sourlemone
Bluelighter
PART I
The night began as any other might; on any other day, at any other time. Only this was slightly different. The air smacked of preposterously insular, north-shore arrogance and that familiar, fishy aroma - hard to describe, the images conjuring themselves too vividly for words to be put to paper. We started out at a friend’s place playing pool and video games, whittling away the minutes as we awaited the insanity, counting the seconds while shifting restlessly on a prickly Persian rug – everything had been planned.
At approximately 9pm I and a friend ingested one pill (each) containing an unknown amount of methylenedioxymethamphetamine – as I thought to myself at the time – and so began my trip into temporary but total understanding. A walk, some music, bouncing up and down, finding some friends, shaking of hands, drunken excitement. We arrive, and the thought immediately hits me that I’m too fucking pumped to be acting normal in front of a frightening, flashlight-brandishing bouncer – nevertheless, I retain an air of calm and restraint and calmly give him my name. Point to it on the list. Go on in mate. Cheers.
I enter and am greeted by unfamiliar faces, parents, elders, looking down, the scum of the earth crawling in from the front porch, begging for alms and a place to sleep. This passes as I hide my saucer sized blackened pupils and slink out to the back verandah to light my first cigarette – Winfield Baby Blues. The scent of fresh tobacco, the mingling of salt, sweat, saliva and smoke, relishing as my alveoli are saturated in tar. We survey the scene. People crowd the backyard, all of the visible space occupied as heads merge into tangled palm fronds at the back of a darkened, jungle complex and shouts are heard. ‘Ello, how you doin’? Likewise, likewise, not too bad mate, not too fucking bad. Fuckin’ A, pumpin’ isn’t it? And so on. Meet and greet, and then we sit, but not for the last time.
The music can barely be heard and so I immerse myself in conversation. Inane banter, posing for photographs, soft, tanned flesh pressed up against mine. Ecstasy. That instantaneous chemical love. Everyone is now my friend, and everyone wants to be my friend. Sudden sexual urges, and a frenzy to locate women willing enough to satisfy my desires for tactile immersion – the unabridged honesty flowing forth simply proclaims
ROLLBACK
--- [Jaw clenched. Off chops. Body contact.] Look, you know, the state of mind I’m in right now – I hope you’re not too afraid of drugs, cos, well, I’m on a different level here m’dear…not trying to give too much away, Mum’s the word and all, of course you’ll never know the feeling…but before I leave you be, if you could do just one thing for me, darling…
--- [Drunken, suggestive.] Oh yeah? What’s that?
--- A kiss. [Pause.] Come on, sweetheart!
--- [Embarrassed.] Oh…no, you mean – on the lips? Well…
And so she moves in. Enjoys it, so some more. Ecstasy and chemical love, a subconscious connection or an innate hedonistic desire? The sickly sweet taste of raspberry Blistex mingled with long lasting, sugarfree, minty freshness – Extra, but of course, and the corporation for once enhances the individual. A blissful few moments as two inebriated, unknown lovers tangle in a carnal embrace, and bodies move as one. Then, it has finished, another cigarette reaches my lips and the past is but a blur. I walk on, generally engaging myself in conversation and meeting various layabouts while trying to find my companion.
We locate each other, inexorably drawn towards each other as the only real drug users at the party, and immediately find a seat. Producing a small bottle of isobutyl nitrite, I whiff in each nostril, and then…oh God. My cerebellum is orgasming, heart and head pounding as the evil vapours work their magic, and for a moment I am transported to a level of cerebral pleasure never felt before – or at least not since the last time…a hollow reflection. The fun ends, and he takes the nitrites. We split. The order from then on is fuzzy, but the events still clear.
I am made a birthday bitch. Wandering innocently around the party, headband and pink shirt, cigarette in one hand and no doubt something else in the other, lips parched but smacking ferociously, I am pulled up. Two Young Women Seek Rugged, Handsome Man for Birthday Girl. They convince me in a matter of seconds that it is necessary to give myself to their friend; her birthday, her wish, my command. I follow blindly until they find her, sulking no doubt among a group of friends. Before I know it the tramps are attempting to mesh our heads together, yelling and screaming. Cease and Desist! I yell, and hold up my hands – perhaps in a slightly different manner, but the point remains the same – I stop this, wait til people let go, leave a grand pause, and then move in for the kill. The most suave, gentlemanly man in the grounds, and again bodies move in one. I lead, she follows.
