I dropt 2 hits at 11:00pm. Forty-two minutes later I can feel the familiar grind go off in my head. A thick crunchy feeling behind the eyes which seems to propel the “breathing” that takes on everything. And we’re under a Tornado Watch, too. A huge squall line has crost into Kentucky, with any luck I’ll be peaking when it hits. Unless it dies out before it gets here.
12:12am. Everything just took on that delicate gleam: wood grains, floor tiles, all morph and sway together.
12:57. Hmmm… perhaps this is not as strong as I thought. Two hours and still no hard trippiness. Only a body buzz and, nothing really. I’m pist I wasted two hits. It’s been more than 48 hours since I last took any. Was this from a different batch?
Acid is such a moody thing. Sometimes it knocks you on your ass, sometimes it appears almost bored with you. I don’t understand it at all, really. Three hits Friday night sent me spinning, but two on a Monday (Tuesday morning) barely even crack my head. All I’ve done is sit and watch fucking PBS & re-runs of the Fresh Prince. Storm never arrived, either. Gone before it got here. Spent fuel. Brain’s tolerance is a—these words don’t really mean anything. I just write and write and write. I pretend that I have some sort of poetic vision going on but it’s really just dumb words, lame 18 year old words, a world of abbreviations & minimalizations. I was here by myself & look what I accomplish, I stay up all night losing valuable sleep time (words sound dumber & dumber)… think it’s a losing battle, always trying to find the best word choice, besides , I caanot write., whtat the hell ami supposed to do with a brain ins uch a state? All this proves Jess & Pax right. I do look to drugs too much for relief, escapism.
I must be insane because I just put 4 more bits of paper on my tongue.
Either I’ll trip or I won’t.
[Much later]
No one’s head to cradle except my own. Now all I see is shadows, where is the disorder I sought? I lookt for whatever it was, then over-eager & greedy I chased it away… thanks to myself & my stupidity I have nothing to go by and caught in that dull abundance I think this may be where I can remember music in my head over, over, [and] over but that’s out of nothing… Jordan is dead, he looks to me expecting what out of me? Properly structured sentences and mindless scrawlings? Hell no we want numerous & numinous types to go along with what never belies dis belief. This will be the last affair with miss leading things like this clever saying that embodies everything perfectly each word to its fullest extent descriptive qualities such as I have drugged myself divergent, It’s clear you have gone too far in, they tell me. Examined too deeply & completely blown your top. It is but the dilapidated rants of a schizo-neurotic voyeur gone mad, each moment built on the last. I am writing backwards.
Smell—dirty sheets. Feet. Yellow crumbs off the floor, let you down after a buzz, thought it meant something rather than just “sounded nice.” My dialect is in question. My brain is good for a few things only. I have figured it out to be stars & bellhops caterd to gardens are guardin the frontal boundary’s insomnia thru the use of strange debilitating debitor(s)… I could analyze all day what I have wrote. Music loopt in my head:
Well, this paragraph. Is all that I have. Sentence fragment. “It is not a mental handicap,” said the boy on TV with Tourette’s. “To our NATO allies,” sez President Bush; & “Tornado alleys…” —I think I shall be done after this one. This is my last ditch (to see if I mean shit to anyone anywhere) with words that haunt & echo the walls within this crackt skull. Crost into a voiceless time, timeless voice, 5:43am Tuesday what does that give you? This is the basest you’ll see me, disorderly disorganized dishonest YOU using words that have only attached meaning to themselves within reflexive compound fractured remnants of what could be the craziest thing to hit since blitzen—
Just so.