Self-Portrait

The subject touches each of his index fingers to the F and J keys, and begins. His eyes are wavering, first the screen, then the keys. He has impulses to spell out certain words with his eyes, so he looks down-I M P U L S E S with speed. He has seen it and is satisfied. He pauses for knew thoughts and moves on. His right thumb controls the space bar in it's battle with the left. He tucks his elbows close, the sleeves of his brown t-shirt squeeze in his armpits and his hands shine brown like warm biscuits under the reading light. He looks at the words. He erases some. He types more. He takes note of how far to the front of his chair he is sitting, his face almost directly over his hands, his neck stiffened to keep his eyes on the middle of the screen. His writing might be better if he would relax, he thinks, and slumps, feeling instantly uncomfortable with slouching, laziness and poor posture. He has not thought about writing in fifteen seconds. His unshaven face itches, and his right hand soothes it. The subject takes a deep breath and puts his left elbow on the desk. The muscles in his shoulders tense and relax visibly through his shirt as they always do when he's decided to write something he deems meaningful. He looks at the words. The paragraph has come alive in his pupils. "Stiffened, satisfied." The adolescent in him smiles. If it were up to him, this is how everyone would see him. His smile leaves. He hasn't thought about writing in twenty-five seconds. He looks at the words. His hands are suspended and his eyes are intent. He is thinking about writing.

Addiction Affliction

Some men are married to their drugs. They take them before their morning coffee. They take half to make them feel like a king while they read the sports section. They satisfy themselves enough so that drugs aren't the issue throughout the day, and to them, if ending the day with more drugs is fulfilling, then why not take more? They're comfortable living this way, no matter the type of drug, no matter the way it is taken, their days are productive, they love their lives. In America, most of those men realize eight years later that the a drug's side-effects were too much for them, or that they needed a different way to get high.

But before that temporary state of bliss with what a man thinks is the right drug for him, we are introduced to every type of drug. Since America is a melting pot, and New York City is an even more condensed and elaborate one, every drug is presented to us. I live in a sectioned city where in every neighborhood, the most exotic drugs are for sale. There is Indian and Jamaican and Chinese and Colombian in Queens. There is African and Dominican and Jewish uptown. Brooklyn will lose you to addiction-every corner brings a new type, at a new price. Lower Manhattan is a place where the drugs come to you mixed. If a man is selling you a Puerto Rican and Dominican mix, take it, it may be worth your while. You may come back every weekend and take the whole operation home when you get enough money to buy yourself in. Then, you'll be married.

The packaging on some drugs is what gets us. Some are decorated, and no, not the designs that read their names or the designs that read the names of others that tell you the drug's been recycled-they are the designs that give us an insight into the drug's high and if that high has created the price, why not advertise or chronicle it on the outside. Most of these are covered up when we see them in midtown Manhattan on their way to fuel large companies. Some drugs have eyes or great big smiles that assure and ensure for years. Some drugs are dressed up so nicely that a man takes note of how handsome he looks taking it. It's a sort of funny way to live, the way men do. We respect drugs first, in a way that is necessary to maintaining stability in our lives, then we take them and take them until there is no more to take. Until they are lighting a fire that produces no smoke and no high. The drug, in drying up, offends you and wants to be useless to you.

After a trip like that some men who think they're smart figure out that money will maintain things, and drugs have a value that isn't always directly monetary, but is usually related. These men survive. Most are married to a drug. Or two. Some men marry one, visit another state, like the surroundings, and marry another. They're high until that sort of life catches up to them. Mixing drugs and pretending that you're not usually gets you in the worst trouble of your life, any way you might look at it.

Other men keep a real disdain for drugs. They can't understand why all of their friends have chosen a drug. They get to an age when they're embarrassed to be still waiting for a drug to choose them. They're stuck to life before drugs. They'd never admit it, but they think that life was better before drugs. But the high world mocks those men every time they take a shower and put on a nice suit to get high with everyone else. They're surprised. It takes a great deal to finally accept drugs, and some have trouble giving that great deal. Some want to alternate weeks between giving that great deal to Cuban on one and blue-eyed American on the next. Some men like fresh drugs, that were just made, and throw away drugs if they've been taken by too many other people. Some men, just want to get high all the time.