Tag Archives: musings

Escaping Reality, Emotionally Retarded

6 Jan

Pain isn’t something I am skilled at dealing with. Escaping pain, however, I am as good at as an Irish traveller is at fighting. Shrooms being my route of choice these days. It’s where the love lives. When life gets too ugly for me to be able to look at it, I discreetly slip away from the world and pay a visit to the realm of contentedness. These past few weeks I’ve been going there more regularly than I would usually need to. I am feeling emptier than I have in years. My spirit has been extinguished. An ache that won’t shift. A constant nausea. Too many shit things all taking place at the same time. A friend, one of life’s good humans, is lying in a hospital bed while her young kids and husband can only sit and put their faith in doctors and medical technology. Christmas. New Year. And not to mention the rejection dealt to me by a woman, – well, two rejections. Just one woman. But I was fool enough to climb back into her bed the moment she let me and then in the morning deja vu – who has, although not intentionally, absolutely crushed any confidence or feeling of self-worth that I had in myself before I met her. Destroyed. Man, I was in such a good place before that girl came into my life and turned it upside down. These things combined have knocked me on my arse. Not that anyone will know it. I am not a talker. Friends trying to engage me in conversation about what’s going on in my life just make me recoil. They meet a brick wall. It is not my way. Nor am I a social user of anything. I don’t like to have company when I’m feeling the benefits of whatever it is that my body has ingested. I fly solo. A bit of Me Time. I wait until I know I have the flat to myself for a night, and if that situation doesn’t arrive I take a bus out to my mum’s house in the sticks. No city, no cars, no street lights, no noise, and most importantly no people. A retreat. A place where I can get under the covers, drink tea, get as stoned as I want without being disturbed, and float away with the aid of some shrooms and some psytrance. It gives me perspective. Helps me to remember, even if only for a short while, that I have been prescribed an extreme dose of good fortune and managed to escape the poverty by being given the opportunity to work again, after a few years of sitting in a damp corner, occasionally having food gifted me by charities, shoplifting at times, and at other times just going without nutrition. Makes me realise that surely that was a far less desirable situation to be in than the current one of emotional trauma over a woman. Emotion is forgotten when you’re starving. These days I can eat when I’m hungry. I can drink when I’m thirsty. And I can smoke weed when I’m…….. awake. Basically. This time last year I couldn’t do any of those things. Well, as my dad used to say to me as a kid, “There’s plenty of water in the tap.” So I could drink. But you get the point. Things have been worse. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

A week or so ago when I didn’t have any work the next day, I travelled out to my mum’s with everything I needed to be able to chill out. In the evening I laid down on the settee in the living room, ate some shrooms, wrapped myself in a blanket, got comfortable, pulled my hood up over my head, put my music in my ears and closed my eyes to block out the telly in the corner of the room that my mum was sat on the other settee watching. She knew to leave me in peace to enjoy my trip. And then the usual vivid memories started to come over me. The ones where I am actually back there, experiencing it again but at the same time detached, like Scrooge stood next to the ghost of Christmas past. If that makes sense. I went back to a night almost 20 years ago.

In that happy place

In that happy place

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Daily Mail’s Alternative Christmas Message: Why Everything In Life Is Better When Stoned

7 May

I have smoked weed every day for the past four months, apart from the odd day when I’ve run out of one stash before the next has arrived, and I gotta tell you, I feel pretty good. Have done consistently for, um, at least the last four months. I haven’t done any drugs since the end of October. I’ve only had one drinking session this year. I don’t smoke cigarettes any more, the thought of one makes me feel grim, and I don’t even ever want a rollie. Until a few months ago I was a 20-30 a day man. Now no cigarettes. ‘But Kris, you still get through a load of tobacco that you put in your spliffs. You’re being a bit misleading there,’ ‘Yes, I know I still smoke tobacco in my spliffs, thanks for pointing that out anyway,’ ‘Was that sarcastic?’ ‘Nooooo,’ ‘Now that definitely was, wasn’t it?’ Anyway, my point is, I smoke weed and I feel pretty good.

I have a little ritual. Every night before I go to bed, I roll three spliffs and place them next to the bed, then I put clothes for the next day onto a pile on the floor next to my shoes, then I throw a satsuma (and sometimes an apple) on top of the pile, and then I read in bed for a bit. Just smoking and reading. Currently The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. Verdict so far: good book. I’m pretty sure you’ve already read it. And then when I’ve smoked about half of the first of the three spliffs I turn off the light and go to sleep. I haven’t got a telly or access to a computer, so am keeping my evenings Dickensian. Except I’ve got an electric light instead of a candle. I wake at 6:30 to the gentle sound of this music, which I have set as my alarm tone. You might want to play it as the backing track to this piece of writing. You might not. I roll over and grab the half spliff. I light it. I get up and open the shutters to let the early morning light in. I put on the clothes that are piled up under the window. Then I get back onto the bed and smoke the rest of the spliff, listening to the music and waking up. And then at about ten to seven I put my shoes on, put one spliff behind my ear and one between my lips, stick the earphones into the phone to carry on listening to the music, and I quietly slip out into the morning for what I call ‘My Walk.’ It’s really just a standard walk. And I’ve got my satsuma with me. I just walk off into the Spanish countryside to enjoy the world for a couple of hours.

