I've heard people in AA/NA meetings say
"My worst day sober is better than my best day drinking/using."
Nonsense. That is a ridiculous statement.
BUT, I can honestly say that my problems in recovery are much less severe than my problems in active addiction.
AND, my day to day life is far more pleasant in recovery than it was before.
My highs aren't as high and my lows aren't as low, but my baseline is way better.
On that note
A poem
The Base Line
06/01/24
Poem : Valuable
I used to feel happy
When I was dancing to the bass lines
I’d rack up my cash
Trade it in to watch the tan dancer with the powder face
She’d play to me with her lace
Call me to the back room
She’d give me what I’d cum for
She took me quite serious
She took me to the edge of living
And really living
Begging for more
Nodding along
Dancing with her
Again Again Again!
Paying the DJ to play the bass line
Taking the lines to my face like slaked lime
Smelling the piss and vinegar
stink up the place
I want you all to my face
I fell in love
With the dancer who said
I’ll bring you flowers
But I could never smell the bouquet
Three day flowers
Dried and in vases
The beautiful chemistry
Of her bass and my acid inflection
And they’d play it again
Until i got sick of it
Like I’d caught an infection
Stepping away
Just to come back
I graduated
From that impoverished academy of dancers
Retreating to my bedroom
Listening to a recording
A five year rot
In a one room rent
Listening to the bass line
Giving my dancer her face time
Tracing the lines in my face for
the consequence
Of more and more
And then it’s the base line
The one at the bottom of everything
The truth about heroin
The daring of my harrowing
The narrowing of my perspective
The elimination of my ability
To collect my recollections
The predisposed stupidity of my
Suppositions
Assuming the position
Of the fool on the hill
Insufflated tan powder
until my lungs deflated
And my face turned blue
To the face
To the face
To the face
The based line
And I paid the price
For my castigation
Brilliance dulling
Brilliant culling of the prefrontal lobe
The locus of new thoughts
The center of prediction
Now I’ve lost count
Of the thoughts I’ve lost count of
Forgotten the memories
I committed to memory
The etchings of my idiocy
I must repeat the thing I am trying to remember
At least three times
Or I will forget it
And so we’ve arrived
At what I’m trying to remember to forget
The bass line
The bass line
The base line