Horton-Scorton
Bluelighter
I'd been up for a few days on dex. I took about 150 more mg over four or five hours before using k. Now, I don't use ketamine often. I was prepared for delirium. I was in a guy's garage with people I barely knew coming in, going out. All sorts of brief interactions and a revolving sideshow of drug-addled strangers. My friend and I were waiting for the pure, nice and fresh ketamine to be delivered. It took hours but I was speeding and raving at guys, many of whom wanted none of my shit. Regardless I carried on.
The guy got there, finally. I actually tried to pay him in euros, foreign currency. I got some somehow, and I took an IM poke of about 200 mg (I think) of very MDMA-looking k. I walked back into the garage, full of people, now beginning to relax and ease into the catatonic mysterious realm of k. I laughed, shirtless and unsure where to dispose of my needle. I began stooping and leaning as the ketamine took course. I don't remember when it really hit me, but I remember that it did and I was in a party-like atmosphere. I began to bang on the organ and idiots began insulting me, calling me Mozart. They thought they were capable of disguising the fact that they were poking fun at me because of my altered state, but it was crystal clear and somewhat amusing. Mostly, I was indifferent to them.
I sat on the floor and was offered a chair. I refused the chair, realizing that it had been made for and by someone else. I didn't have to use chairs, especially metal ones. I stooped and pressed my palms onto the garage floor and told folks the deal with chairs. Then I stood up and sat in the chair.
A guy tried to freak me out with a baseball bat, telling me I had to play a song he liked on guitar or he'd hurt people. I said I didn't care. I didn't. I found out I could intercept their attempts at negativity and nullify the attempted psychic interplay, programming a neural-sustained filter and fortress, and a language decoder and encoder followed suit.
I redosed, nasally. Don't know how much. Everyone left except for me and two other guys on k. One guy told me: "If you gave me a rose, I'd destroy it."
A third guy asked, "How would you destroy a rose?"
I knew.
"In the normal way," I explained.
There seemed no point of reference but within things themselves. Things referred to themselves in thickening layers, increasing without bounds in all directions. A nose was isolated from a body. It was not accepted as a functional portion of a whole. It appeared nameless from nothing. I was baffled when I tried to see why I had a nose. But the nose itself, isolated from function, was there till I was consumed by it. I was the nose that came from nothing but nose, I knew its history and future but its meaning was a dead cause. Meaning was a funny attempt to make the monopoly of a unit the slave of words, feeble connector grunts. I saw how language arose. I pointed and named. But my paleo atavism went under as the ritual blanketed itself and I was the object and the object was all- the connecting sound was a temporary split endorsed by social butterflies and by newspapers. A floor is not a "floor" it is a floor. A floor is. A floor has no function. Function is a function of language.
A did a Beatles medley on bass and bobbed around. SOme people came around. I thought I knew everybody.
Final dose, different location. I began to wander outside. I saw figures and fairy-like entities dancing around. It looked like a movieset. It was purple; I was Claymation. A door pokes out; I somewhat retreat. Layers of mind and the moment I ask a verbal question my world disfigures. The moment I choose a worldscape or simply stand in line with an infinitude of myself, not letting intellect separate me from the chain, I have no questions and thus no answers. I am but so am I.
The guy got there, finally. I actually tried to pay him in euros, foreign currency. I got some somehow, and I took an IM poke of about 200 mg (I think) of very MDMA-looking k. I walked back into the garage, full of people, now beginning to relax and ease into the catatonic mysterious realm of k. I laughed, shirtless and unsure where to dispose of my needle. I began stooping and leaning as the ketamine took course. I don't remember when it really hit me, but I remember that it did and I was in a party-like atmosphere. I began to bang on the organ and idiots began insulting me, calling me Mozart. They thought they were capable of disguising the fact that they were poking fun at me because of my altered state, but it was crystal clear and somewhat amusing. Mostly, I was indifferent to them.
I sat on the floor and was offered a chair. I refused the chair, realizing that it had been made for and by someone else. I didn't have to use chairs, especially metal ones. I stooped and pressed my palms onto the garage floor and told folks the deal with chairs. Then I stood up and sat in the chair.
A guy tried to freak me out with a baseball bat, telling me I had to play a song he liked on guitar or he'd hurt people. I said I didn't care. I didn't. I found out I could intercept their attempts at negativity and nullify the attempted psychic interplay, programming a neural-sustained filter and fortress, and a language decoder and encoder followed suit.
I redosed, nasally. Don't know how much. Everyone left except for me and two other guys on k. One guy told me: "If you gave me a rose, I'd destroy it."
A third guy asked, "How would you destroy a rose?"
I knew.
"In the normal way," I explained.
There seemed no point of reference but within things themselves. Things referred to themselves in thickening layers, increasing without bounds in all directions. A nose was isolated from a body. It was not accepted as a functional portion of a whole. It appeared nameless from nothing. I was baffled when I tried to see why I had a nose. But the nose itself, isolated from function, was there till I was consumed by it. I was the nose that came from nothing but nose, I knew its history and future but its meaning was a dead cause. Meaning was a funny attempt to make the monopoly of a unit the slave of words, feeble connector grunts. I saw how language arose. I pointed and named. But my paleo atavism went under as the ritual blanketed itself and I was the object and the object was all- the connecting sound was a temporary split endorsed by social butterflies and by newspapers. A floor is not a "floor" it is a floor. A floor is. A floor has no function. Function is a function of language.
A did a Beatles medley on bass and bobbed around. SOme people came around. I thought I knew everybody.
Final dose, different location. I began to wander outside. I saw figures and fairy-like entities dancing around. It looked like a movieset. It was purple; I was Claymation. A door pokes out; I somewhat retreat. Layers of mind and the moment I ask a verbal question my world disfigures. The moment I choose a worldscape or simply stand in line with an infinitude of myself, not letting intellect separate me from the chain, I have no questions and thus no answers. I am but so am I.
