I nearly called 911 this morning saying that I was leaving. That's "leaving" as in cashing in my chips.
I didn't because I remember the mistake I made by telling a shrink, "...yes I do have suicidal thoughts".
Don't fucking do that shit.
Them bastards are informers for the heat. You say you committed a crime or you wanna just jump out da window they turn ya in for sure.
I ended up in a Nut Haus for near a month behind that noise.
One false move, and them smiling jackasses pushes buttons on ya ass. Protocols get in play, and none of it is good for you. They just go on to their next victim, "...Next!"
However I still wanted to go,...bad. Have for many years, but sometimes it's more than rough. Lately every morning I get up suicidal.
Ya know the old Senior Citizen Sob Story.
Loss of family old friends position responsibilities purpose hope shit to look forward too, and nothing is ever good on TV.
Yeah that, and certain things specific to me, and my particular trail of tears. Who da fuck cares. I don't even care anymore I just wants out.
Morphine.
The Hidden City of Morphine is where I wants to fucking go! This shit is harder to come by that diplomatic pouch Rock Cocaine or vintage 1996 China White Heroin. The fucking best there ever naturally was. Sure they have chemically enhanced shit now, but that was the last batch of Natural Heaven there will ever be. Ask any older Junkie about it, and they'll burst into tears over it.
Morphine is HARDER to get than 'any' of that.
It's in the Fort Knox of Drugs. I know I've tried for years to just get one lethal dose. Only the One Percent of the One Percent of Dopers can get near it,...and that ain't me.
Meanwhile I just live this rancid life. I go about my routine of cleaning dusting polishing my digs as make work to keep me alive. Even in the 90f+ heat. Being old, and destitute I ration my A.C. for when I really needs it. That 105f degree day was one.
Btw I spent today, see above, building a vintage Revell model kit of a "DC-7". That fucker in it's original box with the cellophane still on it gets you $350.+ from collectors online,...fuck them jerks to hell.
What's da point of having such a sweet kit if you never want to built...I hates collectors. I had the kit since the 1980's,...gots the original sales slip which sez "Mar. 08 '84. Woolworths". One Fucking Dollar!
Which is the same price it was in 1959!
I bought tons of kits through my radio career, but never had the time to properly build them.
Now I has all da fucking time there is.
As for my exit I'm open to suggestions.
I have heard that all poppies have some level of narcotic in them, it is just a matter of degree. Terence McKenna said that in extremis, the poppy is the way to go. One way to get some information on the topic might be to go to Erowid.
ReplyDeleteI have also heard of ordinary domestic gardeners who were growing poppies in their yards that just happened to be opium poppies. I don’t think they were necessarily always even aware of this. I bet the flowers can be found growing by the roadside in odd places around the USA. As McKenna said, we have a right to our pharmacopeia, it’s not the rightful property of the state or the pharmaceutical industry.
But I don’t want to encourage you to do anything precipitately or prematurely. It sounds to me as if you just need something to be happy about, and to look forward to - something that keeps you happily engaged. For instance, there’s nothing wrong with watching old movies. I bet there are lots of great movies you haven’t seen in decades or even at all.
Also, I am not so sure that you are quite spent, creatively speaking. You might still have some fun in you. Rather, you’re suffering from depression, and you could probably use some positive social connection. You’re living in what is still one of the more interesting cities of the world. Maybe you haven’t quite exhausted its potential, or your own.
Oh yeah - and you should probably stay on the meds. Maybe they need to be goosed a little bit, in moderation.
Z
P.S. - Collectorship - what a weird mentality. Z
ReplyDeleteCollectors are shits. They don't even love what they collect. The put it away in boxes letting them increase in value for sale or trade for other rare things they don't love. I ran into these sorts at hobby conventions, and comic book cons.
ReplyDeleteWhen I mentioned I had rare kits they became like crack heads in an evidence locker. Fuck'em
As for ending things we'll see.
If I had had the means I'd be gone already. As it is I give each day it's own chance. Thank you for caring. That matters to me.
That info about collectors is a rather disquieting eye opener for me. It suggests I need to think carefully about what sort of persons I am creating my art work for. I want it to be for people who love it. I wonder how many of the high rollers attending auctions at Christie's or Sotheby’s are salting away Picassos and Caravaggios in vaults where they practically never look at them?
ReplyDeleteI’ve only once seen someone behave like the crackheads you describe - a young guy who frantically rifled my medicine cabinet for pills, any kind of pills. It was really fucked up.
Z
P.S. - I just flashed on a perfect literary example of the mentality of collectors as you describe it: that of Smaug the dragon. Early in The Hobbit, Thorin remarks that dragons are greedy for treasure, yet they never enjoy a brass ring of it - though they generally have a good idea of the current market value of any item in their hoard. Later in the book, Tolkien in his authorial voice observes that Smaug is enraged at the theft of a single goblet from his vast trove, as only rich people can be who suffer not at all from the loss of such a trinket. It’s a kind of obsessively selfish anal retentive nastiness. Sound about right?
ReplyDeleteZ
Pretty much.
ReplyDeleteDuring the coming Revolution the compulsively rich will have to stand, and watch as all their possessions are destroyed before them. Shredded defaced burned crushed destroyed before their obsessive acquisitive eyes.
In extreme cases they would be made to eat the ashes.
Dante would recognize this chastisement.