He quickly became very pale as the drug stirred his mind into revolt with reality. We didn’t know it, but his ego-death-battle had just begun.
Friday night binging on weed and caffeine—always an interesting combination of drugs for overindulgence. For me, marijuana is an intense upper that sends my heart and blood pressure through the ceiling. Because these are my commonly experienced side effects, I did some research and I suspect the condition is some sort of temporary Tachycardia which otherwise sober, I do not experience. Regardless, I see the whole experience as part of the fun of beating a drug—that is, not letting yourself be consumed by it, not letting the drug control you, not letting it get the better of you. I have recently decided I don’t like heaving consumption of alcohol because of that very fact. While insanely drunk, it is very easy to give in especially for those with a low tolerance. I consider myself at a medium tolerance for alcohol and a very low risk for alcoholism. Still though, I have really only drank a few times this semester and not to the point of corrupted drunkenness since my friend Tabitha’s wedding in May.
Tonight, the instant Tina informed me that she had never seen Vanilla Sky the possibility of smoking marijuana became real. I was uncertain of the size of my stash as I have been really busy this semester and haven’t had much time to chill except usually every other weekend or so. I quickly produced my dope box and low and behold there was a dried up roach still clamped in the roach clips. “It’ll have to do,” I said.
Tina and I proceeded to retreat to the bathroom to smoke it since my roommate decided to stay behind tonight—his girl friend having gone home with a friend for the weekend (but honestly, before tonight I don’t know that he actually knows that I smoke somewhat regularly or at least that I am always ready to. He stays at his girl friends house on weekends or goes home to Virginia, so he really would have no way of knowing unless I mentioned it which I haven’t. We don’t talk a lot about it, and all I know is that he tried it once and didn’t like it). So I de-papered the roach and smushed the resiny mass into the pipe, a little glass pipe I bought in Colorado in August of 2002 for $28. It has survived almost three and half years through two universities, four roommates, and countless passes around the kitchen table, having never been dropped. Because it is so small, the pipe has the functionality of a one-hitter, and is not that practical for two or more smokers unless refilled several times. When lids are scarce however, it helps me to ration.
When the pipe was cashed we emerged from the bathroom and into the chaos and sobriety of the living room. Because it is campus housing, it is really a living room, bedroom, and kitchen all rolled into one—a nightmare for those of us who are extremely claustrophobic. I put on the movie, got comfortable on my bed (cigarettes and tea close by) and anticipated that awareness that always comes within few minutes preceding a good smoke. It’s when your mind begins demanding, “What was that? What is this? What have you done to me?” It suddenly becomes aware of its reliability on organs and all their functions. It wants to squirm around and make sure the precious biological sacs aren’t pressing against each other for too long at a time, possibly preventing the efficient transfer of whatever fluids essential to life need transferring. The lungs feel absent of any kind of temperature. The air doesn’t feel hot or cold but only through the nose. The mind notices the beating of its heart but tries not to focus on it. Is it really beating as fast as it feels? Should we be alarmed? What if by suddenly becoming aware of the heart’s autonomy cancels out its automation or the lungs as well? Existing at all becomes a forced effort and concentration becomes frantic. The mind is gripped by that panic that it just might suddenly realize its true existence at any moment. It reaches out to anything real, any kind of distraction from such deliciously horrible enlightenment. A cigarette will fix you, yes indeed, good idea, smoke a cigarette.
The advice that always comes to mind for this scenario is a statement I heard from a friend, probably about six years ago, given to my friend Chad who at the time was totally consumed by the Fear. We were at this graduation party in an endless Kentucky field in early June. My friends and I all had copies of Wuthering Heights stolen from our English teacher who had forced us to read such Victorian garbage at an age when we couldn’t possibly have grasped its relevance (I am now an English major, and I still can’t). We intended to drink a lot of beer and smoke some weed and have a ceremonial burning of the evil that was Emily Brontë. Only three of us at the time (including myself) had had any familiarity with getting high. Chad in particular had never smoked but was very anxious to try it. After lighting two joints and smoking them simultaneously we all were really stoned and looked forward to a night of inebriation. We were listening to Mr. Bungle when suddenly Chad began to panic. He quickly became very pale as the drug worked his mind into revolt with reality. We didn’t know it, but his ego-death-battle had just begun. “I don’t like this, I want it to stop.” was about all he could say for about an hour as he rocked back and forth doubled over on the floor. None of us had ever seen someone flip-out. One of my other friends reassured him, “Don’t fight it man. Let go. Just remember, you are on drugs. It’s just in your mind. Enjoy the ride.” To this day that logic continues to keep me safe from succumbing to the Fear. All smokers come close at times, but from my experience I think most people have some similar philosophy to keep themselves grounded in their drug experiences.
But tonight the Fear was far from my mind as I focused on Vanilla Sky. It was probably about the fifth time I have seen the film. I have seen it under many influences and each time I notice something that had eluded me during previous viewings. Tonight however, I experienced the movie through someone who had never seen it, not to mention blazed, so I was answering several questions. I don’t like to talk at all during complicated films that deserve undivided attention. I especially despise people who give away the plot or try to add some sort of extra intensity to a scene by saying things like “Oh, oh, this is that one part” or “Pay attention to what this guy says”. To avoid being a spoiler I usually only make subtle indications to the importance of a scene such as discreetly turning up the volume a few notches, or adjusting my posture to narrow my focus a little more, or climbing out to the edge of my seat to concentrate intently.
