We were all in the living room 6am sun rising with molly and I came upon the idea that the reason for anxious running is a pent-up cathargy, the precipitate that needs to explode — that furious load — blowing wild crazy energy across the globe for passionate feasting on the love for life. But it’s the same thing that blocks my writing, it’s an urge to break free but it’s the U. Will trying to burst, as if that were the precipitate! The desperate urge to burst past the wall of ego that ego built around to suppress the id, the id bursting free — that’s how to write. Maybe. But the best way: tonight molly did it, so did drinking the other night on the roof. But beyond acid! Beyond the lubrication! How to step without positioning. Live without an ego? For then where is liberty?
The ego comes to fruition by breaking from the id, now the id is trying to break from the ego, and possible this’ll bend back and forth forever. Maybe. Maybe I just need to find that balance, the center, freedom. Maybe. It’s all very much up in the air.
When everyone had stayed up all night from the molly Greg had brought out his paints and Brian painted a picture of a bottle, a rather good depiction. Anyway, he’d been saying as Greg was looking for paint brushes how he was real creative, he was just a creative person and that was his thing, that art was something he was good at. Someone said that having a knack for art was something you had to have inside you, to be born with. I asked if he painted a lot he said no, not really the time nor the impetus. So he began painting and for a bit the conversation was about painting, encouragement and praise for his work. Later, Steve’s girlfriend came over and she too began to paint and seeing all of this creativity really got going in me the urge to create my own work from the energy of the evening. I thought briefly of running upstairs to grab my journal but I decide against it. What would I write? I couldn’t sit there and write a story, too much thought and concentration must go into it, too much planning and weaving. That’s what I thought for a moment anyway, then realized I could and should sketch a brief scene, write the painting, an idea in a frame. But I never did. I’m not sure why. Later on while everyone was standing out front I felt a brief disconnect from the action, the conversation they were having I hadn’t any input, probably the conversation was sports. That’s when I decided to run upstairs and grab my journal, I’d had an idea and the moment was perfect to scribble for a little while, I wouldn’t miss anything because for the time I was outside of the action, the conversation. I sat on the floor beneath the window in the living room and wrote the first paragraph at the top here. People were walking in and out but I paid no attention, dove into my own little world and hid there for a bit. Greg walked over at some point. Huh? I said, not having heard what he’d said. ‘I called you ‘my little writer’ and I thought you might want a hit.’ I was sitting on the floor cross-legged, my notebook in my lap and he passed me a bowl. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I was really floored by his impression, being that little writer in the corner while everyone else goes about the schedules of life, like Kerouac in the Dharma Bums sitting beneath a tree by himself while a bonfire party burns below. ‘Hey man, I really appreciate you thinking of me.’ I was, it’s not often someone hands you a bowl without being prompted and so the gesture was really something. But more still about what he said, the image stuck to me and it hasn’t left my mind. I’ve came to understand, to a certain extent anyway, how people have been seeing me all these years, as the kid everyone has to look out for. And it’s always that feeling of child-like innocence, such easy and simple love that I get when I’m tripping, or rolling. In hindsight I realize people have spoken of this before, but Greg put it so simple and succinct: my little writer — the kid in the corner who will never learn what he wants nor how to achieve and so he gives it all up and decides to write for simple pleasure. Continuing about Greg, he’s absolutely the sort of people I want to surround myself with. Get this, he’s thinking about moving to northern California, live in a cabin in the woods and grow his own food and pot, brew his own beer, completely self-sufficient and if he’s Japhy I’ll be happy as hell to stay the little writer. Continuing, that morning he’d gone upstairs to fetch chairs, taken the one from my room. I noticed the next day that my towel was hung over the window (I use my towel as a shade) but so was my t-shirt, I’d hung up the t-shirt but not the towel. It dawned on me then that I’d left the towel on the chair and that Greg must’ve hung it over the window. But why wouldn’t he just toss it on my bed? Because he knows I hang it over the window and he was simply spreading possibilities. He’s a real receptive dude.
When we’d gone to the 7/11 to get beer me and Greg left everyone else at the apartment, not really caring. I’d been asking him for about an hour, let’s take more lines and he’d said yeah definitely, let’s run and get beer first though. But then it was distraction after distraction and finally when we got there it turned out neither of us had grabbed our id’s. So I ran back. I knocked on the door real loud kept slapping at it until someone opened it and I said ‘There’s been a situation!’ without stopping quickly running upstairs, grabbing my driver’s license and bolting back out the door leaving all the kids wired paranoid wondering what the hell was going on. I ran all the way back. Greg and the kid who worked the counter were standing outside. I was panting. ‘They should give molly to cross-country runners. I felt like I could run miles.’ We got the beer and Greg invited the kid behind the counter, Justin, to come drink beer and snort lines with us when he got off at eight. Him and Justin had been talking while I was running, turned out Justin didn’t smoke weed, only did molly and coke. Justin did come over and we were all still wide awake at the time. He’s 27 and in school, had taken a few years off to figure things out, now works 50 hours a week plus being a full time student. He hadn’t been able to sleep in 48 hours. No wonder he only did molly and coke, dark raccoon rings round his eyes. Listens to a lot of punk, emo style. I asked him what was up with the no weed policies and he explained, simply didn’t like the high, that there was so much else to be doing than sitting around stoned. Respectable position I told him and we fist-bumped all that. He was a cool dude, a lot different from the crowd we had on molly but so I was I, though I feel like he got a different impression of me, that of the jock ‘bro’ type. Anyway, we got to talking towards the end of the morning, after everyone else had left, Steve for work, Brian for class, and it was just me greg and justin left. He said he thought of me as the goofy kid, but he wasn’t meaning it in a bad way, and this all comes back to that childish mood. That’s the Universal, children.
At one point during this molly rolling morning I started talking about college, that it was broken and a few of the guys, Brian most notably, took this the wrong way, rubbing their faces in exasperation saying ‘Nooo, dude’. I forget the rest of the conversation but I don’t mean that college is worthless or that it’s stupid to be in college — that would be the last thing I’d say or believe. I think that the college system is broken, that even though it still works for plenty it is a system plagued with problems, most prominently the problem that it has become a system. What I fear is that college has become the only way to be successful in life. We can’t have a free society if we must pay dozens of thousands of dollars for a someone’s signature before society will view us as intelligent and capable citizens, before we can be happy and wealthy and raise wonderful families. That’s all.