In my former daze as a San Francisco raver (circa ‘96-’97), I learned more lessons in a year that I could really digest. I wrote as many of them as I could down, and even five years later, I read back and am amazed that I managed to navigate so much. Here’s an entry from almost exactly four years ago: January 25th, 1997.

A little history first: the dance community back then (and still now) was saturated with methamphetamine, aka crystal. Before moving down from Seattle, a friend had told me that “whatever you do, don’t touch the white powders. Just don’t.” So, respecting his advice, I didn’t. Despite the fact that many of my friends were strung out (some using crystal to get through Berkeley, others using it to go to work, others using it to do both while still partying), I avoided the stuff.

Until January 1997. The friend who’d told me not to do crystal was visiting from Seattle, and we had the opportunity to do some. He suggested I try it while he was there, so he could “watch out” for me. So, we did. It was part of a long night and even longer day after of excess and hedonism. And it hurt.

January 25th, 1997
Doing crystal last weekend made me see this whole city in a different light. Crystal is everywhere, sprinkling out of the cracks of the asphalt, glinting in sparkled circles around noses of The Awake. Those who exist in a world without sleep, “when I used to be human.” And it scares me. It’s every fucking where and it is the embodiment of all things evil, all things tempting, all things oblivious seduction and innocent addiction.

Now that I’m aware of the insidious horrifying nature of the chemical, I want nothing to do with it. I need to get it far out of my peripheral vision. Smart people get hooked on the shit, and I don’t intend to be one of them to go down in a cloud of shards and the dust that’s left after a soul burns from the inside out.

I haven’t done it since.