"Once more, the tragic story of high endowment with an insufficient will."

The Collected Writings of B Ems (written in the past two weeks in a small orange notebook beside a withering weed plant):

Unknown date: I find that at all times of day, in all situations, there is a blinding flurry a thoughts; an LSD rush of electricity; of thoughts and inspirations speeding about my brian. So may, in fact, that I'm unable to catalog and follow up on barely any of them, and I find the only realization I can record is this, which outlines that I am unable to record anything whatsoever.

Intoxicant: Marijuana

Next day: There is no unmistakable red like that of dried blood.

Intoxicant: Nicotine

Nexy day: As much as I dig the wandering, bum life; the irrelevant and eutopic way of wandering about, I am apprehensive about succombing to my insane desires for it. Without a permanent residence, I would be without many small amenities of life. Not neccesities, amenities. What am I to do when I need a pair of scissors, or I need to boil some macaroni? Ah, fuck it.

Intoxicant: Alcohol

4/26, a strange accont of a dream: I am unsure of the setting, it is someone's home however it is exactly like mine. I am late for work, and trying to convince Joey LaMura to drive me there. I'm also trying to get someone to smoke a cigarette with me before I have to leave. but everyone seems far more concerned with cleaning up a multitude of trash, mostly liquor bottles and broken furniture, like someone had a fantastic party. I find a 151 bottle with some amber liquid in it, and drink it down, but it is extrememly watered down, essentially non-alcoholic. A shift suddenly, and I'm in a rural area, coverev with stretches of field (looks like Kansas, or some Middle-America state). Mike Martini, Bobby Galbraith, Joey once again, and Pat Culpepper (who has uncharacteristically short hair), and I enter a large house out on one of the grassy plains. As we walk inside, the apparent owner of the house, a mean who looks like Keith Haring without glasses, comes around a corner smoking a spliff. "Do you mind?" I say, reaching for the joint. Suddenly, it is out my hand and making the rounds about my companions. Finally, it's my rotation, but there isn't even a roach left. Just the odorous evidence of weed-smoke. I wake suddenly, expecting to be in a Midwest house.

***Drawing of an automatic shotgun***

Next day, memories of signifigant dreams: As a child, I dream I am in my mroom about to go to sleep. My mom brings me a cup of water, as she does every night. I put the cup on my window sill, and a huge grayish-green cricket jumps up next to the cup, and "drinks" out of it, using a curious probiscus to draw the water from the glass, like a straw.
Jump to a recent episode, induced by methadone. I'm a little dope sick, and I pass out during class. In my dream, I wake up (still in class) and walk to the front of the classroom. Suddenly, I am stricken with dizzines and a kind of paralysis. I must lay down on a nearby deak, conspicuously, and I am stricken with an instense fear that I will be seem amd busted. My "condition" seems to be a result of the methadone. I wake up thinking I will be bolted to a desk is tripped-out fear, it is so intensely vivid.
Once again, the next day, I am under the influence of methadone, this time in night school. I fall asleep, dream I wake in class oncd more, and suddenly everyone in the the room lights a cigarette, indoors. As I reach for me pack to join the party, I wake, expecting everyone in the room to be smoking.
Jump back, to the age of perhaps seven, I'm unsure. I am at a playground I frequent, and I go down the slide. At the bottom I find my pants have disappeared, and I am left in my tightie-whiteys. The rest of the dream is spent looking for my pants, floored with embarassment and helpless fear.

Intoxicant: Sleep

Next day: Psilocybin & Sensory Deprivation

I was fully in the grips of a mushroom trip, my body and surroudings melting anf morphing into each other. On shutting of the lights and cutting all sensory stimulation, there is a silence, then seconds later, a sudden explosion of color and sounds. Everywhere I can "see", there is a whirlpool pf colorful swirls slowly closing in on the center of my "view". Accompanying the spin cycle is a reverbearting "wah" noise, mechaninc and incredibly interesting, broken by occasionalt screeches and squeals. A "voice", though it is not speaking, as much as I am just perceiving the words in my head. It is jabbering a-mile-a-minute, a barely conceivable stream-of-conciousness babble concerining reality, death, infinity, and other various acid-head sunjects. The voice seems to be a representation of my thoughts, which are flying about like scraps of paper in a windtunnel.

Next day: The last line in a piece of writing must always be signifigant.

What the fuck are you waiting for?

***Drawing of a man with wild hair and a body that resembles a puddle smoking a joint***

***Drawing of a spiral***

Days later: On a whim, I've walked into the woods behind my house. Due to recent storms, it's essentially a swamp. I balance-beam across a fallen tree to a big stump in the center of a pretty large "lake". I have to light a cigarette to keep the mosquitos at bay, though it helps very little. I'd like to grow pot out here, but apparently it is prone to flooding. My usually terse style of writing has shortened further, my hands are busy, slapping pesky fucking bugs. It's nice out here though. I'm compelled to write something signifigant or meaningful (synonyms?), but I haven't anything of the sort to say.

Intoxicant: Nicotine

I've been on my stump, and I've been watching a spider build a web for 10 or so minutes. I was about to destroy his work with a cigarette butt, but decided against it. When spiders are given mescaline, they create angular, geometric box forms. Dosed on LSD, their weds are chaotic and nonsensical.

Inxoticant: Italian sandwich

***Drawing of unknown plant***

***Drawing of poison ivy leaf***

***Drawing of wood mushroom, from above***

***Drawing of strange, bird-like creature, next to a budding weed plant with feet. And high heels or something.***

A few days later: Cannabis Indica: Joseph Nicotera

***Drawing of pot seed with white root shooting out of it***

Age: Three Days

5/4: Since I last checked on J Neeks, it's been a rainy, sunless 24 hours, but somehow he jumped an inch. IN 24 HOURS OF RAIN! I can't imagine the growth ahead.

Intoxicant: Success

5/7: By my approximations... Joey Nicotera is dead. I have more to write, but I'm fsr too drunk. Tommorow!

Intoxicant: Alcohol and Marijuana

...the end, for now

Current Music: Funkadelic "Maggot Brain"

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