Then, departure from this. I am thoroughly satisfied, and once again immerse myself in varied conversation. I find myself lying on the ground being groped by two women that I vaguely recognise from a production I am in.
ROLLBACK
--- [Off chops.] Uh, oh man, I’ve lost my lighter, I, I had it just a second ago…it’s gone, now, what happened? Help me look for it, you gotta help me girls…
--- [Excitedly. A drunken frenzy.] Oh no! We’ll help you find it, promise!
And so they begin shoving their hands inside my pockets. A bizarre moment as one fondles my package briefly and I don’t quite know what to make of anything, and they start grabbing my behind. Enough of this, rape! I am being abused! Getting up quickly, I hasten to leave but the more drunk of the two tries to stop me. She gets up, I get up. I look behind me briefly and notice to my surprise that my friend has been pinned down by some sort of behemoth. The poor bastard. Drug Addled Teen Seduced by Beached Whale. My attention focuses on the Fondler and I make a quick ‘Oui, oui, kiss on the cheek’ manouevre – on the second cheek kiss, each sending shivers down my spine, she dodges for the lips. Time stops, and I look around nervously for a second. The Fondler, eyes open, intensely focused on my mouth. My friend still unable to liberate himself. I shift my head imperceptibly to the left, and DEFLECTION! She quickly realizes what has happened and runs off.
I feel good now. Brad Pitt style. The night continues. More jokes about breasts and glowsticks and so forth, and some cool enough people. Find our drug-user equivalent in female form, an excited, jacked conversation vaguely centering around Big Day Out and Chemical Brothers and Awesome and Love Lounge and Totally and Have a Great Night…I talk, and talk. Then I am tired. The party is slowly dying, unfortunately, and my friend (who had long since extricated himself from his malevolent, oppressive, nymphomaniac companion) sits down – more nitrites. Ecstasy. Then, we find ourselves surrounded by Easties.
For whatever reason, despite living in the most exclusive of Sydney suburbs, these guys are the ones that are the most uncultured.
ROLLBACK:
--- [An enormous, very drunk Eastie.] Those fuckin’ rowers….fuckin’ cunts takin’ their fuckin’ shirts off, just shameless, y’now?
--- [Off chops. Playing along.] Fucking A, man! I hate those pricks. They think they can just come on in here and parade around half naked, the fucking shameless bastards…
--- Oi, I reckon, those fuckin’ dickheads, we gotta show them what’s what, y’now…
--- I’m fucking with you, man!
--- [A slightly sinister, oriental Eastie sitting next to me, smoking. To yours truly:] Heh heh, you’re a funny cunt…
And so I find myself accepted, able to blend in seamlessly. I do not reach any epiphany yet; that comes later. There is more drunken rambling as I sit and observe their antics, occasionally commenting as to best imbue myself with the rowdy, bogan spirit. By now, things are much quieter. Many other things have happened but few worth mentioning…
And so it comes that I am sitting in a deckchair, right ankle propped precariously on left knee, cigarette dangling over an armrest, gazing vividly in a state of lucid awareness at an increasingly anxious crowd. Even my friend is shifting nervously, having consumed a small amount of marijuana earlier, and everyone else is looking around for an escape. An end. I sit calmly, and in a second I am fucking Hemingway. The eternal badass, and the lucidity becomes all consuming – I visualize everything in text, and start rambling nonsensically to one of my literary/artsy friends – he seems confused. I shift my focus back to the party. Out of controoool…music playing in my ear, although I had not been conscious of it until now. Bangin’.
PART II
Time passes, and I am unaware. Some sort of fugue state. Next thing I know, walking along an empty road, the rain sprinkling lightly, and I feel clean. Ecstasy gone, cleanliness come. Got Glint, pure funk. Another friend drives us to my place – I change, we sit, three joints are produced, and tensions flare as Return of the Jedi fails to play – infernal VHS technology, what the fuck does ‘safe’ mean? Goddamn VCR! It works, Jabba laughs heartily and his rat-like companion screeches. We retire to the trampoline outside to smoke.
My original biscuit buddy and the Driver sit with me on the trampoline as we smoke; it is a beautiful night. Idyllic. Picture perfect. Heaven Found Gazing at Waves on Trampoline. The slow, rolling, rippling motion as the ceaseless tides roll in, gently caressing the rock wall at the foot of my garden, the trees swaying rhythmically, a eucalyptic chime sending shivers from head to toe. They are cold; I am in a singlet, and feel nothing. I cannot explain why. For an eternity we are out here, in relative silence; the music still pumping. Calm.
