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I am an addict. My addiction is to tobacco. Not nicotine as much as the tobacco itself. Those vapor pens don't do it for me. They might ease the pains of the nicotine withdrawal but I find that it doesn't satisfy the taste. It's a horrible taste. Why would I want that? It's a strange thing. I believe my attachment has to do with the fact that I use them to sort of ground myself. This is absurd considering my knowledge that there are a whole lot of healthy ways one could do so. Maybe in my mind I have it as sharing in the suffering of the earth. Which I do suffer the earths pains. It happens in the visions that move through me. I don't know how to explain the kind of suffering that I experience. I am working to cleanse my spirit from past negative experiences. This is not an easy task. No, this is a diving deep within. And the funny thing about it is, I use my breath to do the cleanse. So why would I want to fog it all up again? Just after going through those visions.

As I lay down to do this breath-work meditation I am always amazed at it's movement of energy throughout my body. Yesterday as I breathed, my whole body started shaking from head to toe like uncontrollable shivers. I welcomed this experience as I could feel the light cleansing my spirit of the visions that were coming in. With this as the darker visions passed, wonderful things of childlike experience came into the scene. Even in my outside world as words spoken from the other room. “Do you remember carousels when you were a kid?” Yes. This was the kind of world we'd like to see.

One where there is magic and fairytale fun. Not all this homogenizing into some suit cut world of false profit and greed. No, can you imagine how fun it could be if we just brought joy to every scene?

Now of course, we know that there would be some suffering still. Because people get injured sometimes. What would a world be without injury? Scars. We all have them whether physical or emotional or spiritual. I have scars. Many of them. I've been trying to find the actual roots. It's just that roots are kinda similar to the top part of the tree. They branch out. So I keep digging down and around. Trying to cleanse each one and recognize how strong we became because we made it through the fight and we grew.

Now I know my addiction roots into childhood as I was a teenager when I made that choice to use tobacco. I used it, I believe, as a way to fit in. To be cool. Because at my younger years, in elementary school, I suffered shaming. We were poor. I was shy. They hurt my feelings, I would cry. We moved on to middle school. In a different town, I had a new chance. Here I started to make more friends but I still got bullied a few times. Once, a couple of girls followed me home and spit in my hair. I never did understand why. There was nothing I'd ever done or said to them to be mean. I think they did it to see if I'd stand up for myself. I don't think I did. I don't remember. Anyway, high school came. And one day we were hiding behind the library and somehow tobacco came into the scene. I don't recall whose idea it was. I just know, I did it. But I didn't inhale...

High school, I stood by the wall, with a cigarette in hand. I thought I was cool. With my hair teased up and my high heeled boots. I overheard some girls down the way saying something about me not inhaling and to watch. So in that moment I decided to prove them wrong. I inhaled and I didn't cough.

From then on, I was a smoker. Attached to them. My girlfriends and I used to call them gum. It was cheap. They were a buck ten. Doable for teenagers without jobs. If we had to, we would scrounge the floor in my friends messy bedroom for change when we ran out. Then we'd go to the store and pick up a new pack. I became a Marlboro light girl, with my jean jacket and a job riding a horse. Oh, I was cool.

So, okay, now we can see how I got attached to being cool, right? I suppose what I found, as I continued to be a smoker into adulthood, was that cigarettes are like an icebreaker to start talking to other people. Smokers find each other. Got a light? Any chance you could spare a cigarette? It's a huddle in the rain and there's only that one spot a person could smoke. I've had many interesting conversations with folks over a cigarette. But oh my, why? Why the attachment? I've had many a wonderful conversation with folks without a cigarette being the reason. And geez. Sometimes it's just embarrassing to be a smoker.

At this stage, I feel tobacco is a powerful substance and if I had known it's sacred medicine, perhaps I would not have misused it from such a young age. But I do not know if this is true either. As here I am, an adult, who had quit using tobacco for 8 years, who decided to dabble with them and slipped the slippery slope back in to her addiction. The stranger thing about this is that it was foreseen in visions.

So now, here, in this moment of writing this, I've written myself into wanting to indulge in tobacco. So I take the laptop outside so I can have one by my side. I am guilty. I know this is not healthy. But I'm allowing myself to do it anyway. Perhaps it's in anticipation of my final quitting. Tobacco spirit is very powerful.

My story gets weird.

