that’s great maybe you gotta learn to ask for it but I ain’t making no deal with no devil that’s for certain” She spits for emphasis.

“Your drugs. Give them to me.” I listen to the words coming out of my mouth and am repulsed at my own humanity. Desperate to be out of suffering I know that I will do anything, even kill this wretch if she does not go willingly. It hurts to care so much about anything.

“What the fuck? Bitch you have to PAY for that shit.” A knife is in her hand before I can blink.

Money. This will bring me comfort. Shelter. Clothing. Protection from being shanked. I look at her. I see the cold eyes of a warrior - a junkie only in terms and context. This woman will fight me to the death for her companion, for her true love.

“How long have you been living with that drug?” I ask, softly. Bouncing against her is giving me energy, resilience, and alacrity. I realize that my softness causes her to soften. This will be purer to my survival than money.

“Since I was 10.” she answers, surprised at her own honesty.

“And how old are you now?”

“Forty-three.”

“What is your name?” I ask, placing my hand on her shoulder.

“Janine”. She looks up at me, smiling. I see my reflection in her eyes. To her, I am still an angel. She is childlike and trusting. Power remains in my voice. It has authority. Petitions work better than threats.

“Janine, will you share your drugs with me?”

And it is thus that among my first experiences as a human being is injecting heroin into my inner right arm using an unclean needle held by a spirit more soothing than any nurse. Protection, understanding, relief.

The pain dulls, recedes and flows away, leaving only two points of tether at my forehead. It snakes outwards in all directions, but then is caught by gravity, filling the riverbed and rushing out to wash away the pain of it’s dwellers down westward and southward - down away and out into the ocean where it can not hurt us locked to land. Where it shall dissolve and leave alone these dreaming ground creatures nestled in co-dependence, now in a clockwork dance of their tools used for pain relief, the black one pushing the cart carrying the white one’s wings and the white one carrying the backpack as if cushioned on a slow-moving cloud. The black one in awe, the white one in worship.

And in a small, protected and long unused tunnel I bed down for the night amongst the belongings of Janine. She supplies me with a long floral nightgown, cobalt blue with pink hibuscus upon. Wrapped in the coils of false chemical serenity and cheap synthetic fabrics, and in the arms of a child finally found its family - I sit, resting - but awake - through the night.

At dawn, the smell overtakes me. The smell of filth and neglect, of diseased and misused human bodies. The smell of waste.

I have to leave the river. I can’t remember how many days I have been in this makeshift domicile. Time and memory are a blur, existence has narrowed to pain and absence. I do not know whether it is just one night I have sat here awake, or if I have been asleep for days.

Lucifer in Los Angeles - Chapter One - Pain

The impact breaks both of my wings.

It is excruciating.

All the beautiful and weightless moments I have witnessed flying, soaring, gliding, and racing flash before my eyes and spiral away to a pinpoint - then disappear. Curved arcs of horizons, atmospheres, planets, universes... galaxies fade away. I am no longer a sky creature. I am landlocked, trapped in this perspective. Stuck at this limited point. I am on my back, staring at the sky... with longing and fear.

That isn’t excruciating. I have never felt physical pain until now. White hot, gut-wrenching, stabbing, relentless bolts of unhappiness. It is impossible to integrate, a separate thing from me that I renounce - which is futile. It clouds every bit of my focus such that I cannot assess what kind of being I now am, or exactly where I find myself. I do not know what I can and cannot do. All I know is I must find some escape. My scapulae are searing. I reach back to feel my tertials and coracoid are shattered. I cannot move my wings at all other than when shrugging my shoulders without my inner wing structure. My hand comes back full of blood-soaked feathers. I have never lost a feather.

I roll onto my side and it’s clear from the pain that I have broken my outer wing bones as well. My arm scrapes against concrete and I jerk away, wrenching my right wing into my body at an angle it couldn’t move were my bones intact. The pain makes me retch and I vomit blood, stomach acid, and bile. I have never vomited. It is agony. I have no muscle tone, my abdomen is tortured with convulsions, my respiratory system burns and my nose runs and I have the hiccoughs. I lie there, panting, dry heaving, and weeping for what seems like hours. My head throbs, aches and I am nauseous and sensitive to light and sound. The pain begins in my wings and travels through my shoulders around the crown of my head ending at my forehead. I no longer have any innate sense of or control over time. The frustration defeats me - but it is not excruciating.

