Dopamine Junkie's Smoldering Embers |
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Dopamine Junkie's Freak v. 3.0
maximizing more than the freak.
ruthlessly honest with myself.
rebuilding my core.
Dopamine Junkie's Red Door. My mouth. Zap My Synapse. MYIF:Dope J v. 1.0 Deeper Freak Massage: Dope J v. 2.0 Archives: 
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Thursday, November 08, 2001
Dopamine Junkie is changing into something new.
Therefore she must fly from here. To another url. Because the Smoldering Embers are almost ashes now, and what remains is something purified. It's been awhile since I've been accused of excessive self-absorption and megalomania. But one unkind sir has written complaining of my lack of salacious content, and tells me that my posts of late are "not attractive" - let us all speculate as to the motivation of this man, who should write to me, and accuse me thus. I wrote him back, not out of anger or spite, but in recognition of his insights, none of which were unknown to me. Good Bye Sir. And good bye to all the other would-be critics. In a blink and a twinkle, delete me from your hard drive. Thank you for taking the time to shoot your arrows at my exposed heart. Ciao. Anyway, I am starting something new, and he does not need to come with me. No one need come with me, except those who do not mind the self-absorption, the wild swing of my pendulum, and the occasional [ wink ] fantasy or erotic recollection. I'm going to dump my last and latest "garbage" posts here. Stuff that I wrote recently that is really of no consequence. Just words. Nothing I've written is of any consequence. This is an online diary of sorts, a published evolution. How ridiculous that anyone would think to "critique" it, to "critique" me! But who knows. Maybe I needed this push. I've been meandering in my content, looking for a center. Did you know that I used to be a devout Baptist girl? A gospel singer? Would you believe it? Then I left the circle of my family, and the church. To explore, Siddartha-like, the pleasures of the world and the flesh. And on that Hesse-ian journey I lost my true Spirit. But I turn inside, yes, self-absorbed now, to tear away these grimy layers, the calluses, the scar tissue, the selfishness, the disenchantment, the drama, ha HA! Reminds me of something I wrote back in '98, when I was first waking up. And now to dump out the last of the garbage writing. Peace and Love be with you. your dopamine junkie A little bit of philanthropy Sometimes it is difficult to reach out to old friends. There never seems to be a good answer, a truthful answer, to the simple "How are you doing?" question. So I try to modify those questions, but that's not any better either. - Are you happy? I ask. - Getting there, is a common reply. There is no road to happy. Happy is now or never. Eternity is now. These days I feel my soul reaching out like never before, a pervasive feeling these days, I believe. The need to connect, the need to heal, the need for intimacy. In this City So Small, with 5.4% unemployment, and terror in our minds, there is a sickly human stench walking the streets downtown. I'm sure it's worse many other places in the world, but every morning when I'm walking with the morning crush to get to my designated workspace by 9 a.m. like it makes a real difference, I am assaulted by the smell of desperation. It's not quiet. It's stinky. Fear is the essence of that smell. Of being unable to pay bills, of being unable to pay rent, of being alone, of being forgotten. It's easy to be lost here. We crowd into our digital communities like human contact was out of style. Maybe it is. Maybe we're each crawling into bunkers, closing ranks, paring down to survival essentials. The proletarians put in their time, motivated more by fear of losing their jobs than anything else. We work and try to add value, we come home exhausted, not so much from the work, but from the effort of having our lives diminished day after day, trading in happiness for that hand to mouth paycheck. And what is left of our empty shells cannot offer much to nurturing relationships. And what is left of my tired little shell, can't seem to motivate enough to clean my room. Luckily, I am grown up now so there is no one to punish me for having a messy room. Megalo-mini-mania I want to be the shiny object you follow with your eyes, always glinting in your peripheral vision. To be noticed but not overly so, to be cherished and yet not smothered. For the moment I am simply a woman. Not a girl, not loaded with "I wanna be a boy" my-chismo, not a friend or a daughter or a sister. Just a woman, who behind closed doors and with no one around,revels in her own femininity. I like to brush my long dark hair until it is shiny and smooth, I like to exfoliate and moisturize, I like to paint my nails. A long time ago at the home of my best friend, his roommate watched as I applied my makeup. Later on he told me that his roommate had claimed to have fallen in love with me during my process. The transformation of a shiny clean young face, with addition of powder, shadow, rouge, mascara and of course, lipstick. Lipstick draws attention to the mouth, marking the spot for kisses, a juicy and succulent little opening in a sweet face, with honey and softness inside. I'm giving up chocolate. At least I'm trying. Today is my first choco-free day. We'll see how long I last before I cram another Mars bar into my piggy little mouth. Apologies As you can tell, last night I wasn't particularly that overcome with brilliance and inspiration. Probably because I spent the earlier part of the evening groaning through Buffy: the Musical. Cringing/Withdrawal I have this pattern of putting myself out there to the people I love, offering up my time because that's really all I have to give. But these days, time is a more precious commodity than money, right? So the pattern is that I put myself out there and hope that I will be remembered and asked for my time. When in danger of feeling marginalized and forgotten, I make myself scarce, I make myself tiny, I make myself invisible. I hide under a blanket and think that no one sees me. Or I back away, to help you forget me, to assist in euthanizing my existence to you, so that I cannot be called a victim. Swing pendulum! Swing! I am huge, I am tiny. I gorge or I starve myself. I want to be noticed or I want to disappear. I want notoriety, I want anonymity. I want consistency, I want contradiction. I want peace, I want flux. Tuesday, November 06, 2001
hugs and the scent of gardenias are my tuesday.
