The Hep Circuit

c-hep.com

Welcome to my Hep! Girls are not allowed, and suicide is not allowed. Just so you know, no one has ever committed suicide in my hep, simply because suicide is NOT ALLOWED! I keep loaded guns here, and hide money in the walls, like a gangster. And just so you don't get any bright ideas, the place is a mess, and I write pornography! All my best books are packed away in boxes, so you can't steal my best books, either. Every day I consciously tell a lie, telling people I'm going to show up in my taxicab in five minutes, even when I know I'll be there in about two. I lie about the taxi fare, too. I tell them it'll cost, say, thirteen dollars, even when I know it'll be no more than eight. For some reason, I get good tips. Then I go home and hide the money in the walls of my hep, like a gangster. I've been investigated by the police, because I paint naked girls! And for some reason, little girls stay away from me, as they should.

I texted “Gestures Towards Point Mystic” to a high school girl who has far to go :: then waited.

Gestures Towards Point Mystic

Limits

Emptiness

(Shallow)

Apparent

Sensation

Obligation

Vagueness

Lying

Betrayal

(Waking)

(Shrine)

(Activity)

(Public)

(Bozosphere)

Approval

Disapproval

Whatever

Plain sight

Preparation

Fear

Secrets

Boring

“First day of Ramadan!!” she texted back, three days later.

“Have you ever seen people on drugs holding hands?” I texted her. I'd been contemplating it for a day. “I NEVER have,” I continued.

“Oh my god no I HAVE NEVER” she replied, adding, “WHY”, adding “THATS CRAZY”

I fell back asleep in my hep, because that's what I do. When I woke an hour later, I texted, “Too much spoon,” and fell back asleep.

I spent Sunday in my taxicab trying to tell who was on drugs and who was not. First, there were the children racing around in front of Macy's. Wild and free-spirited. Honest as sunlight. Then there was the woman in my taxicab who said, “Somehow the city seems a little sleepy today.” I soon found out a little more about her, and yes, straight as an arrow. There were pedestrians glancing about, me glancing at them, deeply attuned to the glances, picking things up, absent of any particular meaning.

A few weeks earlier a little finch or warbler alighted near me when I was feeding the pigeons. I'd eat some of my Polish sausage, then peel off a bit of hot dog bun to toss to the birds. This damn finch landed nearby and glanced at me with a faint light. Then it made an almost inaudible Beep! Just enough to catch my attention. I tossed it a chunk of bread and the damn bird ignored it! Instead, it gave me one of its pathetic Beeps! Hmm. I thought about it and tossed it another bread morsel. Again the Beep! Then I finally got it! I broke off the tiniest piece of bread you can imagine and held it between my thumb and forefinger and the damn bird flew up and snatched it from my pinch! Okay, okay already! The bread pieces had been too big!

My high-school friend texted, “?” twelve hours after I texted, “Too much spoon,” so I expanded: “Drug users mix powdered heroin, cocaine, or methamphetamine to a spoonful of water, heat it up with a cigarette lighter to make it dissolve into the water, then fill a syringe with the liquid so they can inject it into a vein after they've tied off their circulation with a belt. Once they've made sure they've reached a vein by drawing a little blood back into the syringe, they slowly inject the solution into their vein. That's a spoon. Also a baby uses a spoon.”

“Dudee like 70% of the people I know on smoke marijuana, they be so high off the good stuff,” she texted, adding, “Why do people do things that be bad for them?”

“It just relaxes their inner tyrant, the part of themselves that viciously attacks themselves for not being good enough, right enough, important enough, or special enough. The inner tyrant is their internalization of their parents', teachers' or their culture's attacks. They attack themselves. Marijuana stops these self-attacks. Hence the relaxation. There are also drug effects in the order of honey or chocolate.”

“Honey? Like the syrup thing,” she texted.

“Honey from bees, the little buggers, the little stingers.”

“Hmm,” she texted, adding, “I had a AP exam yesterday and I felt like I was going to faint.”

“Ramadan, Ramadan, don't let me faint.”

I continued, “Anyway, I forgot to mention that after you've ‘cooked’ the drug in a spoon, you use a piece of cigarette filter to ‘wick’ the solution up into the filter, through which you draw the solution into the syringe. This process also filters out any residue uncooked particles from the spoon.”

“You would be a amazing professor, especially at a high school because these high schoolers don't know what there doing.”

“Well, there's a reason I'm mentioning all this, and it's not really on account of the drugs. It has to do with cliques, and associations of druggies are the ultimate cliques. It's not druggies that are not holding hands, it's simply people in cliques. The process of a clique is exclusion, so of course these people aren't going to hold hands.”

The two Mexican restaurant workers were my last passengers of the day, chatting about in Spanish, which to me be relaxing music. The ride was smooth plus a little bumpy, as I avoided undo potholes. I kept turning over my theory of communication, having to do with cliques excluding you, proctors constraining you, and parasites uprooting you. “That's very poetic,” my high-school friend had told me when I'd mentioned it to her in person.

There's no way I could become a professor; too many proctors trying to constrain everybody. Can you imagine? And as for drugs, there are far better things. The mystics show ancient inner designs, running up through the small of your back, across your chest, across the back of your neck and down into your left arm. From there another circuit becomes activated running up from the pit of your belly to the center of your chest, where it lights up like a star.

Meanwhile, the parasites abound. They read things like this, then try to incorporate the wrong things into their business model. “So let's all stand up, form a circle, and hold hands!”

Suddenly one of the Mexicans in my taxicab interrupted my reverie. “Don't push nothing," he said in English. “If it's gonna be, it's gonna be.”

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