Upon impact and the feeling of pain I know that I am on Earth. I hear the white noise of freeway traffic. I sit up finally and look down at my form and it is human, not humanoid. I am a woman, a flabby, limp, muscle-less human in an adult body with blood and puke soaked useless, spasming, shedding wings, sitting in my own filth in the Los Angeles River. My halo is gone. This is not where I am supposed to be. This is not who I am. That is the excruciating part.

Only God could know I would prefer Hell to Los Angeles.

What a sick fucking joke.

The Trouble With Morality

The Trouble with Morality is that is full of half-truths, absolutism, and animal behaviors.

I reject the idea that some drugs are good, others evil. I stand by and will test my theories to their limits. No drug brings out people’s loathing quite as much as Mama Coca. Blood on every crystal. Dead Mexicans. Imprisoned South American farmers. Poisoned lands. As if she cares.

The only drug I’ve ever found dangerously addictive is cannabis. Every other rolls off my back - allowing me to indulge in it as I please without concern and with realistic countermeasures towards my health. Don’t get me wrong - I am aware of the destructive powers of drugs. I know two people dead and two whose lives have been destroyed because of cocaine. I can’t count the number of people I know dead and whose lives have been destroyed by sugar. Diabetes and obesity aren’t demonized the way that cocaine addiction is.

It started with a book - Cocaine: An Unauthorized Biography. Never had I realized how much influence this once alkaloid had had on recent history, politics, and world relations. Stunning.

I know many people that occasionally use cocaine. All of them express guilt around it. I have used it on occasion, with years passing in between. I never feel guilty, but 85% of the time that it’s not worth it. It goes like this “Hey that would be fun if it were pure, maybe. Wow now I feel like shit. That wasn’t worth it. Let me do it again.”

Levamisole. Since 2002 an increasing amount of the cocaine imported into the US (and other places, but who cares about them) is adulterated with the drug Levamisole. Used in veterinary applications it kills worms and parasites. Used in humans it treats some cancers, and has some nasty effects including agranulocytosis wherein some of your white blood cells up and disappear... leaving you with things like skin rot. Skin rot.

It’s much more likely that your cocaine is cut with Levamisole than not. No matter how pure it looks (Levamisole’s masquerading as glittering, pure cocaine is what got it invited into up to 90% of the cocaine imported into the United States). It’s very chemically similar to cocaine, making it difficult to separate.

Still, the information I found claimed a difference in solubility between the two. I bought some cocaine, exposing me to white collar sadness but no narcoterrorists. I snorted it and had an allergic reaction. I purified best I could, and still reacted. I don’t know whether it’s cocaine, Levamisole, or adulterant X that is causing the reaction - but as this was not my first exposure to cocaine I don’t suspect it.

So I cooked it into crack. And smoked it. And I did not have an allergic reaction. I watched porn for 4 hours. It was fun, but not very “me”.

Then I ground the crack up with some weed and put it in the vaporizer. I’m calling it Trouble. It’s like being a rubber band: stretched in both directions, nestled into a tenuous and short-lived equilibrium. It was over for good once the crack ran out.

Cocaine is dangerous, dirty, and impure because of the War on Drugs, not because of Mama Coca. This I proved while chewing coca for a week straight at Burning Man.

Gentle medicine. Powerful plant friend. Deeply tempting. Coca left me more bereft than cocaine or crack. Likely the levels of cocaine in my system were more from chewing the leaf than they would be from crack and cocaine use. The high is all about the speed at which is passes the blood-brain barrier. As is the physical damage.

Coca makes me feel slightly superhuman. Comfortable. Relaxed. Alert. The first time I chewed it I had a hangover, which disappeared on my 2nd cud. The leaves are full of minerals and B vitamins. And cocaine. The taste of coca and limestone permeates the experience until the cheeks and taste buds are too numb to react. Hunger and thirst disappear - but I actually fell asleep for a nap with a plug of coca in my cheek.

Sensation heightening has so many uses - appreciating the arts, hiking, conversing, yoga, and sex are among my favorites. I lost interest in cocaine and crack entirely; coca rendered any of it’s parts useless to me - but the whole utterly compelling.

