June 30th, 2004


China White

Dream drugs. They never seem that effective, but there's a certain rush to them. I'm not talking about drugs to enhance dream states (errrr, I don't know, toasted cheese with tryptophan sprinkled on top?). I mean drugs taken within the dream itself. For quite a few years now, I'll dream reasonably frequently about shabu. There's often a dark comic edge to these: although I may possess the drug, there's never an chance to it. Dream needles wilt like dream guns. I had a dream a short while ago in which shabu was replaced by Viagra, but it was still a stimulant dream. Just one with a visually insistent signifier pointing every which way I turned.

Last night, the drug of choice was heroin and the dream was distinct from the frenetic pace of the more common stimulant dream. It seemed that I had agreed to marry a man. It seemed I didn't know him that well and, although there were a few moral issues about same-sex marriage floating around, it seemed I had decided to follow this course because he was going to be dead soon and getting hitched was one of the means available to ensure he'd have sufficient care. I could see that one of the main issues in the marriage was going to be his complete lack of bladder control. Never mind pissing for England, this man could have done it for the whole EU. At more or less every point of the ceremony, the guests were deluged with this high-powered stream. He managed to convert a pint of Guinness into a gallon. It was bearable for a while, but he never gave any warning of outburst and seemed incapable of directing it away from the crowd. It was his only chance for interaction I guess. The band played some weepy Irish tune and he turned on the waterworks. I'm sorry mum, I remember thinking, but someone has to marry him.

I managed to break away, but even though he might have been out of sight, there would still be the other end of this golden rainbow seeking another target. I ran into Windsor Soup and a few others skulking around. Urine had destroyed their stocks of cocaine, but Soup proferred some heroin which I scooped up onto a credit card. Hello magazine were running around trying to get compromising photos and from around this point on the dream turned into a narcotically slowed chase [oh dear] sequence. I sort of became Soup at this point. Narcs were appearing in doorways, I was trying to find somewhere to hide out. Cartoon embellishments started to appear - two tiny pillows floated around my head. But given the high, I was never really too concerned about the situation. I managed to find a hide out at the end. A tiny bedsit done up in a belle epoque style. Mmm, signed photo of David Dickinson, that is class, as I tried to clamber out the window. My, this heroin is rather strong, I remember thinking.

I've only ever had one protracted period of taking heroin. I'd left Japan with my girlfriend to go to Hong Kong where my parents were. She'd lived there before and we used to go down to Wan Chai everyday to score. The heroin would come be sealed into these sections of drinking straw. I quite liked it, but it annoyed me that she was convinced that her previous addiction would immediately resurface. For the last three weeks, we were living on Lantau island and the idyllic calm of the setting was always ruined by this going back into HK, panhandling for money, ferry back home. Given that the holiday was the first chance we'd had not to get high (shabu), it seemed a shame to take heroin instead. Couldn't we just relax for a while? As it was, heroin was possibly the one thing that prevented me (and maybe her) from completely losing it. You didn't give a shit. And, joy of joys, for once we were taking a drug where nodding off into half-sleep was the desired effect. I didn't care too much about being hit or shouted at. It was sufficiently distant. I don't remember much about those weeks. I'd busk the same six or seven songs by the ferry terminal. Once we had enough, she'd head off. I found a photo of myself singing there a little while ago. Looks like I could do with a good meal. I can see all these marks on my face.

Flying to Hong Kong had been a nightmare. She'd been called out on some job that was never really described to me. I think she'd been badly treated. Skyscraper high, she'd been trussed up and manhandled for a fair few hours. Not violently, I don't think, just mentally played with and left scrambled. The quality of work was going downhill. First it was straight forward diplomats and visiting businessmen. By this time it was getting more Twilight Zone. We'd missed the bus for the plane, so we got in a taxi at huge expense. We missed the flight and we stayed over at a nearby love hotel. These were always filled with two-way mirrors and secret cameras. Supposedly. I just think the decor was a bit strange. No, everything was decided somewhere already. The hotel, unstaffed aside from women to deliver snacks and change linen, must have been chosen. I was implicated in these decisions by this point. I colluded with these people. Supposedly. Well, I have to be honest if I tell the story... Shortly after arrival, she'd taken the remaining speed to ward off collapse. I'd managed to scam some of it. She wanted sex and I really wasn't capable so I can remember performing oral sex for around three hours until she passed into something like sleep. Phew, I thought and finally turned the station from the usual gamut of tied-up schoolgirls and naked men with sunglasses and found Dog Day Afternoon on another channel. An oasis.

I awoke to the sensation of just-boiled water from a Cup Noodle poured over my groin. She'd been watching me and knew what I'd been dreaming. I'd deserved it. How could I? As usual, I try and argue out the logic of these conclusions. Must have just seemed like trickster denials. Although I did have fairly bad scalding from the noodle water, I still didn't bear any malice. She had a few drinks and passed out. I was wary that she might awake and burst into air-rage and stayed awake for the entire flight. As long as I am awake, it will be okay. We looked like shit. I am certain that we are going to die. Better that I do than her. If I concentrate the reserve of the reserve of my strength, we might just make it. I used the reserve and then the reserve of the reserve (and so on) during these years. It's not scientific, but it seems part of the reason that I've been tired almost everyday since. Of course, remaining in love with someone who you fear is going to attack you at any minute doesn't really make sense. But nothing was a matter of sense. Only at the point where I could no longer believe that I would only ever defend myself in this passive manner was it finally time to leave. Once we'd landed in HK, it was only a matter of hours before we were in the hotel room nodding off as my dad was ringing up to get us down to dinner.

These stories - routines almost, inside my head anyway - don't stop. Sometimes a detail will come back. I remember her trying to clamber out of the third floor window of the love hotel to avoid payment. Just throw the luggage after me. Mmm, with a good aim and a touch of luck that could have been the end of it there and then. Sorry, that's rather dark. As it was, we paid up in the end. Given that this journal doesn't have a search function, it's hard to know what I've written before. I know I've written this episode somewhere, maybe here. Sarmoung isn't far off its first anniversary. I read recently that a journal/blog has on average twelve readers. I might stretch to that. These things don't hurt quite how they used to. Often it's boredom. The balance between telling it right/filling in the blanks and the subsequent embroidery and setting in stone. I really do wish there was a new narrative to recount. Something of the present instead of this hack-Proust. It might be more Proustian if I could recall the flavour of the noodle and what exactly the smell triggered off in my memory, but we'd never get out of here...

Well, I meant to get back to what I was trying to explain yesterday, but I've tired myself out again.