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Monday, 10 August 2009 (meandering phrasing) 11:23am Ugh. I've never experienced it before, but maybe really vivid nightmares are a common side effect of the first night's sleep after coming down from Ecstasy. If so, then I've paid my dues, because I had an especially gnarly one this morning. It was so unnerving that it took a while to shake it when I woke up—I turned on the lights, walked around the house, looked outside, did everything I could to ensure that, yeah, I was safe in the waking world. Having Perdita next to me helped, too. Even though Marta told me over chat this morning that she had a nightmare, I'm inclined to believe it was a coincidence all around. It's not like either of us are strangers to nightmares. We attended a gallery opening at Femina Potens on Saturday night, then returned to the Black Light District to take the E at about a quarter past nine. It was four hits, each in powder form and meticulously wrapped (by someone who grew up doing hospital corners, by the looks of it) in bits of toiler paper. We arranged two of the hits into lines on a mirror for snorting purposes. There were plenty of other flat objects we could have used, but when you're doing something as decadent as snorting a drug, damnit, you've gotta go all the way and do it off a mirror. Granted, we fell short of the ultimate cliche and used a straw rather than a rolled hundred-dollar bill. Neither of us had a hundred dollar bill handy, and while we could have used a smaller demonination, we decided to just stick with the straw. The same as before: straw in nose, head down, inhale through nose while running along the length of the powder, sparkly fire up the nostril, only this time on a mirror so I was looking into my own blacklit eyes. Snorting powder is not a strictly pleasant experience in and of itself, but, really, neither is smoking or shooting up (which I've never done, at least not with illegal drugs). But that particular action isn't the point of it, either, and I'd imagine that your average cokehead or junkie craves the feel of the powder burning its way up the sinuses, or the needle sticking into the vein. It took me a long time to wrap my brain around that latter. I've never really been afraid of needles, and I'm the first in line when the flu shot becomes available, but it still amazes me how it can be part of a recreational activity. Just goes to show how little I know about the effect of IV drugs, and I don't intend to ever find out. In any event, when we took our second hits later in the evening, Marta chose to forgo the burny sinueses (not to mention the vaguely icky feeling when gravity leads the powder back down to your throat) and just swallow it. For some reason I expected it to come on fairly quickly, and I found myself somewhat distracted and disappointed when it didn't, worried that it was a dead batch, or that the effects would be so subtle as to be inperceptible. And if so it would be okay because I was here with Marta and all was well, but...darnit, I do this sort of thing so infrequently (aside from the occasional puff off a joint every few months, I haven't done any drugs since June of last year, and having someone to do E with is a particularly special occasion since I absolutely will not do it by myself or in a situation where I can't get intimate with someone, even if it's just deep hugging or merely holding our arms together. And having that someone be someone I love makes it all the more powerful, and the upstairs neighbors with their big loud dog still aren't back and this is just so perfect a time to do it and and and... ...and it kicked in nice and hard after about an hour. We'd been making out on the couch, and when it hit, I mostly wanted to talk. While still being physical, of course, and though we're a hyper-cuddly couple to begin with, we seldom detached for the rest of the evening, feeding that chemically enhanced aura of neediness. At the pattern party Ennui had referred to Ecstasy as "truth serum," and said that I exhibited textbook E behavior. Sure, okay, and I don't really see how it's a bad thing. I think Marta got a little embarrassed by my squishy talk (how happy I am to be with her, how lucky I feel, how I don't take her for granted, and that I'm especially glad I please her) and wasn't really able to reciprocate in kind, and I took it on faith that she was feeling the same way. Indeed, she'd told me as much on more than occasion while we were sober, and not everyone follows the E textbook the way I do. Perdita acted a little strange when the E kicked in, but then again, cats always seem to act strange from the perspective of a drug-addled human. They're always fun to pet, especially a longhair like Perdita, who's basically a huge ball of fuzz to begin with. She didn't stay close to us very long, going away when Marta and I got intimate, as is her wont. Intimate at that point didn't exactly involve sex, but we were still sweating and the pheremones were flying, which I'm pretty sure is her cue to leave. Probably for the best. We'd been listening to SomaFM's Drone Zone when I realized my teeth were chattering, so I put Coil's "Are You Shivering?" on repeat, since it's about