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busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

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Chapter 15

The day after the party, Nelly stayed in her apartment waiting for a phone call from Buster that never came. She left only to return the green dress, still smelling of Buster, to Carmela’s. His jacket hung on her coat tree. She buried her face in it and inhaled before she went to bed that night, and all of the sensations of the previous night flooded back in an intoxicating wave.

The next day she went to work reluctantly. She knocked on her neighbor’s door as soon as she got home to see if anyone had called for her. They hadn’t.

A week passed without a call, then two weeks. She thought that Buster would at least want his jacket; it didn’t look inexpensive. But November went by with no call.

It was a while before she could admit to herself how silly it had been to nurture the hope that the kiss with him had meant something. In hindsight, her naïveté was obvious. He was drunk, she was convenient, and since he couldn’t convince her to go to bed with him, that was that. It hurt her, of course. She’d replayed the memory of the night in her head countless times, how he’d led her to the grass and handed her the glass of whiskey, how delirious she’d felt when he bit her neck, how he’d held her hand on the loggia while they waited for his butler to bring the car. She felt sure she had not hallucinated the husk in his voice when he’d invited her into his bedroom. In the first few days following the party, the memory drove her crazy. Lying in bed or in the bathtub, she would pretend that her hand between her legs was his.

December came and went. She spent Christmas alone in the apartment, but it didn’t feel like Christmas with the sun shining and the temperatures hovering near seventy. She was used to the bleak December cold of Evanston, shopping with Ruthie and her mom in downtown Chicago as snow slanted down, stinging their faces, and the frigid wind bit through them. The opportunity to be in The Battle of the Sexes never arose, but on the third of January she received a letter from the casting office telling her that she had been chosen as an extra in John Barrymore’s Tempest. To say she was flabbergasted was an understatement. As she stared at the letter, she became more and more convinced that Buster was behind her turn of fortune. She couldn’t prove it. He was no longer near the United Artists lot, so she couldn’t ask him even if she wanted to—and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Her dashed hopes after the party had caused heartache enough and moving on was the sensible thing. Whenever she thought of him, she reminded herself that he was a married father and that even if things had gone further, it would have been to no end. The smartest course of action was to forget him and concentrate on the reason she’d come to California in the first place.

The first night of filming for Tempest came a couple of weeks later. First she and the other girls were buttoned into ball gowns made of sumptuous combinations of taffeta, chiffon, satin, lace, and beads. Her gown was of cream-colored satin, and a makeup woman twisted her hair into an intricate chignon with braids that undergirded the rest of her hair. A girdle pulled her waist to half its size and dainty beaded slippers with a modest heel rounded out the ensemble. Not since Buster’s party had she felt so ravishing.

When costume, hair, and makeup were in order, they were driven to the set in Studebakers with two rows of seats. It was now a quarter to six and dark. The girls gabbled in anticipation, but Nelly’s thoughts were in such a tumult that she was too distracted to join in. John Barrymore would be in that ballroom and she looked stunning. She wondered if he would notice her and if he did, how their conversation would go. Most of all she wondered whether she would feel anything toward him. There was no mistake that she had felt something the night that she had danced with him, though it had been eclipsed by her more potent encounter with Buster. Well, she had an angle with Barrymore and it was no better or worse than the angle Buster had played to try to get her into bed. If she was in the same ballroom as John Barrymore, if he chanced to recognize her, she would take advantage of it.

The palace ballroom was a breathtakingly huge set on the United Artists lot, every bit as real as the actual thing. The exterior was squarish and looked Roman in style, with an open-air stone porch and columns that were forty feet high. She and the other extras went up wide stone stairs through a set of towering arched double doors. Inside, there were ceilings even higher than the columns outdoors. A chandelier the size of a small elephant hung from the main ceiling. There were more columns inside, looking as big around as the sequoias she’d seen in her childhood schoolbooks. The ceilings and higher parts of the walls were adorned in frescoes and friezes. Candles burnt in candelabras affixed to the walls. On one end of the room was a bar and a long white table lined with countless glasses, a large, deep punch bowl, and a tub filled with ice and champagne. It was a dazzling sight.

