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There is absolutely nothing like a hangover on a Friday morning. Absolutely nothing. I wouldn't call it pleasant. I wouldn't call it anything. It's not something that can truly be described. It's a sense of reality…but it's unique. It's the sound of coming down. I find that in most cases I prefer the comedown of a drug to the actual trip. Another unique and indescribable feeling is not passing out the middle of a trip. Respectable people only take drugs at night and JESUS CHRIST WILL THIS ASIAN WHORE SHUT THE FUCK UP? I am trying to be a vehicle for the extreme benefits of drugs! I am trying to help our youth and she is flapping her wrinkled lip about loitering laws and "zero tolerance". She decided to come to this corner of the room as to not bother the other students and, in the process, has managed to bother the only student actually working on something with merit. YOUR GPA IS ABOVE A TWO-POINT-OH AND WE JUST HAVE TO PICK THESE OFF SO YOU CAN GRADUATE IN SEPTEMBER fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I want to impale you a skewer and roast you over a bonfire by the side of the ocean in Vancouver as you entire race watches and I get married and feed your toasted flesh to my family and my bride so that we all can finally be at peace. That indescribable feeling… I'm sure Bukowski could put it simply and finally and I'm sure Burroughs could make it confusing and beautiful but I don't think I have the props to really convey the feeling in writing. I would record a song about it but a) Gord Downie already recorded a song about it and it's call "Steeplechase" and b) the only music I'm good at making is the kind that is pure catharsis, the kind with no composition; based on improvisation and feeling rather than such trivial things as melody or lyrics or rhythm. If you want to know what it feels like, I'd suggest just getting really fucked up and NOT GOING TO SLEEP. That's the key. That's how it's done. You could take drugs in the morning and come down in the afternoon or take drugs in the afternoon and come down at night but, honestly, that sucks out the serenity of coming down in the morning. Failing that, I'd suggest listening to Hex-era Earth, though not Hex specifically. It works but it's a bit darker than their two subsequent releases, Hibernaculum and The Bees Made Honey in the Lion's Skull, respectively. Hibernaculum is a record consisting of reworkings of old Earth songs in their new Hex-style (plodding Western instrumentals, like hearing the sound of the wind slowly chipping paint off of a nameless building in a ghost town) as opposed to their older drone-based way of doing things. The Bees Made Honey in the Lion's Skull is their latest album, released at the end of last month and it's their self-proclaimed "gospel" record, it being a lot more optimistic and relaxed than Hex. I'm torn as to whether it's a better choice than Hibernaculum. Tentatively, though, I'd have to say Hibernaculum because most of the songs were originally written when Dylan Carlson was presumably doing a shitload of heroin, the most notorious of downers, and covered not long after he kicked the drugs and reinvented his way of making music. The record is the perfect emotional representation of coming down because it is a concrete representation of the artist's slow comedown that was a long time running and will hopefully be a long time coming down, too. The feeling, though… I'm avoiding it. I'm avoiding the inevitable call for a description. I've pleaded for first-hand experience, I've pleaded for second-hand experience (which I believe can only be achieved through music), and now I have to describe it. I hate having to describe unless I have to. The feeling is what I'd call "abject reality". It's the unwelcome and, again, inescapable realization of the reality of yourself and others and every painfully bleak fucking detail of our world; of this Earth and this solar system and the entire universe. It's the only time when your eyes are truly open, when the slits that make life look murky and grey are finally forced open, the lids propped up with toothpicks as the lubrication drains from the retinas. Still, with the numbness gone, you don't feel like squirming. I find that sedation ultimately causes more pain than it appeases (this is the only part of the straight-edge mantra that I agree with) and the only reason we are comfortable with the myopia of our daily lives is the fact that we are bred into it. Our parents carelessly fucked us into existence and were born moles, our eyes clouded with the unimportance of our daily lives and, sadly, making that unimportance the most goddamn important thing to us. I work as a grocery bagger and I see it every day. I see the people on their cell phones, the people who ignore the other drivers in the parking lot and ignore me when I say hello to them. The ones whose ice cream is melted by the time they're in line to ring up their groceries and the ones who dump off a handful of items they didn't need in the first place like most of their other groceries but decided that, being the masters of their own destiny, these pickles and this jerky is just not fit for them or their family. THEY DECIDE WHAT GOES INTO THEIR MOUTH GODDAMN IT. They are so happy to be the tyrants of their own little microcosm, no matter how small it is, that they are unable to see past it. They are the ones who shop hungry and they are the ones who desperately want to fuck that hot checker, her arms flickering as she monotonously waves barcode after barcode away and gives them their receipt. These are the people that never want this stark realization. These are the people who have never stayed awake after a joint or told the nagging thought of work in the morning to fuck off as they polish off their fourth beer. They're afraid of breaking their mold of complacency and fucking living for once. They're afraid of me as I call them fat or stupid behind the mask of my keyboard. They criticize me for using the Internet as a means for explosive catharsis; for vomiting my emotions out on them when, in their mind, they don't deserve it. They fucking deserve it. You all deserve it! I know I deserve it and I champion those who have the testicles to tell me off, to point out my flaws and failures because I know that if I'm not constantly reminded that I'm a waste of food and shelter I will slip into this feedback loop, this circle jerk that most people hold so dearly to their heart. Though they love their microcosm, they are part of a bigger group. They are part of this circle jerk, though few would admit it. They are all beautiful little flowers and their children can do anything they want if they set their mind to it and they drink boxed wine with their wife or discuss the easiest route to the office at a dinner party while all secretly thinking about that checker with her ass and her arms. The feeling of coming down is the realization of all of this and the intense desire to distance yourself from it as much as possible. It's a serenity like no other. It's undistilled truth and there's nothing I can say to convince you of that. If I ever have kids, though I hope I don't, I want them to do drugs. I want them to swear and fuck and drink until they are forced to face reality and they can understand their old man. Some say that people get fucked up for escape but I get fucked up because I know it's the only way that I can cheat my mind into seeing reality. |
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