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 Posted: Wed Feb 28, 2007 10:11 pm
"I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it. Is there anything else you'd like? Okay, thank you very much. Come again. Back once again from the renegade master..."
That would be me. Why should it be that the very next day after starting amanita zambiata my little bad habit was more rambunctious than ever? At least the regulars didn't seem to mind my inexplicably chanting one slammin' club tune after another, or at least I didn't notice any peculiar looks. But it just felt so good; as I watched people shuffling around on their errands it was incredible that everyone couldn't be grooving on their own beat like this.
From the phrase spoken aloud you'd probably deduce the position involved something rather humbling amid a store. A little island's item shop, to be exact. Oh sure, that's probably as vague to some people as saying what we sell is 'merchandise'. But for those who are used to it it means 'the usual': a full collection of remedies, an assortment of drinks for those who are travelling from one place to another, and maybe even some accessories but often not very desirble ones.
As humbling as it was, long ago I'd sat down and figured out that being somebody else's assistant had a bigger payout, hour by hour, than my own ventures. Not that the bodypainting and other talents weren't worthwhile, but... C'est la vie. And everyday I consoled myself that at least I was helping to run the place, and also that if it was good enough for So-and-So it was good enough for me. Besides, there was always "the evening job" to look forward to.
So anyway, on only day one of amanita zambiata the outburst was back more than ever, with a huge kick to go with it too. Funny how this time I was actually aware of it as it was happening. I was just enjoying the boost too much to mind....
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Posted: Wed Feb 28, 2007 10:13 pm
Well, one week so far and the little purple bottle and the poisonous mushroom pills are doing just fine.
Except, sit down for this one... Electric pulses are coursing through my body.
Oh sure, it's actually an effect upon expanded capillaries, part of the blood vessels, and the sensation is nothing more than that, only a sensation mischievously relayed upon the nerves.
Still. That doesn't change the fact that I've got tiny lightning running through me. If this is how a god feels, I liiiiiiike it.
And I still keep a polite and pleasant smile on, and never once fail in my duties like both servant and gracious hostess, especially towards anyone who isn't a local.
But every so often the hands, I'll stop what I was doing and rub the backs of the hands to calm those electric pulses down or spread them around. Or sometimes even the forearms, I'd wind up rubbing them as if I were cold. But it's not that, just the nerves.
And the face! When someone says their ears are burning they usually mean someone's talking about them? How about when your ears *tingle* on the inside all the way up to the tips? There must be a lot of capillaries in there. And how about if the same thing were happening to your face?
When I wasn't in the middle of anything at that particular moment I'd find myself dropping everything to rub my cheeks and brow, the same as if I were scrubbing up in the morning only without the soap and water. Oh sure, it's probably even comical, like a human doing an impression of a hamster or pet rat.
Sometimes I wonder if these are the kind of habits the lowlives with chemical problems have. I do hope no one there takes that impression of me even if they do notice those few touchy gestures.
After all, what I'm under comes from a legitimate prescription.
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Posted: Wed Feb 28, 2007 10:46 pm
Oh. My. Goodness.
I could be in trouble. At best, we'll laugh it off afterwards and I'll make self-disparaging jokes along the lines of "NC's been a bad girl once again" and that'll be the end of it.
To explain... For once, I was able to devote several days in a row towards pursuits for "the evening job", a designer pet breed I'm rather proud of. But the preparations are horrendous. If you want a creature with a Van Gogh "stitched" into its fur... there's artistic, chemical, biological needs to consider. First the pattern has to be envisioned according to the proportions of his body... then pigment changes are laid out one strand of hair at a time, in the correct protein and chemical combinations too. And then there's the formula to genetically code it all. It's quite rewarding in many cases. Although the aftereffect to my eyeballs... OW!
This time around it was a luxury to be able to devote oneself entirely towards forging. I'd work on patterns and formula for sixteen hours at a stretch and sleep twelve. Or I'd drop what I was doing and put something dark over my eyes for a short while. Or work-and-sleep in four hour switchoffs. It was beautiful, the pleasure of nothing getting in the way between oneself and one's inspiration.
Needless to say, the daily amanita zambiata schedule suffered. What do you expect when someone honestly has no earthly idea whether it's "Tuesday night" or "Thursday morning"? More than once I had been called a 'brilliant scatterbrain'. I do remember that every couple times I woke up, I took one more dose to be sure it hadn't been skipped.
So then, with the help of the steady and reliable "second in command" roommate and pet, she assured me which day it actually was. Then I tipped out that purple glass vial and counted the remaining pills. Not that the remaining number meant anything - not until I sat down with the calendar and figured out how many days had already been taken since the prescription had begun. By the end I was practically counting on my fingers to doublecheck the answer.
I'd taken three days' worth in 36 hours.
Okay. Well. They were intended for use made by guys in clean labs, and they were derived from mushrooms found in nature, after all. That couldn't be too bad.
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Posted: Wed Feb 28, 2007 10:47 pm
"Gonna ride the racecars," I whispered. "Gonna dance the fire." (( Shiny Toy Guns, Ledisko ))
Not long after I just had to -move-. I was pacing the length of the living room, glorious cat's steps. And I could have etched a pentagram by my circular forays from one end of the floor to the other. It probably wasn't a good idea for someone in such a condition to move that much, but the warp of gravity as if each limb had its own peculiar orientation made the excursion *so* much fun to try out.
Pretty soon after that I decided to make friends with the floor. Funny how I'd never noticed how good the floor feels, even nicer than the furniture. Mmmmm.
Well. This. Isn't. Very good rightnow.
I'd better get checked out tonight. Just in case. My condition could be going downhill faster than a sumo on skis. I'd better do that before I go to sleep. There might not be a chance after that.
Hey. There's Raze. That sixteen year old ditz is all decked out and bouncing past as if he's on his way out again. He isn't my first choice, but...
You wouldn't leave me by myself, would you?
I was lying horizontally, prone and hugging the floor. He came over and peered down. "You look different. Did you do something new with your hair, mom?"
"Hnnn..."
"Well, it looks good. Seeya!"
Even muffled by the carpet the sound that echoed across the house was my peals of laughter.
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