Memoirs of Nothing: Mostly Loneliness
Rightly or wrongly I have found the floppy disks containing my 1st memoirs, from more than 20 years ago.
And found a way of getting a Microsoft Write file from a floppy disk into a Mac Mini into readable form. Lesson learnt.
It is big, rambling and amateur/different. But if I ever get famous or have grandkids, there might be a small audience. A truly random excerpt now, and example of how heaps of editing could help.
Bus to the outskirts. Almost snow and below zero. First ride was a huge long US stationwagon. Left hand steering. He’s fully bearded bushy, in a black fisherknit jumper and jeans, late 30’s, scarred face and tats. Looks like a cross between a Hell’s Angel and a sailor. He didn’t ask where I was going, in fact didn’t speak at all for 90 minutes. Just put on a Sex Pistols tape and drove. Then Dire Straits, then Whitesnake. Then he asks me “Do you smoke drugs?”. Of course I do. He says “pub first while we’re straight” and buys me some beer. Then in the car he gets out his “oil”. Cannabis I presume, which I haven’t seen before. He puts 6 spots on some tinfoil and we suck the fumes, lighter underneath. My cold restricts me, and I can’t hold it in too long, but the effect is fairly immediate and is full on after an hour. No hallucinations, but feeling detached from my numb body. My nose and mouth completely tranquillised. Didn’t get paranoid, just slightly paranoid that I might get paranoid. Again we didn’t talk, until Kaikoura. Another pub break. I went in first while he looked for something in his boot. I was dumb – literally, and when I didn’t reply to the barmaids “what can I get you”, the 4 regulars just stared at me and I was looking pretty spaced I guess. He arrived just in time, and ordered my drink, which I drank with great difficulty, seeing as my face was all numb. More driving, and 3 more spots each. Just as we hit the section of the road that winds steep and sharp bends… I basically endured an hour long rollercoaster, my belly trying to control my subconscious. He offered to sell me some oil, and even if I had the money to spare, still would’ve said no. Too intense for me man.
He let me off in Blenheim at 2:30, and I tried hitching to Picton. Occasionally a local would tell me that I was wasting my time, I was in the wrong spot, yet it wasn’t until 5:30 that I realised I was standing in a park in the centre of town. Found a backpackers and immediately went to bed, let it wear off in my dreams.
Dreaming stoned I thought of Giant Mini-Golf. Real course, but obstacles like huge plastic shields that you must get over and thru. Full-size fun.
And also: The only way to pretend to be straight is to call upon certain behaviour patterns in the subconscious that are programmed and automatic. Like the picking up a pint glass and drinking, something I do without thinking. If I can string together a sequence of pre-programmed actions or sentences, then no-one can tell that I’m wasted/tripping, and I won’t be so pa