yes, it's a syringe chandalier

Free luck

I stole these luck instructions from Keri Smith, whose smart, funny blog I just stumbled across. I think junkies need more luck than most people. In fact, that's usually how we survive. We're friends with luck. And if you're not, it's time to introduce yourself.

On hold

Blue skies outside my window, my dealer is 45 minutes late. From the moment I call him I'm watching the clock, counting down as the sticky numbers hold on to every second. Paralysed, my work sits in folders, in a waiting pile. Soon my mind will be smooth enough to take a thought. Now it's staccato-thinking only. Cleaning needles and getting fresh water is hard enough. It builds until the tourniquet tightens and peaks, then the pull back and blossom of blood takes care of everything. Everything.

Brat cat

I hate to be all kitteny. I'm not that kind of girl, really. It's just that I adopted this little fleabag last weekend and he's been on my mind (and keyboard) a lot. Typical kitten, dead cute, falling off everything, tearing around like a maniac... BUT the little brat won't snuggle. Well, he will if I'm eating something, but other than that he doesn't even like to sleep in bed with me, he prefers the wooden floor. He uses too much saliva to clean himself so he's always wet and sticky, and he likes to play in his litter box, so sometimes he'll have a stray poop hanging off him. As a mother I'm prepared to overlook all that, but he has to stop holding out on the snuggles. I need a mini straight jacket or something.

Monotonotonous

Last night. Tonight. Tomorrow night. I know without a doubt. Rush home, fling door open. Find vein. Fall back. Snuggle kitten. Doze in and out with the laptop or a newspaper or TV program in front of me. Wake up at 11pm when the late (and lame) news is on. Missed anything good that might have been on TV. Didn't do all my extra work. Didn't do the dishes. Didn't do my taxes... STILL. My high is long gone. Slept away. Feel mad at myself. Curse drugs. Feel broke. Repeat.

MY LAST MEAL

Banana milkshake
Warm bread and butter
Onion soup with cheese on top
Crunchy baked potatoes with sour cream
Salad just like my mother makes, with her homemade salad dressing
Pumpkin pie and whipped cream
1/2 a gram of heroin

Most prisoners on death seem to choose fried chicken, fries and soda.
Although some choices can be quite astonishing.

Other last meals

What would you have, if you got to choose?

Whoosh

Lethal injection? Steam roller? Drowning in the bath? Falling from your balcony? Spontaneous combustion? Heroin overdose? Heart attack in your sleep? Interrupting a burglary? Giving birth? There are many ways to die, and you can only do it once. It's your final experience. The widest your eyes are ever going to open. It's probably going to be amazing, and you won't even be able to tell anyone about it. Me, I know how I want to die. I don't have any doubt. Even as a kid I had pictures of Atlantis on my bedroom walls, the city folk staring upwards at the waves 50 storeys high about to cover them up for ever. In the bible, the bit I liked was the red sea crossing, the wall of sea, being able to see the creatures as if you're strolling through an aquarium while the sea closes in furiously behind you. It's not that I want to die, I just want to experience that moment, the stillness, the rush of water, pure and clean. Looking up at the most powerful, beautiful wave curled and frothy, just about to break.

Twinny

Yep, Siamese twins have always fascinated me. The first two, Chang and Eng were born in the early 1800's and actually were from Siam... They married two American sisters and shared one giant bed. Between them they had about 21 children. The logistics of this has always intrigued me. But, they were joined at the chest, so I guess the wives just took turns. Later in their marriage they needed two houses, when the wives stopped getting along. They supported their families by travelling in freak-shows. They lived into their 70's, when one woke to find the other dead of old age. Obviously he freaked out, and didn't last long after that.

Can't breathe

Just got the phone call. "I've got $100." Heart racing. Still work to do at the office. I have a coupon for a cab. It's not even 6.30pm. Drugs drugs drugs. I was going to work al night. Work at home. Okay

I'm back

The weekend was hell. I thought I had enough for it, $500. I should have known better. That was gone in two days. I'm such a fucking idiot. The third day was very painful, that was Easter. I cried a lot. TV was harsh, everything bright and big and emotional. Rapes and murders. My dad rang me, I spoke to my little brother on the phone. I was sobbing then, trying to get the words out, pretending I wasn't. We weren't even talking about anything special, it was just the distance between us. The years, the countries, the realities. Dad was asking when I'd buy a house, I couldn't tell him I had 62 cents and am drowning in bills. I have to start living for me. Being real. Wake up. Face the sadness and walk through it. Ignore why I'm depressed. Try to forget my dead friends. And most of all, forget the cure.

