Weed…was it worth it?

Some people, write when they are high. They’ll smoke weed, pop a pill, whichever it is to get the rush. My philosophy? Why not. Experimenting is healthy, just don’t make it a crutch. I tried weed to see what all the fuss was about.

Well their are two ways of taking it: a) ingest it or b) inhale it. I chose the latter one simply because buying some rizla worked out cheaper and less time-consuming than baking a cake.

So I walk to the local garage and with my most casual appearance mumble the word ‘rizla’ to the attendant at the counter. She seems to know the word and even offers me King Size or Regular.

I choose King Size.

I bought it from Anonymous. At work he told me to ‘clean’ the sploofs first. (Sploofs was the form I bought them in. It was little rolled up joints about two inches each, I bought five of them.) I was told that out of that I could make ten joints out of the five sploofs given. So with a paper pad and a credit card I sorted out the sploofs and cleaned the weed, taking out the seeds and the stems.

When it came to rolling it, it kinda got tricky. I was prepared to buy a bankie, so the weed wouldn’t be so knotted up in balls. So I took what I could and then realized the problem. The weed was uneven, so rolling it up into a joint creased the rizla, and put small air pockets into it, so when lit the joint burnt faster. I’m not a regular smoker, so my lungs roasted a bit since I sucked in what I could when the rizla burnt like Hell (literally, and don’t ask how I know about Hell). Each joint I made lasted about five lights and pulls.

I smoked two joints at a sitting, leaving several hours between the next round. You could say I suffered from a little indoctrination aswell, since I watched the tv series weeds. Other research (I made a note of doing, and then carried out) was reading up about it in an encyclopedia, researching it on the internet, and learning how to grow it for yourself. I inquired about the growing bit really out of curiosity, since some people earn money off it, I thought it’s be interesting to read up more on how they went about it.

The research wasn’t anything new from what I’d learnt already about weed (from reliable sources). The hydroponics was fascinating since this was now crossing the barrier into botany. And hey, why not learn to look after plants so you can spend some time getting high on them. Keeping a plant alive is keeping your business alive.

A work colleague of mine called me a professor in a long line of insults. I naturally took it as a rather fetching compliment, on backing up what I say. Being a prof has a decent ring to it although; I’m not a silly nut who stands by a podium and waffles. Nah…I’d rather go into the field, being proactive and old-fashioned.

I’ll only try everything twice.

(With regards to weeds I’ll treat it as an experience, not a new past-time.)

PhilosopherPoet

Blink and it’ll be over before you know it

People die. This is tragic, but sometimes a relief since they probably got it coming by smoking, drinking on weekends and ignoring the logo “SMOKING CAUSES CANCER” behind the teller at the cigarette counter. Death also happens to be entertaining when a vehicle (say an airliner) collides with a stationary object (um, I’ll pick a building at random). We stop the flights, blame a Nation, have a worldwide search for one of millions of bearded Arabs, and then promptly forget about the nation and go on to have a Oil Hunt in a nearby country.

All of this is in the name of Death. Excuse me being or morbid and political, but death is a sudden snip from life. Maybe because its so abrupt people have these strong reactions. This brings me two a more important point…what about a living death, an un-death. Something that keeps you awake, but dead to people around you. This is what happened to Jean-Dominique Bauby.

He was the French editor of Elle, a social icon, and became a vegetable after suffering a stroke. The common assumption is that you’re a vegetable because your brain has turned to mush, so your body is only just existing. Well Mr. Bauby fell ill to a rare disease called Locked-ln syndrome. This means you can see everything around you, and hear, but your body and mouth are mute and unresponsive. I’ll put an emphasis on see because this was all Bauby could really do.

He lay in a hospital understanding, everything said to him but unable to answer back. All he could do was blink. One blink for ‘Yes’, two blinks for ‘No’. He could communicate very slowly. Someone would stand in front of him with the alphabet. They would recite it, and he would blink when the translator came across the letter he wanted to use. She would repeat the word (once complete), and he would give a wink to confirm it. This was the terribly slow (yet, his only) way to communicate with anyone from the outside world.

Bauby had only two things that were alive, his eye and his mind. He was determined to communicate despite his ‘lock-in’ state. He decided to write a book. He had a book contract with a publisher prior to his near-fatal stroke. And decided to continue with it. This is a story of determination.

It must be hard to contemplate the psychological strain placed on someone, seeing their loved ones, enjoy life, yet unable to engage with them. Out of all the vegetables staring at hospital walls, and dribbling day in and out, Jean-Do Bauby saw life.

He wrote one of the most beautiful books written. He named it the Diving bell and the Butterfly. Diving bell because that is what he’d felt his body had become; one of those suits divers jumping into with a round metal head, and a small grill to see through. He chose butterfly because this was how precious his past memories were to him. Both were symbols of himself. The former his physical state, and the latter his fluid mind, and the freedom he found in his imagination.

This film doesn’t deserve anything less than * * * * * ! (five stars)

The imagery is extraordinary, the acting and collage of cinematic idiosyncrasies (including fine detail) can only be matched but never mastered in this memoir/biography of determination, frustration and inspiration.

