13:45 - Friday, Apr. 09, 2004 awareness
a tiny bed stuffed with limbs.... sleeping three or four hour snatches. kind of going to class. kind of caring about all my final projects. kind of feeling cold raindrops on my hair... odd for a boulder april. kind of worried about what weed will do to nick. he is the only person i've ever met who i think it actually may have an immediate profound effect on, and i don't know if i want any immediate profound effects put upon him. if he ever changes in a way that alters his fundamental base, i won't know which way is up.
so i'm kind of overreacting, too. pot is just that... pot. it is not pcp. it is not heroin. it is not crack fucking cocaine. when i started smoking it two years ago, it didn't make me anything more or less than who i was.... just a little more open, a little better suited to gauge the relative importance of things. more aware (hyperaware, if you will). but as my mom says, 'he's such an innocent.' awareness might be the thing that pulls the ground out from where he is.
22:12 - Tuesday, Apr. 06, 2004 i miss it
I'm going to have trouble remembering the beginning of the week, and I mean...
It's only Tuesday.
(When children of grammar-challenged parents get berated for not using the bathroom before a long trip and wetting themselves:
'Johnny! You should of went before we gone!')
I thought that was really funny at 11:00 in the morning, but I had also just woken up from a nap on the couch somewhere on campus which didn't really count as sleep, strictly, but more as an altered state of wakefulness minus the drugs.
We did have the college version of a Passover seder last night, complete with the four glasses of wine during the seder... annnd, y'know, six more during dinner and whatever was left after dinner, kinda like, okay, eight or nine more. I didn't drink any, but I watched it all unfold. Drunk lips and tongue reciting Hebrew prayers about enslavement in Egypt, a final children's song much like the Twelve Days of Christmas sung faster and faster until half the group was on the table, fists pounding. College version, for sure.
It's been awhile, I guess. I keep meaning to write about things and then I don't and they're weeks and weeks away. Feet paintings in the Boulder Creek with Nick instead of anthropology recitation, and me getting asked on the corner of 30th and something or other if I was selling any pot by a stranger when I had quite a bit in my pocket, actually, at the time.
When it's not so late and my writing isn't so strung out from having written a seven page story for fiction about (what is new about this?) nothing, I'll start describing things again, I promise. I miss it.