Nelly knew a little bit of the premise of the film. Camilla Horn played a Russian princess. John Barrymore, a peasant turned military officer, was in love with her. The ballroom scene would be the first time they had met since Barrymore’s station in life had changed.

She located her partner Bradford standing against a wall with his arms folded behind his back. They’d been practicing for the past week in a large ballroom on the United Artists lot, and she was relieved that her average dancing skills had drawn no attention. Bradford was good-looking, brown-haired and of medium height, but she had noticed throughout their rehearsals that he was not interested in girls. There was no delicate way to convey to him that she had known many homosexual men back at the Vista and that it wasn’t a big deal to her, though she always tried to do her best to put him at ease. Still he remained stiff and aloof.

“Some place, huh?” she said.

“It’s something,” Bradford agreed, barely looking at her.

“Barrymore here yet?” she ventured.

Bradford shook his head. “Haven’t seen him, but I don’t think Mr. Taylor’s here yet either.”

They fell into silence and watched everyone greet each other and the women compliment each other’s dresses. Bradford would never engage in more than small talk and Nelly was too excited to join in the other girls’ prattle. She liked them fine, but since she spent most of her time in the prop department, there was little opportunity for her to socialize other than in the canteen, where she listened quietly to the day’s gossip, having nothing to contribute herself and wanting to hear the latest lurid rumors. Barrymore’s marriage was indeed on the rocks as Buster had said and she found herself thinking about this fact more than was probably appropriate.

It was another twenty minutes before Barrymore and Camilla finally appeared, coming through a side door with Mr. Taylor and an entourage. Camilla was wearing a white satin gown with a full tulle skirt, a wrap to match, and earrings that brushed her shoulders. She looked every bit the princess she was playing. Barrymore was in black trousers, matching shiny knee-length boots, and a white officer’s coat with gold buttons. Her pulse quickened when she saw him and she wondered, not for the first time, if she could grow as fond of him as she had lately of Buster.

However, she had no more time to be fanciful because Mr. Taylor was soon directing them to the dance floor, spacing them at intervals and telling them to remember what they’d practiced the previous days. Someone put a waltz on the Victrola. It played tinnily into the cavernous room and was soon swallowed by the sound of footsteps and rustling skirts.

The first half hour was a thrill. Nelly relaxed, basking in the feeling of being in the midst of the greatest splendor Hollywood had to offer. All of the cameras were distant, focused on Barrymore who gazed penetratingly at Horn while she danced with a young officer and cast him contemptuous, conniving looks. There was no need to worry if she missed a few steps; trained on Barrymore and Camilla, the cameras could hardly have noticed.

Camilla was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood that Nelly had seen yet, blonde, slender, and big-eyed with perfect Cupid’s bow lips.

She could not have imagined how tiring the evening would become as the half hour wore into an hour, and the hour dragged into a second. After performing endless dances with Bradford under that dizzingly high ceiling, having always to smile and look gay, she was hot and thirsty and hungry. Her feet were swollen in her delicate shoes. Though the extras were permitted short breaks every half hour, the communal pitchers of water weren’t sufficient to quench everyone’s thirst and they were forbidden to touch the plenitude of spirits laid out in the tub and on the long tables draped with white tablecloths. The beer, champagne, and other drinks appeared to be for Barrymore’s benefit alone. One scene had him standing at the bar with cameras grouped around as he drained glass after glass. He appeared to be drinking the real thing. She could steal looks at him, but only over Bradford’s shoulder and they couldn’t be long lest she spoil the scene.

Around the third hour, now close to ten o’clock she guessed, she ceased to care about Barrymore at all. He had by now moved onto the floor with Camilla and the Victrola was trying to be heard over the dancing again. Nelly had only mind for her thirst and exhaustion. She wondered how much more of it she could take. Her lips were chapped and her smiles now felt more like grimaces. Bradford’s eyes looked glazed, though his steps were as sure and strong as ever.