that very phenomenon, the shivering caused by MDMA. Eventually I switched to their album Musick to Play in the Dark Vol. 2, perfect for our environment and one of my most favoritest albums ever regardless of the circumstances. I didn't give much thought to the fact that it was pushing two in the morning and that I should probably keep the volume down, and I'm glad it didn't cross my mind. Marta doesn't like nitrous, so there were no nitrous kisses. A shame, and at the same time no great loss. We were mostly naked—so much the better for our enhanced flesh to be connecting—though I did put on couple different chemises I have hanging in my closet, bits of lingerie I haven't worn on any kind of a regular basis since I stopped going to The Power Exchange. Besides, I'd never really tarted up for Marta, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity. I'd made a point of vacuuming the carpet and washing the sheets that day, which came in handy considering how much time we spent on the floor, and also when we finally crashed. It was pushing three in the morning, and slept came fairly quickly. Though my body hadn't quite been up for sex while we were rolling, there was still enough E in my system when we awoke later that morning to make the sex especially sparky. We would have at each other, go to sleep, wake up again and have at each other some more, wash rinse repeat. It's a fairly common pattern with us, actually, but this time we kept at it until four on Sunday afternoon. That part was new for us, even for not having gotten to bed until three. It's the first time I can remember being in bed for thirteen hours when I wasn't ill. We were out of the house by five—hello, world!—and wound up at Los Jarritos for dinner. Deciding to continue to sex-and-drugs (or, chronologically, drugs-and-sex) decadence of the past twenty-four hours, I decided to order my old favorite: huevos rancheros. With cheese and eggs, even. Decadence! Except it just wasn't as good as it once was. All decadent and stuff, I suppose, with the cholestrol and animal products and stuff, but it felt heavy and wasn't nearly as satisfying as it had once been, nor was it as yummy and pleasing as the Ensalada de Nopales (cactus salad) Marta ordered. Now I know. | ||
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Sunday, 9 August 2009 (use of tonal harmonies) 4:21pm Finally getting up and going out into the world. In our defense, we only got into bed thirteen hours ago. | ||
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Saturday, 8 August 2009 (unsyncopated ensemble rhythms) 2:08pm Haven't heard back about the job other than the standard automated "Don't call us, we'll call you" email response, but I don't really expect to until next week. There's progress on the book, however. The intern at Seven Stories who requested the manuscript last month has deep love for it. She's going through it with a pen, and when she's done she'll send it back to me so I can make the edits (mostly typos and little things, she says) and re-submit it next month, this time to a specific editor who specializes in LGBT stuff. The editor in question is on vacation until September, but the intern will tell them all about me and the manuscript when they return. Nothing's guaranteed (about anything ever), but I've got a good feeling about it. | ||
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Friday, 7 August 2009 (a highly synthetic sonority) 10:25am The cover letter and resume have been sent off. Now, there's dirt that needs digging. | ||
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Thursday, 6 August 2009 (downtempo influences) 9:40pm After the meeting yesterday, I went to the gym (I've fallen off that wagon and I'm not happy about it), then met up with Marta and returned back home. She made dinner, we watched Spaced, and before long we went to bed. I'd had an appointment with Raphaela this morning, but I had to cancel it because—gods, this is so lame—I've developed an ingrown toenail. Pinky toe of my right foot. It's nothing major, not like the ingrown nails I used to get in my big toes (resulting in both of my big toenails having been removed over the years), but enough to keep me grounded. I've been soaking it in warm water as as recommended, and hopefully it'll heal and I won't have to call Lyon-Martin. If there's one thing I miss about Kaiser, it was their Urgent Care section—bam, same day, in and out. Anyway, yeah, I canceled on Raphaela. I feel kinda guilty about that, but on the other hand, money's getting increasingly tight as the lifecycle of certain bills has timed out that they're all descending upon me at once, so the less cash I put out, the better. Poverty sucks. I hope I get this job, I really do. sometime after midnight Well, there it is: the first two pages of Landing on Water. Only 200ish more to go. | ||
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Wednesday, 5 August 2009 (chordal patterning) 10:41am I have a meeting with one of the Employment Specialist types at the LGBT Center today to help me go over my cover letter and resume for a certain job I'm pursuing. I have a better shot at this position than any of the others so far, I think. | ||