Months of intermittent depression following my barter with coca. I made a promise to Lucifer I would not buy coca leaves until next Burning Man and so far have kept it. No coca products have entered my system since the summer of cocaine, crack, coca.... and Levamisole.

..until a friend of mine visits Peru...

...to be continued...

Anonymous

“Hi my name is Diablolita and I’m an addict.”

The only woman of color in the room hugs me and hands me a small, lavender-colored, plastic disc with “MA” printed on one side and “Keep Coming Back!” printed on the other. It hangs from a short chain. As the room chants “Hi Diablolita”, I unhook the chain and fasten it around my finger. As I’ve only been sober 28 days (and not even one by their terms as I drank alcohol the previous day) - the newcomer chip is the only one I am qualified to take under the honor system.

I’m here because I’ve railed intellectually against all of the Anonymous groups for years. I’m here to inhabit “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it”. I’m also here because my friend G was in the program for 9 months and had offered to show me the ropes. G smoked two bowls before the meeting. I am grateful to him for enduring it for me.

Before we take a seat, he introduces himself to his former sponsor. The sponsor is an older gentleman, barefoot with cane and toe ring. He says how much he missed G and their date, when they would drink “Apple Pies” - which is described to me as apple pie in a glass. G interrupts to inform the ex-sponsor that I don’t eat sugar. The man laughs and admits that he is diabetic - and then takes a swig off of a Mountain Dew. I judge and feel judgment upon me. This man is not even one second sober, and over 15 years into “the program”.

There are about 30 people in the room, ranging in age from anywhere between 12 and 80. Soiled, uncomfortable chairs are placed too closely, a rectangle in a church basement. Various volunteers set up $40 worth of bargain potato chips, red vines, chocolate cake, and coffee, while others bring out tattered boards displaying the 12 Steps and the 12 Traditions.

1. We admitted we were powerless over marijuana, that our lives had become unmanageable.

I disagree. I have all the power in the world. No one is to blame for my usage other than myself. I don’t belong here. This hollow epithet has no right to disempower me.

I look around the room and see people unable to sit still. Fidgeting. Compulsively and continuously and compulsively consuming sugar and coffee (at 8:00pm). I see people drawing on themselves, playing with their hair, wringing their hands. I see signs of diabetic neuropathy in a few of the participants and these still suck down sugar like there’s no tomorrow. Everyone seems trying to crawl out of their skin. I feel my stomach flip... these people are not well.

The chip person gives out chips to people who have accomplished various periods of time sober. As he presents each one, lackadaisical golf claps scatter across the room. Then the rules of the meeting are read in strict monotone by a young man who doesn’t look up from the scratched, laminated piece of paper from which he reads.

The main speaker, a young lesbian, speaks for 20 minutes about her experiences with marijuana addiction. Her voice shakes. She has been sober for over 2 years. She talks about fear, and panic attacks, and struggling with her identity as she can no longer be that girl getting faded in the corner of a party.

I relate, but I do not. I understand, of course, I have felt the same feelings. However - there are worse problems to have in life. There are worse identities to assume than that of “The Stoner”. There is and always has been more to me than my usage.

I am not denying that I answer “yes” to all of the 12 questions.

She talks about feeling like everyone else got an emotional handbook and she did not. And now that she no longer suppresses her emotions with weed they are scary, new, uncharted territory. I wonder if she knows that everyone feels this - addict or not.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Sanity??? Even if I were powerless over marijuana, would that make me insane?

I worry the newcomer chip between my fingers as I listen to the speaker, and then realize I’m being sucked into the void displayed by the rest of the room. I put the chip away, on a keychain in my purse.

The first speaker finishes their 20 minutes and then more rules are read off of a different sheet by a different fella with a different monotone and the same lack of eye contact. I learn that for the next hour we will hear from a succession of speakers, each for 3 minutes. A man uses his cell phone alarm to time people.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood God.

I am God.

One by one the depressed and anxious people speak. There is ritual in every word. They each begin by welcoming the newcomers, congratulating the chip-takers, and thanking the initial speaker. The first few respond to the initial speaker, but after those it is just people sharing their trials. No one seems to have an actual need to talk - rather they are performing a ritual that they’ve learned will keep them clean and sober through Pavlovian conditioning.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

I have done this step, and I will do it again. I think it’s important regardless of drug usage or abuse.

