I guess I should call this, “The Siege of The Warwick…”
but, left alone with a substantial supply of speed I forgot that I was heavily addicted to barbiturates and I started having strange compulsive behavior.
This was after I was done, well, I was shooting up every half hour, every twenty minutes on the half hour, thinking with each fresh shot I’d knock this nonsense out of my system, this physical disability I began to notice, namely convulsions, which lasted eight hours, during which I entertained myself while hanging on to, head down, hanging on to the bathroom sink, with my hind foot stomped against the drawer, trying to hold myself steady enough so I wouldn’t crack my stupid skull open.
Continue reading re:verse : “The Siege of the Warwick” – Edie Sedgwick
September 13, 2010
Nestled halfway between Harlem and Brooklyn lies Randall’s Island. Labor Day weekend the islet transforms into a beautiful blend of Wonkaland and Woodstock, Sodom and Gomorrah, Israel and Ibiza, Pleasure Island and Neverland – a hybrid between that Pinocchio place where lost boys find themselves and where Peter Pan’s lost boys aimlessly meander… all perpetuated by the most nourishing of all life fuels… music – electronic music.
Somehow, someway, the past, present, and future of music made their collective way to this halogen Haus of worship. My journey no doubt veered from the norm, but when the clandestine is commonplace, all odd experiences are good. I was like a kid in a candy store – no matter where I went, there I was, with a sugar-rushed stranger and makeshift chaperone there to guide me along from one aisle to the next. Though the guide may not know where you’re coming from, or how to get to where you’re going, they know your destination. One second you’re lost in Manhattan, and the next you find yourself MapQuesting directions from the UES to Randall’s Island, and then you’re watching hipsters take cabs to Harlem bus stops – simple foreshadowing that no matter how far “above” those kids one is – no matter how objectively I scoff at their ways from a far more worldly and morally superior place – we’re all the same entitled Gen-Yers… making our way from decadence to debauchery by way of urban decay.
Continue reading The Prophiles: Electric Zoo, #primacyprojectionmetasonic