PhilosopherPoet

Surviving means drinking…

What is a vampire?

Well, immediately the answer is drinks blood, dies in the light, has an aversion to the crucifix and garlic. They are pale in appearance, have extended canines, dress predominantly in black and let’s not forget they are nocturnal. This is an answer that would come from having to describe a fantasy creature, born into horror films and books. Now I’ll put it a different way…

What do you call a creature that (does none-of-the-above, except) drinks blood?

Answer: A Hamilton

This is what the film The Hamiltons is about. I hope I haven’t spoilt the terror by revealing the punch line.  I can’t help but marvel at the concept. Ordinary people, ordinary looking, speaking, talking, walking, etc need blood to survive. It’s a strange concept.

It kind of defeats the whole concept of these nocturnal/religious creatures…doesn’t it?

While I was getting into the first half of the film, your first impression is that these people are mentally disturbed. Severely mentally disturbed, and I’ll make sure that there is a capital ’s’ on severely. It is a valid question. Why would a family kill people if there is no gain from it?

Whenever people are murdered…there is some kind of motive behind it. Occasionally you’ll get your Ted Bundy who’ll rack up a few corpses just for the heck of it. Most people that murder other people, do so because they will benefit in some way, be it money, power, freedom, justice and so forth.

This film has all the stamps of a decent horror. The intro of a terrified girl in a room dying to get out, but then cries quietly when she hears an unknown beast trying to get her. The use of the video camera. This is fairly common since it stays zoomed in and creates suspense by deliberately ‘cutting out’ expressions and environment.

Overall a very good horror. Its on the gory end of the genre, supported by an unusual and strong cast. From the DVD cover it garnered a few awards, which in my opinion were well deserved. I can’t find too much criticism other than the storyline itself was pretty linear, relying on the characters to carry through. Definitely worth a watch on a dark and lonely night. I wouldn’t re-watch this one because of how the storyline is built up.

PhilosopherPoet’s Rating

The Hamiltons * * * *

(out of 5)

The reason for not pushing to a five is a) the storyline b) the supporting actors and c) not re-watchable. Although definitely a shit load of fun for a first-timer!

PhilosopherPoet

Recent Poetry

the rain

he spilled the smoke

into the air.

once he’d opened

binbag lips (the rest)

remained behind

fog again

you could never tell

why he could smell

the rain coming

he ate unspoken words

from my head

Untitled

i find myself thinking

when I stop to

examine my

wheelbarrow bruises

the pain of everyday

written into my crinkled

hands

i am not a soldier

peel

i am human he felt

crawled up to me

with black cracked

hands

- we can share? -

i looked at the orange

snuggled in my hands.

a ball of my embodiment

still alive

i insisted and,

he peeled away the

corners with an eye

of life

he broke the bread

i ate the orange

in remembrance

of it.

newspaper

the boy with two teeth

sold the script – our

lives were written on

nothing but gums to

smile away the guns

and dirty words, sunk into

the Skin

- he gave me

a headline i couldn’t pay for

As always comments are always welcome on anything in the blog. These is why I make the blog open to non-Word Press users, I may suffer from a bit of spam as a result, but I can take it!

*May the Muse be with other writers out there*

PhilosopherPoet

the can-man

Harry was a can man

‘the best in town’

built bridges on tears

that fell

down to the

Ground.

Harry had a must

that

bent and bothered

The rest of us

He drew with him a fair

crowd,

but he could not hear the

music.

Harry was a grand spick-an-span

man. He saw no evil

or heavy regret that

rusted in our throats.

He made the world find a laugh,

because he could not hear the music.

Harry was today’s fan, he babbled

away that he had a plan, to solve the

waste the draped the day.

That only happened in hairy tales

it told toddlers playtime was up,

a toy was about to break.

Harry lost the fans, the can

and his plan. They all fell away

like folding cards, buckled behind

bigger fears.

He cried in his stone-cloned room,

he lost the nerve to pick up

his drooping head.

Harry could whisper, a small

‘if only’ that fell onto his drawing

of the best can man in town. a

Giant who spoke resounding thoughts

(and most probably)

could hear the music.

PhilosopherPoet

Tattooed Paper – autobiography

1

I can only piece together fragments of memory from my genesis. The rest left in the photographs and some of the video footage that wasn’t taken, and recently recovered.

The earliest memory was being burnt. I crawled under a table, and as I stood up a kettle (just boiled fell on me, burning my back.) I remember getting an army man that fell under the table, I remember crawling and I remember standing up and the small of my back catching the table.

The pain that followed I don’t think any child deserves, and I was thankfully spared of that. My mother recalls it with frightening accuracy…

I was three years old at the time. As my mother carried me to the bathroom, the skin peeled off me like paper. My arms were flailing around in desperation. My mother put me in the bath and filled it with cold water it was then my screaming subsided for a while. She called the ambulance, and I was rushed to hospital.

My final memory of the event was the ambulance door opening. It’s like an editor cut the film between my times under the table, and just before I entered the hospital.

2

Church was huge. The people were all oversized and intimidating. I crawled on the pews, and hoped it would be over soon. Nothing about it jarred me yet, but the preacher babbled on for light years after my attention span gave in.