One of the speakers mistakes the main speaker for a man instead of a lesbian. He emphasizes how much he relates and manges to patronize at the same time.

There are many platitudes. “Being addicted to marijuana is like being kicked to death by a soft fuzzy bunny”. “The problem is my head. It’s like the horror movies where the police call the victim and say that the call is being traced to inside the house” “Disease” “Learning new ways of being is like cutting a fresh path through the grass.” “Stay off the grass”.

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

I have spent other people’s money, wasted my potential, hurt people, and been a poor friend because I chose marijuana. I have lied, stolen, and cheated for it.

It was all worth it.

A speaker talks about how he would scrape resin off his smoking devices and smoke it - and that people who can just give or take weed don’t do that. I haven’t done that in over 10 years, but it had nothing to do with my addiction - it’s about money. Those that can afford weed don’t have any reason to do that. I will always leave a pipe smoking or a vapor hit for the fallen brothers (particularly when I am flush). Sacrifice is part of the ritual of imbibing cannabis.

There has not been a quality of desperation to my use of cannabis in over five years, I realize. I feel like a liar. The word addict seems fraught with cultural implications. “Habitual user”. That’s what I was. There is danger and excitement in identifying as an addict. Pathetic and cool all at once. I wonder how many in the room have fallen prey to the same slippage.

6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

There are no such thing as character defects. Humans are an endless spectrum of behavior and it is all glorious and perfect in the eyes of God.

I start to feel like I am going to cry from compassion for everyone in the room. So much pain and suffering. Why is no one offering treatment to these people? This poorly designed ritual of substitution is all they get? Why is there no health information on handling addiction but instead sugar and caffeine?

Maybe it’s a class thing. All of the people in the room are struggling for money. But where did they get the money for the weed? Where are those funds now being allocated? To red vines and instant coffee?

7. Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings.

My shortcomings are beautiful.

Does no one else here love themselves? A woman whines about being dropped by her interim sponsor. She is 9 months sober and claims it’s been the worst 9 months of her life.

Bitch, smoke some fucking weed then!

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

I have done this step.

A young man speaks for fewer than his allotted minutes - to admit relapse. “I tried running my own life for a while, and surprise surprise it led me to using”. A murmur with the tone of “Amen” circles the room. There is judgment in the polite applause.

I had always thought that the one redeeming part of the Anonymous groups was that they provide a support group. This is not support. This isn’t even a group. No one is extending out to one another. No one is absorbing each other. There is no porosity to the experience. There is too much fear and judgment in the room for that. Instead - sharing is merely another meaningless ritual.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

I wonder if there used to be fewer steps and then someone had the idea to separate out thought from action to give more rungs on the ladder.

I’ve also done this step, and will do it again.

A man speaks about accidentally giving the wrong number on a job reference, and how this challenge led him to a call with his sponsor who advised him to just tell the truth. His crisis does not qualify as a crisis to me. I again wonder if I am an addict or if I am exaggerating my connection to the drug. I don’t know if I believe in addiction. I certainly don’t believe it is a Disease. I’m far more willing to believe this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rat_Park

Many people echo the thought that though there is no way to OD on marijuana - it causes another kind of death. I agree, and yet the stench of death permeates the room. Perhaps marijuana just brings out the latent death in all of us.

A speaker drones on past his allotted time as the timekeeper has fallen asleep. The group takes every opportunity to snicker at this, and at him.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.

No problem.

The contradiction in the steps becomes apparent. “Take inventory” yet “Give it up to God”. Be ready to make amends, yet you aren’t responsible for your own life. My thought had been that this model works for some people. That there are five people in the room who have been doing this for over 10 years makes me wonder if it works at all. Why are they still here? Why is their term with MA longer than it was with marijuana?

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood God, praying only for knowledge of God's will for us and the power to carry that out.

God helps those that help themselves.

We are done with the speakers. Another male monotone reads another sheet about rules and procedures. It is then time for acknowledgments - which follow the formula (all names have been changed): “Kylie, speaker” *stomp* *clap* “Eric, cake” *stomp* *clap* “Justin, food” *stomp* *clap* “Tina, chip person” *stomp* *clap* “Alan, boards” *stomp* *clap* “Juan, coffee” *stomp* *clap*. For the first time in the evening the ritual feels better to me. It ceases to have that WASP timbre and feels primal, African, rhythmic.

