For an individual such as myself, the road to transformation is a long and tedious one. Although I adapt well to changes in my environment, it takes eons for me to make the personal, more intimate changes necessary for me to grow and thrive into perpetuity.
I can sum it up like this: If I woke up tomorrow and everything was inside-out-- my room, my neighborhood, the city, the state, the nation, the world --I could go on without batting an eye. But if I woke up one morning and discovered I was in fact a giant insect (like Kafka's protagonist in Metamorphosis) then I figure it would take me some time to get used to it.
Sometime last year, I woke up and found that I was not whom I thought I'd been for at least the past five years. I was someone else entirely. I didn't recognize myself in the mirror. Something had changed. I tried to chalk it up to the ravages of age, but after a while it became clear that this sudden shifting of shapes had nothing to do with outer appearances.
No, instead it was something inside of me that was either born or killed off.
I haven't the slightest clue as to what was the catalyst for such a startling revelation, but I can tell you this: all attempts to explain it here in this blog have been in vain. I've combed the sands of my mind and soul for the past year and cannot put my finger on the defining moment, the impetus for this sweeping renovation of my psyche. I thought I knew what it was, but I have been wrong.
So I tried to catch up to that feeling. I grew out my hair, let my beard thicken, lost some weight, changed a few habits, and conducted myself as if I were not the person whose blog you've been reading for who know how long.
It is comparable to a reptile shedding an old skin.
*/*
I have embraced luck, as I detailed in my last blog entry.
So far it seems to be working. I can't say that I've had incredible fortunes befalling me since I decided to endorse the random postulates of pure chance, but then again shouldn't we all be suspect of any windfalls or rewards that seemingly appear without any reason? It smacks of the devil's work, the instant gratification that comes with the deal; the minute you sell your soul you begin to reap the benefits of that deal.
Well, I didn't sell my soul, so I didn't expect to win the Lotto or pick up a supermodel in a singles bar overnight. But I'm beginning to see the length of this new path I am traveling as the fog clears and the horizon line becomes more visible.
Accompanying this fresh journey into uncharted realms comes an entirely new accessory: control. For the first time in a great while, I feel like I have control over my life and the things in it. Not that I haven't had any control over my life up until recently; rather, I'd been too willing to relinquish control. Nowadays I don't ever entertain the idea of giving up the reins, and ironically it is functioning far smoother than my past attempts to steer and commandeer all those things over which I really have no control: other people, certain circumstances, genetics, transparent pecking orders, injustices, societal ills...
It's as if I have gained more control by accepting the fact that luck plays a far bigger role in the way our lives unfurl than if I'd kept hammering away at my preconceived notions of what is and what should be. The problem with hammering away is that I was a hypocrite, all too willing to say 'fuck it' and not accept responsibility for my actions after whining and moaning about how I am so responsible.
I was trying to have and also eat the proverbial cake.
If I have any advice to give anyone in any part of the world, it's this: make sure you're not trying to have it both ways. That more than anything is most surely the cause of your present misery and unhappiness. If you are trying to fit the square peg into the round hole, or trying to force two objects of equal mass to occupy the same space, you'd better stop right now because it ain't gonna happen.
No way.
You have to make the parts fit. You can't just jam it together artlessly, with no sense of decorum or harmony.
Dissonance is OK if you're a musician and your name happens to be Captain Beefheart or Phillip Glass or Glenn Branca or John Cage or Ornette Coleman. These talents understand noise, and can reproduce that noise at will. It seems random on the surface-- perhaps even a tad unlistenable --but it is tightly constructed and crafted. And if someone hears it and thinks it's a bunch of cacophony, then they have executed their work all too well.
Dissonance, however, is not OK if you are just an ordinary person living an ordinary life. And although I am a musician, I am not always a musician. Sometimes I pay bills or buy groceries. Sometimes I lay in bed with my cats and train them not to gnaw at the speaker wires connected to my stereo. Sometimes I am the funny uncle who plays with his niece and nephew even though he is tired and wants to relax.
In those situations, as well as a million others that occur daily, dissonance is the last quality I want to be present. But you cannot dispel dissonance with an edict or a command. It will not obey your orders, it will not do as you say.
As any musician with perfect pitch can tell you, the only way to get rid of dissonance is to tune your instrument.
*/*
I've been out of tune, off-key, behind the beat and out of the pocket. There was static in the line and something wasn't grounded right. I kept picking up stray radio waves and transmissions.
So I replaced the old strings with new ones, and cleaned the dirt off the neck and the frets. I changed the cables and re-soldered the pickups. I tuned up but I had to let the strings stretch for a bit. After some time, when the strings were acclimated, I changed to an open D tuning and riffed for a while.
My friends bought me some new amplifiers. They sat down with me and showed me some of their songs. I showed them some of mine.
And now a year has passed and I'm finally ready to play out with a whole new repertoire under my arm.
I have been reinventing myself, and it took a lot of time that I didn't think I had the patience to mind. I am not done reinventing myself, of course, but that's OK because at least now I know what it is I'm supposed to be doing.
So, with all that out of the way, I only have one question on my mind now:
Any requests?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
lucky
This week I came to understand the nature of my life and its twists and turns.
I always figured that "lucky" people were the ones who always made money in Las Vegas, or ended up picking up the hot girls in bars, or ended up inheriting a tidy sum from a distant uncle.
What I've come to realize is that the things I listed above are forms of luck, manifestations (if you will) of different types of fortune.
But to be lucky in the true sense is to be thrown back and forth between the opposing poles of good and bad circumstance, eventually finding the even path and regaining one's balance.
In that regard, I am truly a lucky person. And my good luck is always offset by bad luck, because that's how my life is and always will be.
I am lucky because I have never been out of money, and even though I am not rich on the other hand I've never been destitute.
I am lucky because I have a roof overhead that's cheaper to rent than most and is located in a quiet neighborhood. For what I pay, I have more space than some of my friends who pay more for approximately the same square footage.
I am lucky because, even though I am not in love or involved with anyone right now, it is better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all. Plus, I know the next time I fall in love it will be meaningful and real, deep and intense. I know this because every time I have ever been in love, it has been all of those things and more.
I am lucky because I have a family that cares for me and would help me out if I were really in a jam. Their love is unconditional, but at the same time it helps that they have never had to shake their heads in disgust at my behavior. For all of my partying and excess and criminal posturing, I am relatively a saint in their eyes. I have never caused them grief or heartache, and they even worry about me because they feel that I am too sensitive and "soft" for this world. But they trust me, and when I am down they are there to help me stand up on my own two feet again.