Suddenly, there was a little shriek, a cry of “Mein Gott!, and the echoing sound of something hitting the floor. Bradford stopped and so did Nelly. They followed the other dancers’ eyes to the center of the room. Camilla was sitting on the floor on her behind wearing a look of shock and looking like an upended wedding cake in her disarranged white dress. The cry had been hers. Barrymore was on his hands and knees, laughing and trying to get up. One of the male dancers had to assist him, and when he was on his feet again he swayed. There was no disguising that he was really drunk. After two male extras had helped a ruffled-looking Camilla to her feet, he reached for her waist and again lost his balance, almost taking them both down again. She couldn’t say why, but Nelly was seized by the conviction that Buster had warned her that John Barrymore was like this.

Bradford dropped Nelly’s hand, clearly sensing that this was more than a momentary disruption. Mr. Taylor appeared, standing between the two parties and talking to them and his crew, his face serious. Someone brought a chair for Barrymore and he sat heavily in it. His face looked red. A few of the other dancers attempted light conversation as if the spectacle in front of them wasn’t taking place, but Nelly had no energy to pretend she was interested in anything else. The reprieve from dancing was a blessed relief.

Little by little, chatter began to filter back to Bradford and her: Barrymore was indeed drunk as a skunk and to avoid the cost of reshooting the scene on another night when he was sober, Mr. Taylor was trying to come up with a solution for him to finish his dance with Camilla.

“I need to sit down before I faint,” Nelly said.

Bradford nodded as if barely hearing her. The pitchers of water had been brought out again, so she grabbed a glass, filling and draining it twice. After the edge was gone from her thirst, she walked to the coatroom to find her handbag, keeping the glass so she could refill it in the washroom.

The washroom was empty save for one other girl. Nelly used the toilet and set to touching up her makeup once she’d washed her hands and had another two glasses of water. Somewhere in the echoing hall outside of the washroom, a clock chimed the half hour and she remembered standing in Buster’s foyer looking at his grandfather clock. Vaguely, she wondered if every famous man in Hollywood drank as much as Buster and Barrymore and, if so, what they were trying to escape from.

She was carefully coating her lips in Vaseline to address the fine cracks that hadn’t been there three hours earlier when he came in, blundering through the door like an ox.

“Mr. Barrymore!” she said, utterly amazed to see him.

“Oh, hello. Jack, please,” he said, as if he hadn’t just walked into the women’s washroom. His cheeks were rosy with color and his gait was unsteady.

He stumbled to one of the sinks and she watched in disbelief as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. Before she had time to do much more than look away, he was urinating into the sink. She couldn’t seem to move.

“What the hell are you doing in the men’s lavatory?” he said, swaying in her peripheral vision.

Her face was hot. “Sir I’m sorry, but it’s the ladies room,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

The appalling sound of urine splashing into the sink seemed to go on for hours. “Why in the hell would they have urinals in the ladies room?” Barrymore boomed.

She didn’t like the sense she was getting, one of being around a powerful, dangerous animal. “Sir, they’re sinks.”

“I’ll be damned.” In the corner of her eye, he shuffled and ran the tap. He had finished urinating.

Her thoughts went back to their dance at Buster's party. She’d had a drowning sensation then and had considered whether she might be love-drunk. That feeling seemed very far away now. She looked over and he was picking his nose in the mirror, wiping the contents on its edge. She couldn’t believe she was seeing what she was seeing.

“We met at Buster Keaton’s party in October,” she said, because she was embarrassed and could think of nothing else to say.

“Did we,” Barrymore stated, sounding disinterested as he peered into the mirror.

“Yes,” she said. “We danced and I told you about wanting to star in a talkie of The Taming of the Shrew.”

He narrowed his eyes, as if struggling to remember it. The approaching sound of giggling and the subsequent appearance of two extras through the door saved her just then.

“Mr. Barrymore!” said one of the extras, looking bewildered.

“By Jove, this is the ladies room!” said Barrymore. He’d finished picking his nose and was propping himself up with one hand on the sink.