When this is over there are announcements. G’s old sponsor breaks one of the rules by bringing in an outside issue at the wrong time and is immediately called out. The judgment has found its place. The people are vigilant. The altercation is over before it has begun. Conflict is not dealt with well by marijuana addicts. He is allowed to make his announcement in less than two minutes, during a different allotment. I roll my eyes at the precision in their adherence to the rules. These very rules prevent outside treatment information from being disseminated here.

Empty water pitchers are passed around for donations. Even those that are living in homeless shelters give up the money. The bookkeeper reads the books aloud. I am horrified to realize that the group is short on rent for the church basement, due next week - yet has spent half that rent on cake, red vines, potato chips, instant coffee, and non-dairy creamer. Every person in the room, but me, has had more than one serving of the above. More people cough up money to cover the difference.

In this moment I see how the lonely stoner has been converted into a group obligated sugar addict. This cannot be better than weed.

If there is anything I have to contribute to these people it is to make them aware that these substances are all psychoactive - and addictive. That the damage they are doing to their lives, bodies, and loved ones by consuming sugar, toxic fats, chemicals, and caffeine is just more supplanted addiction. I want to scream.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to marijuana addicts and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

No.

The groups are Anonymous - no statistics are ever collected or released on their success. What if this process statistically does more harm than good? What if this is *all* a farce? This is the only court mandated treatment that exists and it is certainly not treatment... but what if it makes things worse?

Medical Waste

Tsunami-San

I was in yoga class at 8:39 a.m. the morning when the waves that destroyed Northern Japan hit the Southern California coast. I love yoga class, and it was a particularly good one today. I would rather have had my ankles in the water, but the beaches were closed.

I would have plunged, planetary power pulling past in pools. I would be Force, growing miles high and striding backwards through time and over distance.

I would have struck the blow.

Not for the paparazzi to say "she's big in Japan, biggest thing to hit since Godzilla". Not to stomp on anyone's sand castles - a detached trickster itching for mayhem, smiling as I yank the tablecloth of the earth's crust. No.

To find integration in initiation of the vibration of creation of mountains. A rolling reshuffle of the surface to reveal unseen strata underneath. I want to crack the earth and set the ocean in motion. For what happens without and within. To remind Us that the great and deep solidity beneath and above is naught but masquerading

waves.

Flotation Comic Book (Art Needed)

It’s dark, that’s for sure.

The water could be warmer. I’m sure they left rattlesnakes in here. I don’t feel any snakes. Tank feels smaller than I thought it would though. I guess if there were snakes they would have drowned. Eww dead rattlesnakes might be even worse.

I’m not supposed to get the water in my eyes. Salty. The earplugs are weird. There are still bubbles seeping out of my ears. I wonder if that means that water’s getting in. I don’t think there could be all that much salt buildup after one session – I wonder why we wear earplugs. This place isn’t very well insulated, I hear things. There’s no way you could call this “sensory deprivation”

Yeah, it’s a shark, that’s what they’ve put in here. Definitely a shark. Or maybe…

Maybe I’m just not physically comfortable and it’s manifesting as fear. Where do I put my arms. By my sides? No, that’s not good. Up above my head? No, not that high. Yeah, right there, ah that’s good. Relax neck. Upper back. Relax butt. Ow my butt is sore from lunges.

When do we actually use a lunge in our life anyway? That’s not really functional. I can’t believe we’ve ever done much lunging, why do we have muscles that need to be built by that?

Floating. Wheeeeee. I wonder how my friend is doing in the other tank. I think I’m falling…

Into…

Hypnosis.

I’m think-dreaming. Or is it dream-thinking?

Oh there goes the world, all of it, all the people I know
and the things I think about and the memories I have, look at the show
there they are spiraling away as I fall asleep but that good survival rooted from belly down
says don’t sleep while you’re floating or you’ll drown.
So I pull back from sleep but oh no I pulled to hard
and now BANG I’m awake again, and jarred.

I wonder how long it took? I think I have to pee. I can’t pee in here. That was made clear. I think I’ll get out and pee in the shower. Is the experience supposed to be continuous? Will I give myself brain damage if I get out and pee during it? I already had enough fun with the hypnosis to get my money’s worth, and I know I won’t relax if I lie here having to pee.

