I̶͇̱̣̾̈́ ̶͚̋̈́͊̽͊̄͐͊͝͠C̵͖̻̫̆͘ä̵̛͚͔̫́̀n̴̛̬͇͈̂'̴̥̲̩́́͗̚͘̚t̶͔̜͙̱̼͚͐̍͛͊́͋ ̶̨̛̩̜͉̋̓͗f̵̡̛̮͔͓͈̅̔̅̋̊̾͜u̸̢̧̮̻͎̿̏͑͂̊c̶̞͇̲̺̄͆̇̊̈͒͆k̷̢̧̦̪̠̫̮̫̑̽͊̀́͠i̶̛̤̹̲̻̞̘̮̫̩̔̐̀͝͠n̴̞̫̤̩̜̪͍͕̩̩̔̉̄͆̈̑͒͐̈̚g̸̞̙̳̹͙͖͛̒̈́̎̽̈́̽ ̶̳̜̣̖̰̝̇͗͑̾̒͘̚t̴͈͇̖͉̠̱̋͐̈̐̃̅͂͝ả̴͙̝̩̣̱̫̞͖͔̽k̷̬̺̹̂͌͌̆̐̉͝e̴̤͛ ̶̯͇͊̉͑́͌͊̓ȋ̷̦͓͕̠̦̝͍͓̯͊̈́͆̏͋̎̿t̵̫͑́̓́̒̏̌͝
It's 1 AM ( “ I AM WHO I AM.” And he said, “Say this to the people of Israel: ‘ I AM has sent me to you.’” ) on a Tuesday. I can't sleep. I haven't slept for some time. Empty 40's decorate the floor. There guts spilled out like a 3rd world massacre (* the last time I slept, I was watching a PBS documentary on child soldiers in Sudan... been on my my mind a a lot ever[y] since/sense). Anyway, I haven't written much in a while, mainly due to drinking. I'm trying to get my shit together. I'm not getting any younger...
When you write (* and as Bukowski said, “There is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass”), you tend to chuck anything you can into the furnace of whatever it is that's moving your (* probably very damaged) psyche at any given time and some days, you just can't. There are only so many stories to tell about love and love lost, about beauty, about pain about some girl whose presence numbs it (one or both, beauty and pain) for you... sometimes a man hits a point where he's lived through all of that and there isn't much more that can be said.
Meth's been abundant. A new city, a new basement apartment that floods like so many before it but somethings never change... As self indulgent and referential as my writing is you'd think I'd have been able to pick out that pattern a long time ago. Right now, there is no maiden archetype. No one to rescue me with sweet nothings. No one to be rescued. No one to exhaust such long, long thoughts on. Just the end of a stem to burn, alone on a sleeping bag in the middle of 4 stone walls.
I NEED OUT!!! Out of this cycle out of this "lifestyle" hell even outside. I know I've needed some variation of all those things for quite some time. No amount of dope can make that happen. Years spent in therapy wasn't enough for that. Blaze these few crumbs and I'm off to detox...
"Hmm," that was interesting. I closed the journal Jake had given me.
"Yeah, dude had it rough... whoever he was."
"It makes you wonder what drives a person there, or anywhere near it. Suffering, illness. My dad always told me that it was subtle degrees of variation. The differences between people I mean, even if it seems like something - - I paused, pocketed the journal and started making my way towards the exit of the abandoned squat Jake and I had gotten the urge to explore. Its stray pigeon feathers and mildew abound, lingering within the sights and sounds captured by my eyes -
HUGE... it usually isn't. Anyone could wind up in any situation and it could all come down to the shirt they decided to wear one morning vs any other."
Well, I'm pretty sure the meth played a role in all that, in this guy's case at least. Interesting to think about though."
"Yeah," I chuckled. "Meth will do that... I'll never touch the shit."
"Oh yeah. Me neither."
Famous last words.
Scott closed his journal and sat it down on the floor, he needed a clean-ish flat surface to cut his dope up. He got to work and within a few seconds (* like some time-lapsed decay) had his shards broken down and safely in the spoon. He let whatever unseen forces guide his hands along their path, to the empty Gatorade bottle, to the rig, to the vein to the plunger, 3,2,1...
A memorial service was Wednesday at Greenwood Memorial Park in St. Louis, MO.
Scott was born to Charles and Phoebe Smith. Scott's father was a Doctor at Barnes Jewish Hospital. His mother came up from Rochester, MN as a Nurse. A memorial service will be held at Cook Inlet Funeral Home for any friends and family. No living relatives were verified at the time of Scott's passing.