“He was confused,” said Nelly. “We should take him back to Mr. Taylor.” A little voice in the back of her head asked why she was bothering to defend him at all. “Come here.” She took him by the elbow and gestured to one of the other girls to do the same. He stank of booze and she thought she caught a faint whiff of urine as they led him down the hall and back through one of the sets of arched double doors. She was no longer awed by him. Rather, she wanted to dispose of him as fast as possible.

In the crowded room, Nelly located Sam Taylor by searching out Camilla’s distinctive white dress. She and the two extras led Barrymore to them. Mr. Taylor raised an eyebrow when they approached.

“I think he needs an eye kept on, sir,” Nelly said, her arm still in Barrymore’s.

“Found me in the fucking ladies room!” said Barrymore, chuckling.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Taylor. Nelly could tell he was trying not to betray his annoyance at Barrymore.

She could have stayed and offered more of an explanation, increasing the director's chances of remembering her face, but she’d had enough of playing angles and wanted to get as far away as possible from the dangerous animal that was John Barrymore. As soon as she found Bradford again, she poured out her entire tale.

“He’s a pig!” she concluded.

“Good God,” said Bradford, making a face. She wondered if he had found Barrymore as handsome as she once had and was now reconsidering.

“You’re telling me.”

“They’re building him a sort of carousel now in the courtyard for him and Miss Horn to sit on since he can’t stand straight,” Bradford said. “They’re going to film the dance that way.”

“Looks like we’ll be here all night,” said Nelly, her spirits sinking. If she had gone back in time and told the Nelly Foster of last July that the idea of spending prolonged hours in the same room as John Barrymore would cause her intense dread, she wouldn’t have believed herself for a minute.

Her prediction turned out to be true. The clock chimed one before Mr. Taylor had the footage he wanted. Nelly was surprised that the carousel hadn’t made Barrymore vomit, but although he swayed off in the direction of the washrooms several times more, he kept down whatever he had drunk.

She piled into one of the Studebakers with the girls and fell asleep for the brief duration of the ride. Back at the United Artists costume shop, she degowned, redressed, and shoved her aching feet back into her own shoes. She lined up for a streetcar with the other girls and sank wearily into a seat when it opened its doors. It was another forty-five minutes before she was home. By now the hour was two a.m. and she had to be up at five-thirty to catch a tram in time for her seven a.m shift in the prop department. She felt like Perrault’s Cinderella, but the magic had vanished before midnight and she was, all in all, relieved to be among her rags and ashes again. Notes: You can watch Tempest here. John Barrymore really did get so drunk during the ballroom scene that he couldn’t stand. “And when we were dancing together in one scene, he fell down with me on the floor because he was so drunk. So they had to build a carousel affair for us, it was a sort of criss-cross arrangement, and we put our arms around each other, looked deeply into our eyes and somebody moved the carousel around so it looked in the film as if we were lost in each other’s arms.”

-Camilla Horn quoted in Tony Villecco’s Silent Stars Speak: Interviews with Twelve Cinema Pioneers (McFarland & Company, 2001) 32. The same page also quotes Priscilla Bonner as saying that Barrymore picked his nose all the time and his face got red with blotches when he was drunk. I did read somewhere too that he once stumbled into the women’s room by accident. Fun fact: Buster’s later paramour Dorothy Sebastian was originally cast in Camilla Horn’s role! Incidentally, the book cited here also has one actress calling Buster sweet and wholesome.

#Buster Keaton #John Barrymore #fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Golden Age Hollywood #silent film #Camilla Horn

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psychedelictrashpanda · 3 years

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It’s been awhile, weird old blog with unspecified direction. How about more of me me me?

