Honeysuckle Lane

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
Art was the end that justified the means; however depraved they may have seemed to an outside observer.

Submitted: January 29, 2010

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Submitted: January 29, 2010

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Art was the end that justified the means; however depraved they may have seemed to an outside observer.Many mornings I’d awake in the throws of a nauseating tempest of regret, anxiety, and impending doom------ an early morning product of last night’s black out.These feelings were fleeting at best.Before I’d leave my room of a morning, I’d down a Heineken from a pad locked mini-fridge and smoke a bowl from a Pyrex bong I kept displayed atop my desk------ an important part of a balanced breakfast.Usually I’d awake to the sonorous strum of guitar strings or the static hiss of distortion seething from Sleepy’s amp; it was his poetic grievances that served as the soundtrack of our lives.Sometimes it was Knowledge that was up first.I’d hear hi in the living room flicking his lighter, coughing, sometimes throwing up in the bathroom across the hall.Despite the distraction, it was during these mornings that I was able to write with a depth and dimension that stands unparalleled even to this day.
It was Sleepy, Knowledge, and myself that lived together in the three-bedroom house on Honeysuckle Ln.With our pink eyes and resin stained finger tips, we were a colorful mosaic of tattoos and piercings, skinny jeans, tight offensive tees, big belt buckles and mesh-backed trucker hats------ the picture of promising youth, the type of kids you’d want to hire to house sit.The house was spacious and open, it was old and dignified, retaining most of the charm it must have possessed in the era it was built.I loved that house.I love it like the cedar tree in my grandmother’s front yard where I spend the majority of my childhood swinging.To picture it in my mind inspires within me a sudden and sharp pang of nostalgia.To say we kept the house clean would be a lie, the say we tried would be more accurate, to say we failed miserably would be the truth.The house was littered with beer bottles, guitar picks, seeds and stems, books, roaches, various forms of paraphernalia, c.d.s, and here and there you’d notice, in the top of the trash, a used condom------- displayed like a trophy of newly conquered frontiers, the exploitation of some poor girls inability to just say no.This was, generally, a less attractive class of scatter than that which you’d find at other places of similar disorganization.
Knowledge was a photographer, an artistic photographer; highly sensitive to the power of visual stimuli.He had this extraordinary gift for recognizing and representing the aesthetic value in what others would consider as perverse and loathsome.His photos changed people’s minds.He made it his life’s mission to capture the essence of and glorify the image or our chemical counter culture and he did it without words, through the abstract and highly subjective craft of photography.I remember countless parties and concerts, raves, Bohemian festivals of the “Flower Power” variety, art exhibitions, college campuses, even skate competitions at times------ Knowledge would take pictures and I’d soak up the experience, collecting ideas to fuel my pen. He was able to sell many of his photos, some to High Times magazine, some to Spin, Rolling Stone, and assortment of online publications, many were printed as posters and sold I head shops and noveltystores in the area, but most were peddled independently through a store he opened on EBay.I remember a series of six photos------ taken in a mutual friend’s basement that had been decorated as a psychedelic sub-dimension, a “trippers” Holy Land, there were six of us with a head full of liquid microdot LSD------ that sold collectively for just under $4000.The series of six depicted a carnal insanity, yet, somehow, we were redeemed by his tasteful and reverent perspective, like we were all bishops on an existential quest.Somehow, Knowledge validated our hedonistic and non-conformist lifestyle through the pictures he took, he implied purpose where there may have been none, he made our existence appear attractive, even fashionable in a twisted sort of way.
Sleepy got his name from his tendency to “nod out” in mid-sentence, one of the more delightful effects of heroin use.He was a rhythm guitar player and lead singer for a band named Eat The Rich.Their music was original; a refreshing blend of the punk, grunge, and indie genres.Their first two albums----- Videos From Health Class and Fucked Up and Dan’s Intervention----- were both moderately successful by underground standards, overnight they became something like local celebrities and Sleepy was their much coveted front man.Despite his unseemly appearance, he had this effusive charisma that won him the favor of everyone he encountered, except for police officers and the Mothers Against Drunk Drivers.He also had big ideas that head trouble expressing, so I helped him write his songs.I remember nights that never ended, locked away in his bedroom, spun out of our minds on pharmaceutical amphetamines.I’d write while he played guitar, he’d direct my pen and play until his fingers bled.It was deeply satisfying to be a part of something so beautiful and pure.
