(Phaysis)

I’m going to write about a dream. This morning, I had a fucked-up dream. I was in love; this girl and I were hanging out. Something small was in bloom. As dreams go, she dropped out of the plot as I went elsewhere.

I was in a big house, ostensibly a place I lived in. It was clean, the light was cold, the walls were white. Found a needle full of heroin. Someone told me to not inject it, but that’s exactly what I did. I walked off, found a vein in my left elbow, and shot up. Like it was nothing. Felt the cold warmth in my arm as it spread. Felt it take over. Felt it take control. I disposed of the needle and stumbled into my bedroom, fell into bed. Felt everything that’s ever been described to me: mental calm, inner peace, warmth, a sense of belonging, a feeling of love.

Maybe my life is so cold and lonesome that there’s an excess of the neurochemicals associated with belonging to something and being loved; that they manifest themselves in dreams. Sounds plausible. I also watched a movie last night with similar themes to the dream, so there’s that. Things like movies and shows always reassemble themselves into the plots of my dreams.

Everything is explained…except for the fact that I’d willingly shoot up heroin in a dream. Like it was natural. It’s a dream, so no consequences, I guess. Not something I’d like to do, ever, mostly out of the fear of sliding downhill, like I did with cigarettes. The first smoke came naturally, flourished in an environment of friendship and solidarity with other people, and slid down into a lonely 2-pack daily habit.

I never want to play with that kind of fire ever again. I want to feel loved, to feel like I belong, but not at that price. Never at that price.

Three days ago, I had a dream where I was hanging out, drinking or whatever. Surrounded by friends. And I managed to smoke up an entire pack of cigarettes. With much aplomb. I felt guilt, regret. Then I woke up, took a breath. Realized that it was only a dream.

After all of this time, the craving is still there; the hunger for the smell; the feel of breathing through a column of burning tobacco; the clench of the lungs; the rush. The addiction. It wanes, it gets forgotten, but every so often it rears its head and smiles. This carries a special poignancy with me today because, offically, this is my second anniversary as a non-smoker. February 18th, 2004 is when I quit for good. Borrowing a turn of phrase from reformed alcoholics, I am two years old. I could say it’s my second life, but this life is exactly the same as the life I had before I started smoking at age 23.

Do I regret quitting? Yes, of course. It was my crutch, my fixation. The heady buzz smoothed away my anxiety. But I’m damned happy that I quit. I can breathe now. I can dream now. I’m able to see and feel the benefits of quitting. It’s the final end to one of my most despicable acts of self-destruction. May that part of me be forever destroyed.

Rest In Peace, Shawn the Smoker. October 1995 – February 2004

As hoped, I made my return to Austin before midnight sunday night; it was 11pm exact when I cruised into my apartment’s lot. I made decent time on the drive: 6 hours, 24 minutes. In the past, that would have normally been six hours flat; now that I had a speeding ticket, I’m paying a little more attention to my speedometer. Ah well. My goal was to leave Texarkana before 5pm, and given the early start in the morning, I was well on my way towards that.

I woke up around 9:30-ish thanks to the kids (which was fine). I spent some time with them and my sister, then gathered my things, put on some clothes (the shower could wait), and hugged everyone goodbye.

On my way to my mother’s apartment I pulled into a nearby parking lot to pull out the laptop, plug in the wireless card, and do some wardriving. No sooner did I set up the system, I got a strong hit from one of the businesses near that lot, so I pulled up to the building and did my business: checked the weather for the road, posted a journal update, and checked my bank balance. I then disconnected, put the car in gear, and drove away towards a nearby ATM to pull some gift money.

I continued to mother’s apartment to take her out for a meal and some face time. I had plenty of time to kill, so I asked her to bring out her Florida photos and I brought my ACLFest photos. It’s good to hang out with my mother, but she keeps thanking me for coming to pay a visit; I’m just stymied that she does that. She gets so few visitors, I think that’s why she does it. But we spent some time catching up; she told me all about her Red Cross volunteer trip down to Florida to help out after hurricane Ivan, and we talked about her current illness. She can’t work right now, hasn’t been able to work for 3 weeks, and I worry about her. My own mother can’t work, and I’m out buying laptop bags and car stereos; is it right or wrong that I’m feeling guilt? But I left her with a gift of the only way that I can help: cash. I can’t bring her food or drive her to the store; money is the only way I can help.

I hugged her goodbye around 4:00 and went to a nearby quickmart to fill up the tank, get some road snacks, and went next door to pick up some motor oil. I reached the edge of town around 4:30pm. The trip home was smooth sailing.

Today, I got up and was late to work as usual. I took a shower this morning, but by noon I felt like the shower was completely wasted and negated. I think it might be best to take a shower after work. I spent most of today at the saddle-stitch end of the collator, away from everyone, so I had my laptop out and in jukebox mode; played mostly a random playlist. Got both of the book jobs done in good time. Had enough time afterwards to go sit at the table and do a sitdown job, so I checked print. Didn’t get to chat much today to catch up on Things, but that’s fine. There’s tomorrow.

At day’s end I left and got some food. With my belly full, I felt fat and bloated (it doesn’t take much these days), so I went home where I fell into the trap of doing absolutely nothing at all but play solitaire and listen to depressing ambient music. Finally got my ass moving at 10:30pm, and now I’m drinking coffee late at night and filling the intarweb with more drivel.

I keep having ideas about my programming projects, and about my music, and about my other creative outlets. But I can’t do them. My projects have become a serious hassle to me, a burden. They’re all in a “started” or “underway” state, and not one of them is finished. The desire to finish them, the need to finish them, is great and heavy, but it’s in that crush that I just can’t finish. The whole programming thing, I’m completely fried out, and this burnout is coming much too often. I go away for half a week, and nothing has changed. The Fire is just not there. My muses have let me down.

So. I’m home, I’m here, and I’m back to more of the same. Welcome home.