I finally did DMT again, and WOW. It’s been at least a full decade since the last time. I still didn’t quite “break through” enough to “meet the entities” again but mein GOTT was it healing. Speaking of God, we’ll get to that soon... But before smoking the dimitri, I was beginning to sustain a mania in slow motion with dissociatives again. Not to any extreme like I did with PCP long ago (btw, glancing at my Eyehategod poster, I realize that horror/metal fest when I was blasted on PCP the entire time was all the way back in 2013! It seems to much more recent, but the way these drugs interact with memory is very peculiar. or maybe it was the traumatizing effect of it and other things at the time that makes me block out and thus distort the time signature of the memory... I digress). And I don’t have the destructive tendencies I did in the past anyway, so I’ve never been apt to push it as far as I was when I was shooting up 3-meo-pcp and blacking out for days at a time. I mean, I did push it I suppose. For the main George Floyd protests I was loading up on a combination of things. Can’t even remember if that was my sober window between methadone detox and the suboxone I’m on now. But, I was combining bits of weird PCP offshoots with opiate offshoots (4-map iirc) and/or kratom with maybe a drop of benzo... straddling the line between going overboard and a “party dose” for lack of a better descriptor; between recreation and desperation. In retrospect, I was summoning the courage to act like my old self used to in these sorts of situations. That is, giving it my all, being novel about it, idk, summoning the spirit of Dr Gonzo I suppose (who, after reading his two books, was more slimey of a jerk than he’s presented in Hunter’s stories. well, I need to finish the Cockroach People book, he started getting into his attraction to underage girls as a young 20-something man himself and ugh, gross). My true wild & adventurous spirit has been hampered, weighed down with anxiety and depression and all manner of undiagnosed mental illness. Who knows if it’s more the drugs or the environmental factors that trigger drug use, but the spirit is tortured like Griffith in the torture dungeon, the heart is wrapped in a black grime guarded by the Beast of Darkness, the will is subordinated to authoritarian capitalist hegemony...

Where was I? Oh so I started suboxone for the second time in my life innnn... February I want to say. Last time I did it I was able to detox myself simply buying subs off the street, but I did it too quick. That’s been one problem, every time I detox rapidly it’s too harsh a push back into reality and I succumb to relapse less then a year into sobriety. The reason reality is harsh is the same reason my stance on anti depressants has been further cemented. I’ve articulated it better lately... Basically I believe it’s a weird solution to depression to force your chemical makeup into the right position to function properly in the same environment that caused it in the first place. “It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” One of my conversations with a young college friend really illuminated why many don’t even consider this position. She was insistent there’s no cause of depression, you’re just born with a fucked up mind. Now sure, hereditary disposition is a thing, as a drug addicted child of an addict I should know. But for example she pointed to another friend with hard depression and was like “his life seems fine what explanation could there be?” But I put forth maybe his childhood of having to closet his homosexuality in a hard conservative family that had the possibility of disowning him if they knew about it contributed to that “natural chemical imbalance,” as it’s implied. YES, some people NEED it. But for the most part, it really seems to me to be what I’m gonna call the thyroid phenomenon. That is to say, a medical explanation for a small fraction of severely affected patients is used as a broad brush by the public to diagnose themselves. Forewarning: I am not fat shaming here, forgive the example. Dietary practices are a personal thing so my feelings are stronger as well. Anyway, it seems to me as soon as this thyroid malfunction became a hard biological explanation for obesity beyond the psychological, suddenly everyone was a candidate. It’s fine to think “maybe I have it” but when a growing and significant portion of the obese crowd started screaming they all had thyroid problems and can’t help themselves, when a teensy percentage actually do... well it sort of touches on the “addiction as a disease” narrative that’s never sat well with me. Addicts use the disease reasoning to skirt personal responsibility. I'm not denying it is a disease, but I believe calling it as such in the public discourse isn’t terribly constructive. (Okay, you’re seeing an opinion change in real time here... I changed my mind.) I was vehemently against the narrative, but I need to readjust to simply make people WARY of the narrative. As an addict, I could easily see myself using the excuse of it being a disease as a fatalist function; that is to say giving in, relinquishing personal control over my fate. Hereditary disposition, Rat Park, addiction as a disease... there’s also a severe lack of control it all conjures. Paradoxically, drugs can used to meticulously control your state of mind. I can’t control my desire to control myself?

