“I’m a flea-bit peanut monkey, and all my friends are junkies.”
– “MonkeyMan, Rolling Stones
Hey, True Believer,
Hope that everyone’s week went fabulously. Mine had an interesting twist, another lesson, this one about how Frosty the Snowman can only live in the cold, preferably the North Pole. Well, it’s because if he hangs out in Freeport, he can’t find any heroin or suboxone to battle the ickys that inevitably happen when such a creature leaves the comfort of the death zone.
Let me get a little less poetic about it.
So many things, so many situations seem to be conditional, very transient. There were a lot of people that I hung out with in prison, or on the streets or in the woods and they were great friends in those particular situations. An error that I’ve made before and have made yet again is the false belief fueled and fooled by a desire that people who were my friends in the wilderness could still be my friends when taken out of their original context. I let one of my junkie peeps come and hang out for a second.
What happened, well, the normal horror show, or rather, a show that would have been normal back when I was living in the ghetto in East Bayside, where it was all relative to what was happening outside of the window. My friend lived for me for a while back then, and…
All I can describe it as is some sick code of the street, where you don’t question what someone else is on, and they don’t question what you’re on, at least if you aren’t sharing the same addictions. I mean, I’ve written extensively about junkies, lived with junkies to the point of having no spoons back at the Vatikan that weren’t either burnt or bent or both. But I don’t want my spoons fucked with anymore. And more than that, rather, more that was in my consiousness concerning this fellow previously, but one that’s only to obvious to the outsider, the death factor.
And I understand that y’all think that it was absolutely insane to allow him into my space in the first place; I’d suffered that common delusion carried by loved ones of the diseased that I could save him, or at least provide him with a safe space. Of course what I provided him with was a safe injection site. Without the every-fifteen minute checks.
For the longest time this guy had used his lack of insurance as the reason he was back on heroin, but, it’s been three weeks now since his mother offered to pay out of pocket if he could hook up with a suboxone doctor. And he hasn’t. It’s as though, not only is he addicted to the drug, but to the lifestyle as well.
Of course, I’ve been communicating him via messaging etc, and he really doesn’t quite get it yet, and when he does, it probably won’t mean much to him. He’s deep in the muck. Unfortunately, (and I only realized this when he got here) the two times I’ve actually seen this guy straight were following a bid in county jail, from which he wrote the most beautiful spiritual letters. Alas, when the holy man gains enlightenment on the mountain, and returns to the village to change the world, who do you think wins, the holy man or the village?
The village, bro. The street always wins.
In conclusion, if you’re a drunk, before you go to AA, or while or after or if you don’t go at all, just get your doctor to prescribe you Naltrexone. It works and you can still resent whoever you want.
Secondly, Ibogaine. Legal in Mexico and Canada and everywhere else as a treatment for opiate addiction, but not here. Why? It’s a one-shot treatment, whereas suboxone and methadone, hell, you’re gonna be on that shit forever; that’s good business!
If they could make a buck off of curing opiate addiction they’d do it.
Wouldn’t they?
Scope out this viddy about the iboga experience, love your children, and your dog (and their cats) and yourself, and be well.
For the revolution.
Love and rockets,
Rage
Rage World 