I was writing, all day, everyday.I had dropped my course load and picked up some creative writing, composition, poetry and world literature classes------ taking only what I thought would improve my ability, trying to create beauty were none existed.I held a part time job for a few months, selling credit protection for a small company contracted by Wells Fargo.It was your average cold calling sales job, not was boring as something like calibrating hour glasses, yet not as exhilarating as hunting for land minds on a pogo stick.Most of our household income came from the sales of psychoactives------ mostly LSD, Mescaline, and Psilocybin; sometimes pure MDMA, DMT, 2cB, 2cE----- all in the name of profit and mind expansion.The chemicals gave us, and others like us, a transitory glimpse of Nirvana.I wrote volumes upon volumes, filled notebook after notebook with descriptive accounts of my spiritual experience under the spell of these drugs.Slowly, my consciousness expanded to include more of life, my sensitivity increased, my thoughts grew more abstract and transcendent of the petty inconsequentials of daily life. My ego boundaries collapsed and for a while I gave up my identity, it didn’t seems applicable to anything important.I realize now that his may have been a mild form of psychosis induced by the drugs but it help to write so I felt justified.I believed in art as an end in itself.I believed inspiration was born of experience.These drugs were, for us, a direct route to profound experience on every level of existence.Again, art was the end that justified the means, however depraved they may have seemed.
Emotionally, I was unavailable, inaccessible, distant------ my mind was somewhere else, attacking the enigmas of life----- what it was? What it is? What it should be?The girls came.They went. My door was always open except when it was closed.Had I been older and in a different place in my life, there were a few girls who might have been worthy of something more than empty libidinous lust.Most distinctly I remember Anne, Nikki, and Taylor----- there might have been something there, I’ll never know.I wasn’t looking for love by any means, I wasn’t looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with, I wasn’t after closeness or even frivolous flirtation for that matter, I was only chasing sensation, humping my way to lubricious nirvana.Anne got closer to me than any of the others, probably because she wasn’t after closeness, she wasn’t after anything.She asked nothing of me, expected nothing------ we were able to genuinely enjoy each others presence while we were together yet equally enjoy our own company while alone.There was no dependence, no degrading neediness, no phone calls or text messages during the time we were apart.We did a lot of cocaine together, locked away in my room, sweating, in our underwear talking incessantly.We’d solve all the world’s problems, forget the solutions, then solve them again.We became our own Gods and we worshipped accordingly.The sex was primitive and unsentimental, it was sex not because of love but in spite of love.I gave that girl a piece of me that I’ll never get back.
It may have been the ways I spent my free time (the majority of my time) that nurtured my artistic energy in that house on Honeysuckle Ln.------ acid at the art museums, at Love festivals, haunted houses, lethal dosages,Shrooms and cave exploring, nature hikes, zoos, Ecstasy at the water parks, Hashish and concerts, the endless raves, Amphetamine binges that drained my spirit, the mescaline trips that brought it back, the sex, the music, the ubiquitous art, the hours on end behind my desk, pen in hand, the altered stat of consciousness induced by my immersion in words and ideas, days spent walking around the city, without destination, doing my best to get lost only to find my way once again, running in the rain, swimming during thunderstorms daring nature to take my life, racing trains across the tracks, vodka, Xanax, and Russian Roulette, the car accidents, the trips that helped me to grow, the trips that permanently darkened my existence, the nights when chemicals should have killed me, the depression, the insomnia, the detached indifference with which I confronted the world, the endless and exhausting struggle to hold onto an ever slipping reality------ These were the experiences that I drove myself insane with, the ones I fought to translate into words and express on the page.
We were obsessed with life and we consumed it with an insatiable appetite.Despite the drugs, this was an intensely intellectual environment; we were earnest in our artistic endeavors, running recklessly in pursuit of inspiration.Ill never forget the empowerment I felt------ all of my creative and expressive energy channeled from my mind, my heart, from my entire being and concentrated in the tiny spot in space where my ball point meets and moves across the empty page, leaving my soul broken in its wake.I lived only as a hub for that effusive artistic energy, though it’s still unclear to me exactly where it came from or what conditions nurtured it into manifestation.I think it had something to do with the uninhibited freedom of those days, the lack or structure and routine in our lives, the endless available possibilities for each new day.It had something to do with that old majestic house on Honeysuckle Lane.


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