I’m out again, walking, stoned as a motherfucker, not to mention woozy from inhaling the fumes of the mosquito repellent my body is covered in. I’m basically just fucking with the mosquitos, saying ‘I’m not gonna kill you, I’m just gonna repel you instead.’ And that, for a mosquito, is much more annoying. I’m being a nuisance to the mosquito, fucking up his day, because no matter how much he is repelled he just can’t fight the urge to keep coming back for another attempt. He is convinced that eventually he’ll find a gap in the forcefield and get his tongue into my bloodstream. They all think it. I just get to watch them growing increasingly pissed off. Buzzing loudly and at speed past my ear before getting a whiff of the repellent and running away. Flying away, I mean, not running. And they’re getting hungrier, which means they’re getting the ‘ump more, but rather than go and find an open buffet that is a human not sprayed from head to toe in repellent, they’re intent on gatecrashing the picnic that flows through my veins. The pest has become the pestered, and the pestered has become the pest. This is my non violent protest against the mosquito regime.
How good a word is woozy? Brilliant. Woozy. Woozy. It even looks good in written form. Now say it in a French accent. Je suis woozy. You sound like Pepé Le Pew. Say it in a German accent, however, and it loses its charm and playfulness somewhat. Ich bin voozi! Not the same is it? For woozy to elicit the appropriate feeling the W has to be pronounced correctly.
It’s probably a good thing that I write these inner monologues down in this notebook rather than sharing them with a shrink. This notebook is my shrink, but one without the necessary powers to have me sent to the funny farm. If I did turn up at a mental hospital and told a member of staff on reception that I was there because my notebook had sectioned me, clearly I would be in the right place. “Oh, your notebook sent you here, you say? Right, well come this way please. Doctoooooor!”
Just now when I wrote ‘this notebook is my shrink’ I had to fight the urge to write ‘you are my shrink,’ you know, personifying the notebook. I don’t want to be that guy. It’s just a notebook. It’s not a diary, it’s not a journal, it’s not my mate! It’s just a notebook that I write shit down in. I am no Anne Frank and this is no Kitty.
After spending those last few paragraphs talking about fucking with a mosquito’s day and then comparing the impact of the word woozy when said in different national accents, it was kinda already implied that I am no Anne Frank, I think.
Last night I realised that I haven’t grown as much spiritually as I would have hoped. It was late and I was listening to a guided Vipassana meditation I’d ripped from Youtube. I try to meditate every night, and more often than not the effects are positive. This particular guided meditation, though, was one that I hadn’t listened to before. Not fully anyway. But we got off to a good start last night and I was lying in the dark, earphones in, completely relaxed, on my way to that nice place as the voice of this woman gently led me. The meditation was a group one, and every now and then the quiet was interrupted by the sound of a cough, or someone clearing their throat, or just someone shuffling about a bit. Fair enough, we are all only human after all. I blocked it out. Then I heard a sound of a different nature. The sound of a fart being let out by someone sitting on a floor. A fart done on the floor sounds different to a fart done standing up or lying down. It’s just a funnier sound. We all know that already, I’m not writing anything pioneering here. But yea, someone had farted loudly mid meditation. Mid group meditation! And that spelt the end of my meditation, because as many times as I managed to clear my thoughts I could not stop laughing. Hysterically. At 30 years old. At a fart. The passing of excess gas, by a human, through his or her anus. I pissed myself giggling for hours. I imagine I even laughed in my sleep through the night. The thing that tickled me the most was that no one at the meditation so much as snickered. Or sniggered? I don’t know which word is the right one. Sniggered, I think. No one! These people are on a higher level than me, clearly. My quest for spiritual peace and enlightenment can easily be derailed by the sound of a fart. I have a long way to go, man, a long way to go.
The friendly south American waitress in this bar keeps watching me as I laugh to myself whilst writing about a fart. I think she mistakes me for a deep and profound thinker and writer. I come in here every now and then, perspiring from the walk, so stoned I can’t shift the smile plastered across my mug, I ask her for an orange juice, we exchange smiles and a few words, and then I disappear to the little table in the dark corner to ponder and write in my notebook. The mysterious foreigner! El gringo misterioso! Ha! Is that really how I imagine she imagines me? Really? Fuck off, man! She sees you for what you are, the dopey stoned bloke whose terrible Spanish she entertains. Either way, I bet if you asked her what I was sitting here writing, her first stab in the dark wouldn’t be a meditation fart. Or maybe it would. Maybe I am that transparent. I see transparency as a virtue. Transparency is good. If this piece of writing had to have a title, it would be Meditation Fart. I want to write a book called Meditation Fart. It could be about anything. I can’t read my own handwriting any more. This notebook is looking less and less like it was written by me, and more and more like it was written by Michael J Fox. I like to think that Michael J Fox wouldn’t be offended by that flippant comment. It wasn’t even funny.
All the local workers have just come in to have their lunch before nipping off home for a siesta before resuming their work later on. Loud bunch, the Spanish. Just naturally. I try not to generalise too much, but this one is unavoidable. The Spanish are loud. It used to annoy me a bit. It doesn’t any more. But man do the Spanish seem happier than the English. Again I’m generalising. People interact with one another here. It’s how it should be. It’s warm. I wouldn’t mind being born Spanish. You can only be born once though, despite what poor brainwashed evangelical Christians may tell you, and I’ve already had my go, 30 years ago. Ah well, no point thinking about it then. So I won’t.
One of ‘em farted, not one of ‘em laughed. How’s that work then?