For those of you who have not seen this film, I will refrain from going on anymore about it. The point is—if there is one—is that after Tina left and my roommate went to sleep, I returned to the bathroom and refreshed my buzz. It is now 5:28 A.M. and I am quite numb and bedraggled with fatigue. One conclusion I made tonight is that I must get a hold of that soundtrack as well as some coffee beans and another bag because I am now sans coffee and sans cannabis.
Tonight, the instant Tina informed me that she had never seen Vanilla Sky the possibility of smoking marijuana became real. I was uncertain of the size of my stash as I have been really busy this semester and haven’t had much time to chill except usually every other weekend or so. I quickly produced my dope box and low and behold there was a dried up roach still clamped in the roach clips. “It’ll have to do,” I said.
Tina and I proceeded to retreat to the bathroom to smoke it since my roommate decided to stay behind tonight—his girl friend having gone home with a friend for the weekend (but honestly, before tonight I don’t know that he actually knows that I smoke somewhat regularly or at least that I am always ready to. He stays at his girl friends house on weekends or goes home to Virginia, so he really would have no way of knowing unless I mentioned it which I haven’t. We don’t talk a lot about it, and all I know is that he tried it once and didn’t like it). So I de-papered the roach and smushed the resiny mass into the pipe, a little glass pipe I bought in Colorado in August of 2002 for $28. It has survived almost three and half years through two universities, four roommates, and countless passes around the kitchen table, having never been dropped. Because it is so small, the pipe has the functionality of a one-hitter, and is not that practical for two or more smokers unless refilled several times. When lids are scarce however, it helps me to ration.When the pipe was cashed we emerged from the bathroom and into the chaos and sobriety of the living room. Because it is campus housing, it is really a living room, bedroom, and kitchen all rolled into one—a nightmare for those of us who are extremely claustrophobic. I put on the movie, got comfortable on my bed (cigarettes and tea close by) and anticipated that awareness that always comes within few minutes preceding a good smoke. It’s when your mind begins demanding, “What was that? What is this? What have you done to me?” It suddenly becomes aware of its reliability on organs and all their functions. It wants to squirm around and make sure the precious biological sacs aren’t pressing against each other for too long at a time, possibly preventing the efficient transfer of whatever fluids essential to life need transferring. The lungs feel absent of any kind of temperature. The air doesn’t feel hot or cold but only through the nose. The mind notices the beating of its heart but tries not to focus on it. Is it really beating as fast as it feels? Should we be alarmed? What if by suddenly becoming aware of the heart’s autonomy cancels out its automation or the lungs as well? Existing at all becomes a forced effort and concentration becomes frantic. The mind is gripped by that panic that it just might suddenly realize its true existence at any moment. It reaches out to anything real, any kind of distraction from such deliciously horrible enlightenment. A cigarette will fix you, yes indeed, good idea, smoke a cigarette.
The advice that always comes to mind for this scenario is a statement I heard from a friend, probably about six years ago, given to my friend Chad who at the time was totally consumed by the Fear. We were at this graduation party in an endless Kentucky field in early June. My friends and I all had copies of Wuthering Heights stolen from our English teacher who had forced us to read such Victorian garbage at an age when we couldn’t possibly have grasped its relevance (I am now an English major, and I still can’t). We intended to drink a lot of beer and smoke some weed and have a ceremonial burning of the evil that was Emily Brontë. Only three of us at the time (including myself) had had any familiarity with getting high. Chad in particular had never smoked but was very anxious to try it. After lighting two joints and smoking them simultaneously we all were really stoned and looked forward to a night of inebriation. We were listening to Mr. Bungle when suddenly Chad began to panic. He quickly became very pale as the drug worked his mind into revolt with reality. We didn’t know it, but his ego-death-battle had just begun. “I don’t like this, I want it to stop.” was about all he could say for about an hour as he rocked back and forth doubled over on the floor. None of us had ever seen someone flip-out. One of my other friends reassured him, “Don’t fight it man. Let go. Just remember, you are on drugs. It’s just in your mind. Enjoy the ride.” To this day that logic continues to keep me safe from succumbing to the Fear. All smokers come close at times, but from my experience I think most people have some similar philosophy to keep themselves grounded in their drug experiences.
But tonight the Fear was far from my mind as I focused on Vanilla Sky. It was probably about the fifth time I have seen the film. I have seen it under many influences and each time I notice something that had eluded me during previous viewings. Tonight however, I experienced the movie through someone who had never seen it, not to mention blazed, so I was answering several questions. I don’t like to talk at all during complicated films that deserve undivided attention. I especially despise people who give away the plot or try to add some sort of extra intensity to a scene by saying things like “Oh, oh, this is that one part” or “Pay attention to what this guy says”. To avoid being a spoiler I usually only make subtle indications to the importance of a scene such as discreetly turning up the volume a few notches, or adjusting my posture to narrow my focus a little more, or climbing out to the edge of my seat to concentrate intently.
For those of you who have not seen this film, I will refrain from going on anymore about it. The point is—if there is one—is that after Tina left and my roommate went to sleep, I returned to the bathroom and refreshed my buzz. It is now 5:28 A.M. and I am quite numb and bedraggled with fatigue. One conclusion I made tonight is that I must get a hold of that soundtrack as well as some coffee beans and another bag because I am now sans coffee and sans cannabis.
posted by Elliott Marlow at 5:39 AM
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