a dictation

Sooo... I'm pretty sure its my turn to type again on this old merry go round of fun (I like filled with FUN, thats what I love~ thank you Tribe). And the thing I've noticed in my thinking about this addiction stuff is that there was a time some 70 thousand years ago or so when addiction wasn't really such a big issue as it is today. At that point, diction was far more "in vogue". I mean, back then most of the guys were hanging out by their caves waiting for some animal dumber than they were so they could club it to death, and they were a bit too busy trying to mouth words around those fumbling jaws they had to really be worried about how much wormwood they were chewing and how often.

And hey, there's a theory that language was born of hallucinogens. Seriously though. What is the monolith if not a trip? A gateway into a perception greater than oneself, an existence beyond what one ever dreamed of, an experience that is immediately both intangible and yet incredibly real, real enough that the first thing you want to do is describe it to everyone around you. "Look at what the WORLD is doing! Caves don't just DO that! It's like, everything I ever knew was just proven false in ten minutes. Physics, man, physics. Particles, the relative softness and hardness of objects, and its RIGHT you know, about energy. It can't be destroyed, only transferred. And did you see what the trees just said? Its like they were turning into themselves, but like the ideal representation of what trees ARE man, and thats ok, you know... thats... ok." Of course at the time of the inception of language, it probably sounded a bit more like "AAAARRRHGHGHGH! AKAKLALLLLLLLLL! AAAASHIIIIIIIII! RRREEREREREEEEEEEECKKKGHGH! FLLLULULUUULUUUBHGHHGHG!"

So now we've got some crazy ass Homo Floresiensis running around camp trying to figure out what to do with his tongue in order to explain this recent experience to his buddies who are all in various stages of clubbing women over the head to take them back to thier caves or killing, eating, or skinning something dead, and then a good seventy thousand years later, WE'RE all worried and arguing about why we should eliminate from society that which was gracious enough to bring us language in the first place. Where's the love there people? I mean here we are using what came second to describe what came first through machines that we ourselves have invented which have so simplified OUR language that it can all be broken down to a sequence of ones and zeros (which is actually kind of the way our brains work anyway... either the synapse fires, or it doesn't.) And all this thanks to drugs. Thats right, drugs. Thus, from diction to addiction and back again is quite a long path my friends, quite the perverbial RIDE.

But now that we've gone and done it, now that we've opened that can of worms, lets step inside and explore a bit, shall we? Addiction... hmmmmm.... addiction, addiction, addiction.... nope, can't say I've met the gal.

But if I had, she'd probably be attractive at first, you know, the kind of woman who shows up at a party and she's got a bit of a strange vibe around her, but she talks a lot and a good number of the people there end up feeling prety easy around her... she's handing out cigs and talking about other things, things she's done that no one else has, talks about them like she's some kind of 21st century goddess of experience. But thats all gradual man, gradual, you know, because first its all like, "hey I'm havin a few people up at the house this weekend and you're welcome to come along" and you can't really make up your mind whether or not to go, but as long as your friends are going, it can't be that bad.

So you go to this chicks party and at first you're not sure you like her so much. Yeah, she's pretty hot, but kind of rubs you wrongly, abrasive, just not in any tangible way. You know, cornering you in conversation, generally controlling the topic. And you can't make up your mind how much you really like this girl, but it seems like everyone else is having a good time, your friends who have known her longer want to stay at the party even when you're ready to go, but this chick, this whole hardcore act, is kind of growing on you. And before long you're over there every weekend, hanging out, just can't seem to get enough of her. And then you're in her room and there are hands everywhere and the whole thing is heavy and wet, hot like whats left of the rainforest, fast like motorcycles, slow like the slippage of time. And you stay there in her room for days, months, maybe even a year or two. And its not even that you laugh at her jokes anymore. Its not even that you really enjoy being around her at all after a while, but she's there, and you've gotten used to her, you know, she's what you know. And you like the sex. At least you used to like it. A Lot. Now you're just kind of living in the memory of what it was.

And then out of no where she kills your grandmother.

Needless to say you're pretty pissed. You stop calling her. And you stop going to her house. You stop talking to her, erase her pictures from your hard drive, try to make friends who are into surfing or climbing mountains. Try to meet nice girls. But one day you're feeling down about something and you remember how she used to talk to you and make you feel better, so you go to her house just once, just for old times sake. And after that its over. You can't stay away. When you're not over there, she's at yours. And next thing you know you're married to the woman who killed your grandmother. And you're next. And you know this, but you don't care. She's your wife, and you're willing to look past the little things.

Yeah, that's about what I think addiction would be like. She's dangerous, but only because she doesn't really seem like it.

The truth is, I've probably had my share of addictions, the worst of which has been cigarettes, and perhaps in college when I was into the Marlboro Green. That was a tough one to quit. But I did. And now I like to drink. But I wouldn't say that I'm addicted to it. Its not like I NEED that drink or anything. There's a fine like sometimes between exploration and addiction, and as far as I'm concerned anything can grab you by the balls and not let go, and that's when you've got a choice to make. You can either cut off the fingers and hope the hand doesn't grow back, cut off your balls and change your life completely, or learn to live with a monster on your balls. (substitute balls for boobs if you're a woman).