I Manipulate

By jfarrell

(“From the cover of Heaven’s gate, I manipulate” great lyrics from steve taylor)

Rasputin is me, I am Rasputin;

I tell you my story, show you my scars

I share my pain with you

And you will jump to my defence

Jump between me and the bullet

Take the sword thrust,

In my stead.

I frown and lower my gaze

I show you the pieces of my sundered heart

Let you hold and feel this dead thing that is my soul

Let you dance in the dust that was my dreams

And you give your heart to me

In tender whispers you pledge your undying love

To me.

Amongst tears, with nastiness running from my nose

I tell you of the wrongs done to me

I tell you of those that hurt and ridiculed me

To show the truth, the strength, of my pain

I take the knife and slash my arm, over and over

My pain angers you to kill,

For me.

Rasputin is me, I am Rasputin

A manipulative, conniving…. monk

Dead many years (executed, I think);

I want you to like me

I’ll say anything you wanna hear.

To keep you here

I manipulate

your life isn't some jacket

that used to fit so well

when you live like that

your mind becomes your hell

and no angel

on your shoulder

can save you from its depth

and the demons

in your stomach

keep tying knots

to catch your neck

just stop.

there's no personal record

for you to wreck

your health is fading

eyes are closing

your heart's become a mess

and jesus

can't save you

(and neither can meth)

the only thing at the end

is a slow, personal death

you don't greet it like a friend

you fight it like a fiend

you wrote the story of your life

but it's got no theme

no meaning

(it's a bad portrayal

of yourself)

you couldn't see 'you'

clearly

you were way to busy

dealing

with the suffering

and agony

you brought upon yourself

you gathered it up and saved it

built an altar and you praised it

A religion built from grief

that you mostly fabricated

just stop.

you can't keep fighting wars

in a mind

that's been plagued with 'em

you can't keep breaking hearts

with a heart

that's not made for it

you think the story you write

is so great

but you got played for it

the truth is in your eyes:

you're dying for the game of it

it's just another lie 

that you wanna stay alive

you don't care

about yourself

whether you live or die

and that's hateful

god, it's just painful

to watch you beat yourself up

to call people to save you from it

from yourself

just stop!

you don't see the people

soldiering up to fight your war

you don't see clearly

how dearly they're paying for

all the mistakes you keep

agonizing over

it's shameful!

you're selfish and prone to drama

it's disdainful!

and the one's who love you

are willing to die

just to give you another day

where you can figure it out and try

just so you can make it out alive

smiling bright on the other side, like,

"I made it!"

you ingrate, that shit was paved for you

every loss of blood was a brick they laid for you

to build

a path across the void

(the one you cling to in your mind)

just stop

and you'll come out on the other side.

you thought you could get away

with all your grimy sins

perhaps you thought there's no god

perhaps you think there is

either way

it's a lone, cold fall

and the river is just a mouth

she opens wide

she's selling secrets inside

are you willing to pay the price?

put you back to the wall my brother

put your back to the wall my friend

put you face to the river

she opens wide to let you in

every damn day is a long damn day

but the river has no fears

whether she eats

today or tomorrow

or fasts for a hundred years

I yearn for you,

But we're, sitting in silence and im just trying to catch a word of your thoughts,

Are you thinking about me?

Do you even still think about me?

Brutal heartbreak, how much can one heart take,

You sleep naked infront of me and my eyes search your body for the scars that I left,

I want to, be inside of you and heal you from within,

I want to,

I want to bend you over and,

I want to, but,

I am not your enemy,

I am not your friend,

I'm everything I couldn't be for you,

And everything that I'm not, within.

Loving you is like tying my stomach in knots just to connect a few dots

Loving you is like asking the robin that thinks it's a blue bird to remember it's a robin, and it's laid an egg.

You laid an egg!

Or, rather you helped procure one.

You're here now. Remember?

You're back on this plane(t) of rock hard existence

Where you know only shame

How's that working out for you, so far?

You see... Loving you is like picking up each piece of plaster in a disaster and [then] asking it to stop crumbling

Could you please just stop crumbling. FUCK.

I can't take it anymore with the decay.

Put your self back together.

Loving you is like losing a piece of time, in the grand scheme of all things,

and then setting expectations for when this will all come back into frame.

When will this all come back in to focus?

When will this all come back?

Will this all come back?

Loving you has been like the most gut wrenching ride, I've ever felt in my life.

It's like a constant influx of hellos, and a steady stream of goodbyes.

Loving you is like holding onto a stream, where you can see it flow through, passed you,

but there's nothing stealthy enough to hold you.