I am lucky because I get to do what I want to do every day, for the most part. Someone might say, "Well, you can't afford to just buy a plane ticket and fly to Europe" but to that I reply "That's because maybe I really don't want to do it that badly." And that is the truth, because if I really did want to go to Europe, I'd make it happen somehow. If it was that important to me, I'd quit the job and scrounge up the money and just go without thinking of anything else.
I've done it in the past with other things, and I still possess that insane edge, that fearless ability to take the risk and gamble on myself because there is a goal in sight.
And sometimes the gamble doesn't pay off, but more often than not it does pay off.
And that's why I am lucky.
And that's why I am glad to be alive.
Have a great weekend, folks. Watch the Oscars, make love, do whatever it is you have to do. Live your life as if it were the greatest adventure ever experienced.
On that note, here's one of my favorite Dylan tunes, a song that captures the lucky feeling I get when I'm living my life and loving it.
I always figured that "lucky" people were the ones who always made money in Las Vegas, or ended up picking up the hot girls in bars, or ended up inheriting a tidy sum from a distant uncle.
What I've come to realize is that the things I listed above are forms of luck, manifestations (if you will) of different types of fortune.
But to be lucky in the true sense is to be thrown back and forth between the opposing poles of good and bad circumstance, eventually finding the even path and regaining one's balance.
In that regard, I am truly a lucky person. And my good luck is always offset by bad luck, because that's how my life is and always will be.
I am lucky because I have never been out of money, and even though I am not rich on the other hand I've never been destitute.
I am lucky because I have a roof overhead that's cheaper to rent than most and is located in a quiet neighborhood. For what I pay, I have more space than some of my friends who pay more for approximately the same square footage.
I am lucky because, even though I am not in love or involved with anyone right now, it is better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all. Plus, I know the next time I fall in love it will be meaningful and real, deep and intense. I know this because every time I have ever been in love, it has been all of those things and more.
I am lucky because I have a family that cares for me and would help me out if I were really in a jam. Their love is unconditional, but at the same time it helps that they have never had to shake their heads in disgust at my behavior. For all of my partying and excess and criminal posturing, I am relatively a saint in their eyes. I have never caused them grief or heartache, and they even worry about me because they feel that I am too sensitive and "soft" for this world. But they trust me, and when I am down they are there to help me stand up on my own two feet again.
I am lucky because I get to do what I want to do every day, for the most part. Someone might say, "Well, you can't afford to just buy a plane ticket and fly to Europe" but to that I reply "That's because maybe I really don't want to do it that badly." And that is the truth, because if I really did want to go to Europe, I'd make it happen somehow. If it was that important to me, I'd quit the job and scrounge up the money and just go without thinking of anything else.
I've done it in the past with other things, and I still possess that insane edge, that fearless ability to take the risk and gamble on myself because there is a goal in sight.
And sometimes the gamble doesn't pay off, but more often than not it does pay off.
And that's why I am lucky.
And that's why I am glad to be alive.
Have a great weekend, folks. Watch the Oscars, make love, do whatever it is you have to do. Live your life as if it were the greatest adventure ever experienced.
On that note, here's one of my favorite Dylan tunes, a song that captures the lucky feeling I get when I'm living my life and loving it.
Monday, February 19, 2007
prayer
For the first time in my life, I am crying out for help.
The help I need is in the form of a prayer (or prayers).
I am asking everyone who reads this blog to say a prayer for me. I am hitting a new low in the trajectory of my life and I feel helpless and powerless, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to do anything about it.
Even if you are an atheist or doubt the existence of God or pray to some other deity or don't pray at all, please say one for me.
At this point, I'll take all the help I can get.
*/*
The cocaine problem never went away.
Instead, it took a hiatus. After the new year began I did go sober, and it lasted for quite a while. I went a whole month without buying anything. I was still using occasionally, especially when friends came over and wanted to get their fix of whatever in my apartment. But I was not spending money on it, and that was good.
I was done with the cocaine, and one of the things that kept me away was knowing that the stuff I'd been doing was total crap: cut beyond belief, to the extent that I could no longer bear the symptoms of the "comedown". My nose would burn as if on fire; my teeth and gums would ache and keep me awake when I was trying to sleep; my sinuses were blown out, and I kept blowing weird-looking pink mucus out of my nose for days after each coke binge.
Not wanting to feel so crappy made my decision much easier. I felt my sanity returning and my body was rejuvenating itself. I didn't need pot to fill the void, which was the one thing about sniffing coke that made me somewhat happy.
Then, I met Gerald.
*/*
That last sentence was a bit misleading.
I'd met Gerald years ago, when I was playing in Holly Golightly's band. Gerald was a friend of Ben, aka "Snake", the rhythm guitarist for the group.
Don't let the nickname "Snake" fool you-- Ben is a great guy and an honest man, and the "Snake" handle came about as a joke in a pool hall one night while hanging out with some friends. A stranger who wanted to shoot pool with Ben and his buddy asked if they were sharks, and Ben's friend made-up the name Snake for him, as if to imply that a guy named Snake should not be trusted when it came to playing billiards for money.
Anyway, Gerald came by Snake's house one day a few years ago. The band rehearsed at Snake's spacious mansion in the Santa Susana Pass slightly west of Topanga Canyon because no one ever complained about the noise and there was so much room for us to jam out and store our gear.
Gerald is in his mid-fifties, originally from Boston. He could be someone's dad or uncle if you didn't know him already. He likes to drink but on the surface you'd never know that not only does he like to get high but that he grows his own weed and sells it for relatively cheap.
The day he came over to watch us rehearse, Evan the drummer was late. There was always an excuse or crazy story with Evan, so we were not surprised at all by his tardiness. However, we were getting less and less tolerant of his flaky ways with each passing week.
Out of frustration and boredom, I announced that I would play on the drums until Evan showed up. I already knew my bass lines and didn't need to practice them right then and there. I'm not a very good drummer but I can keep time, and we'd already tried to practice without Evan but the lack of a backbeat made it difficult. Actually, to be honest, the members of the band just couldn't get into it without the drums providing the pulse.
So I sat down on the drum stool and ran through three songs to the best of my limited ability. It wasn't a great practice, but at least the others felt more comfortable with something as opposed to nothing. I was having fun trying to duplicate some of Evan's fills and drum parts, curious to see how long I could hold on before giving up out of exhaustion.
Afterwards, when Evan showed up and we ran through the entire set list, all of us went outside to relax and smoke and drink. Gerald came up to me, his breath reeking of beer, and patted me on the back, his salt-and-pepper mustache bouncing up and down as he complimented my drumming.
