I want to write about drugs, but first it may be well to write about writing.
Why would anyone write? Fame and fortune come to mind, but I think it corrupts the process. I write because it's cathartic. It's like hitting a canvas with paint, or doing what you do to escape a reality you may not like - perhaps creating one you like better. So, I write, and sometimes I masturbate. It's really the same process. When I masturbate, I'm in control. I think about what it is I like - maybe changing my mind before it's over.
I know, the reader is thanking me for my insight, so it's fortunate I have no readers. And that's ok; I don't need readers to write. If I were a musician, I wouldn't need listeners, or a painter with viewers.
I do it for myself (I know you wish I wouldn't, but I'm selfish).
Anyway, I was going to write about drugs. I asked my psychologist friend (not MY psychologist) why the negative aspects of drug abuse don't condition us to stop. All she could say is, "addiction." But I've been conditioned not to use too many. Still, there are times I revert to my old behaviors, which leads to my story:
Thailand is A Mecca for people like me. It's a good thing for Thailand because I've dropped too much money there. I don't drop it in fancy hotels, or rich places to eat and drink. There's nothing wrong with that, but I'm more comfortable among common people, because I am one. I suppose there are those who would argue I'm not common because I can afford to drop some money. I think it's relative, but that's not easy to say if someone is hungry.
So, I went to Pai. Pai is a bit strange. You see Vietnam era helicopters flying overhead, on occasion. At the police station there's a bulletin board listing too many Thai faces wanted for drug charges. It's sad. They want it all, and I think I want what they're trying to leave behind.
So, I went into the hills on a rented motorcycle and looked for the opium that makes the moment better. I was thinking about checking out because the only woman I've ever truly loved checked out of my life (with good reason, I'm mentally unstable). It's just a life. They come and go.
So the broken-hearted drug fiend drove his borrowed motorcycle into the hills hoping to find another life. What I found was myself. Once I got past a few weeks and all the ripoffs, I drove up that lonely road toward a beautiful waterfall where I found myself.
The kids there had a friend watch for people like me. He whistled to attract my attention, then led me away to the edge of the forest. There were a few of them sitting on the ground with bags in front of them. At first, they tried to fuck me - sell me drugs at an exhorbitant price - but I already knew. So I bought copiuous quantities of drugs and spent too much time dying - perhaps living
What struck me is that the young people who sold me the drugs don't speak the same language I do. They don't live in the same world I do. But they live on the same planet. They knew me. I was one of them because we share a common bond - to escape what we can't live with. They were me when I was young, and now, in a little different state.
Now my body is tired. I want to think about an American hero, Richard Brautighan.
So, did I write. No, I spit bloody teeth from a face that's been punched too much. I did my best. It's hard to say it's your turn to enter the ring. You should be walking into paradise. But it doesn't exist