God where was I going with this... Oh! God! May as well mention I’ve been warming up more and more to the spirit of monotheism beyond it’s structural and institutional dimensions. I could get deep into my recent past of not believing in the idea of a spirit, soul, etc. How the pendulum of my ideology swings between cold rationalism and loose spirituality, especially as I go through phases of rebellion against perceived oppressors. Growing up in a red state with a lot of Christian ideals, society around me was always telling me everything I seemed to like was the work of Satan. Naturally, I started reading into Satanism. I never self identified with occult-esque belief structures, except maybe chaos magick because it’s whole idea is to merge whatever practices work into something of your own, but I did staunchly identify as anti christian. Not a hard thing to do when you’re already a metal head, which definitely fueled the trajectory. Not to mention metal helped goad me into DXM use (thanks Velvet Cacoon ya bunch of goons), the first real psychedelic journeys I had. Because I never gave real consideration to myself having depression, I moulded my personal ideology around the symptoms it causes. Which is why for awhile after coming to terms with depression as a problem I probably have, I was only able to identify it in retrospect. I never felt it in real time because it was so old-coat to me, I adapted to it like an addict adapts to their drug of choice and ti becomes their world. So I would decide to skip social events, let my room get messy, watch only old comfort shows, etc... but only AFTER emerging from that state was I able to immediately look back and think “wait... I was doing all those things because I was depressed.” In the moment, it’s rationalized as “I don’t want to see these people for these reasons” or “I want to watch spongebob because it’s fun and an old favorite.” Rationalization, the concept of the west, serves as a detriment to the individual in a number of manners. This is one. I was a MASTER at rationalizing away my drug use. Statistically, more people die from this this and that, why be worried that I’m on this drug instead? Statistics quelled the perceived danger. It was also a formative tool in my skills of justification. I always felt I had to justify every action I took, but that’s getting back into family matters...

But why not bring that up? it’s a sore spot. I feel like the tables have flipped from my dad always saying “you all just think I’m an asshole!” to me thinking I’m the asshole. It’s too much to get into but I’ll touch on a couple important things... I’ve learned a major source of my anxiety is not being able to draw the boundaries between business and family and myself, because they’re not properly defined. When I’m told by my bossfather after explaining the distress I feel simply thinking about the family company, and he goes typically all-or-nothing when I touch on crucial issue and says “if you want out just tell me you want out”, I can’t separate between whether he’s saying it as a father or as a boss in the moment. He would say, “of course I just mean the company”, but where does company end and family begin? It’s also an intense pressure, maybe shame, simply typing this and thinking in the back of my head about someone who might read and think “what a spoiled brat, has a family company and blah blah.” But who put all that in my head? He says he’s changed from the days of putting immense pressure on me with the sort of sentiments that cause that shit in my head like always telling me how great I have it and all the opportunities, shit, I’m feeling it right now, the frustration and I can’t even identify these emotions. At least I am aware of them, that’s a huge milestone for me. But the only thing that’s changed is he sees me as a the broken mother fucker I am and treats me as such. Sometimes it’s nice, and sincere sympathy, other times his frustration with having to check his language all the time is palpable so it does no good to do so. The immense pressure, the intense urgency, the confusing complexity, all those market pressures haven’t changed. This is evident when we were driving somewhere and I suggested not worrying about the fastest route on the map because one minute isn’t a big deal and he insisted that one minute IS a big deal. Sweating one fucking minute indicates a mountain of reputational pressure. In a way, that one minute is putting business ahead of family, but I feel harsh saying it because as he’s pounded into my head the business is what allows the family to survive. Not to mention why put the crack head of the family above that one minute (not literal crack, but it was obvious as soon as he saw I was “fucking around” on ketamine he decided to not take me as seriously) Still, I’ve made my decision that survival reasoning is fucking bullshit already. He’s the one that wants a mansion and wants enough mailbox money for us not to have to worry ever again, so he’s the one deliberately creating the pressure. Maybe he hasn’t considered how hardened he’s become to those feelings after a lifetime in the street and in prison. I really feel for mom. She’s okay now, but her spirit... It’s part of the reason I can’t relax myself at home. He has always painted her as dead weight in the past, never getting a job, sitting watching TV, but he’s unable to connect the dots psychologically because we’re all layman that part of the reason she’s like that is because her actions have been demonized already so who the fuck she got to prove herself to? Same reason I fell into relapse sometimes. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t sort of deal. The damned if I don’t being the reputation of yourself you have to live with after getting sober. He says “don’t worry about it” but I couldn’t accept that because the reason he doesn’t trust me (never mind respect, that’s even further away) is informed by my past. I can’t complain that he never allowed me to contribute to a crucial decision like choosing the building for the dispensary, talking about whether we want a certain investor or not, etc, is because that’s not something to entrust to a druggie. I’ve always felt he let me play make-believe CEO and gave me an allowance for it, while telling me otherwise. He’d say “this is all for you” but he’s making the decisions that truly move mountains and then putting it on us. Which is why I have a hard time saying “I want out”, he can be a baby about things just as much as I am, and I fear he’d let his entrepreneurial drive be affected by my departure. Sigh, this is already getting to be a headache to think about... He’s tired. I’m tired.

