For real, that’s the first page of a document that is twenty-nine years old if it’s a day. 

I have hauled this thing out of its home on my bookshelf every eon or so to see if what I wrote when I was 20 still holds up–and I have also stumbled across it over the decades while doing some cleaning or hunting-around for something else–but this is the first time I’ve read through it in about three years; three years in which I grew and changed a great deal, and for the better.  Am I better than I was back then?  Are you? Are we maybe, just maybe, this delightful Bob Dylan cover? 

At first glance, a few things about this manifesto immediately leap out.  First of all, my handwriting is quite sloppy, and I used to write my Es like backwards 3s for some reason.  Most significantly, though, there are zero paragraph breaks, and there is a reason for this visual annoyance: you see, the entirety of this vintage three-and-a-half page document was written while buried in a deep armchair in the spring of 1996, soaring at Sputnik heights thanks to being quite finely-tuned on strong amphetamines.  In fact, it was supposedly clean crystal meth, something that was and still is completely foreign to me, but the opportunity to sample the goods presented itself to me one fine day at my pal’s apartment, and I was young and indestructible enough to partake. It was one of those rare, fleeting bites of dewy innocence and burgeoning womanhood when you could have Pepsi and a chocolate muffin for breakfast, smoke a pack of smuggled Marlboro reds throughout the day, show up for your minimum-wage shift as a phone-sex operator, finish your Poli Sci 201 homework, do this on repeat, and still somehow look better and better as the days zipped past.

True story.

This friend had recently become obsessed with the rave scene, a depthless counterculture prevalent during the decade which basically consisted of dressing up in day-glo (do people still say “day-glo”?) costumes. clutching toddler accessories, devouring sackfuls of drugs, and fiending until the dawn’s early light in a packed club or warehouse or afterparty while waving arms and bodies around to tight electronic music.  That’s my rudimentary summary of the entire scene, anyway; I had nothing to do with it, as it was entirely out of my zone of suburban punk-rock familiarity and seemed superficial, without purpose, and irritating…opinions I predicated on my first-hand encounters with several of its acolytes and casualties.  

As of this writing, I’ve never been to a rave, I’ve only been to a handful of nightclubs, and back then I certainly wasn’t about to sport pigtails and suck on a binky while slobbering over an equally-sketchy stranger, high out of my mind on ecstasy.  Oh, and I’ve also never done ecstasy.

Fact of the matter is, I am, and always was, a terrible drug taker.  With the exception of several early years as a regular pot smoker, every time I attempted to do some kind of illicit intoxicant, I became irritable, confused, panicked, queasy, insecure, and perpetually aware that I was under the influence of some kind of unpleasant ride I just wanted to urgently climb off.  And it didn’t take long for marijuana (or, as I like to call it, The Stupid Maker) to betray me; that stuff is actually worse than LSD for my brain as far as inducing paranoia and mild psychosis is concerned.  Besides, the weed that’s been around for the last decade seems to be much stronger than acid, and a guy I once dated for a few weeks who had some auxiliary position with the Canadian military once informed me that all commercially-sold weed is treated with RoundUp.  This would explain why most of the people I know who are well-acquainted with cannabis use are, at best, mildly retarded.

At any rate, that spring night in 1996, I found myself at my friend’s place downtown while she and her raver pals were getting ready for a night out, and they had all procured their drug of choice, which they innocently referred to as “crystal” back then.  Such a shimmering, innocuous, pretty name for such a wildly hazardous street drug, but this was also long, long before fentanyl was any kind of impending reality, and so the quality was far less grimy and tainted than it was to soon become.

Those kids enjoyed sniffing the stuff or smoking it (which I tried to do once, and which had the brutal flavour of what I imagined burning polyurethane would taste like), but that night I simply put some of the powder in a scrap of Rizla rolling paper and popped it like a pill.  Thirty minutes later I was on some kind of elevated plane of consciousness; not in an altered state, but rather bursting with a steadily-climbing mental and physical euphoria that felt like infinite clarity, revelatory enlightenment, and divine inspiration.  Sitting in that armchair with the spiral-ring notebook I took everywhere with me, I understood that I was exactly where I was supposed to be at that precise moment in the space-time continuum, the universe rapidly expanding within my mind as the physical world shrunk, and the only thing left was a twenty-year old capsule of energy who immediately saw her role in the Big Picture, and getting it all down on paper as fast as possible was the only option–the only conceivable course of action out of anything that else could possibly have been undertaken–at that particular cosmic juncture.  Thus, the frantically-scribbled handful of pages with zero time for silly paragraph breaks.  