ever seen a girl walking the streets of this city with gardenias all up in her hair? that's me. I've been giving out more hugs lately. Usually I don't hug. I don't want to be perceived as one of those "huggy" people. And my hugs are said to be, and I know that they are, potent and magical. And so I conserve them. But lately I've been giving them out more. Because I need hugs too. And why not do something for other people that makes them feel good? If you were here, I'd give you a hug. And it would feel damn good too. Mr. P stopped by briefly to give me gardenias and a hug, something really lovely and nice on a blah Tuesday. Tonight I'm taking the night off of socializing to write. Hopefully I will be inspired. Perhaps I will begin to unravel this almost year-long tale. Of the birth of Dopamine Junkie and all the reasons why. We'll see what I can cook up in my little kitchen. New Pix of Dope J at the Picturetrail.com site. pwd: shell_conscious Hugs and Hugs. Friday, November 02, 2001
More on Terry's Death.
Thanatos, I know what you're doing. Terry was kidnapped first February 25th, 1999. US kidnap victims found dead From BBC News His body was found on March 6th, 1999 Colombian rebels blamed for brutal slayings of 3 AmericansFrom CNN He would have turned 25 in May of that year. I'm sorry to be so macabre. But with petty stresses of my own weighing me down, and the strange hollowness of this "war" we're in, and the pervasive creeping terror at bay, sometimes I need to think about Terry to remind me about perspective, courage, patience, and love. His death birthed in me a new appreciation for the people in my life. And for the trees. And for the moon. And for every breath I get to take, that he doesn't. Thursday, November 01, 2001
my blade got duller the sharp edge no longer cuts through my skull like it used to so what's the problem? am i not repressed enough? do i need to be repressed, or compressed like a piece of coal to make a diamond? i no longer feel an impetus to write here. nothing is pushing me. nothing is calling me. some say i shouldn't need that. so what? some writers need strange catalysts. i just need a hug and maybe a choice packet. a phone call or a dime in the bucket. a carrot. a carrot shaped like a pretty pair of shoes. Or not. *********** I was looking at my Buddy List on AIM and realized that I have the screen name of a friend who is dead still listed. I've written about him before, I think. He was the best friend of Cherry Popper. And the only person I knew when I started school in Santa Cruz. A woodsy type he was, also a black belt in Hapkido. Gentle type, liked animals, wore Tevas, infinitely patient. Spent time with Native Americans on reservations, loved going to New Mexico to listen to the cicadas, worked to make the lives of people around him better. We spent time together. He listened to Ani di Franco, whom I despise, and liked to cook. He went to Chiapas shortly after the massacre in 1998. He went to Colombia to work with a non-profit humanitarian organization to help the indigenous people of the rain forest there, the U'wa, fight for their right to keep Occidental oil from drilling on their sacred lands. This is the fight he fought for people who have lived in the rain forests for centuries; in a place you can't get to by car, where he wrote me letters by the light of a single candle from within a small dirt floor hut. He was murdered, by the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), in 1999, execution-style, on his knees, blindfolded, with a gun to the back of his head. During the few years I knew him, his friendship with my boyfriend deteriorated. He'd fallen in love with me and decided (without consulting me) to tell his best friend. Needless to say, pain for all three of us ensued. I asked him to not speak to me again for awhile. He respected my wishes. 6 months later, I wrote him, telling him that my pain had subsided and that I was ready to see him again. He wrote me a letter which said this: The point, of this afterthought is to let you know, if you didn't already, that I do not take you for granted in the least. I do not take a single feeling between us for granted, not friendship, not animosity, not anything. He said he liked it even when I was angry at him, because he loved to hear me talk, loved my voice, loved to read my words. At the time I assure you this only frustrated me more. But he never met my anger with anger, never responded to me with anything but love and patience. And I was so cold to him at one point. His screen name will never be active again. He'll never be home for me to call at 3 a.m. when I'm frying on acid to answer me in a sleepy gentle pleased voice. And then we'd walk together in dreams, our eyes closed. I'm lucky to have been loved by him, for even a short time. Terry, I miss you today. You're still in my heart.
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