There was also something I wanted to say regarding the role social constructs play in all this, but it’s getting long enough already. Suffice to say I’ve been getting into psychoanalysis lately and it’s scratching the right itch for knowledge and wisdom. I can see why Zizek is enamored with Lacan, and why it’s so important to mix it with Marxism. And not to toot my own horn, but what the hell... There are a lot of lofty ideas I’ve been coming across that are already parallel to ideas I’ve developed through my own life experience, and it makes me think I’m meant for this sort of stuff. If I’m lucky in my pursuits (not to put too much weight on the luck aspect), I’ll be a journalist of some sort. Articles, video essays, whatever. Need to rein in my indecisiveness and dispel FOMO tho.

Back to DMT. But not really. Earlier in the summer I got some straight Ketamine and it was also immensely healing. But it has a great abuse potential, especially for me, so it’s harder to “hang up the phone” after I get the message as TmK would say. It made me feel again, and start to understand what love is. Partly because it conjured all these lost feels I had for Kat. She’s great people though, I think I’d just stress her out too much. Idk. Whatever. My love life is a total mess. Anyway after I ran out I wanted more of course and stumbled on some DCK, a somewhat rare ketamine offshoot. Coupled with my increasing propensity to trip acid more than once a week, they started building on each other. I was happier and happier at home, but at work/fam was getting more and more distressed about my place in that whole show. In his show. Simply thinking about the company, especially after having read that article about procrastination and how much it resonated with me, caused me unnecessary levels of distress. Normally as quickly as I can feel that, my mind will tuck it away and bottle it up somewhere so I can go about my day. The problem with drugs is they cause you to act instead. So he was doing the usual “it’s so easy! you’ll have it made!” and I interrupted with this torrent of shit I’ve been holding back forever, and he would not yield on his “you didn’t let me finish...” Incidentally, has he really never picked up on every time I interrupt I already know what he’s talking about? I said as much, something like “it’s not the labor” and he keeps saying “no you’re not listening” as though a frivolous detail changed the main thrust of the fact he’s always trying to make it easier for me. I wish he could simply let me go off and have the strength to take it a little less seriously, but considering how often I take things personally I shouldn’t be surprised he does to. On top of this, his brother/my uncle was in the hospital for some serious shit. But another reason I picked this time is because I only feel safe even confronting him when non-involved parties are around. He doesn’t care that I don’t feel safe confronting him though, he says “don’t worry about me” so maybe I shouldn’t. I feel like such an asshole about it, but that feeling is conjured by the ideological structure he helped to create. Where does my shame end with him being the causation and start with my personal ideology? How much can a person create their own ideology, truly? It’s about as small a window as free will, I imagine.