Then, we return inside, and tiredness overcomes my colleagues and fellow psychonauts. I rush around in a worn-out frenzy, preparing beds and cleaning up so as not to aggravate the parental overseers. They sleep. I move towards the bathroom, and am drawn to the shower. The light goes out, and I dance in the dark under a stream of water. Complete Tactile Enhancement. Every fibre, every square centimetre of skin is electrified as streams of molten pleasure roll over and curtain my tired eyes. Exfoliation. Stuck in a limbo of complete and utter content, I remain there for some time. Emerging, I dry myself, and retreat to my study. The computer does not interest me, and so I move towards my diary. Under harsh light, I begin to write.
Epiphany. You may wonder where the epiphanic came into the chemical love. This is it here. For the next hour I experienced what can only be described as a supremely perceptive, chemically induced intuition, insight, clarity, lucidity, call it whatever floats your boat or strokes your monkey. So to speak.
I came to the realization that everyone can be categorized, and often at best poetically; that there are a set series of personality types, that you and me and I and you can be narrowed down into distinct subsets of humanity. Or something along those lines. Pseudo-Philosophical Psychological Ramblings in the Fading Moonlight.
We are the ultimate assimilators. Highly intelligent, witty, good-looking drug users. We are everywhere, know everyone. Are friendly with every man and every man is friendly with us. Despite this, we relate only to one another. The Athlete, the Bogan, the Prefect – all friends. Nothing deeper. Pointless categorizing all these folk, though…people are people. We should at least share that same, fundamental bond – we remain a part of the human community. Reassurances.
Then, it is time to sleep. And so, signing off ‘with peace and love’, I drift off slowly into the lands of the ether and my soul departs as the dawn approaches, transcending all, filled only with love, or so I should be. The reality may be different. Ecstasy.
It ends. Time has passed, indiscriminate of thought or emotion, and this might never have happened at all. I have only an archived text message, hurried scrawling/poetic frenzy in a worn hemp journal and that warm, fuzzy glow to remind me that I raised the bar last night. For myself. Epiphany.
Cheers
(edit: typos)
The night began as any other might; on any other day, at any other time. Only this was slightly different. The air smacked of preposterously insular, north-shore arrogance and that familiar, fishy aroma - hard to describe, the images conjuring themselves too vividly for words to be put to paper. We started out at a friend’s place playing pool and video games, whittling away the minutes as we awaited the insanity, counting the seconds while shifting restlessly on a prickly Persian rug – everything had been planned.
At approximately 9pm I and a friend ingested one pill (each) containing an unknown amount of methylenedioxymethamphetamine – as I thought to myself at the time – and so began my trip into temporary but total understanding. A walk, some music, bouncing up and down, finding some friends, shaking of hands, drunken excitement. We arrive, and the thought immediately hits me that I’m too fucking pumped to be acting normal in front of a frightening, flashlight-brandishing bouncer – nevertheless, I retain an air of calm and restraint and calmly give him my name. Point to it on the list. Go on in mate. Cheers.
I enter and am greeted by unfamiliar faces, parents, elders, looking down, the scum of the earth crawling in from the front porch, begging for alms and a place to sleep. This passes as I hide my saucer sized blackened pupils and slink out to the back verandah to light my first cigarette – Winfield Baby Blues. The scent of fresh tobacco, the mingling of salt, sweat, saliva and smoke, relishing as my alveoli are saturated in tar. We survey the scene. People crowd the backyard, all of the visible space occupied as heads merge into tangled palm fronds at the back of a darkened, jungle complex and shouts are heard. ‘Ello, how you doin’? Likewise, likewise, not too bad mate, not too fucking bad. Fuckin’ A, pumpin’ isn’t it? And so on. Meet and greet, and then we sit, but not for the last time.
The music can barely be heard and so I immerse myself in conversation. Inane banter, posing for photographs, soft, tanned flesh pressed up against mine. Ecstasy. That instantaneous chemical love. Everyone is now my friend, and everyone wants to be my friend. Sudden sexual urges, and a frenzy to locate women willing enough to satisfy my desires for tactile immersion – the unabridged honesty flowing forth simply proclaims
ROLLBACK
--- [Jaw clenched. Off chops. Body contact.] Look, you know, the state of mind I’m in right now – I hope you’re not too afraid of drugs, cos, well, I’m on a different level here m’dear…not trying to give too much away, Mum’s the word and all, of course you’ll never know the feeling…but before I leave you be, if you could do just one thing for me, darling…
--- [Drunken, suggestive.] Oh yeah? What’s that?