Today started like any other. I had been out for about fifteen minutes, was walking along this path, fields all around me, rabbits chasing each other around playfully, birds flying in majestic formation over head, the sun rising like a giant over my left shoulder, warming me. I checked to see if the phone that I was listening to music on had a camera. It did. Not a very good one. But it did have one. So I took this picture. Which I am sure you will agree is as beautiful as it is shit.

By the way, if you are one of the people who did decide to play the backing track to my story, you should now switch to this set. This is what I was by this point listening to myself. I feel it sets the mood a bit better.

Photo0148

It’s while I’m out on these early morning stoned rambles (the walking kind of ramble. The other kind of ramble, you are now an audience to) that my mind flows with geniusly witty observations, clever thoughts, amazing ideas, often amazing ideas for things to write on this blog. The downside is that there is never anyone there to hear any of these witty observations, clever thoughts or amazing ideas. No witnesses. But I definitely do have them, and they definitely are genius. The annoying thing is that I forget these brilliant ideas as instantaneously as my brain conjures them up, and by the time I get home from my walk and am able to write anything down, all that is left is the dregs. Good stuff – forgotten; boring nonsensical stuff – got loads. For an example of this, look no further than this post.

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Gently Poking Fun At A German’s Name

24 Apr

You know how some things are funny because they’re not meant to be, and that if they had intended to be funny then they actually wouldn’t be? Like some time a couple of years ago I was sat at home watching athletics on the telly when this distance runner’s face came up on the screen, and underneath his face was written his name, and at the exact same time that I looked down to read it, the commentator said it out loud, as if my subconscious had the exact same voice as whoever it was that was commentating that day, and as I simultaneously read and heard the two words I realised that it was the greatest name belonging to anyone on the planet. Gaylord Silly. It’s fucking genius, isn’t it? Course it is! Gaylord Silly. Gaylord. Silly. Do you reckon he ever introduces himself in the style of 007? The name’s Silly, Gaylord Silly. The name is silly. But it isn’t meant to be. I truly believe it was an honest mistake on the part of Gaylord’s parents. The Sillys. Or maybe they pluralise their name to the Sillies. No, that would make no sense. But anyway, before I lose my trail of thought, I am stoned by the way, if that name Gaylord Silly had been made up by someone trying to be funny, it wouldn’t actually be that funny. Like if I said ‘Oi John, quick, come up with a funny name for a bloke on the spot,’ and he blurted out ‘Gaylord Silly,’ it wouldn’t be as funny would it? Actually whatever way you look at it, it’s always going to be a funny name. But if me and John had had that conversation a year ago, the one where I told him to come up with a funny name on the spot and he said Gaylord Silly, if we had had that conversation a year ago, I am almost certain that I wouldn’t remember it now. The name would have popped up, made me laugh, and then gone away to die somewhere. Because it would have been made up with the intention of being funny. Which would make it not as funny. Whereas Gaylord Silly’s name is not meant to be funny. So it is. In case you were wondering, me and John didn’t have that conversation about funny names a year ago. There is no John. I am rambling. Big time. I may have lost a couple of readers along the way there. Which means that I am now only left with the one.

The reason for that pointless introductory paragraph was that a couple of days ago I encountered my own Gaylord Silly. In a metaphorical sort of way. And it made me laugh enough that earlier this morning I had to go out walking for two hours just to find it again, this time with a borrowed camera in my pocket, as I am one of those weird people who don’t own a camera-phone, nor a camera, nor a phone. Which is annoying when you come across something that you either want to photograph or tell someone about. But I would say the positives of not owning a phone outweigh the negatives. I digress. Yea anyway, my metaphorical Gaylord Silly. I was out in the Spanish countryside, but could see the blue sea over the hills, which meant that I had wandered closer to the coast than usual, which also meant that I was in an area home to British, Dutch and German retirees, and before anyone accuses me of showing favouritism to any of those countries, you will notice I listed them alphabetically, and I came across this house, and as I passed it I couldn’t help but notice that the name of the occupants was engraved into a plaque by their gate. My initial reaction was to think ‘Oh look, a novelty name plaque, and not an overly funny one at that. What was the point in buying that? I bet the bloke who lives here is a riiiiiiiiiight laugh. I was being sarcastic there, that was what all the iiiiiiiiiiis were meant to convey. Basically I wasn’t impressed with this attempt at humour, and was convinced that it was the work of a dull Englishman, the kind who calls himself the office joker and who owns a mobile disco. I was just about to walk on, when I noticed that although the male’s name was an attempt at comedy, the woman’s name underneath wasn’t. At least, it didn’t strike me as such. The woman’s name was Uta Fischer. That would only be funny if an uta was something you could go fishing for. And even then it wouldn’t be very funny. It wouldn’t be funny at all. When I read the name Uta Fischer I didn’t think comedy attempt, I thought German. It was just a standard German name. And then it clicked that Uta Fischer’s companion’s name was almost definitely also just a Standard German name, and not a crap attempt at being funny. Which now made it fucking funny. In fact, my first reaction was to blurt out ‘Good grief, that’s his real name!’

