Posts tagged with "intoxication"

hair of the dog

I wish Trolley was here so we could play Starcraft 2 like we did when we lived on Island Park. I’d set up my laptop in his room — he’d have a beer and I’d have a joint — and we’d spend hours against some computers in Warcraft 3. Or he’d surf the web and listen to music while I wrote in this blog, sharing the apartment with his kitty and mine.

Those were the summers of No Motiv and Coheed and Cambria. The winters of Bel Canto and The Dears. I remember being happy then.

I wish Aaron and Trolley were here so we could get really, really drunk, even though I don’t drink anymore. Only when I wake up in the middle of the night, and all the thoughts I’ve been pushing into the back of my head come clawing out, leaving me with a restless mind. I pour a glass of Bailey’s on the rocks and practice scales until the alcohol makes me fall asleep again.

One time, we went to the Honest Lawyer to celebrate Aaron’s birthday. In our drunken haze, we thought it’d be a good idea to order some pizza when we got back to my apartment (there was a pizzeria right outside the side door). Aaron hurled in the garden rocks as we were waiting for the order. We brought him in, and gave him a pillow and towel cause he wanted to sleep in the bathroom. He told me later, “I only get that drunk when I’m really depressed”. Sounds good to me.

I wish my friends were here so we could drink like the old days, when we were between school and work, and women.

Hanging Party

I feel utterly intoxicated.

Reading poems around the piano

With a hammer and a ladder, we hung my pictures tonight, carefully deciding where to place each one to balance the colours, the orientations, the shapes, and the concepts.

Amongst the wine and the wood, the kids and the colours, we stopped to admire the art in the house. Adrienne dropped by to share her latest graphic poems with us, along with her alcoholic findings. “From The Desk Of” Penelope was written that day, dense and deep, full of details taken for granted. The words must write themselves, I thought.

Thumbnail: Poem reading
Thumbnail: My fruit and body series wall
Thumbnail: Old fashioned side-table
Thumbnail: Akio
Thumbnail: A hammer and a poem
Thumbnail: Old style heater
Thumbnail: Frederic and Akio
Thumbnail: Nicole Beaumont artwork
Thumbnail: Akio on the ladder
Thumbnail: Wine, ice, and salad

Misun and I seem to share a kinship through our appreciation of expression, something I’ve never had with my friends. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but I’ve always felt like they can’t relate to me when it comes to emotions or creativity. As I seem to be the creative brother she’s always wanted, and she seems to be the supportive sister I’ve always needed, we agreed to be adopted siblings.

In a recent interview, Frédéric said, in his ebullient Parisian accent, that one of the reasons he wanted to open the Salon is to promote dialogue and interaction. Perhaps it’s this hunger for dialogue that connects us. He also mentioned to me he was stressed out about being interviewed; being put on the spot made him freeze up. I told him I had the same problem with pretty girls. “You’re affected by beauty”, he said, something I knew, but not something that everyone understands.

I left, feeling like I was a part of something wonderful, something greater than myself.

A Year Of Sobriety

It’s coming close to a year now that I ended my affair with marijuana. As refreshing, productive, and lucid as it is to be sober, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t miss it.

THC has the delightful ability to make everything better: music, food, girls, writing, riding the bus, doing the laundry. There are also things that can only be appreciated after a joint. You don’t see, hear, feel things the same way.

It turned into a lifestyle, a word I like to use because it sounds so much better than “addiction”.

Between 2004–2006, I’d only be sober for about nine hours on weekdays.

Weekends were straight wake-and-bake, especially if there was a party, a camping trip, or some good old dim sum.

I was a complete light-weight too; it didn’t take much to have me floating for a night. As a result, one ounce of BC hydro would last me more than a year. An added bonus was that I never needed a dealer; there was always some convenient source through a friend of a friend. O Canada, land of the free, the Inuit, and the plentiful bud. I’m sure that Pierre Burton would agree.

Sessions were a habitual provider of great memories (from what my brain was actually able to retain). I still think of Darren at the wheel of the Civic, looking over at me and whispering “Vanilla Sky” as he’d taunt our mortality by letting the wheel drift the car into the oncoming lane. It was at once terrifying and invigorating, something you could only feel after a session in the park. Even a few of my favourite entries were either inspired by weed or written under the influence.

Food was also a big thing. Every meal was like nectar and ambrosia. I never really stopped eating over the course of the day, as I’d have food around me at all times. Pretty soon, I hit a satisfying all-time high (no pun intended) with my weight. Now that I’ve stopped, I lost it all. They won’t even let me donate blood anymore because I don’t meet the minimum weight requirements. This is what I looked like, circa early 2005, and this is what I looked like circa early weekend. How I miss the fullness of my face.

Sobriety is different. Everything is clearer, but toned down. Life gets evened out.

As much as I miss it, I won’t go back to smoking weed again. I had a hard enough time stopping in the first place, and the risk of getting addicted again isn’t worth it.

Maybe I was just getting older, but near the end, the side-effects started taking their toll on me.

Instead of the racing ideas and inspiration from when I started, I turned into a zoned-out waste. I’d be completely useless when it came to talking or thinking. I stopped liking myself when I was stoned. My stomach felt like it was slowly digesting a sack of pebbles, and my throat became sore and dry. Even now, I still come across the odd stash of honey lozenges in the back of a drawer.

It was especially scary in the last few months when I could feel my tolerance building up. I was constantly chasing after that head-tripping peak from the early days, smoking more and more, but it’d never last longer than a half hour. The weed would help me sleep, and when I stopped I turned into an insomniac. For a while, the will to do anything eluded me because nothing was entertaining.

Now I’ve quit my vices altogether. No alcohol, no caffeine, nothing. Sobriety is underrated.

I know I’ll never go back to that time in my life, but I sure do miss it.