Back in the tank. Much better. I can’t believe that I was in here for two hours. And now I have another hour. I wonder what’s next.

Hey… I’m rotating. I can’t be rotating. Not that much. Laterally rotating. Counter-clockwise. Clockwise. Now back to counter-clockwise. Now I can only go counter-clockwise. That’s lame. At least I can turn it on and off. Rotate. Stop. Rotate. Stop. Rotate. Stop. Rotate. Rotate. Rotate. Rotate. Rotate. Stop. That is so COOL though. Proprioception hallucinations.

Float. Float. Float.

I hear music. That’s not from outside. Can I manipulate it like I used to be able to when I came down from taking too much MDMA? No. Maybe. A little. It’s more bluesy than electronic. If I could manipulate it then I would take it away from the rock side of blues. Give it some more twang. Oh… There it goes. That’s my good brain. Give me the stuff I want.

Aw rats. Time to get out.

Venezia

Things I will miss about Venice, California: The Pacific Ocean; my great roommates and their superheroic feats; Bellissimo Venice (high-end foodie organicy convenience store/deli/coffee less than a block from me); walking to the gym for training with JS and yoga with F; the most weed stores in the closest proximity of anywhere on the planet ever; arson; the electric energy of the night - made present and not overly offensive by partyfolk practicing expert Californian fun management; being catcalled by men of color every single day; the gorgeous view from the balcony (not that my new one isn't better); Whole Foods; the "fuck-it-no-apologies" attitude; being within walking distance of U and S and A and G and a whole mess of other people I don't see enough; graffiti and street art; pickup games near muscle beach (I always root for the skins); falling asleep and waking up to the sound of the ocean; the smell of gasoline; the weather; watching the hustlers (CD sales, drug sales, the shell game, 3 card monty, pimps, dog breeders, shops, services, etc.) on the boardwalk from above then going back to my own hustling online; people singing; the constant stream of athletes to ogle; the streets; being in a hub where people visit from everywhere; the light; the weather; the decent selection of organic vegetarian restaurants, particularly Seed; random art and creativity; diversity; contact highs of all kinds; the sunset over the ocean; proximity to external entertainment; not being regarded as a freak (even when I walk around in my pajamas); living with someone that can fix my computer (even though he can mostly do it remotely too); the sound of helicopters and airplanes; electric lights and sometimes their pretty trails; borrowing things from neighbors and friends; being able to walk to the flotation tank or the liquor store (or both? Drunk Float?); being able to walk most places I go to if I choose; walking places from home; at least some people here aren't "fucking hippies"; impressing people who've never been to LA with where I live; the proximity of all services and goods; hearing and speaking Spanish; prepping for Burning Man as a community.



Things I will not miss about Venice, California: Being able to see 80 residences from my window (not counting the ones I know are there on lower floors - just the ones I can see); living in gang territory (Topanga Crips repreZoent!); having roommates; dead bodies in the canals; arson; the dude who smokes drugs outside at the bottom of the stairs next door and coughs his fucking lungs out in phlegmy, bloody glory with every hit of whatever it is he's inhaling; the most weed stores in the closest proximity of anywhere on the planet ever; stoplights and crosswalks; the swamptrashy, slept on the street, pukeswept corner of Windward and Pacific and all its various residents and gnats at 7:30 in the morning; and for that matter the winnebago-dwellers and their irresponsible sewage dumping; not being able to go nude; fluoridated, chlorinated city water; "Get your medical marijuana evaluation today! The doctor is in! We have the cheapest prices on the boardwalk! Are you legal? Get legal today! Get evaluated! Get your medical marijuana evaluation today! The doctor is in! We have the cheapest prices on the boardwalk! Are you legal? Get legal today! Get evaluated! Get your medical marijuana evaluation today! The doctor is in! We have the cheapest prices on the boardwalk! Are you legal? Get legal today! Get evaluated! Get your medical marijuana evaluation today! The doctor is in! We have the cheapest prices on the boardwalk! Are you legal? Get legal today! Get evaluated!"; carrying a Taser or a knife everywhere I go; parking tickets and street cleaning days; televisions from those 80 residences blaring at me; vandalism; the constant walla; the smell of grease and fried starch; poverty; other people's music; gum stuck to the sidewalk; sidewalks; rent control; traffic; tourists; leafblowers; leashed dogs; fake body parts; smog; pigeons and gulls; the smell of "food"; anorexics; the smell of chemical deodorant/perfume/hair or body spray/misc. product; the sound of metal against metal or concrete; unwanted distance-dependent social obligations; during my eensy teensy tiny time off running into the offline segments of ad campaigns I'm working on while walking the streets and thus being thrown back into work (sometimes even on banners pulled by planes along the shore... how crafty!); not being able to see the stars!; the higher proportion of people that completely buy into the standard American health model; the absence of complex wildlife; trash washing up on shore; i look everywhere, and i see, chemical de-pen-den-cy; that dead fishy smell all oceans have; grids, squares, boxes, and lines; heavy police presence; having no space to grow food; having no space to hoop; having no space for my stuff; being watched; being heard.