Besides, why would I?

What would be the point in building a damn to stop your flow?

I mean-- like-- GATDAMN can he flow! The world doesn't even know.

But, I do. I know what you can do, because I've been wrapped up in you,

and I've let every aspect of me cave into all the cavenous pits you've created wthin

...and here we are.

We're back in your pit of shame and despair, and I don't have time.

I can't fucking be here.

I have things to do...

A baby to take care of--

and you...

Loving you is doing everything I can to not be bitter.

Loving you is remembering that all I wanted was for you to live to be the man he needs you to be.

Loving you means knowing I still have to love me.

"Staying or Going"

Staying or going which one should I choose?

Who’s pulling the strings today, the drugs or the booze?

Promises, promises they’re nothing but lies.

I see the real truth when I look in your eyes.

Sometimes you glare at me with such distain.

Sometimes I see only heartache and pain.

I forgive and forgive and try hard to forget.

You call yourself “scumbag” and are full of regret.

I beg and I plead and I cry endless tears,

But I’m not the one who must face all your fears.

I’m scared and I’m numb and I feel so broken.

You run and you hide and leave words unspoken.

Left all alone I fall down on my knees.

I call out to God to come help us please.

This battle is yours, it comes from inside.

I can’t fight it for you, although I have tried.

Staying or going which one should I choose?

Either decision I make I feel like I loose.

She bottled the impossible

With silent gestures she kept audible

While constantly perfecting improbable obstacles

She was always steady and volatile

Keeping reality optional

She moved in a way that was almost comical

Methodical in how she kept  herself intentionally watchable

She was an angel draped over something diabolical

But you see,

Her love, it was kind of clumsy

So before she could even share something

Her heart, it was already crumbling

But some how lucky

When most just stared dumbly

As people asked what could be done in tones quickly hushing

And were answered with nothing

She licked her lips and they tasted of honey

Then she knelt in a sunbeam and she began softly humming

As she put back together Humpty Dumpty

She was meticulous and neat

And she memorized each shattered piece

Right there in the street

She stayed on her knees like a priest

And as the light teased to the east

The beast eyed her technique

But didn't speak

A deep heat seeped through her cheeks

Time seemed to increase in speed then ease

Sweat glistened over her skin and muscles

She was deft and subtle

As she shuffled through the rubble

Trying to coax a whole from this puzzle

We call Humpty Dumpty

She was trouble

But Humpty, he thought she was lovely

See, when he was all about beneath her heels crunching

Thinking this is the end it must be

And is, there a special hell for his particular type of shell

Or just nothing

No matter where the end

She was able to put Humpty together again

She repaired him, but you see her intent it was just pretend

She filled in each crack with future revenge

Making a mortar of resentment mixed with torment

In a violent and bitter personal blend

That she could later rend and augment

Again and again

But, she stayed...and there were more falls

Never had one seen an egg so mauled

Humpty, he would fall then drink and drawl

He would scrawl small obscenities all over the wall

He would crawl to the top dripping ethanol

And scream about his cholesterol

And the proper protocol

For being a neanderthal

But, it turned out Humpty was jumping from the wall after all

Time after time just pissing

Missing the seat and painting the stall

Wheezing deep breaths of albuterol

While screaming who made him the intercontinental apostle

Made of Swedish meatballs from Montreal

For Humpty it seemed to be now, that lucidity was a fluid thing

And he was just barely able to forget his faults

With an hourly top off of propylene glycol

And Rubbing alcohol

In a way that couldn't really be considered sub-lethal

Instead of braving what might be  waiting

And facing down the sound at the end of the hall

Humpty became addicted to the whoosh and rush of the fall

He'd hide from the shame engraved in stains across his frame

By breaking and cracking his own skull

Always seeking the oblivion that called from the bottom of the wall

Now left alone with only pieces of him galled

She became used to her tears and the taste of their salt

The manic habit was static and so sad but too late to halt

Till one day she looked down at it all and

Couldn't find a single thing in her life by which she wasn't appalled

So she finally took all of Humpty’s pieces

And she mashed them into a lumpy little ball

That she placed upon her lap

As she sat atop the wall

Looking down wondering what it'd be like to fall

For it is those who are forever 27 we cherish.
For it is those that are gone we wish,
were here, were loved
And those that are gone forever
will hold the key to the all knowing
It is for them we are wowing
For the insane are often the greats
For life has it's treats
for life is a mess
A random accident or not
It is here
and we are there.