Flowers are red, young man. "A" is to "B" as "B" is to "C." Unless it isn't. There's no need to see genetics any other way than the way they always have been seen.

Month: May 2017

My hearts on fire

I was just talking about shroooming with an old friend a million years and a million miles ago. Here’s one of the tracks off of that Redemption album:

I ran into him on 18th street in San Francisco this morning and gave him a gigantic bear hug.
I’m so happy I could cry, that made my morning.
I stopped for an early meeting on the way home. 
I was hoping nobody would know me, but I looked around the room and quickly realized that I’d already been passed around this group like the Seventh Tradition.
The first person is supposed to pick a topic.
Instead he rambled on and on.
A few shares later someone said they’d forgotten what the topic was.
I said “Mark” under my breath.
I heard a few familiar old chuckles.
Ahhhh admit it, you’re as happy to see me as I am you.

Not Tripping

“I have a policy against talking to guys in their first year of sobriety.”


Well, I have a policy against talking to cockhungry fisting bottoms from WeHo, or guys in their “anything of anything” if that means they’re “in the program” .. and YET here we are.


I blew up in my last session because we’ve taken four weeks to go over a chapter and it’s a non-TSF curriculum that the “facilitator” brought back to pithy NA platitudes and cliches about praying and turning it over to your higher power.
I was like “where does it say anything about that in this chapter?” and I asked her if she was actually qualified to conduct these sessions or if she was just a 12-step plant, because I can go hear this shit at NA for free. 
In fact, I have been hearing this shit at NA for the last 10 years and here I am.
She emailed my therapist and said she thinks I’m loaded.
I snorted and said “See? I told you she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well the others are, clinicians and therapists and stuff. She’s a junkie spouting NA drivel.”
His eyes bugged out.
I was like, “y’all can have my piss, my hair, my blood, my breath, my fingernails, whatever.”
“No, that’s okay, I believe you.”
I told him exactly what I’d said in group.
“Oh, she didn’t say any of that in her e-mail.”
“Meh. She probably can’t spell platitudes.”

I like to go to San Francisco, I like to go … with my legs in the air!

I guess I’m the snake charmer or something. Another one fell asleep on my chest.
I looked around the room. 
It was cluttered and full of artwork and happy, healthy looking plants.
This one’s the real deal, you know, one of those old school queens with the fierce spiritual and artistic legacy and whatnot.
How delightfully anachronistic. 
Very San Francisco.
I felt like I’d stepped into a time capsule.
He twitched and spasmed as he slept.
I frowned and wondered what happened to this one.
I can’t fall asleep with strangers. 
I didn’t mind. His taste in music was dope as fuck.
I laid there listening for awhile, trying not to dance in his bed.
I had a flashback of listening to the Redemption album on mushrooms with Basil, watching the silver foil highlights in the wallpaper dancing while we tripped.

There was a time and a place (back in the covered wagon days) in San Francisco when we ordered all our drugs from the Sears catalogue and then went to the End Up for three days straight … then you’d be invited to an after after after-hours orgy in a closed furniture store after its business hours or something.

I couldn’t help myself.

I started tapping my foot. I snapped a finger.

I was like, “Fuck yeah. Dope!”
I wanted to just get up and go dancing right then and there.
Wait. What the fuck are we listening to, anyway?

“I’ve got to make sure I didn’t put [the baby] in the oven with the pizza.”
I cracked up laughing and woke him up.
I got dressed and on my way out I kissed him on his forehead and told him that he was my favorite trick ALL day.

He laughed.

Nobody normally misses me when I’m gone.