SO after feeling awful for going off after having all this stuff build up in my mind, I felt awful and went home to drug up some more. Again, not recklessly to the extent I used to be. But I did a fat line of DCK while on a couple hits of LSD and a smidgen of Zolpidem (a wholly underrated substance). Everything was getting to me all at once. A perfect storm of my problems. All the while another doubt caused by ideology from without (society and family both) was making me think it’s all the drugs. But the developments I’ve made are huge strides, I’ve matured so much from it all. And I realized every time I do this, those developments are wiped clean because the validity of them is rendered null due to both the general social stigma of drugs and my history with them. And maybe that’s a major trigger fo rmy relapse in the past. I’m not suppose to be on drugs, but I dabble, have incredible experiences and make strides of maturity, but because it’s drugs the exact opposite effect is percieved from the outside; the experiences are simple chemical euphoria, the strides of maturity are false delusions. It triggers a sharp roll back down hill. I wish someone respected me for who I am, I feel so alone sometimes.

Drugs as an umbrella term, drugs as a vice for the worst dregs of society. There are so many problems in our world regarding drugs. I could write a book. But how much I’ve written here touches on another pressure I feel. IS it simply him again? When he asks “you’re gonna be gone in a few days right?” is that what’s making me feel like this is a waste of time? I’ve got to get out of here. It’s so hard though. I simply have to be strong. The strength is in me to take the massive cut to pay and benefits when I move. Maybe I’ll get a portion of my strugglers card back and shit heads like Blasey Shomas can’t simply say “why don’t you take care of yourself instead of daddy taking are of you?” anymore. Part of me wants to say he says that because he’s driven by his own emotions and not smart enough to directly debate my claims, his insults should hold no weight. Another part of me is truly trying to be... I don’t know a proper term for it without sounding egotistical, but “enlightened”? This is why monotheism is sounding more interesting to me. Jesus’ position about those dregs of society. I’ve always tried to be a trusting person, understanding of people’s struggles, the ideologies they function under that make them lash out or otherwise act the way they do, etc. I even changed my wording there from “I’ve always been” to “I’ve always tried to be.” Not so much for my usual reasons of dodging a committing claim (which I’m working on -- instead of “I think ___” just say what I believe to give the claim more sense of authority so as to be taken more seriously), but trying to be more humble. And not to think lowly and use myself as a punching bag like I used to... ugh, whatever. This post is messy enough.

So that night after having done DCK every day for a couple weeks and tripping every other night on acid, I was at my wits end on what to do, where to go next, everything. The outside world is crumbling, the inside world is lost. I finally whipped out that DMT I’ve had for a long while, something inside told me it was time. Oh duh it was the wits end part, I had no other chemical recourse. I sat in my bed with a foil sculpture loosely resembling a pipe, repeated to myself “it’s okay, just let it happen to you, it will be okay.” A part of me even had a small fear based on those rare reports of those interdimensional beings mentally raping some people, but I don’t know what to make of those experiences, seem like flukes. I took my three deep hits and set the pipe aside as soon as the rusb began and laid back. It wasn’t enough to break through, so I need to get a proper pipe, but it was enough for a “being” (which I am convinced is a part of your mind, not from another dimension or otherwise external source) to appear before me. At least I think. Whatever it was slowly came closer, reassuring me that I’d be okay. The most profound part was an overwhelming sense of all these puzzle pieces suddenly falling perfectly into place where they should be. As though the answers to all my struggles obvious and within me the whole time. For example as soon as I came back I adjusted my posture, as that’s something that I’ve been wanting to work on, and because I was reminded of that just now I adjusted my posture in my seat while writing this. I felt an overwhelming sense of forgiveness toward myself, I think. Amazingly, the inebriation I felt before the trip was largely dissolved, as though the stuff I was on somehow all lost it’s potency. The distresses melted away. At least, the power behind them was nulled. I’m still facing the same problems, but there’s a zen(?) quality to my thinking when they come up in my mind. No longer will a pin drop trigger everything I’m feeling all at once. When I came-to completely, I started BAWLING. In being overwhelmingly consoled by the trip, I became inconsolable. Tears of joy. Tears of healing. And that was the main takeaway. The loudest words of the experience were “Now the healing can truly begin.” At the same time, now the real work also begins.

Balance is key

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