…I’m telling you all of this because I just turned forty-nine (which is what I will say until the day I turn fifty in December), and I’ve been reflecting a lot on my history with substances thanks to the big writing project I’m working on, and because fifty is an enormous milestone if you manage to make it there.  Once you hit half a century and you have the ability to genuinely introspect and assess yourself critically–and believe me, not everyone does, and they are the walking dead as far as I’m concerned, although their ignorance is a sort of an enviable deluded bliss–you start reflecting on what you’ve done, where you are, who you’ve become, and what you’d like to have happen going forward.  This isn’t to say that you should spend a great deal of time obsessing over your mortality and past decisions, because this can obviously be paralyzing and unproductive.  While going through the intense process of recovery from alcohol abuse, I once heard a very wise person share something straightforward, logical, yet profound: Depression is what we feel when we think about the past, and anxiety is what we feel when thinking about the future.  Therefore, living in the present is the only course of action for self-preservation and rescue, because it’s all we have, and all we can control.

This reframing of one’s mental state (and reclaiming your agency over it) was a massive eye-opener to me, folks.  When you’ve lost many years of your life to an addiction, it’s extremely easy to get mired down in rumination–I definitely know that I ignored the knocking sound of opportunity many times because I was too lost in the bottle, and in numerous instances, I didn’t take initiative when I should have.  There’s nothing I can do about that now, and I like to think I’m exactly where I am supposed to be at this stage.  In fact, we all are, thanks to a combination of the divine and the individual.  I do believe in God, of course, but God helps those who help themselves; God isn’t Santa Claus or the BC Lottery Corporation.  You’re not going to get, say, a lucrative publishing deal by flopping around on the sofa with a solitary brainwave and 40 ounces of Alberta Pure vodka unless you’re Brooklyn Beckham, bless his well-meaning but fundamentally-useless heart.  

Thinking back on when and how I used to play around with drugs and alcohol got me curious about timelines, patterns of substance use, and cause-and-effect, and so I pulled out this manifesto a couple of days ago.  I haven’t read it in its entirety for quite a spell, so I’m going to type it all out here while I simultaneously take it in, except I need to create paragraphs where I can.  Why?  Because it’s mine, that’s why. Blocks of text are excruciating on the eyes.  Let’s see where that crystal meth journey to the centre of the mind took me, and if I really was some kind of chemically-wired young oracle:

THE DEAR LORD KNOWS that being different is not a curse but a blessing.  Revel in your nonconformity!  Embrace your individuality with the tenderest of arms!  I am here to reaffirm our positions in life, encouraging every young and hopeful soul to stay true to themselves.  It is a pity to collapse under the dense pressure of society; it is practically a crime to give into its demands.  Do you know your identity?  Are you truly in touch with the being locked within your physical shell?…Or are you posturing?  I understand the seemingly futile search for one’s place on earth.  There are several decisions to be made in order to maintain one’s “image”–the clothes to wear; the people to associate with; the music to listen to; the activities to engage in.  You can play all of these factors out to the maximum, even filling the stereotypical characteristics of a particular label or clique.  But is this who you really are”?  The most fundamental portion of a human’s existence is their sense of self-awareness–if this has not yet been realized, the gradual development of it becomes the sole focus for living.  It is indeed that simple. 

Objectively look at yourself, and try to assess your genuine interests and thought processes.  Are there things inhibiting your personal evolution?  Are there people or situations involved that prevent you from expressing the secret desires locked within?  It is no exaggeration or romanticizing, but plain fact: spiritual growth is necessary for your survival.  It is what puts you in touch with yourself, and how you are a special being apart from everyone else!  Of course, the solution is quite simple–remove yourself from all the aversive things in your current existence.  Break apart and do what it is you want and, actually, need to be relatively sane.  

If you are not sane, why pretend to be?  You are not a lesser human being or outcast, but different, and for a reason.  The way society is structured, we must all dutifully adhere to prescribed norms, values, and beliefs.  If we fail to meet these standards, we are punished, ostracized, incarcerated, or forced to change.

That’d be page 2.

What society’s dictators fail to recognize is that it is impossible to change what is fixed.  A radical perspective, for example, can only be altered through external forces.  A sexual attraction to children, or a fixation with murder, is but a fact and cannot be altered. (This is not to condone pedophilia whatsoever: sexual relations must be mutually agreed upon and children cannot fully comprehend the severity of the act) That certain dictators control our true, raw natures–human nature!–is to go against the inevitability of fate, to warp healthy souls and evolving minds.  This is what should be considered criminal, and no equal mortal should be given the surreal privilege of controlling the people.  

