The Propagation

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July 14, 2005

I'm Down With OCD, yeah you know me...

[as always, a surely-bound-for-failure plan to jot a couple skeletals for later muscling up]

+14, Richie Richer Than Ever, threw me one dub

Went back for a brief social call with my olderish black couple new friends (surely, populating a previous entry down there somewhere should you want more background, introduction to the caste[stet] of characters) in 1C over on the other side of the Parkway.

A crazy (no, really crazy) thing happened that made me a touch nervous (quite a rarity for me) and actually ready to believe a real Satan entity entered our company.

These folks are old hands, fond to the very of crackin’ up.

I had been divvying out at my rate, splitting dubs between the three of us. I knew they had their “House First” customs but I resisted a little knowing and assuring them that I’d be generous and fair for the hosting. But we explored it a little and I admitted my fish-out-of-water ignorance. No (or little) exposure to the subcult. They made it clear that all donations were customarily provided up front.

I was finishing up (not even planning to go through another three dubs) but I happily handed out to each of us our last one. And they dived in and hit it hard. I smoke a lot. Go too aggressive and you just waste a lot of activated product (ie. smoke/steam/or whatever) curling out of the pipe and sitting in your throat no place to go or get absorbed, etc. So I’m pretty steady & consistent, but sometimes I yearn and such it up, burn it hot, press it down, and the most it ever does is give me a momentary dizzy headrush that inspires me to sit down for a 3 or 4 second recovery-aimed pause. That’s it.

Note: Another example of one of my long-running pet themes> Belying the hard drug rep and fear clung upon crack, I don’t—even CANNOT—get very fucked up from it. Yes, for sure, its cup of negativity and danger runneth over, no denying, and yes, it definitely does make me feel good and affect me strongly in the sense of keeping me up for days, and, sometimes has me spouting a spew of silly semi-self-serious and stilted running-off of the keyboard (well showcased and easy to find here), BUT, it never makes me lose my association with reality or really get out of my mind or feel any of the extreme, indescribable sensations I’ve felt on other drugs (especially PCP and Ketamine). Not at all. So, sure, it’s hard but hard for other reasons. FOR ME. And for me, maryJewAnna, that non-addictive, soft, medical use, peace and lovin’ gateway drug, really does render me less- to in-capacitated. For me, pot is way harsher, in terms of high/immeidate effect. So don’t accept without qualification the flat public perception of things, these or those.

Note 2: See what happens? Every skeletal start-out either goes immediately into verbose logging or stays cryptically skeletal once and for all, never (hardly ever, so far) to be revisitd as promised, dad…

We now continue our regular…
So these two pros take big gulps and Pam stands and goes into this glazed-eye, speechless state, her body moving slow to the dresser where she—her arm still steady and deliberate while her hands and fingers move toward a pitch, touching things. Very OCD like in it’s exhaustiveness, her out of the driver’s seat-ness, and the repetitiveness, but NOT at all for the it’s aimlessness. She isn’t straightening or looking for something. It’s pure movement and maybe tip-tactile—she even touches her purse and a plastic tub until they fall off the dresser and she, if acknowleding it at all, appears maybe bothered only to the degree that she momentarily has no fixation and has to be bothered to find the next, closest object. EVERY next object. 3 or 4 times.

I ran through all the possibilities: her illness comes out from time to time or is triggered, that it’ll be brief, thatshe took something else, that there’s some major mental illness that I was priviously unaware of, that (yes! serious) Satan’s little helpers had taken a foothold in our midst, that she was possessed by a demon all along and I was trapped, that she was just now becomeing beborndemonically, that Satan had won her heart (or given her relatively handsome sums), that she was having a stroke, and loopingly on. She had to get all up in myt face, leaning over my lap to get to the items at the end of the big dresser.

All along I tried rotating tactics (it went on for a long time—not surper but way more than you’d expect, want, or beable to to cope with: leave her alone let it run its course, don’t let her fixate on me as deliverer mother. I asked her what she was doing and if I could help, etc.l in soft tones, ghetto tones, Park Slope tones, more aggressive tones, light comedic tones, etc. I thried all those varietys of reassurance: it’s okay, etc. etc.

Same with suggestions/soft caring commands that she sit down. And so on, but instead she went on to the table we were sitting around. Is there anything I can do. Are you already. Can I call somebody? You don’t need that. Why don’t you go where I push you in those rendered handicapabled in those moments.

I also asked Frank what she was doing but he was choreographying his own St. Vitus Dance.! At that point the prevailing theory was that they were really much bigger drug heads than I eer imagined, They duped me and had tapped some potent and exotic substance into their veins and thyroid gland all day and it was just combining and catching up, or sticking dop in around in the entry way away from view so expertly it they never broke the superficial thrymys in the very brief moments they were away from my view. Was I not paying attention? Naw. Pills! taken to up the action (covertly due to only having the two doses) upon arrival and just now dissolving through the muck and getting plucked up through and by the muus membrane

went thorugn them all with touches and .