"You, kid..." he said, his Bostonian accent cutting sharp edges into his words, "You're a fuckin' genius! You drum better than the other guy! Seriously, no shit. I was totally floored by what you did in there. You just got up, grabbed the sticks, and bashed those fuckers in. You're the soul of this group, I'll tell ya!"
Of course, I was humble... at first. But the accolades kept coming, and I gradually let them sit with me inside my head.
"I try," I said after some time had passed and Gerald's praise had not relented in the slightest. "I'm not the best, but I'm not gonna let things like our drummer being late get in the way of..."
"Fuck that guy! You're the one who's going to go places! Everyone else in this group... they're good, don't get me wrong. But they don't got what you got-- even Ben, bless his soul. I bet you could outplay Ben on the axe any day."
"Well, I wouldn't say that..."
"I know you wouldn't. You're modest, that's why! You don't think you're the shit, but you are. You're the shit. Accept it already!"
Gerald pulled out a joint and gave it to me to light up. "I grew this myself, you know."
I took a pull off of it. "Damn," I coughed, "this is some good shit!"
"Hey, you deserve it, kid. You've got what it takes, I can feel it."
And that's how I met Gerald.
*/*
After that day I saw Gerald whenever he'd come to our shows. But that was near the end of our run as a band, and even though I kept in touch with everyone post-breakup I didn't see Gerald for years.
Then around the end of January I gave Snake a ride out to meet one of his friends in the West Valley. Snake was without a car and had to pay back some money he owed, and he asked me if I could help him.
I picked Snake up and asked if I could use his cel phone to call a friend who asked me to call him later in the evening. The friend told me that he had called the coke dealer we'd been scoring from but he wasn't going to be around until well after midnight. It was five after eight, and he wanted to know if I could go out and meet the guy where he was hanging out since I was already on the road.
"I don't know, man," I said over the phone. "I'm trying not to do it, and that's a long way to drive just for some yay." I used the slang abbreviation for llello, which is Spanish for cocaine.
Snake looked at me and motioned for me to hold the phone. "You're looking for some C?" Another slang term for the white stuff.
"I'm not-- this guy is," I said to Snake, pointing to the cel.
"Gerald's got some."
"Gerald? You mean East Coast Gerald?"
"Yeah. Let me call him. How much does he want?"
"Uh, I dunno... how much will Gerald sell?"
"$60 increments."
"Well, we already pay $40 for the other stuff, but that's because he won't do twenties anymore. How cut is Gerald's stuff?"
"Very pure. Not really cut. It's always the same, it never varies. Mild high, but it won't make you wanna rip your hair out."
I discussed the situation with my friend in the vaguest possible manner, and he agreed to give it a try. if it wasn't good stuff, he reasoned, then he could always call the other guy later on.
"OK, Snake," I said as I hung up the cel and gave it back to him. "Should we hit Gerald up before or after we make this errand?"
Snake laughed. "Actually, he's the one I'm going to see. You're taking me right to him."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Will he be cool with me asking?"
"Dude, he loves you. Remember?"
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Well, call him now and ask him if he can have it ready."
That night, I had a taste of Gerald's product, and it was amazing how different his stuff was compared to the other stuff: not hard on the nose, relatively pure, didn't smell like ether or gasoline, wasn't in rock form (it was granulated powder), and when it was all gone I was able to go to sleep!
And the next morning, it was as if I didn't do any at all. No aches and pains, no corroded pink earthworms lodged in my nose, and no burn.
I started buying it again, but from Gerald. I swore off the other shit, the cut shit. There were so many advantages to getting it from Gerald-- no more trips to the 'hood because Gerald lived in a nice suburban part of the Valley; no more long waits because Gerald was on time whenever I called him for an order; no more delays and being put off until the next day either.
I told myself I would only buy on the weekends, and I've pretty much kept up that end of my bargain with myself. But I also told myself that buying from Gerald would help me to wean off of the stuff. I reasoned that since it was the kind of high that I could walk away from and not think about until the weekend came, I could eventually learn to do without it at all.
On that point, I'm beginning to see that I was wrong.
*/*
The coke high, for me, is all about pure ego gratification.
Unlike other drugs, the pleasure comes not from reveling in the side effects. Rather, the pleasure comes from the sense of well-being that overcomes me when I do it. It's as if someone is patting me on the back and commending me for a job well done for a good half an hour. When the drug's effects start to wane, it's as simple as cutting up another line and inhaling it, and voila! I'm back to pretending that my ass is being kissed non-stop.
Other drugs seem to disable the ego, and therein lies their appeal. Marijuana causes euphoria and a sense of well-being, but not to the extent of cocaine. The pot high is more of an id gratification-- you do it because it feels good, not because you feel like you've accomplished anything. The ego is muted when I'm stoned, whereas the ego is overstimulated when I'm tweaking.
Acid, mushrooms, peyote-- those drugs are total ego destroyers. You have to let go of your self-esteem and all of its attachments in order to enjoy them. On the other hand, MDMA (Ecstasy) is like a mix of coke and pot in that it massages the ego but also causes you to surrender to your pleasure principle.
Adding to cocaine's insidious nature is the fact that (now that I am doing cleaner coke) I have more than doubled my intake. Although I can make it through the week and through a work shift without buying or doing any, I overcompensate on the weekends. Many friends and acquaintances have remarked on the amounts I snort when we are all together partying. These people have been doing it for much longer than me, and yet their eyes bulge out and their jaws drop when they see the gaggers I cut for them and myself. They take a look at the size of the lines I have prepared for them and insist on doing only half or a mere fraction. When they are done, I swoop down and finish off what they left on their plate, minutes after sniffing rails the size of my pinkie finger.
One night I did $100 worth straight to my head. By the end of my stash I could no longer get high-- if anything it was making me more tired instead of pepping me up. I told my guests that I was going to go to sleep and that they could stay for as long as they wanted just as long as they locked my door when they left.
I received a phone call less than an hour later from one of the guests, who left shortly after I retired for the night. He wanted to make sure that I was OK and that I hadn't died or gotten sick or choked on my own vomit or something horrible like that. I laughed and reassured them that I was fine, but when I hung up I took a look at myself in the mirror and saw that my face was fatigued and beaten. I looked old, weathered, like I'd aged ten years overnight.
On top of all of that, the shit's expensive. I am not in terrible financial trouble yet, but if I continue down this road I will be. Even at the height of my pot use I was not spending $100 in one sitting. And if I did ever spend $100 on weed, it lasted me for more than just a few hours-- $100 worth of grass could last me for a month if I was frugal with it.