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Tuesday, 4 August 2009 (excessive vamping) 9:51am It was inevitable that I would absent-mindedly close the window behind me and lock myself in the backyard, and now it's happened. I had my iPhone on me—it's always in my back pocket when I'm outside, both for this very reason and because I'm codependent—so I was finally able to get help. It was tricky since I was unable to get an actual cell signal so I couldn't call or text anyone, but I'd been chatting with Marta on my laptop over Gmail before I went outside, and I was able to continue chatting with her over the Google Talk app. Living in the future has its advantages, to say the least. Anyway, she was able to text my upstairs neighbor (the upstairs subletter, to be precise), and right about the time she did that, I managed to get reception and call my landlord's wife, who came right over and rescued me. Makes me glad I've been keeping the apartment clean lately, because you just never know. Anyway, it's happened once, and it won't happen again. 3:22pm At the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art with Marta and her boyfriend. Since the first Tuesday of the month is free, we're far from alone. 9:07pm Oh, man. This VHS box used to freak me out something fierce at the original Video Zone in Clovis. It's still pretty ooky, and I don't intend to watch the movie anytime soon. | ||
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Monday, 3 August 2009 (the food chain at risk) 12:18pm Another week—or, rather, another month—and another job lead. This one has a bit more potential than the last, I think, and I'm certainly more qualified. 10:43pm Another publisher rejected the book. There are still two publishers currently considering it, and if they say no (which is statistically likely), I'll just keep trying. On the plus side, my Victory Garden tomatoes are starting to ripen. I dug more dirt today, got some bamboo sticks and twist ties to hold up the tomato plants, as well as another lettuce plant, this one for a container. I'm feeling more confident with working in containers than in the actual ground, and that'll probably only increase in a few weeks when the neighbors and their large dog return. That's going to change everything, and not for the better, either. | ||
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Sunday, 2 August 2009 (pain and desire and pain) 1:43pm I picked up Marta when I got back into town last night. We went back to my place to make dinner and watch Crash (irony!), and now we're at The Sea Biscuit with Marta. I'm almost managing to be productive in spite of the glare from the fog and the Labyrinth blaring from the teevee. 11:12pm After a few hours, we decided to return to the Black Light District, where at least we'd have a bit more control over our environment (not to mention wifi). And while I don't doubt that we will be productive here in the future, instead we napped. (I don't know what's gonna happen when I return to work and napping is no longer an option.) We were back up in time to head to The Dark Room so I could set up Bad Movie Night, though Marta wisely opted out and went home before the show started. Considering the movie was Over the Top with Sylvester Stallone, I can hardly blame her. Kinda wish I could have. On the plus side, it was a packed house with a ton of newbies, and they had a great time. Afterward, a few of them told it felt like "Mystery Science Theater 3000 Live," which is the highest praise possible. | ||
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Saturday, 1 August 2009 (twenty minutes longer) 9:31am On the plus side, getting a brand-new key for Phoebe from a Saturn dealership will only be about ten bucks. On the negative side, the closest Saturn dealership is in Concord, forty miles away. I miss Saturn of Colma so much. 12:40pm Unscheduled detour to Treasure Island. As I started crossing the Bay Bridge, I started to feel...anxious, for want of a better word. My dreams have been especially unpleasant lately, darker than usual, and my death is a recurring theme. I began to realize how easy it would be die on the freeway—just a sharp turn to the left or right, and bam, fiery automotive death. Which is somehting I'm usually conscious of but not especailly word about, but this time, I grew afraid that I would be gripped by an irresistable urge to swerve. So, I decided to pull off onto Treasure Island and get out of the car for a little while. It's a plesant day, the view of the Bay is beautiful and there's a refreshing wind coming in from off the water. Plus, there's a food kiosky thing that sells sushi. So, I'll just relax until I get my head back together, until I can be reasonably sure that I can drive without trying to kill myself. I am so not ready to die, or, worse, be crippled and disfigured in a horrifying, painful accident. Yeah, no thanks. 3:11pm I made it safely to Saturn of Concord, and new keys have been made. Since I was there and Phoebe's due for a checkup anyway, I had her looked at. Seems she needs work on...something to do with her hydraulics and passenger side brakes or something. In any event, it'll cost a few hundred dollars more. So it goes. | ||
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