New technology for old blogs

Well, the attempt to bring some old blogs over is not working in so many ways. I have blogged for years, and I was trying to get them collected in one place, for several reasons:

1. I would like to let people see what goes on in the mind of someone in recovery as the process kicks in and starts to work. My entire thought process, including my mind’s voice and my repeater messages, have changed. There are a lot of people that want to know, and several that need to know and just don’t know it.

2. There’s also an element of me wanting all my writing in one place. I’ve lost oodles (there’s no word to describle what I’ve lost) of my writing. I actually cried when a few years ago I found out a hard drive with 5  or more years of writing had been destroyed – intentionally. It was ultimately my fault, and ironically (in terms of this post) a result of my addiction.

But it appears I am not moving the posts with the dates, and I used different language at the same time. Again, my whole world has changed.

So until I learn how to move this stuff over without giving the impression that anything not recent is not recent, I’m going to leave it alone…



Another post from the new recovery period of my life… written around 2 years ago.

Well, I know this one. You know this one. All junkies know this one. Its the one that keeps you going, whatever direction that may be… its the one that takes you to 12 steps, sometimes the one that makes you leave. Its the one that keeps you sick or makes you well. Its the one that seems the most unavoidable… the one string, link, connection, that we ALL have; all junkies are full of shame. Shameful.

Is it what we’ve done? Is it what we felt like we had to do? Is it what we almost did? Is it what others think we should or shouldn’t do or be or say or think or write or WANT?

I want to be high. Sometimes. But when I say it I don’t. I don’t care. As much. That’s the funny thing about shame, it can only exist in 2 places: Either inside our head, where we perceive right or wrong or others’ perceptions, and out in the open around the judging, the judges, those that don’t understand, or even worse, those that do.

But, in our head, if we don’t apply right or wrong, if we don’t try to guess what others are thinking, or even better we don’t care (because our shame will not change history or judgement); if we don’t listen when others judge, after we’ve repented, after we’ve sought redemption…

If we could just understand ourselves, and accept ourselves, and seek redemption and then REDEEM ourselves from the judgement of others…

If, or should I say when, this happens, then and only then can we free ourselves from the shame that drives our sickness.

Without shame our past strengthens us. Without shame our future invites us forward. Without shame the here and now are both ok. Without shame we are not who we think we are, we are merely who we are. Perhaps without shame we are no longer junkies?

Hickory Dickory friggin Dock


– something I wrote about 10 years ago, in full-blown addiction

Apparently a rhyme that is supposed to introduce tykes to time… I must have been out that day. I am losing time.

Time is a phenomenon that eludes me; people close to me DEMAND that I take notice of its power and authority; people rush by me under its spell; the TV, radio, my computer, my face… my whole fucking LIFE is drawn unintentionally into its hands to never escape.

Or so it seems. But sitting here, looking into the abyss through my mind’s eye, my crown shakra, and that motherfucker stares right back at me. I lose myself, I lose my life, I lose my ‘who I am’ my ego my drive my relgion my spirit and my fucking time… I lose time.

I lose it all the time. I mean I lose shit, I lose my glasses, and my keys, and my fucking sandals, and my cell phone, and my watch, and my fucking MIND… but nothing costs more affects me more takes more out of my ASS than losing fucking time.



Fucking Dock.

Red flower blooming


-this was written around 10 years ago when I was in full-blown addiction

The blood in my head was roaring like a crowd, spinning like the top note in a lullabye. Ringing startles me into reality. Ringing and rhythm. My head rings to the beat of my sputtering heart. Then another sound bleeds through with light the light draining from my purple curtain.


God damned phone.

Scream away, I refuse to open that door right now. No more peace of the senses. Reality strikes me as a beer-bellied bone-digger, mouth of a brewery, reacting like a smoke machine to outside trauma.

I rise, slowly, and climb aboard the day like a saddle-sore cattle-herder. Not even realizing what is real, I roast my tongue on the first cup of wake-up. What day is it? Fuck it, its all the same. A day by any other name…

I remember Bukowski, and the spider in search of golden flies. I suppose he’s right… While I flinch from the crackling glass surrounding my bones, and rub my arms to warm away the chilling and smooth away the crawling, I decide he was a crazy drunk. But he was right.

Since I woke up, somewhere, everywhere in my mind, I’ve been dreaming of a red flower blooming in my hand. That crazy old drunk decided his cross, much like Christ’s, was on his mind from the beginning.

And like Bukowski, and Christ, I reckon as I reach for my wallet and phone, I decide not to climb down from my cross. To climb down would only mean finding another one to die on. Because I doubt anyone could call this living.

A George Divided Against Itself Cannot Stand!

Worlds Collide Theory

A theory which states that a man must keep his personal life (i.e. friends) separate from his relationship side (i.e. girlfriend). Should the two worlds come into contact with each other (by means of his girlfriend becoming friends with his friends), both worlds blow up.

