05.Mar.2001

10cc

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ripe.

I just stumbled into Ripe's diary. For the first time, perhaps, but madly searching through her archives I realised I had been there before; she alluded to smoking too much these days. I have a bottle of WRs to my side and a cigarette dangling out of my mouth. My stomach surges ever-so-often because of the WRs, also. It's only 12.5% alcohol, but ...

Traffic made me realise I have gone from one addiction to the next, then stubbornly back, only to do it again.
It makes me realize the vanity in all of us.
It makes me understand the vanity of being completely and shamelessly human.

That is the difference.

I am not ashamed of the things I've done, nor am I proud, but I've reached a point, with this cig lodged into my brain, that I accept myself in the strangest way.
Perhaps we as vain humans want everyone to accept us, nay, we demand they accept us; perhaps it's a heroin thing. Perhaps heroin was the catalyst.
Perhaps surmounting the strongest disease to grace the ill-fated planet makes us vain.
Perhaps I don't care.

I am now in love with Ripe.

During Traffic, there was a scene where Caroline, Douglas' daughter, had heroin injected into her foot for the first time.
I leaned over to Joe and whispered: 'Yeah, I used to shoot up between my toes.'
He just rather shook his head.

A lot of the times I don't think he believes me.
Because of falling out of NA, I haven't felt like believing myself much, either.
I am a biased narcotic.
My diary is my NA meeting.

I am tired; my stomach is getting violent. Joe went to bed early, as per usual. I should probably join him soon. He's been over-worked. He should spend the rest of the week sleeping.

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time & machine