I still remember Pastor Harry. He wore semi-transparent glasses, hiding his eyes from far away. He seemed like a powerful man way up there at the lectern. When he had stopped talking and reading out the Bible, the music started up.

Harry stood back half a step. His mouth grew as round as a dinner plate and he joined in the singing. Although from so far back I could not hear him much.

3

My first Christmas that I can recall was exciting. My bleary-eyed parents stared at me and my brother’s faces, through cracks of sleep. I remember getting Lego. My little man with a barrel head came with a helmet and a motorbike.

I remember taking him to church.

I could not understand why my parents would want to spoil such a beautiful day, listening to a boring voice on hard benches. I remember holding this new toy, with heightened excitement. While the sermon ran in the background like the monotonous sound of the fan…I escaped into my head.  My Lego man was the last survivor. He clambered out of burning wreckage and rose to begin his journey. He raced along cliff faces, and onto long-forgotten beaches to find gold. As he came down the last slope a branch snagged his visor fell tumbling down into the nothingness.

In this church there was a metal grill below every second pew. This ventilated the church, and lead to the storeroom directly beneath. My clumsy fingers had pried the visor loose, and it had fallen through the grid. I climbed down and looked through at boxes and steel poles below. I could not see the captain’s visor.

I sniffed and could smell the dust and feel cold air float onto my face. Later we spoke to the pastor and went to retrieve the lost visor. I picked it up from the cold concrete.

It was all by itself.

4

My house was chaos. My parents fought often, and they sent me to toddler schools I found intimidating. There was one thing that scared me more than a crowd of mothers and children…our dog.

He name was Brutus, and I’m sure his surname was Maximus. Brutus was a boxer. My head was level with that long sleek body; those eyes and heavy jaws raised one and a half heads above me.

Brutus was full of energy. He seemed trained for combat, always ready to run and trample things down. Nothing got in the way other than the towering figure of my father. Even guests used to nervously peer over the gate before entering. The ignorant ones would leave with mud stains decorating their clothes.

Many times I was bowled over by Brutus. It seemed to be normal to be scratched and burst into tears, once he’d finished throwing around my stick figure. I can proudly say that one day I got revenge on our dog. It was David and Goliath, Man against Machine…and I came out on top.

My father enjoyed collecting bones and skulls. Many shapes and sizes he’d shown me telling me about the animals they all came from. My mother considered bones to be dirty things, and they remained in a suitcase in the garage. I was around the day Brutus found the bones.

His big nose seemed to draw more curiosity than a cat could. His nose started to rummage, looking for something interesting enough for it to be worth the effort. I was watching from the garden, my mind slowly working out that he was after the bones. I went to the compost heap, and grabbed a long rod of bamboo.

I screamed a shrill war cry in the air and ran towards the garage like a gladiator, swinging my sword above my head. Brutus grew tense. He sensed something was up. He grabbed a bone in his mouth and bolted out the building. I darted after him, with my brother in tow, both of us running and screaming. It was one of the happiest days I can remember. For the first time I remember watching his tail go between his legs.

5

My father loved to read, and he passed on the excitement. He made an effort to read stories to us, and grow our minds. With my fond memory of books came my memory, of my father’s friend…Clark.

He was a young exciting guy. His eyes were alive, and had curly orange hair, that sprung out at different angles. Clark was a librarian, who loved to pass on books. You could say that every year my birthday present from Clark was predictable. The story, excitement, and other world that lay beneath the wrapping could not be measured.

The more stories I could fill myself with, the happier I was to live in my head.

6

Every kid is fascinated with their crap and their urine at some point. I had lain in it for at least two years, with the nappy making it portable. A nappy helps to carry your crap around, although mothers see it as keeping you clean.

I must’ve been three or four years old, since I was able to walk around and climb onto a chair. I was in the lounge, I could still smell the furniture polish. I climbed onto the couch. Once there, out of pure curiosity I wormed my index finger down my pants all the way into my point of extraction. I dug out a sticky sample and watched it. I could a stiff and the gagging odor that followed, convinced me not to continue with this experience.

Since no toilet paper was around I wiped it off on the wooden handle of the couch, and left the room feeling guilty.

(To Be Continued…)

PhilosopherPoet

My autobiography in progress

My therapist suggested that I try and write my own biography to process stuff. I took this advice and begun to work on it. So far I’ve written five/six short chapters, and I’m pleased with what has turned out so far. It actually smells like something that could potentially be published.

I’d like to add that for the privacy of family members I have changed names, although i try to keep events as clear as I can. I have called it Tattooed Paper, because I’m essentially a writer and that is what you are doing. I find it far more descriptive than just saying ‘writing’. The reason? Well, tattoos have meaning and are symbols to us.

Tattooed Paper should follow in the next post.

PhilosopherPoet

Sinking

i mashed Nadine’s face into

the grill of the plug hole.

her face stayed

confident…smooth

i could not place my mistakes

or the

long bath (that covered)

me

i asked the air to take

Me, my cigarette begging

for it.

I watch -the

smell of smoke

hiss between

my lips.

PhilosopherPoet