|June 12, 1992: Imagining Sobriety|
Emerald Pest Control just came and sprayed poison in our kitchen. It's their monthly ritual. Never have seen a cockroach in this apartment.
I'm just scattered across the continent mentally, scatter-brained from this dope. It's the same stash, the 'hefty sandwich' dope J__ brought up from Kentucky -- what, six months ago? It's finally gone, almost.
Which makes me both happy and sad.
The truth is that I like getting high, but I'm not sure that getting high everyday is such a good idea. Yet, if allowed, that's what I'll do.
Or would I? Supposedly when this stuff is gone I'm not going to buy anymore for at least a couple months -- but can I believe myself? I couldn't trust myself when I was addicted to cigarettes. I'm having a real hard time with caffeine now. But the two don't really compare.
I think it might be wise to expect a bit of a system shock when these last high days of Spring end, and the first days of Summer slap me sober, and eventually infuse in me a yet-more-divine intoxication.
I must be prepared for that trial; I must gird my loins; and so I contemplate fear, failure, and breaking apart, pain, death and decay. Not all decay is bad. In fact, decay is vital -- it is the cause of beauty, the rigid enforcement of elegance. Human beings rise up against decay; our silhouettes are defined by it, our identities shaped by it, our creations molded in consideration of it. We make much that is ugly now, but decay will make it beautiful, given enough time. And who has more?