What kind of savior hides in the night? A wolf, you know your history, when all you see, the wolf. You can't count the sheep. Not long ago I escaped. I wish I could say the same for my brother, as well as for all of those who followed the glory of "Trainspotting". I now live in a neighborhood, or at least it meets all the criteria on a checklist for a neighborhood, changed for all time. Consumed, riding a wave of devastation. Continuing as the only hope to some day count the sheep. When does the counting stop? When do the sheep come back? When do I fall asleep? The sickness is so accepted in the town. You can walk into a bar on a sunny afternoon only to find yourselves in the middle of a funeral. Another soul O.D.'d waxing the devil. The first death not near enough. The followings figuring a way to outdo their ends and create shrines for those who will go before them, never acknowledging a different way through life. Their own little Waco, Helter Skelter, their glorious fifteen minutes of fame that will die with all of them. I don't find it tragic anymore. In fact, I accept without any rationality this existence in the sewer, without any sense of smell, this as my way of life.
Many stages ago, I played without a sense of smell. The three monkeys. My family and me. It was tough back then. I'd get beat up just for catching a larger fish. Hell, never thought about loneliness. Never had to, There was always someone around the corner, something to do. Trouble back then was the ones on the corner with the cigarettes. Even then it really led to no more than some tough talk. "Fuck you, too," was about all the desperate measures needed to get out of a mess. I never comprehended a heroin death. The slow death, the insanity of the gripping illusions, delusions and denial of the very essence of life itself. Looking back today it feels like I once had a silver spoon. Oh, I had it easy. Once in a while I'd have to harbor friends from their monster parents. Ready to swing at all that moved. Understanding the world was against them, I'd always though I'd be receiving something good for my deeds.
I remember my second hit of heroin. Everything surreal. Justifying the effects, the power I possessed over the drug, and even greater, the power I possessed over my life. I knew at that very moment how many sheep I had in my fields. Everyone knew me. I was the complete one. My sleep was well-deserved. I had accomplished more that day than any other day.
My blood rushed through my veins the following morning. Was this the effect they forgot to tell me about? God, I needed it again. I needed to see the light. It was the way, it was all my dreams. My invisible self. So cheap the balloon. Why did my friend, my friend, cut me off? What? Screw him, I had every right to do this as much as he did. Who the hell is he?
There's nothing worse than realizing a way of life after you've lost a loved one. The day you can't reverse. The path you choose to take. Why denounce a religion that is merely annoying for one that guarantees death? I will always welcome the black plague. I will always drink the black plague. I can no longer move on and walk to another community. This is a community I helped create, I helped sow. I accepted my heroin America. My illusionary rockets. I took your weary and ripped what was left of their soul. I cannot, no longer blame others for my loneliness. I have isolated myself.
Think of the struggle of the average American kid getting pulled in the media-ridden sense of making it in society. The posted child for a bus ad. Rail-thin and swollen eyes. Destitute genocide. Media control as a way to crop the world and remove the dead wood. "Yeah, have fun cheap, yeah. Keep going, have fun. What? What are you still doing around? Here, this one's on the house." Mother, the media killed your son. The day the media played mom. Mother, don't give up. The trials of a mother to stand against the media.
All this to finally realize what it means to cry tears with Marvin Gaye. Was it worth it? I didn't have to find out this bad the depth of my soul, the strength of my heart. My passion is gone, my sadness is unknown. For I can no longer sense the true depth of my soul. I never had the glory of knowing it was from love lost. Only that it was from mere destruction. A superficial construct eluding me still to this day.
A mother struggles on the gates at the gates of dawn. Only to end the day in desolation. All but the pilot light doused from expended energy. I swear if this could be harnessed it would rival any energy which fusion could generate. Not knowing when the head hit the pillow, only that the last thought was that it will be pursued again. Each day of breath. What makes this happen? That a mother should move so hard, so swift in action - at least a mother who's not drank the devil and run with the wolves. I don't know which is worse, a mother who runs with the wolves or swims with the fish. Mother Mary pray for me, pray for my mother. Let me not be the death of her. She's the only one who can validate I have a heart, the only one who can confirm the depth of my soul.
The cool needle draws the blood and surrounds me in amniotic fluid. Once again I recite the old testament in pure bliss. So-full satisfaction. It's all good, mother, there's no reason to worry. I've taken care of it all. I helped myself. I permanently satisfied a resolution. The highway was too long. The roads too lonely. My way was right for me in the end. The letter read. No faith was here. Life could no longer contain answers. All was easier done, over. Enough speaking. A decision was made. A unanimous decision of one, by one, for one. There could be no tie. I could no longer shed tears. Maybe I have. Maybe they're still on their way. Arriving someday. I must be patient, maybe the journey is longer than I give credit.
The burial was simple. "Don't have the money to get home. Will visit the grave at another time. Love, your son." I took solace in the fact that I sent it via Western Union. An old-fashion telegram. Made the distance seem greater. Hell, if the illusion didn't work possibly the nostalgia was cool enough to remove their minds from me. It made me feel better. The fox once again gets his way in the hen house. I hadn't realized I was coughing so much. Damn, when'd this all start? Another hit and it'll all go away. It's not so easy being blue.
A day at a time. The seconds hurt, not one out of sixty missed. A hot day in the desert. Mind games until the water arrives. God it would be so easy to drop down and die right here. What is keeping me going? I have come far enough so that I can remember the effects, the physical nature of why I quit. I just know that behind me is something I don't want to see, visit, or otherwise ingest again. It was like a bad woman. The Queen of Swords. You wake up one day to realize this wasn't the person you met. This wasn't the person you were led to believe. It was all a joke, a folly to occupy someone's boredom. What the hell do you say to that? The fear is about the only reason not to go back. The elevator hit the bottom. It don't get any lower than this. Down is done. It's so bad, the only relief is that it's done moving. Everything... quiet. Like sitting in a Lexus next to Niagara Falls. Everything deathly quiet. So out of place. This is not home.
I clearly remember the day it broke. Pop, then the sweat. The skin still blue. Only starting its natural color. So much around. Everything confusing. Like a 25-year convict released from prison, everything is different from when you entered. The key is not to get caught in the confusion. Its grasp will only throw you back. Talk about blind faith. What about blind faith? How can I talk about something I can't see? I don't have control over my life. I'm not responsible enough yet. One, two, three... It's all about me. It's not until months, years later that life is around, I must keep telling myself.
Motown emotions. An evening spot on the news: "Heroin use is higher in the Bay area than anywhere in the U.S." It sounds as though they're proud of this. Use? What's this use? It's abuse. The rhetoric to appeal to all, only for one night, never to be addressed again. I guess this was enough to ease fears. Possibly like the way all else is treated. The Band-Aid that patches visible holes. Loneliness is a disease. Terminal, yet treated as a superficial wound.
An article in the paper: "Bad heroin is being distributed in the Bay area." Folks, go back to your regular suppliers. The devils you trust. I guess we all have a right to life.
Enough said to satisfy the need for responsibility. A day in the life.
© 1998 Jim DiZoglio.
All rights reserved.Jim DiZoglio was born and raised in Rhode Island. He graduated from Boston University with a degree in mathematics and currently resides in San Francisco. He is a software engineer who used to program video games, most notably Falcon 4.0 and ESPN Baseball, and is currently employed by the copy protection company, Macrovision.