“If Relationship George walks through that door, he will kill Independent George! A George divided against itself, cannot stand!” – George Costanza
I should add that the online world and the business world should also be included… I am accustomed to blogging mostly anonymously. I have broken that on my own, and now I”m having to adjust what I say around here to that fact.
Its not that I’m worried about repercussions as much as I’m concerned about stepping on other peoples’ toes, or of implying that I could do a better job than anyone else. Opinions are like kittens and they’re always being given away.
So I’ve made a few posts private and I’m working on managing the information and opinions that I post here.
That was boring but just in case…

Soul Sucker (another old post)

This was originally written July 26th, 2008… which actually had a poem I had written years before, Tragicomedy, … my MySpace blog is slowly fading away… copy and paste, takes seconds during a break…

Soul Sucker

  I feel my body drooping from an attack. My blood is pumping hard, trying to rush necessary survival chemicals to my brain. I had mistaken my senses alerting me to run for those that elude pain. Being swallowed into a swirling storm of chaos draws me close to a fire that does not want to be extinguished.

    I was mislead, but more than that, I miscalculated. I trusted where none was warranted; I believed when to do so would be foolish; I gave my precious energy and in doing so fell spriraling into a black hole.

    My mind told me countless times, but I based my actions on faith in someone else. I believed they could be good-hearted. That behind all that take was some give.

Imagine looking up
from the top
from the bottom

Tossed into confusion
too confusing

The swirls of euphoria
descend into pain
the top, the bottom

I lose myself
in time
in rhyme

I chase rabbits freely
sweetly knowing

allen p.

Old Post – Why I’m not a junky anymore (see old post page ’til I figure out the technology)

I am no longer a junky because I am tired of running – from my consequences, from my debts, from people that hate me just so they can not love me; from people I’ve hurt, burned, conned, lied to, stolen from, wounded, scared, or just put at risk.

A junky eventually has to run from everyone, withdrawn into seclusion, ducking into shadows and avoiding mirrors. Then self-loathing sets in when there’s nothing else left to use. The internal turmoil is overbearing, to the point of bringing actual physical pain. It aches.

Denial is the most powerful thing I’ve ever used. But denial saves a junky’s life every time. Because if I had ever awoken from a nod, sat up, and really processed what I’d been doing, I’d be dead. If I ever sat down and considered that every person that ever came into my life was impacted by my habit, I’d be dead. If I’d really thought that it wasn’t always and only what I was doing, but also what I wasn’t doing, it would have been over.

Not that I’d do it to myself, although I’m sure a few more years would bring me there. But I’d just stop fighting; stop trying not to die. I’m sure I would have just let go.

Because a true junky has no god, no hope, and no redemption. At least, that’s the way it appears from the inside. Because the path behind is littered with debris, and the path ahead may as well lead up to Mt. Everest. And the body’s natural defense against hopelessness, in the form of endorphins, don’t work anymore. There are no longer any natural rewards, for a long, long time.

I am very small. What I know is nothing. But I do know what its like to be in, and what its like to come out. And all I can say is this – its a tough, tough road. And expectations are a bitch. My life doesn’t stop sucking. People aren’t any more sane or any less ridiculous. There is still never enough money.

And I still know how to engulf my world in a euphoria few ever really know. But its fake. Plastic. Digital. Chemical. Its a trick. Its a lie. Its a delusion.

Its denial.

That’s the true drug. That’s what I really couldn’t kick.

I had to come to some sort of understand about what I fight for everyday, or I was going to stop. I had to define my struggle. I had to stop and feel.

And what I felt was Hope. Not god, not love, not redemption, not relief from shame… I felt none of these. I still do not today. But I have something most people don’t know anything about.


Don’t get me wrong. Lots of people have hope. But they don’t know anything about it. Because they’ve never really had to live without it. And they’ve never had to fight to regain it.

There are no grand and glorious days. I do not have this overwhelming sense of relief that I am clean right now. I don’t have lots of extra money and new friends.

But I have Hope.

Hope is a subtle thing, noticed by me at least only by its absence. But it is much like my heartbeat – I don’t think about it often, but I’m certainly glad its there. Because without it, the end is much closer than it may appear to be.

Many days I sat and consciously decided whether to let go or try to hang on for another day.

So these days when I’m sitting around, doing nothing, every now and then I take a deep breath. I feel my body’s exhaustion from the years of abuse, months of withdrawals, weeks of being behind the curve, days of fighting, hours waiting waiting waiting, minutes being high, and seconds real living.

And I’m relieved that I’m not worrying about running low, running out, copping and getting busted, lying cheating stealing and draining the life out of everything around me and me.

Hope. This is why I fight every day.

I may win, and I may lose. I may be high next week. I can’t make any promises about the future but I can say WHY? Now I can relax, and breath, and dream, and know…

I am very small. And what I know is nothing. But I know fighting for my life to have something is better than having nothing at all and no hope.