Acid Heroes

June 1, 2011

Stoned

Filed under: Backwords from Ace — Ace Backwords @ 8:03 pm
Tags: , , , , , ,

     I don’t know where my life is going.  And I guess I just don’t care anymore.  Friday, noon, drinking my first cup of coffee trying to wake up, smoke a fat joint which adds a surreal element to my groggy morning hangover.  What the fuck am I doing?  Getting stoned first thing in the morning.  I was never a “wake-and-bake” kinda’ guy.  Once I start smoking pot that just finishes that day in terms of accomplishing anything or getting anything done.  “Another day shot to hell,” I often joke at the end of another mis-spent night.  So normally I try to hold off until 5 in the evening before I start drinking and getting stoned.  So that gives me about 10 hours during the day to take care of business as a semi-functional human being.  Once I get stoned its like I turn into another person.  I get introverted, find the most simple social interactions to be bizarre.

Like waiting in a long line when I’m stoned  —  I start tripping on the back of the head of the guy in front of me, all these movies popping out of my mind about all  the people in the store who are crammed around me.  Me — nervously fidgeting and darting glances all across the room  —  stoned out of my mind, trying to “act normal” and failing to do so.  I make some joke to the cashier woman working behind the counter, realize she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying and that I’m babbling about a subject that would makes sense to no one aside from my THC-ridden brain.  Stagger out into the street with a goofy smile on my face.  Suddenly I pass someone who trips me into a rage. I seethe with murderous thoughts as I glare over my shoulder at the perpetrator.  Then I’ll be overwhelmed by a deep sadness and pangs of guilt.  I’ll start working on the issue in mind like a psychological puzzle (whats WRONG with me? etc).  I stagger to Hate Camp, quickly survey all the people hanging out, making that instant —  and crucial  —   decision as to where I’m going to sit, trying to avoid sitting between the cross-fires of two warring camps, for instance, or trying to avoid proximity to the boring guy who immediately attaches himself to me and peppers me with his non-stop dull prattle, or trying to avoid the crazy one who will quickly disrupt any peaceful or interesting conversation I am having with someone else, or avoiding the five people who will immediately hit me up for a smoke the second I take out my pack of Basic 100s. So there’s a lot of thought involved just with the simple task of finding the right place to sit in People’s Park.  Usually I have pretty good luck wih my seating arrangements. I got 4 or 5 places I like to sit, in my usual back-against-the-wall position (or in this case, my back against a tree and me surveying the action in front of me  —   I have a fear of people sneaking up behind me).  So then I’ll sit there for several hours getting more and more stoned and drunk.  Lately I’m into rolling these joints that are like two-thirds bud and one-third tobacco  —  slipping into this cozy, creamy buzz.  If the conversation is good, I’ll liven it up like a Johnny Carson talk show. I know how to moderate a discussion  — its one of my few gifts.  And once I hit on a good subject  —  it can be deeply spiritual, philosophical, or psychological, or it can be something hysterically funny  —   I know how to play out and explore the theme.  I can dominate the discussion with my insights (so-called) or I can steer it around the circle, coaxing everyone to get in their two cents.  If the conversation is dull I’ll put on my headphones and shades and space out in this inner world of musical symphonies.  Sometimes I’ll be overwhelmed by emotions, other times I’ll be studying the bass lines by some black cat on a Motown record.   Last night I was listening to this song by Heart, “These Dreams,” that they were hyping as this ethereal, celestial song, so I’m listening to the first half of the song as a critic — “Hmm, sort of interesting, nice little chord there and I kinda’ like how it shifts into the second verse from a songwriting-construction point of view,” and I’m just sort of analyzing it from a thumbs-up-or-thumbs-down point of view, and I’m just about to change the channel because the song is OK but nothing to write home about, then the song kicks into the hook and its so beautiful I’m crying and crying and tears are running down my face, and then after I stop crying I go back to critiquing the song like a music critic —  Do I like this song or not?  —   and then I’m thinking: “Fuck, the song is so beautiful I burst into tears, what more do I want from a song, ths song is OK, okay?”  Like I gotta’ shut up the critical chatter in my brain that is always judging everything. Then another song will come on the radio and its the perfect song for the moment, a George Thorougood song or a Beatles song or something.  And I’ll space out for another half-hour in this musical cocoon in my head.  Suddenly I’ll snap out of my reverie, pull the headhones off, look around, try to remember where I am sitting and how I got there.  Its like coming out of a foggy dream.  And then I’m staggering down the street trying to avoid bumping into the pedestrians that are coming at me from every direction.  “Darn, now I have to deal with stupid reality again!” I’ll often think.  Then I’m standing on line in a brightly-lit neon store (most likely buying yet another beer) and I’m trying to conceal the manic grin that keeps sneaking onto my face, and wondering when they were gonna’ start coming after me with the butterfly nets . . . .

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