Out to the Island

In a half an hour, I have to leave for the subway so I can head out to discuss a band R, our friend Collin, and I are putting together. It's a comic book band--everyone is a character, and it has a whole story behind it. All for fun, of course. I woke up at noon today, feeling guilty that I hadn't done any work today and would soon be in Long Island discussing characters and working on music, followed by a party at someone's house. We're all into speeeeed, so once we all get together to work on the band we'll be off and running. It's fun, these speed parties we have with Collin, a nice follow up to our tea party with Alexis.
I've just popped my orange tablet of dexy, just to keep me going while on the train. Right now I'm reading The Petting Zoo by Jim Carroll, but I want to finish it so I can start Going Down by Chris Campanioni and then all the other books I have waiting patiently for me to crack their spines. I figure this will give me some extra focus, and I definitely won't miss that train.
Unless... should I make tea? Will I be okay without it today? The majority of the people we know with H/roxy hook ups out there are trying to get clean, although it's not easy when half of the people on the island are into it as well. If I get sick, the effexor should help me because it antagonizes opiate receptors, but I guess Collin could help us out. What if I've already habituated my body to it and I don't realize it but I'm going to get really sick tonight? These questions run around my brain, but I've already decided not to make tea.
I hope it's the right decision... but only time will tell.

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Out the train window I watch as suburbia spreads out undisturbed by the rumbling metal coasting past it. All of the trees seem black and veiny against the Autumn sunset, ready for night to fall down upon them. The houses talk about the possible people and lives played out inside, as well as the silent spaces around the tracks hidden from their view. Kernels lay around my feet from my frenzied inhalation of the Penn Station popcorn, guilt creeps in and I think about picking them up instead of leaving them for some unknown forces to dispose of later. The sun flickers on the seat in front of me as I review all of my worries for the upcoming weeks (mostly bills). I try and push them away, reminding myself that none of those problems are life or death, that it will all work itself out, that like the sun setting to my right I will arise tomorrow regardless. Constantly hoping that my delicately constructed life will not be destroyed by my mismanagement.

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Once off the train, R picked me up and we sped to Collin's parent's house. Upon arriving and greeting Collin in the street, he ushered us inside, past his sweet, waving grandmother, and down a flight of tiled stares into his well-sized basement apartment. His friend was already sitting down there and quickly stood up to shake our hands. The odd sense of returning came over me as I looked down at the color-block rug and mostly barren walls, although I had never been there before. We each took our places around the room, Collin and his friend on a loveseat, to their right myself on a tall wooden barseat, and next to me on my right R sitting on a small foam boat seat. Each of us popped or railed another 30 mgs of bright orange speed, the lines hammered out across a statistics book that now only served as a hard surface for chemical consumption or writing. I looked around the room at each of the men conversing, lacking any desire to contribute to the conversation. Professionally shot portraits of Collin were hung all over, their stoic gazes stood in juxtaposition with living Collin's frenzied outbursts of ideas. R and Collin commenced working on songs based on some topics Collin had already conceived, and riffs R had been unable to use in another project. I sat and watched as they swirled around me, occasionally interjecting with an idea or rhyme. Hours passed us by unnoticed, as we diligently worked on solidifying our ideas for the songs and the conception of our band, while his friend played Mario in the corner on Collin's Wii. We carried on like this, pausing for me to paint Collin's nails and for him to try and cut his friend's hair, in the constant yet unguided way that tweekers get things done.


I couldn't help myself from cracking open The Petting Zoo whenever conversation turned towards subjects of which I had nothing to add. The need for personal reflection and change within the main character Billy resonates with me deeply right now. All of the emotional angst I've been experiencing mostly surrounds my understanding of what it means to be an adult (and have a career), as well as my relation to my now retired parents, as well as whether or not I want to continue doing drugs. These are apparently integral parts of what growing older means, and I assume everyone goes through them (but I don't really know). I think I am young to already be answering these questions, although I am the one asking them. The truth is:

• I want to pursue writing as a career but I'm scared I can't hack it.
• I don't think I'm very good at being at an adult. I constantly beat myself up about not having my life together or as organized as I would like it to be.
• I am terrified I will never be able [re:want] to quit drugs, which will distract me from using my potential.

I rarely discuss these fears, so that I don't hear the stock response that I am over thinking it all. These are the dangerous traps I've set for myself and now must avoid falling into.

Now that I'm back in Queens writing this all out, I feel unembarrassed and comfortable in the warmth of our apartmen. R and I have spent the past 4 hours reading, and for me writing, together on the futon. I wish nights like this could last forever.

At least they last here.

Until next time,
Lucy