Last week I was so happy because I'd been propositioned by a fellow cokehead and turned him down flat. He wanted to know if I wanted to split some with him and I refused, saying that if I was going to buy any it would be on the weekend. I felt good about not giving in, especially since Valentine's Day was coming and I was being inundated on all sides by love propaganda that usually makes me feel lonely and unwanted.
I held out until Saturday, and then I dropped close to $200 on the clean stuff. It was gone by Sunday morning, and I spent the rest of the day catching up on sleep and wondering how I could just waste my money like that when I have bills to pay, things to take care of and a life to live.
Even though it wasn't the cut stuff that had me using on a daily basis and even though I didn't have a hangover the next day, I still felt like utter shit.
*/*
And that's why I am pleading for your prayers, kind people.
I have not hit rock bottom yet, but I would like to spare myself the pain and embarrassment of losing everything I've worked so hard for over a drug habit.
I now fully understand the plight of every person I've ever met or known who found themselves in my shoes. I must admit, I could never comprehend why coke addicts couldn't exhibit any will power. And now, I cannot even understand my own lack of will power.
I am above this. I know better. I am not stupid. But yet I'm doing stupid things, and I cannot seem to make it stick whenever I tell myself to kick.
It's not over for me, so please keep me in your thoughts and root for me. I may not be able to hear your prayers, but they will reach me somehow.
I can't do it alone. I need to get away from the people who use it, from the people who sell it, from the people who are afraid to lecture me because they don't want to anger me.
I have to stop using it.
I have to.
The help I need is in the form of a prayer (or prayers).
I am asking everyone who reads this blog to say a prayer for me. I am hitting a new low in the trajectory of my life and I feel helpless and powerless, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to do anything about it.
Even if you are an atheist or doubt the existence of God or pray to some other deity or don't pray at all, please say one for me.
At this point, I'll take all the help I can get.
*/*
The cocaine problem never went away.
Instead, it took a hiatus. After the new year began I did go sober, and it lasted for quite a while. I went a whole month without buying anything. I was still using occasionally, especially when friends came over and wanted to get their fix of whatever in my apartment. But I was not spending money on it, and that was good.
I was done with the cocaine, and one of the things that kept me away was knowing that the stuff I'd been doing was total crap: cut beyond belief, to the extent that I could no longer bear the symptoms of the "comedown". My nose would burn as if on fire; my teeth and gums would ache and keep me awake when I was trying to sleep; my sinuses were blown out, and I kept blowing weird-looking pink mucus out of my nose for days after each coke binge.
Not wanting to feel so crappy made my decision much easier. I felt my sanity returning and my body was rejuvenating itself. I didn't need pot to fill the void, which was the one thing about sniffing coke that made me somewhat happy.
Then, I met Gerald.
*/*
That last sentence was a bit misleading.
I'd met Gerald years ago, when I was playing in Holly Golightly's band. Gerald was a friend of Ben, aka "Snake", the rhythm guitarist for the group.
Don't let the nickname "Snake" fool you-- Ben is a great guy and an honest man, and the "Snake" handle came about as a joke in a pool hall one night while hanging out with some friends. A stranger who wanted to shoot pool with Ben and his buddy asked if they were sharks, and Ben's friend made-up the name Snake for him, as if to imply that a guy named Snake should not be trusted when it came to playing billiards for money.
Anyway, Gerald came by Snake's house one day a few years ago. The band rehearsed at Snake's spacious mansion in the Santa Susana Pass slightly west of Topanga Canyon because no one ever complained about the noise and there was so much room for us to jam out and store our gear.
Gerald is in his mid-fifties, originally from Boston. He could be someone's dad or uncle if you didn't know him already. He likes to drink but on the surface you'd never know that not only does he like to get high but that he grows his own weed and sells it for relatively cheap.
The day he came over to watch us rehearse, Evan the drummer was late. There was always an excuse or crazy story with Evan, so we were not surprised at all by his tardiness. However, we were getting less and less tolerant of his flaky ways with each passing week.
Out of frustration and boredom, I announced that I would play on the drums until Evan showed up. I already knew my bass lines and didn't need to practice them right then and there. I'm not a very good drummer but I can keep time, and we'd already tried to practice without Evan but the lack of a backbeat made it difficult. Actually, to be honest, the members of the band just couldn't get into it without the drums providing the pulse.
So I sat down on the drum stool and ran through three songs to the best of my limited ability. It wasn't a great practice, but at least the others felt more comfortable with something as opposed to nothing. I was having fun trying to duplicate some of Evan's fills and drum parts, curious to see how long I could hold on before giving up out of exhaustion.
Afterwards, when Evan showed up and we ran through the entire set list, all of us went outside to relax and smoke and drink. Gerald came up to me, his breath reeking of beer, and patted me on the back, his salt-and-pepper mustache bouncing up and down as he complimented my drumming.
"You, kid..." he said, his Bostonian accent cutting sharp edges into his words, "You're a fuckin' genius! You drum better than the other guy! Seriously, no shit. I was totally floored by what you did in there. You just got up, grabbed the sticks, and bashed those fuckers in. You're the soul of this group, I'll tell ya!"
Of course, I was humble... at first. But the accolades kept coming, and I gradually let them sit with me inside my head.
"I try," I said after some time had passed and Gerald's praise had not relented in the slightest. "I'm not the best, but I'm not gonna let things like our drummer being late get in the way of..."
"Fuck that guy! You're the one who's going to go places! Everyone else in this group... they're good, don't get me wrong. But they don't got what you got-- even Ben, bless his soul. I bet you could outplay Ben on the axe any day."
"Well, I wouldn't say that..."
"I know you wouldn't. You're modest, that's why! You don't think you're the shit, but you are. You're the shit. Accept it already!"
Gerald pulled out a joint and gave it to me to light up. "I grew this myself, you know."
I took a pull off of it. "Damn," I coughed, "this is some good shit!"
"Hey, you deserve it, kid. You've got what it takes, I can feel it."
And that's how I met Gerald.
*/*
After that day I saw Gerald whenever he'd come to our shows. But that was near the end of our run as a band, and even though I kept in touch with everyone post-breakup I didn't see Gerald for years.
Then around the end of January I gave Snake a ride out to meet one of his friends in the West Valley. Snake was without a car and had to pay back some money he owed, and he asked me if I could help him.
I picked Snake up and asked if I could use his cel phone to call a friend who asked me to call him later in the evening. The friend told me that he had called the coke dealer we'd been scoring from but he wasn't going to be around until well after midnight. It was five after eight, and he wanted to know if I could go out and meet the guy where he was hanging out since I was already on the road.
