Tao of the Marijuana Blues (Part Two)

St. Kilda, 1998

The phone rings.
A pang of anxiety.
Fear of corrupt exchange.
I let the answering machine machine it's way through its' designated task. Painstakingly, it repeats its' only idea ever. Clicks. Beeps. Whirs. A female voice blathers as I leave the room.
I lie down. Impotent. My thin foam mattress. cost $45. Rip off. It was never anything close to comfortable, and now it's infested with fleas.
Get up, look in the fridge. It's only been five minutes since I last peeked, and still,
Nothing tasty has appeared.
Lucky I'm not hungry.
My latest housemate doesn't want smoking in the flat, so I stand on the back porch and grimly feed my addiction. The wind ruins the experience. I like the smoke to hang around my face as I casually draw back. No chance in the irritatingly chill St. Kilda breeze.
'God I hate insects.' I shudder as I catch sight of my face in the mirror. Neither am I impressed with ominous spiders, webs brazenly slung too low.
I look like I feel. A cockroach.
I pick up my battered old guitar, strum it a little.
Out of tune. I put it down.
It sits in the corner next to my decrepit post-war migrant suitcase.
Filthy clothes and dog-eared books everywhere, the floor, the bed. Empty take-away containers. Grotty tissues. A couple of odd belongings that somehow hung in through the years; An old tin robot; A snow-shaker with a warped picture inside, my girl. Apart from the flea infested mattress, the only furniture is a crappy old chair that came with the room. There are no posters.
I pull on my only shoes and walk to the Seven-Eleven. I buy milk and smokes. The Asian boy behind the counter is unhappy. Contemptuous.
Accidentally knock a girl's bike over as I push open the door to leave. From inside the store she shoots me a greasy look. Tough. It was her own stupid fault for leaving it in the way. I don't pick it up.
Returning home I make instant coffee and smoke another evil fag. I wonder how it is that I have to come to be like this; a world-weary floater, nervy smoke stained fingers shaking.
I turn on the T.V.
Slouch on couch.
I don't care what channel. Just stare.

I'm still staring two hours later when my flatmate comes in.
And half an hour later as she leaves again.

And four hours later when she arrives home once more.

I smoke some pot.
I don't get very high.
I go to bed.

One month later my flatmate's boyfriend gets into trouble. This stresses her out. I am the easy scapegoat.
She trips out while her big, friendly man looks sheepish and apologetic.
I pack my old case once again. Make a few calls.
I move that afternoon; broken guitar and the case, kept shut with an octopus strap. Only had to catch the bus out front and down Barkly a few stops.

I leave her the mattress, but take a couple of fleas.

Just in case.

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If you are having trouble with the weed factor, I would highly recommend you read the book by, and if possible seek treatment from Jost Sauer. He's been there, done that, and now devotes his time to helping others to deal with the problems of drug and alcohol abuse using Traditional Chinese Medicine and his own unique program.

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Categories: Motivation, Health, Marijuana, Personal-Development Productivity