Easter! Easter!

My teeth hurt just thinking about the chocolate to come. The cash came through, my bank account is plump. The weekend will be a dreamy blur. Already I have chocolate melted all over my fingers. An aching mouth. My ass is sore from my office chair. Too much work to get up. Lick teeth, wriggle ass, lick, wriggle. Fuck this. I'm going home. Happy easter you.

The snow has gone

Cloud memories

Clouds, streaming past flashes of sun. Whispery and whispy. So light they could just fall from the sky and wrap around your shoulders. My bed used to feel like that, high on a mezzanine, a sky-light throwing sun at me, paper-white sheets. My lover's cowboy boots one-two, beside the bed. His body, just so, positioned. Skinny and white, concave chest, dark, smart-looking beard, eyes that could look right through you. He tried to break up with me on a Thursday night. I felt stone-cold. Mad and sad and desperate. But I didn't flinch, because I could never give him control. "What do you think?" He asked me, dubiously. "I think I like this song." His neck and shoulders relaxed, he let go of my hands and lit a cigarette, "It's one of my favourites." "Oh, what's it called?" I asked, trying to drag out the part before I had to walk home, alone. In flash he said, "lets stay together." My jaw dropped, "...really?" "Yes. Have you heard of it?" At the same moment we realized that we were talking about different things. His song name was my second chance. Laughing I tried to convince him that it was a sign. And after a bit of compromise, I got my way.

"If you are going through hell, keep going."

Winston Churchill

Under the bedcovers

He woke me up again last night, tears streaming down his face. I snuggled up to him, kissing the sweet spots on his neck and cheeks navigating around the bristles. I pushed my thigh between his. Arms around him, trying to stay awake as he mumbled details about his dream. Then, this morning I awoke to him caressing his own body and moaning. He makes me laugh. Sometimes he even sings in his sleep. I have woken crying twice in the past week, trapped in nightmares that won't let me out. A scary breathless feeling. Suffocating, drowning. I once had a lover who would sleep-fuck. Yes, truly. It was fun to wake up to his gentle, erect nudges. His eyes open but blind with sleep. He'd wake up and furiously deny it, but my dirty sheets were proof.

Me, Tui

My pregnant mother lay in a string hammock tied in our lush back yard. She swung it back and forth with one foot. Both hands on her warm round stomach. Singing to her little baby inside. Me. Tuis hung heavily on flowers, bowing their stems, suckling nectar. They sang too. They flapped their wings, like the washing on the line. That's when the Tui wasn't so rare. Our cat has brought home too many broken winged and bloodied, breast thumping with fear. I sometimes think that when I die, I'll fly up into the trees and live among the blossoms.

Lah-de-dah

It's the weekend, it's so close I can practically taste it, yum. I'm going to walk home so fast I'm almost running. Call my boyfriend from a payphone five blocks from my house. He'll call the dealer. I'll get out $100, enough for the evening. The dealer and I will meet in a dirty parking lot, he usually takes five minutes. I hate it when he's longer, just yesterday I had to wait fifteen minutes and in that time two men asked me how much I charge. I'm not a fucking prostitute. I try my hardest to look busy, but it's obvious I'm waiting for someone in my tan heels and tan trenchcoat. Have a good weekend everyone. Or as they say here, "bon weekend." They say bon/good everything. Have a good movie, a good lunch, a good blah... Anyway, where the hell is Yoshi?

Art vs. concrete

Street art is not vandalism. I think this mindset is something the future will change. I hope. The streets should be a gallery, rich with colour and smart ideas. Yes, it disrupts the grey uniformity of concrete. Isn't that a good thing? The government should design street signs to be aesthetically pleasing, and telephone booths, and everything that creates the urban landscape. There should be stricter building regulations based on appearance. I'm sure everyone would be happier.
Banksy makes clever & cunning art in London, if you haven't heard of him, take a look at his website.

Banksy

Lucky

Do you believe in it? Luck, I mean. I have a mangy rabbit's foot on my key ring, I hold it tight in sweaty hand, stroking it with my thumb. It's comforting more than anything. I found it in a thrift store, so its life began again. It's probably twenty years old now. Very bald in patches. Sometimes I whisper THINK OF THE WORLD to myself. That takes a memory photo of the moment. I save it for special, glittering moments. The day before I turned five. Driving across Canada with my family when I was 8. Getting a job at the best agency in New York when I was 24. Luck and me go way back.