Anyway, homeboy—I saw a bit of this the first/last time, but not as much—did a couple nervous dashes back and forth between the TV ad dresser and his bed; put something up into his the med scrubs with giant flay tha enable s this kind of behavior, or adjusted a package there, or hid something , or removedsomething, or was playing with himself or teching ability. No biggie.

But then, most/bigest odity for me] he’s jittery jitteringlyrippig up a ciaretc, putting bit jaged at both ends, nicely colored (ad did I mentionlame tobacco in esh end of his tiney tiney, micro

[egtch, getting long and longer there!…speed it up billy boy!] (did I ad that I quit my job yesterday? Then heore and pel…..
….whoa i’m losing it to exhaust stage again with makes everything take way way longer than should, give crappy crappy, is more expensive, dif to manage, etc.]

then tearthen tears the ciggie butt off, unpeals it, slides and slip pushes all ability. I get it I think. Looks like house happens by the roofs sticking up (?huh? I’m driofting) I think I subconciusly remembered boydawg making statement that just because there’s snow ont he roof doesn’t hean there aint a firer in tthe furnace (in backup, confirmation of the whoring/joking ways of his de fact dtep. Anywy

earlier I saw him hold a long plastic beat straw but to the cool end while trying to light the other, or miss, I’m sure based on his unappreciatng of burns on his lips but his finger had to hold it together. So, then, back to the dual, dueling druggy duet doing duo! He doesn’t allow it but he’s cool about it. It looks like

[…see how ineffective I can be sometimes? I’m trying to spit this out!]

Ok. Post-piss, where am I? I think stroaw. Atl last in my mind we are. So it looks like I catch a glmpse of hims very quickly and strongly shove the whole long straw into his mouth at once, doubling and redoubling the straw to get it to fit. Then he chew slow, mouth widened, lips still pursed. We go back to the giant fly, hand up or hand down into the leg of the scrubs, not for more than a coupla three sex seconds.

He , too, haad dull eyes but steady. No talking. I’m all alone as two late forties half spent (sorry) poor mutha fuker crackheads flip out unspeakingly to me.

They move about a little. I get touched. Soon they emerge. She briefly with a pretty good smile and animated eyes but quietly and still wrapped in a warm blanket of sorts explains (to my making sure repeated, rephrased questions) that she was “nice”—that’s the word they use for ‘high’ and I like that a lot—wil adopt if can Roger-Wilco AM! She felt good, comfortable (my word asked), it had happend before but not always or even frequently(?), she enjoyed it, she took a big hit she explained, which doesn’t ring true to my experience but I belive (could be result of lonterm use, could be different biology race-based or dna family genetics, or technique or come combo of mental chemical synergistic mutation. who knows or cares all that much.

Oh, to further prolong, I justwanted to better explain the kind of touching: sometimes as if making sure it’s there, sometimes for the tactile specifics, sometimes not feeling just more like targeted epelipsis, blee blah….but at this point Mr. Mister is still futzing and she’s all worried about it and scolding and trying to get him to stop, which he is little responsive to, me nicely reassuring her that he’s fine, I gave him the smokes, encouraged him to go ahead, and will continue to do so, and that he’s okay, not harming anyone, and that he let you have your time without interference, but also asking what’s the concern: suddenly is the people playing slap-it-down-hard domminoes on the sidewalk. The porn and our talking and collective smoke didn’t bother her before. She’s busying around throwing awa cgarbad I thinkand before I know it, she’s telling him then me to put things away as she’s policing for and picking up bag knots, etc. And that morphs into shushed commands to he and I that we put things away, with a little increasing urgency.

Why is someone coming? I ask. Yeah, and she seems to nod window-ward. seems like this bust gives them ample warning and time to straighten up and prepare. I’ll probably want to have cookies out for our guest, that’s how we crackers (!pun intended!guilty as charged!) Oops, I’m not moving us toward the end….again…

I put neear molten glass into my front pocket and nearly scar over my ni, and then quick piss. When I’m back, it’s pretty much normal. though she stays in her what apppeares to be normal, default mode of busybody, puttering around, not sitting down and relaxing and having conversation as I’d like to do. he’s cool but not especially taconversation oriented. the Quick pithy’s if you want baby names.

Soon as I know everybody’s going to be okay (medically, basic needs met, for now, short-term, relative-kind of way at least anyway) and after it won’t look too suspiciously like a scare-off runaway, I make my exit, turning down his invite to play poker and her (earlier) invite to pay her for sex. And it’s all friendly and normal and nice as I leave, though he does ask me for a dollar, which I’m happy to donate but I only have a 10 and a 20 and I stand by my belief that I’ve been more than rminimally generous. She says I can come and get it tomorrow. Sorry I need it.

Posted by peligrito at July 14, 2005 11:09 PM

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