"I don't know, man," I said over the phone. "I'm trying not to do it, and that's a long way to drive just for some yay." I used the slang abbreviation for llello, which is Spanish for cocaine.
Snake looked at me and motioned for me to hold the phone. "You're looking for some C?" Another slang term for the white stuff.
"I'm not-- this guy is," I said to Snake, pointing to the cel.
"Gerald's got some."
"Gerald? You mean East Coast Gerald?"
"Yeah. Let me call him. How much does he want?"
"Uh, I dunno... how much will Gerald sell?"
"$60 increments."
"Well, we already pay $40 for the other stuff, but that's because he won't do twenties anymore. How cut is Gerald's stuff?"
"Very pure. Not really cut. It's always the same, it never varies. Mild high, but it won't make you wanna rip your hair out."
I discussed the situation with my friend in the vaguest possible manner, and he agreed to give it a try. if it wasn't good stuff, he reasoned, then he could always call the other guy later on.
"OK, Snake," I said as I hung up the cel and gave it back to him. "Should we hit Gerald up before or after we make this errand?"
Snake laughed. "Actually, he's the one I'm going to see. You're taking me right to him."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Will he be cool with me asking?"
"Dude, he loves you. Remember?"
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Well, call him now and ask him if he can have it ready."
That night, I had a taste of Gerald's product, and it was amazing how different his stuff was compared to the other stuff: not hard on the nose, relatively pure, didn't smell like ether or gasoline, wasn't in rock form (it was granulated powder), and when it was all gone I was able to go to sleep!
And the next morning, it was as if I didn't do any at all. No aches and pains, no corroded pink earthworms lodged in my nose, and no burn.
I started buying it again, but from Gerald. I swore off the other shit, the cut shit. There were so many advantages to getting it from Gerald-- no more trips to the 'hood because Gerald lived in a nice suburban part of the Valley; no more long waits because Gerald was on time whenever I called him for an order; no more delays and being put off until the next day either.
I told myself I would only buy on the weekends, and I've pretty much kept up that end of my bargain with myself. But I also told myself that buying from Gerald would help me to wean off of the stuff. I reasoned that since it was the kind of high that I could walk away from and not think about until the weekend came, I could eventually learn to do without it at all.
On that point, I'm beginning to see that I was wrong.
*/*
The coke high, for me, is all about pure ego gratification.
Unlike other drugs, the pleasure comes not from reveling in the side effects. Rather, the pleasure comes from the sense of well-being that overcomes me when I do it. It's as if someone is patting me on the back and commending me for a job well done for a good half an hour. When the drug's effects start to wane, it's as simple as cutting up another line and inhaling it, and voila! I'm back to pretending that my ass is being kissed non-stop.
Other drugs seem to disable the ego, and therein lies their appeal. Marijuana causes euphoria and a sense of well-being, but not to the extent of cocaine. The pot high is more of an id gratification-- you do it because it feels good, not because you feel like you've accomplished anything. The ego is muted when I'm stoned, whereas the ego is overstimulated when I'm tweaking.
Acid, mushrooms, peyote-- those drugs are total ego destroyers. You have to let go of your self-esteem and all of its attachments in order to enjoy them. On the other hand, MDMA (Ecstasy) is like a mix of coke and pot in that it massages the ego but also causes you to surrender to your pleasure principle.
Adding to cocaine's insidious nature is the fact that (now that I am doing cleaner coke) I have more than doubled my intake. Although I can make it through the week and through a work shift without buying or doing any, I overcompensate on the weekends. Many friends and acquaintances have remarked on the amounts I snort when we are all together partying. These people have been doing it for much longer than me, and yet their eyes bulge out and their jaws drop when they see the gaggers I cut for them and myself. They take a look at the size of the lines I have prepared for them and insist on doing only half or a mere fraction. When they are done, I swoop down and finish off what they left on their plate, minutes after sniffing rails the size of my pinkie finger.
One night I did $100 worth straight to my head. By the end of my stash I could no longer get high-- if anything it was making me more tired instead of pepping me up. I told my guests that I was going to go to sleep and that they could stay for as long as they wanted just as long as they locked my door when they left.
I received a phone call less than an hour later from one of the guests, who left shortly after I retired for the night. He wanted to make sure that I was OK and that I hadn't died or gotten sick or choked on my own vomit or something horrible like that. I laughed and reassured them that I was fine, but when I hung up I took a look at myself in the mirror and saw that my face was fatigued and beaten. I looked old, weathered, like I'd aged ten years overnight.
On top of all of that, the shit's expensive. I am not in terrible financial trouble yet, but if I continue down this road I will be. Even at the height of my pot use I was not spending $100 in one sitting. And if I did ever spend $100 on weed, it lasted me for more than just a few hours-- $100 worth of grass could last me for a month if I was frugal with it.
Last week I was so happy because I'd been propositioned by a fellow cokehead and turned him down flat. He wanted to know if I wanted to split some with him and I refused, saying that if I was going to buy any it would be on the weekend. I felt good about not giving in, especially since Valentine's Day was coming and I was being inundated on all sides by love propaganda that usually makes me feel lonely and unwanted.
I held out until Saturday, and then I dropped close to $200 on the clean stuff. It was gone by Sunday morning, and I spent the rest of the day catching up on sleep and wondering how I could just waste my money like that when I have bills to pay, things to take care of and a life to live.
Even though it wasn't the cut stuff that had me using on a daily basis and even though I didn't have a hangover the next day, I still felt like utter shit.
*/*
And that's why I am pleading for your prayers, kind people.
I have not hit rock bottom yet, but I would like to spare myself the pain and embarrassment of losing everything I've worked so hard for over a drug habit.
I now fully understand the plight of every person I've ever met or known who found themselves in my shoes. I must admit, I could never comprehend why coke addicts couldn't exhibit any will power. And now, I cannot even understand my own lack of will power.
I am above this. I know better. I am not stupid. But yet I'm doing stupid things, and I cannot seem to make it stick whenever I tell myself to kick.
It's not over for me, so please keep me in your thoughts and root for me. I may not be able to hear your prayers, but they will reach me somehow.
I can't do it alone. I need to get away from the people who use it, from the people who sell it, from the people who are afraid to lecture me because they don't want to anger me.
I have to stop using it.
I have to.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
what is love?
So often in these blog pages I have questioned my own ability to love and be loved.
But I know now that I have the capacity for it.