--- A kiss. [Pause.] Come on, sweetheart!
--- [Embarrassed.] Oh…no, you mean – on the lips? Well…
And so she moves in. Enjoys it, so some more. Ecstasy and chemical love, a subconscious connection or an innate hedonistic desire? The sickly sweet taste of raspberry Blistex mingled with long lasting, sugarfree, minty freshness – Extra, but of course, and the corporation for once enhances the individual. A blissful few moments as two inebriated, unknown lovers tangle in a carnal embrace, and bodies move as one. Then, it has finished, another cigarette reaches my lips and the past is but a blur. I walk on, generally engaging myself in conversation and meeting various layabouts while trying to find my companion.
We locate each other, inexorably drawn towards each other as the only real drug users at the party, and immediately find a seat. Producing a small bottle of isobutyl nitrite, I whiff in each nostril, and then…oh God. My cerebellum is orgasming, heart and head pounding as the evil vapours work their magic, and for a moment I am transported to a level of cerebral pleasure never felt before – or at least not since the last time…a hollow reflection. The fun ends, and he takes the nitrites. We split. The order from then on is fuzzy, but the events still clear.
I am made a birthday bitch. Wandering innocently around the party, headband and pink shirt, cigarette in one hand and no doubt something else in the other, lips parched but smacking ferociously, I am pulled up. Two Young Women Seek Rugged, Handsome Man for Birthday Girl. They convince me in a matter of seconds that it is necessary to give myself to their friend; her birthday, her wish, my command. I follow blindly until they find her, sulking no doubt among a group of friends. Before I know it the tramps are attempting to mesh our heads together, yelling and screaming. Cease and Desist! I yell, and hold up my hands – perhaps in a slightly different manner, but the point remains the same – I stop this, wait til people let go, leave a grand pause, and then move in for the kill. The most suave, gentlemanly man in the grounds, and again bodies move in one. I lead, she follows.
Then, departure from this. I am thoroughly satisfied, and once again immerse myself in varied conversation. I find myself lying on the ground being groped by two women that I vaguely recognise from a production I am in.
ROLLBACK
--- [Off chops.] Uh, oh man, I’ve lost my lighter, I, I had it just a second ago…it’s gone, now, what happened? Help me look for it, you gotta help me girls…
--- [Excitedly. A drunken frenzy.] Oh no! We’ll help you find it, promise!
And so they begin shoving their hands inside my pockets. A bizarre moment as one fondles my package briefly and I don’t quite know what to make of anything, and they start grabbing my behind. Enough of this, rape! I am being abused! Getting up quickly, I hasten to leave but the more drunk of the two tries to stop me. She gets up, I get up. I look behind me briefly and notice to my surprise that my friend has been pinned down by some sort of behemoth. The poor bastard. Drug Addled Teen Seduced by Beached Whale. My attention focuses on the Fondler and I make a quick ‘Oui, oui, kiss on the cheek’ manouevre – on the second cheek kiss, each sending shivers down my spine, she dodges for the lips. Time stops, and I look around nervously for a second. The Fondler, eyes open, intensely focused on my mouth. My friend still unable to liberate himself. I shift my head imperceptibly to the left, and DEFLECTION! She quickly realizes what has happened and runs off.
I feel good now. Brad Pitt style. The night continues. More jokes about breasts and glowsticks and so forth, and some cool enough people. Find our drug-user equivalent in female form, an excited, jacked conversation vaguely centering around Big Day Out and Chemical Brothers and Awesome and Love Lounge and Totally and Have a Great Night…I talk, and talk. Then I am tired. The party is slowly dying, unfortunately, and my friend (who had long since extricated himself from his malevolent, oppressive, nymphomaniac companion) sits down – more nitrites. Ecstasy. Then, we find ourselves surrounded by Easties.
For whatever reason, despite living in the most exclusive of Sydney suburbs, these guys are the ones that are the most uncultured.
ROLLBACK:
--- [An enormous, very drunk Eastie.] Those fuckin’ rowers….fuckin’ cunts takin’ their fuckin’ shirts off, just shameless, y’now?