Hot Bean on Bean Action

Drug of choice? If you define choice as a free acceptance of the consequences of a decision – then I’ll have a double mocha with soy milk. That perfect trio of beans has to be the most delicious drug delivery system ever – even more so than Diet Cannabis Cola.

I am not a caffeine addict, and I don’t think I ever really have been. I’ve enjoyed it for days on end, but I’ve never had trouble giving it up because I never went too far with it for too long.

I love the rush. There’s a perfect level of tolerance – once every three weeks or so - where a cup of coffee will send my mood through the roof for the day. If I wait too long it either gives me the jitters and keeps me up all night or does nothing for me. If I do it too often I’m left tired and with a comedown.

The –ine family and I have a complex relationship. Novocaine and I don’t speak anymore – I had 5 mercury fillings drilled out of my skull and replaced with their non-toxic alternatives, all without going under the influence of anesthetics. My distaste for them has kept me away from Ketamine so far.

Cocaine is a trashy lover I see once every few years and afterwards I am left feeling dirty and distant.

Amphetamines are useful for nothing but cleaning the house.

But caffeine and its friends in tea and mate and chocolate – these are action drugs. These little helpers allow me to accomplish real things. I can be productive in every aspect of my life under the influence of a double soy mocha. It’s almost worth the endocrine disruption and the inhibition of the absorption of calcium and Vitamin C.

The most wonderful thing about coffee is that all of society agrees with me. It’s a drug I can buy anywhere, do in public without stigma, and with friends. Would that the rest of drugs were treated thusly…

S.B. 420

-->

This week I tender my resignation as Secretary and CFO of a mutual benefit non-profit organization with the purpose of enhancing the access of patients and caregivers to organically grown medical marijuana through collective, cooperative cultivation projects in California.

I am thousands of miles away and my prescription will lapse in just under a month. I step out of the world I never wanted to be in with some reluctance due only to the uniqueness of the experience.

I remember arguing with the ex-boyfriend about whether it was a good idea for us to go into business together both times that we drove an hour to sign papers with the lawyer. Screaming fights in the car: “WHY DO YOU BRING THIS UP NOW?!” “WELL ISN’T IT BETTER THAN NOT BRINGING IT UP AT ALL?!”, all smiles and gentleness and agreement when there – papers signed, and silence for the ride home. The lawyer looked like a Southern Baron, young, sloppy features, ill-fitting, white, three-piece suits. All fake wood, fake marble, fake leather office. So close to Los Angeles… and yet so far.

Now I’m still literally paying for starting businesses I know are a bad idea with people I know won’t make good business partners, which is certainly better than paying in time for starting a semi-legal business in a Red county. Best that I got away when I did.

Having the binders and the books and the scrips and the papers help, but in the end it’s still up to the cops and the county. Generally the ones on the bottom end, the ones that don’t sink money into lawyers and shields, are the ones that get busted. Still, even though rarely - sometimes it’s all on a grudge or whim. The ex goes to City Council meetings, introduces himself to the Sheriff and makes whatever contributions he can. More power to him.

Say what you want about the ex-lover – he grew some decent medicine. Most of the people we served were genuinely and sometimes gravely ill. Making medicine is a depressing business, even more so when you are addicted to the product. This thing I use to destroy myself helps others.

All y’all in the business: keep growing weed. For I sure as fuck ain’t gonna do it again, but I’ll smoke up yours on occasion.