I recently thought about the beginning of the spring of 2005, the night before Monique was supposed to fly home to Virginia. I was running late en route to the house where she was staying, and by the time I got to her front steps she was smoking a cigarette and waiting for me.
Monique said to me that she was tired, and that she just wanted to get to sleep so she could catch her plane in the morning, and that it was hard enough as it was leaving again without having to get all emotional over it. Then she looked at me and asked if I was upset.
My normal reaction on any ordinary day would've been to swallow, then restrain my hurt as I insist that it's no big deal and that it's OK. But that night, I had to admit that I was upset, because I didn't know if I would ever see her again after that.
But I didn't want to get angry either.
So I smiled, shook my head briefly, looked Monique in the eyes and said, "Yes, I am upset."
She smiled back. We embraced for a long time and shared one more kiss. I bid her adieu and drove home, slightly depressed but grateful for the two weeks we spent together.
The next day, she called me up in the early evening to tell me that she overslept and missed her flight. She re-booked it for a few days later.
We met each other later on and had us a proper going-away celebration that night. And after she finally did leave for real, I wondered if she really missed her flight or if she intentionally stayed behind in order to give me what she figured she might have owed me.
Ultimately, I decided that she didn't owe me anything, and chalked up her delayed departure to circumstance... but I always felt good about speaking my heart to her at that moment. Even if it wasn't the primary motivation behind her re-scheduled trip, I think it might have helped her to accept her situation with more grace at the very least.
It was one of the few times in my life when I did not let my defenses get the best of me. Yes, I was upset-- but the smile was to show her that it really was OK if she had to go and was too exhausted to be with me.
She expected me to pout and sulk. When I didn't, it reaffirmed something for her, and it surprised me that I didn't hesitate to bare my soul so frankly.
Thinking about that moment has made an otherwise lonely Valentine's Day week much more tolerable. I know I have it in me, if I'd only give myself the chance.
I'm calling her tomorrow morning, to let her know that I will be visiting her in a couple of months. I hope she will be glad to hear that.
Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!
But I know now that I have the capacity for it.
I recently thought about the beginning of the spring of 2005, the night before Monique was supposed to fly home to Virginia. I was running late en route to the house where she was staying, and by the time I got to her front steps she was smoking a cigarette and waiting for me.
Monique said to me that she was tired, and that she just wanted to get to sleep so she could catch her plane in the morning, and that it was hard enough as it was leaving again without having to get all emotional over it. Then she looked at me and asked if I was upset.
My normal reaction on any ordinary day would've been to swallow, then restrain my hurt as I insist that it's no big deal and that it's OK. But that night, I had to admit that I was upset, because I didn't know if I would ever see her again after that.
But I didn't want to get angry either.
So I smiled, shook my head briefly, looked Monique in the eyes and said, "Yes, I am upset."
She smiled back. We embraced for a long time and shared one more kiss. I bid her adieu and drove home, slightly depressed but grateful for the two weeks we spent together.
The next day, she called me up in the early evening to tell me that she overslept and missed her flight. She re-booked it for a few days later.
We met each other later on and had us a proper going-away celebration that night. And after she finally did leave for real, I wondered if she really missed her flight or if she intentionally stayed behind in order to give me what she figured she might have owed me.
Ultimately, I decided that she didn't owe me anything, and chalked up her delayed departure to circumstance... but I always felt good about speaking my heart to her at that moment. Even if it wasn't the primary motivation behind her re-scheduled trip, I think it might have helped her to accept her situation with more grace at the very least.
It was one of the few times in my life when I did not let my defenses get the best of me. Yes, I was upset-- but the smile was to show her that it really was OK if she had to go and was too exhausted to be with me.
She expected me to pout and sulk. When I didn't, it reaffirmed something for her, and it surprised me that I didn't hesitate to bare my soul so frankly.
Thinking about that moment has made an otherwise lonely Valentine's Day week much more tolerable. I know I have it in me, if I'd only give myself the chance.
I'm calling her tomorrow morning, to let her know that I will be visiting her in a couple of months. I hope she will be glad to hear that.
Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!
Monday, February 12, 2007
???
I really don't know why, and I don't think trying to explain it would help... but I am happier right now than I have been in a long, long time.
Analyzing and trying to rationalize it only serve to de-mystify it. I have no answers, no solutions, no way of knowing how this happened or why.
All I know is, I'm sharing it with anyone out there who still bothers to read this.
Take care!
Analyzing and trying to rationalize it only serve to de-mystify it. I have no answers, no solutions, no way of knowing how this happened or why.
All I know is, I'm sharing it with anyone out there who still bothers to read this.
Take care!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
twilight
For my birthday my mother bought me two books: Volumes One and Two of a short collection entitled Richard Matheson's The Twilight Zone Scripts. I felt it was probably the best gift I received for my birthday this year, which is saying a lot because overall this year's proceedings went well.
I always forget how much I love The Twilight Zone. I loved it as a kid and I still love it as an adult. It has a timeless quality, a classic tableau of iconography and imagery attached to its fame and legacy.
A little known fact: Rod Serling, as well as other TZ writers like Charles Beaumont and the aforementioned Matheson, was a huge inspiration on my writing. Rod Serling was an excellent wordsmith whose imagination was rivaled only by those he handpicked to write on his show, like Beaumont and Matheson. His public image (dapper attire, pinched voice, cigarette in hand) overshadows his talent as one of the few Golden Age of Television "teleplaywrights" that ever became prominent.
What is a "teleplaywright", you may be asking yourself? It is exactly what it sounds like: a playwright whose works were written specifically for television. The word "teleplay" is still in use, only nowadays the people who create these teleplays are merely referred to as writers. But in the '50s Rod Serling elevated the art of the teleplay to such a level that he could accurately be labeled a teleplaywright.
Times were much, much different back then: Television was a brand new frontier, and the potential for TV to offer audiences more than just mindless programming was still there. Can you believe during those years, when Serling was cutting his teeth on shows like CBS' Playhouse 90, that once upon a time plays of a theatrical caliber were being broadcast on live television?
How far we have fallen as a race of humans that we cannot conceive of anything like that happening today. Watching a play on TV? Sounds boring, especially to anyone under the age of 40. Plus, with all the fucking commercials blaring at us from our TiVo-powered HDTV sets, who could even enjoy a play being shown on the air anyway? A play is far too intimate for the narrow confines of today's prime-time TV mentality.
If Serling had a drawback, it was his tendency to polemicize. He could get too wordy with his dialogue, and had a tendency to hit people over the head with his messages, whether they were cultural, social or political. Indeed, even his best teleplays for TZ are hopelessly dated and peppered with references to McCarthyism and Castro... not that those points of reference mar the beauty of his words or the potency of his finest creation, a show that lasted for five seasons, won many awards, showcased dozens of talented actors and writers, and has endured throughout the ages thanks to its loyal fan base, of which I am a proud member.