My new drug of choice is some boy in group.
He’ll lean in and I’ll lean in and I could just go to sleep like that in my chair and that’d be okay with me.
He complimented my eyes on Tuesday.
I turned red and ran away.
Today he wanted to know if I was any better at taking a compliment or if I was going to run away again.
I dunno. Try me. Probably?
I was feeling less bashful today when I shared that I was overwhelmed with intense emotions and I didn’t know any other way to cope with them other than to crave the steering wheel and the radio and the open highway as if it were a bag of dope.
He lit up and got a glint in his eye at that.
I think a couple people understood that one actually.
But oh man, if that’s your idea of a good time? That’s kinda fucking hot.
Whatever at least I’m not fiending for dope to bury all these intense and unpleasant emotions, fuck it, where are my keys?
I’m going back to Seattle as soon as this stupid fucking group is over.
“I got a war in my mind so I’ll just ride.”
I suspect these two facilitators hate me and probably can’t wait until I relapse.
It’s gotta suck to have me on your caseload.
Anyway it’s mutual. Eh bien, continuons.
Before I had a chance to bolt out the door he asked me if liked whatever this was about.
He dropped something in my hand and asked me promise to return to group and give it back to him.
I grinned.
Ok, I’ll miss him a little too.
Uh, I meant to say, “Maybe. Fuckers.”
*Tries to mean mug you all and look hard*

All or Nothing

I’d heard the backstory about the founder.

She had behavioral problems and she’d been kicked out of every group in town.

So she went off and founded this place. It helps thousands of people every month.

I knew it was her when I saw her.

She had a couple stacks of paper for a staff training exercise.

She started to explain it, and I said “these are hexidecimal color codes.”

She lit up.

Each piece of paper was broken up into a grid representing a master code with the hex codes for all 256 shades of grey. In HTML and graphics, colors are represented by a hex code , with #00 00 00 being black at one end and #FF FF FF being white at the other end.

The other stacks of paper contained variations of greys in the 16K color range. (The color range can actually extend into the millions. On older computers/graphics processing hardware, they’d pruned that down to about 256 colors on your screen… over time that became 32,000 colors, then 64,000 colors and so on and so on and so on .. my Mac can display millions of colors with four or five scaled resolution options.)

What’s the point of the exercise?

Survivors of abuse and trauma are prone to “black and white” thinking, that is to say, “I like you right up until the point that you do or say something that I don’t like.”

And then it isn’t “I’m upset about this thing you said.”

It’s “I don’t like you anymore.”


I watched this sweet old lady describe the exercise.

She’s adorable.

I tried to imagine some hateful support group deciding that she was garbage and should be thrown away.

I just loved how she basically said “fuck you” and created all of this.

Kamikaze, eh?

We were on Facetime and I was telling him about some of the volunteer work I do, I was talking about how some of the folks who come in are court-ordered, and they’re all mad about it and bitching that it’s a bunch of bullshit and they got played, and blah blah blah and I ask them if they’d rather grab a broom and sweep the 101 or, you know, you can always tell the judge fuck off I’d rather be in jail — right?

I talked about how the “probationers” might not be addicts but they probably have other stuff going on. Legal problems, living in rough neighborhoods, just living the life… and how I was sitting there with a couple of them just kicking it and talking about life. We were cutting up small pieces of paper for a staff training exercise and they were actually enjoying what they were doing so much that I pretended that I didn’t know that there was a paper slicer that could have cut all of this paper in about two minutes flat.

I guess after I told him a couple stories about what I was up to lately, he was finally comfortable enough to tell me that he was extremely suicidal the night that I’d met him and that I looked “scary” and that he was just hoping I’d come over and kill him.

“But no, you were really sweet and smart and cool and-”

I just stared at my phone in disbelief.

I guess… that says a lot… about your needs versus my needs…

The night we met, the one he said he was hoping I’d come kill him— we were cuddling but I was apprehensive and my PTSD went off. I kept feeling like someone else lived there and might show up unannounced.
Then I saw the pipe on his dresser.
He protested it wasn’t his.
I was like, “ you said you live alone, byeeeee.”
And that’s the morning I found myself walking across Times Square at 4am; commenting something like “sometimes you have a choice about how to spend or end your night.”