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Meditation Fart

31 Mar

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. What's that all about then?

One of ’em farted, not one of ’em laughed. How’s that work then?

Fuck the Daily Mail!

27 Mar

I’ve got the urge to write but I don’t have anything to say, I mean, I have shit to say, but nothing that would be interesting to anyone who doesn’t live inside my head. But I have got the urge to write. I just read this story about Alan Partridge having a go at the Daily Mail, comparing it to paedophilia, and I thought ‘Yes, Partridge!’ for no other reason than I hate the Daily Mail with a passion. One of the reasons I hate them is because their existence means that I have to walk around with the burden of hate in me, if that makes sense. Here I am at a point in my life where I am trying as best I can to harbour no resentment, anger, envy or hatred to any individual on the planet, and yet I can’t shift this overpowering loathing I carry about with me for the Mail. And it’s not that I hate the Mail because it’s cool to hate the Mail. In fact I find that idea ridiculous. I don’t believe there’s anybody who hates the Mail because it’s cool to hate the Mail, that’s just some silly remark the Mail’s supporters will throw out there.  People hate the Mail just because they hate the Mail. It is as simple as that. It is in our human DNA to hate the Mail, just like it is in our human DNA to hate rats. And I don’t even hate rats. But I am shit scared of them. All rodents. I don’t even like being in my sister’s place when the hamster’s running around the room in his ball. Every time I see a hamster running in one of them balls I remember the Crystal Maze. Remember when the surviving contestants would have to go into that big hamster ball at the end and collect the golden tickets? When I say ‘surviving contestants’ I don’t mean the ones that hadn’t died during the earlier segments of the show. I’ve completely lost my trail of thought here. Writing shit again that is only interesting to anyone that lives inside my head. Which is just me. And whoever the other four voices belong to. One of them is German. And shouts instructions to me at night. But until now I have never acted on them. Not because I know better, but because I don’t speak German, so can’t understand what the person in my head is telling me to do.

That last bit is not true. I just made it up. Entertaining myself. I’m writing, at least. He’s actually Swiss.

 

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More Stoned Musings From The Spanish Outdoors

19 Mar

*Taken straight from the notebook

I’ve learnt two new things about myself today. The first is that I enjoy the sensation of exchanging pleasantries with complete strangers. Who knew? I certainly didn’t until a few minutes ago.

Out here I don’t see many other people and can sometimes walk for a couple of hours at least without coming across another human, not when I’m wandering about in the fields anyway, but occasionally I slip away from the fields to cut across the only road for miles around, that connects the city of Elche with the coast, and although the road is more often than not dead, it is still the place of work for prostitutes, who sit by the side of the road on a little chair under an umbrella, reading a book, and when they’re ‘busy’ their book awaits their return on top of their empty seat. There is one of these girls approximately every mile. Eastern European or South American. And these girls know not to take me for a potential customer as I approach them – I haven’t got a car, for a start. Plus I like to think they recognise me as someone who wouldn’t have to pay for sex, ha! he says modestly! More likely they take a quick look at me and come to the conclusion that I couldn’t afford it – I’m just a stoned bloke out for a wander about. And I have to squeeze by these girls at the side of the road, and I always do so in silence and with my eyes averted to the ground. And just the same, these girls completely ignore me. It’s as if we don’t acknowledge each other’s existence. But obviously we do, or at least I do, or I wouldn’t be writing about it. I carry on walking. She carries on reading. Even though we’re the only two people for miles around, seemingly we would rather be the only person singular for miles around. And I passed one of these girls a little while ago, South American woman, and we said nothing, standard, and then I took another path that led me back into the wilderness, and I started thinking about how sad it was for two humans to just blank each other like that out here in the middle of nowhere, and how a simple ‘Hola’ wouldn’t take too much effort at all. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted desperately to exchange greetings with someone. Just briefly, passing in the day. I don’t want to disturb anyone’s life with idle chit-chat. Just to say hello, to acknowledge someone, to have someone acknowledge me. But it’s not like I could go back to the road now. That’d just be fucking weird. If I walked all the way back to that particular spot of road where that South American woman sat under her umbrella, reading, and I went up to her and simply said ‘Hola.’

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