*/*
We all have our favorites, don't we?
The episode that scared the living hell out of you as a youngster, the one that made you laugh, the one you didn't understand fully until you came of age, or the one that mesmerized you because of its surreal set design and lighting...
Yes, we all have our favorites.
Mine is "Eye Of The Beholder": "No change! No change at all!"
A show like TZ is so famous and recognizable that all I have to do is quote one line from the episode and you know which one I'm talking about.
How about "To Serve Man"? "It's a cookbook!"
And of course, "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet" starring pre-Star Trek William Shatner: "There's a man out there!"
Then there's the lesser known favorites of mine, the most outstanding in my mind being "The Obsolete Man", a terrific political fable that condemned totalitarianism and fascism with a moral authority that I wish to God still existed in this day and age, when we need it most.
To quote from Serling's introduction to that episode:
"This is not a new world-- it is simply an extension of what began in the old one. It has patterned itself after every dictator who has ever planted the ripping imprint of a boot on the pages of history since the beginning of time. It has refinements, technological advancements, and a more sophisticated approach to the destruction of freedom. But like every one of the superstates that preceded it, it has one iron rule: logic is an enemy and truth is a menace."
Does that ring a bell? Almost sounds like he's talking about our current political climate, doesn't it?
The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.
I loved "The Obsolete Man" when I first saw it because it was very Kafka-esque, evoking a claustrophobic vision of a future far more frightening than pig-nosed doctors or gremlins on the wing. Whenever I have the extreme pleasure of watching this episode again, I am moved not only by the gravity of the performances (Fritz Weaver as The Chancellor and Burgess Meredith, better known as the hapless bookworm from the classic TZ episode "Time Enough At Last", playing The Obsolete Man) but also the eloquence of the dialogue. It was written as a teleplay but could easily be performed by two actors on a bare stage anywhere in the free-thinking world.
Ultimately, this episode only revolves around the dynamic between Weaver's cruel autocrat and Meredith's humane librarian, and the episode's resolution remains a strong and searing rebuke of the nihilism that poisons the minds of so many people living in the world today. Unlike other episodes, where the O. Henry-style twist knocks everyone off their feet in the third act, the reversal of fortunes in "The Obsolete Man" hammer home one of the few political statements that Serling ever made that is more relevant today than it was when he first made them.
When The Chancellor realizes that he has been rendered "obsolete" by the very panel he was once a part of, his denials fall upon callous, indifferent ears. As he meets his fate, Serling steps in and delivers the final word:
"The late Chancellor was only partly correct. He was obsolete. But so was the State, the entity he worshipped. Any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of man... that state is obsolete. A case to be filed under M for mankind in The Twilight Zone."
Where are people like Rod Serling now when we really, really need them?
*/*
I just found out today, while doing some pre-blog research, that Rod Serling suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for the rest of his life following his tour of duty in the military near the end of WWII.
In other words, Rod Serling lived in his own Twilight Zone.
So did Richard Matheson, for that matter. As evidenced by the two volumes my parents bought me for my birthday, Matheson (in his own words) was an imaginative weirdo, always looking for the strangest angle on everyday things we all take for granted. What would happen if you looked out the window of an airplane and saw a man on the wing? What if a WWI flying ace traveled through time and landed at a modern-day Air Force base? How would you feel if one day you were alone in your office at work and suddenly you heard a man yell out "Cut!" and you turned around and realized that you were right in the middle of a movie set?
Matheson was the creative genius of the three main writers. If Serling was the The Twilight Zone's superego and Charles Beaumont its tortured id, then Matheson was the confident ego, an extremely visceral storyteller with a gift for finding the most far-out concept and making it seem plausible.
And speaking of Beaumont, let's not forget about the dark star of this sci-fi fantasy triumvirate. Beaumont was easily the most fucked-up of the three main writers whose scripts provided the basic structure for the series. Raised by an abusive mother who punished him in bizarre ways such as killing his pets and forcing him to dress up like a girl, Beaumont was a twisted talent whose contributions to the show were populated by world-weary, desperate characters who had already gone to the brink and back, sometimes on some chimerical quest to try and make things right again.
More often than not, Beaumont's characters wanted to die, although sometimes (as in the case of Kevin McCarthy in "Long Live Walter Jameson") they wanted to cheat death as well. Either way, man's mortality was the main focus of Beaumont's best TZ teleplays.
Beaumont not only lived in The Twilight Zone with Serling and Matheson, but he wanted to escape, perhaps more than the others did. When he died in 1967 at the age of 38, due to complications brought on by either Alzheimer's Disease or a continuation of the meningitis he suffered as a young boy, perhaps he finally made that escape.
All this confirms for me that the maxim about writing what you know is not only true, but applies to even the unlikeliest authors in regards to their work. One might be tempted to ask how a science fiction or fantasy writer could possibly write about what he or she knows when what they are writing about is not even real sometimes, but it is plain to see that the personality of a writer automatically injects itself into his work whether he knows it or not. Therefore, even if a writer is inventing imaginary worlds or creating characters that could never exist realistically, it is still a part of them because it sprang from their minds and from their hearts.
Maybe that's why I like The Twilight Zone so much: because I live in The Twilight Zone as well, but only I live on a different block and my rent is much cheaper.
And now, as an added bonus: The final episode that ever aired during the original run of The Twilight Zone, which in actuality was a French short film adaptation of Ambrose Bierce's short story "An Occurrrence At Owl Creek Bridge"...
I always forget how much I love The Twilight Zone. I loved it as a kid and I still love it as an adult. It has a timeless quality, a classic tableau of iconography and imagery attached to its fame and legacy.
A little known fact: Rod Serling, as well as other TZ writers like Charles Beaumont and the aforementioned Matheson, was a huge inspiration on my writing. Rod Serling was an excellent wordsmith whose imagination was rivaled only by those he handpicked to write on his show, like Beaumont and Matheson. His public image (dapper attire, pinched voice, cigarette in hand) overshadows his talent as one of the few Golden Age of Television "teleplaywrights" that ever became prominent.
What is a "teleplaywright", you may be asking yourself? It is exactly what it sounds like: a playwright whose works were written specifically for television. The word "teleplay" is still in use, only nowadays the people who create these teleplays are merely referred to as writers. But in the '50s Rod Serling elevated the art of the teleplay to such a level that he could accurately be labeled a teleplaywright.