--- [Off chops. Playing along.] Fucking A, man! I hate those pricks. They think they can just come on in here and parade around half naked, the fucking shameless bastards…
--- Oi, I reckon, those fuckin’ dickheads, we gotta show them what’s what, y’now…
--- I’m fucking with you, man!
--- [A slightly sinister, oriental Eastie sitting next to me, smoking. To yours truly:] Heh heh, you’re a funny cunt…
And so I find myself accepted, able to blend in seamlessly. I do not reach any epiphany yet; that comes later. There is more drunken rambling as I sit and observe their antics, occasionally commenting as to best imbue myself with the rowdy, bogan spirit. By now, things are much quieter. Many other things have happened but few worth mentioning…
And so it comes that I am sitting in a deckchair, right ankle propped precariously on left knee, cigarette dangling over an armrest, gazing vividly in a state of lucid awareness at an increasingly anxious crowd. Even my friend is shifting nervously, having consumed a small amount of marijuana earlier, and everyone else is looking around for an escape. An end. I sit calmly, and in a second I am fucking Hemingway. The eternal badass, and the lucidity becomes all consuming – I visualize everything in text, and start rambling nonsensically to one of my literary/artsy friends – he seems confused. I shift my focus back to the party. Out of controoool…music playing in my ear, although I had not been conscious of it until now. Bangin’.
PART II
Time passes, and I am unaware. Some sort of fugue state. Next thing I know, walking along an empty road, the rain sprinkling lightly, and I feel clean. Ecstasy gone, cleanliness come. Got Glint, pure funk. Another friend drives us to my place – I change, we sit, three joints are produced, and tensions flare as Return of the Jedi fails to play – infernal VHS technology, what the fuck does ‘safe’ mean? Goddamn VCR! It works, Jabba laughs heartily and his rat-like companion screeches. We retire to the trampoline outside to smoke.
My original biscuit buddy and the Driver sit with me on the trampoline as we smoke; it is a beautiful night. Idyllic. Picture perfect. Heaven Found Gazing at Waves on Trampoline. The slow, rolling, rippling motion as the ceaseless tides roll in, gently caressing the rock wall at the foot of my garden, the trees swaying rhythmically, a eucalyptic chime sending shivers from head to toe. They are cold; I am in a singlet, and feel nothing. I cannot explain why. For an eternity we are out here, in relative silence; the music still pumping. Calm.
Then, we return inside, and tiredness overcomes my colleagues and fellow psychonauts. I rush around in a worn-out frenzy, preparing beds and cleaning up so as not to aggravate the parental overseers. They sleep. I move towards the bathroom, and am drawn to the shower. The light goes out, and I dance in the dark under a stream of water. Complete Tactile Enhancement. Every fibre, every square centimetre of skin is electrified as streams of molten pleasure roll over and curtain my tired eyes. Exfoliation. Stuck in a limbo of complete and utter content, I remain there for some time. Emerging, I dry myself, and retreat to my study. The computer does not interest me, and so I move towards my diary. Under harsh light, I begin to write.
Epiphany. You may wonder where the epiphanic came into the chemical love. This is it here. For the next hour I experienced what can only be described as a supremely perceptive, chemically induced intuition, insight, clarity, lucidity, call it whatever floats your boat or strokes your monkey. So to speak.
I came to the realization that everyone can be categorized, and often at best poetically; that there are a set series of personality types, that you and me and I and you can be narrowed down into distinct subsets of humanity. Or something along those lines. Pseudo-Philosophical Psychological Ramblings in the Fading Moonlight.
We are the ultimate assimilators. Highly intelligent, witty, good-looking drug users. We are everywhere, know everyone. Are friendly with every man and every man is friendly with us. Despite this, we relate only to one another. The Athlete, the Bogan, the Prefect – all friends. Nothing deeper. Pointless categorizing all these folk, though…people are people. We should at least share that same, fundamental bond – we remain a part of the human community. Reassurances.
Then, it is time to sleep. And so, signing off ‘with peace and love’, I drift off slowly into the lands of the ether and my soul departs as the dawn approaches, transcending all, filled only with love, or so I should be. The reality may be different. Ecstasy.
It ends. Time has passed, indiscriminate of thought or emotion, and this might never have happened at all. I have only an archived text message, hurried scrawling/poetic frenzy in a worn hemp journal and that warm, fuzzy glow to remind me that I raised the bar last night. For myself. Epiphany.
Cheers
(edit: typos)
Last edited:
