dimanche 3 avril 2011

Music shot

"When you're sick, music is a great help. Once, in Texas, I kicked a habit on weed, a pint of paregoric and a few Louis Armstrong records." - Junky - William S. Burroughs
I never could do the injection myself.  The mere idea of a needle penetrating my skin was enough to make me faint. I never grasped what "finding a vein" meant apart from "painstakingly probing my nerves".
Once the catheter was in place, the lingering sting was amplified by my imagination. I was craving for the liberating burning cold sensation of the flow of music climbing up my arm. Once it reached the brain, the release was overwhelming.
All depended on the playlist. Some were epileptic and throbbed with my pulse. Others had a way of carrying me with their waves. I could not detach my eyes from the music pouch from which a trickle of sound elixir fell, drop by drop, tear by tear, and followed the long curve of the plastic tube that led to the crook of my elbow. But I did not see it. I was high.

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