Times were much, much different back then: Television was a brand new frontier, and the potential for TV to offer audiences more than just mindless programming was still there. Can you believe during those years, when Serling was cutting his teeth on shows like CBS' Playhouse 90, that once upon a time plays of a theatrical caliber were being broadcast on live television?
How far we have fallen as a race of humans that we cannot conceive of anything like that happening today. Watching a play on TV? Sounds boring, especially to anyone under the age of 40. Plus, with all the fucking commercials blaring at us from our TiVo-powered HDTV sets, who could even enjoy a play being shown on the air anyway? A play is far too intimate for the narrow confines of today's prime-time TV mentality.
If Serling had a drawback, it was his tendency to polemicize. He could get too wordy with his dialogue, and had a tendency to hit people over the head with his messages, whether they were cultural, social or political. Indeed, even his best teleplays for TZ are hopelessly dated and peppered with references to McCarthyism and Castro... not that those points of reference mar the beauty of his words or the potency of his finest creation, a show that lasted for five seasons, won many awards, showcased dozens of talented actors and writers, and has endured throughout the ages thanks to its loyal fan base, of which I am a proud member.
*/*
We all have our favorites, don't we?
The episode that scared the living hell out of you as a youngster, the one that made you laugh, the one you didn't understand fully until you came of age, or the one that mesmerized you because of its surreal set design and lighting...
Yes, we all have our favorites.
Mine is "Eye Of The Beholder": "No change! No change at all!"
A show like TZ is so famous and recognizable that all I have to do is quote one line from the episode and you know which one I'm talking about.
How about "To Serve Man"? "It's a cookbook!"
And of course, "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet" starring pre-Star Trek William Shatner: "There's a man out there!"
Then there's the lesser known favorites of mine, the most outstanding in my mind being "The Obsolete Man", a terrific political fable that condemned totalitarianism and fascism with a moral authority that I wish to God still existed in this day and age, when we need it most.
To quote from Serling's introduction to that episode:
"This is not a new world-- it is simply an extension of what began in the old one. It has patterned itself after every dictator who has ever planted the ripping imprint of a boot on the pages of history since the beginning of time. It has refinements, technological advancements, and a more sophisticated approach to the destruction of freedom. But like every one of the superstates that preceded it, it has one iron rule: logic is an enemy and truth is a menace."
Does that ring a bell? Almost sounds like he's talking about our current political climate, doesn't it?
The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.
I loved "The Obsolete Man" when I first saw it because it was very Kafka-esque, evoking a claustrophobic vision of a future far more frightening than pig-nosed doctors or gremlins on the wing. Whenever I have the extreme pleasure of watching this episode again, I am moved not only by the gravity of the performances (Fritz Weaver as The Chancellor and Burgess Meredith, better known as the hapless bookworm from the classic TZ episode "Time Enough At Last", playing The Obsolete Man) but also the eloquence of the dialogue. It was written as a teleplay but could easily be performed by two actors on a bare stage anywhere in the free-thinking world.
Ultimately, this episode only revolves around the dynamic between Weaver's cruel autocrat and Meredith's humane librarian, and the episode's resolution remains a strong and searing rebuke of the nihilism that poisons the minds of so many people living in the world today. Unlike other episodes, where the O. Henry-style twist knocks everyone off their feet in the third act, the reversal of fortunes in "The Obsolete Man" hammer home one of the few political statements that Serling ever made that is more relevant today than it was when he first made them.
When The Chancellor realizes that he has been rendered "obsolete" by the very panel he was once a part of, his denials fall upon callous, indifferent ears. As he meets his fate, Serling steps in and delivers the final word:
"The late Chancellor was only partly correct. He was obsolete. But so was the State, the entity he worshipped. Any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of man... that state is obsolete. A case to be filed under M for mankind in The Twilight Zone."
Where are people like Rod Serling now when we really, really need them?
*/*
I just found out today, while doing some pre-blog research, that Rod Serling suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for the rest of his life following his tour of duty in the military near the end of WWII.
In other words, Rod Serling lived in his own Twilight Zone.
So did Richard Matheson, for that matter. As evidenced by the two volumes my parents bought me for my birthday, Matheson (in his own words) was an imaginative weirdo, always looking for the strangest angle on everyday things we all take for granted. What would happen if you looked out the window of an airplane and saw a man on the wing? What if a WWI flying ace traveled through time and landed at a modern-day Air Force base? How would you feel if one day you were alone in your office at work and suddenly you heard a man yell out "Cut!" and you turned around and realized that you were right in the middle of a movie set?
Matheson was the creative genius of the three main writers. If Serling was the The Twilight Zone's superego and Charles Beaumont its tortured id, then Matheson was the confident ego, an extremely visceral storyteller with a gift for finding the most far-out concept and making it seem plausible.
And speaking of Beaumont, let's not forget about the dark star of this sci-fi fantasy triumvirate. Beaumont was easily the most fucked-up of the three main writers whose scripts provided the basic structure for the series. Raised by an abusive mother who punished him in bizarre ways such as killing his pets and forcing him to dress up like a girl, Beaumont was a twisted talent whose contributions to the show were populated by world-weary, desperate characters who had already gone to the brink and back, sometimes on some chimerical quest to try and make things right again.
More often than not, Beaumont's characters wanted to die, although sometimes (as in the case of Kevin McCarthy in "Long Live Walter Jameson") they wanted to cheat death as well. Either way, man's mortality was the main focus of Beaumont's best TZ teleplays.
Beaumont not only lived in The Twilight Zone with Serling and Matheson, but he wanted to escape, perhaps more than the others did. When he died in 1967 at the age of 38, due to complications brought on by either Alzheimer's Disease or a continuation of the meningitis he suffered as a young boy, perhaps he finally made that escape.
All this confirms for me that the maxim about writing what you know is not only true, but applies to even the unlikeliest authors in regards to their work. One might be tempted to ask how a science fiction or fantasy writer could possibly write about what he or she knows when what they are writing about is not even real sometimes, but it is plain to see that the personality of a writer automatically injects itself into his work whether he knows it or not. Therefore, even if a writer is inventing imaginary worlds or creating characters that could never exist realistically, it is still a part of them because it sprang from their minds and from their hearts.
Maybe that's why I like The Twilight Zone so much: because I live in The Twilight Zone as well, but only I live on a different block and my rent is much cheaper.
And now, as an added bonus: The final episode that ever aired during the original run of The Twilight Zone, which in actuality was a French short film adaptation of Ambrose Bierce's short story "An Occurrrence At Owl Creek Bridge"...
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