On a daily basis, we are manipulated by the media–dictators of another sort–and our intelligence is insulted by their selective reporting and random celebrity exploitation.  Cultural icons, who supposedly represent our generation and speak for our lives, are manufactured and pre-programmed tools to again attempt to create a collective consciousness: To all be the same, and be interested in the same things, and for everyone to leap onto the same bandwagon headed for conformity.  Mass conformity.  Our physical presence and appearances spark instant judgment from others; even if we consider ourselves open-minded and nondiscriminating, we tend to leap to conclusions and scramble for a label to slap upon one another.  

Perhaps this in itself is a natural element to being, a longstanding part of human nature that is ever-fixed.  But must we be so harsh when we judge?  Physical confrontations and abuse occirs as a result of one’s outer appearance; potential friends are ignored, despite the warm and caring vibes they may emit, due to a simple dislike of one’s makeup job or footwear.  However, like-minded individuals tend to flock towards each other, creating solid and necessary ties.  I am simply saying that it is possible to overlook shallow appearances and go forth into unexplored and possibly worthwhile territory.  United as a force, with values and beliefs intact, we can conquer society and overthrow the controllers, the dictators, the rule-makers.  Find your voice and listen to what it has to say.  Always keep one essential rule in mind: never hurt anybody deliberately.  It is an act of senseless cruelty and will not change the unjust ways of a senselessly cruel society.

Page…well, it’s page 3.

Unhappiness always sprouts from feeling controlled and from being told what to do.  The workplace is a breeding ground for such feelings.  Slavery has not been abolished; it merely metamorphosized [sic] into another form.  We all have the inner desire to live comfortably and contentedly, without having to sacrifice our dignity for the benefit and profit of others.  We all have something that we are good at or would like to do, yet achieving our goals has never been more a struggle or distant dream.  By the grace of our previous generation, the economic structure has been constructed by pure capitalism.  Materialism.  Money. (Which means greed, supposedly a deadly sin to Christians.) Equality and even distribution of wealth is a fantasy that has been voiced aloud by many, yet never seems to be realized.  The rich do get richer, the poor become even more impoverished.

Our system is based on employing educated or intelligent or undereducated or wealthy or poor or old or young people who don’t happen to have a connection in the inner sanctum, a foot in the door.  It is not what you know, but who you know.  Or who you blow, if you’re in the entertainment industry.  Capitalism has supreme reign in this day and age, a grueling and disillusioning process which further serves to alienate, manipulate, and control the outcomes of various lives.  As individuals, each separately privileged with opinions, brains, and voices, it is due time to attack the classist, unhealthy capitalist regime.

Revolution seems to be the only reasonable answer to such chaotic government control.  Marx predicted it may result as a bloody war.  Though violence is not the solution to any dilemma, direct action is the only means by which our society will be forced to rethink our current situation.

Constantly, I am stifled by pressures that seem to completely encircle me.  I am encouraged to compromise and / or alter my integrity in order to “fit in” in a mainstream culture that is sliding downhill at a rapid pace.  The political upheaval of the 1960s was supposed to change things, change the world into a better place for the next generation.  Us.  The idealism and determination of the 1960s attitude was empty, meaningless posing.  The lure of capitalism won over our parents–the former hippies.  Relics from that era who still hold fast to their beliefs are looked down upon nowadays, particularly from those who used to attend Be-Ins and demonstrations right next to them.  The hippies were all phony, conforming to a big standard and spawning trends that became mainstream.  They made the current condition of the planet into what it is: hopeless.  We, the children of those Baby Boomers, have been born into a society consumed with wealth and power and status.  We are victims of a failed mission, casualties of the cultural war that continues on today.

 And it just stopped! Reminds me of the classic story of Samuel Taylor Coleridge who, while sailing blissfully on an opium high, was writing down his masterpiece “Kubla Khan” without pause, as though taking holy dictation. As soon soon as he got to the words “For he on honeydew has fed / And drunk the milk of paradise,” he was interrupted by a knock on the door. After shooing the person away, Coleridge was unable to tap back into his well of otherworldly inspiration–the poem had ended abruptly. That’s what I’d like to compare myself to, anyway, except my wrist just likely became sore and I wanted a cigarette.

  *   *  *   *   *

There’s a lot I could say about that blistering literary noodling, but I’ll just state that I am both impressed and astonished that this came from my sped-up 20-year old brain…mostly because I agree with virtually everything I wrote, and because it all seems to apply today.  Nothing has changed, apparently, aside from the fact that this was scrawled out pre-internet (and I can only imagine the sort of blog entries I would have posted had it existed back then). 

And one wonders why I became an alcoholic.  Ah well.  It’s never too late to turn things around and repurpose that manifesto into some kind of viral Tik-Tok sensation, right?  I’m sure Gen Zed would care plenty about Marxist ideology, overthrowing capitalist dictatorships, embracing one’s individuality, eschewing media control, and rejecting mass conformity!

Post-idealist selfie.

да здравствует революция,

Nadya.