30 th.October.

30 October
Had an early night, went to bed at 9 30.
Prior to going to bed I cleared away any smoking paraphernalia.
Knew I had to get up this morning for post, am expecting recorded delivery.
When I went to toilet my mouth felt clammy so had some mouthwash and was surprised to see dark catarrh, had a good swill,
not wanting to overpower the postie with halitosis breath.

I sat and had my cuppa trying to figure out if the catarrh had come up my throat,
or come down my nose;
I remembered clearing my nostrils out with snuff yesterday, could possibly have been that.

I recalled that last night when I retired my chest was quite free and I was breathing easily.

An hour after getting up and I still haven’t had a smoke;
not wanting to risk missing the post I couldn’t leave and drive to the shop for baccy.

I found myself standing on the landing looking out for the post when I put my hand in my pocket and there was a binger I’d picked some days ago from the kitchen.
I split it and rolled what is commonly known as a Durham special and lit up.
The hit was immediate and I felt it in the head and stomach.
I’d tried the inhaler prior to this smoke but all I got was a faint taste,
which wasn’t very pleasant.
I began to wonder if it was the smoke I was addicted to and not the Nicotine.
Whilst pondering over that issue; the doorbell went twice in quick succession and I went quickly to the front door, opened it and there was a neighbour.

My first words were, ”have you brought your baccy?”,
"No", he replied, "something better".
As we got into the living room he handed me the remnants of a joint and told me he was on his way to score.
Automatically I asked the price and agreed to buy a similar amount,
but only if he had some baccy to spare.

He once ripped me off for half an ounce and asking him for baccy is my only way of getting it back!

He agreed. And went to score,
returning not five minutes later with sufficient baccy so burn an eighth.
My usual score for the last five years has been at least half an ounce and here I was scoring an eighth!

I knew it was the 30th of the month and had quietly promised myself to be stopped smoking by the end of this month.
I had already decided subconsciously to spend one more day smoking;
after all I had a "chill pill" coming in the post, and enough whisky for today.
Enough baccy to burn an eighth, which should last the day out.

I had after all, all the makings for a lazy day in which to kick back and relax.
With the idea of giving up tomorrow having marked the last day as being something memorable.
Half way down first J and it is slowly taking effect.

The finger picking, lilting guitar music plays in the background and I sense it may be quite a pleasant day.

Monday is usually the day my social worker/ mental health carer calls,
luckily for me he isn’t due this week, having just dropped me some more of my mood control drugs off last week.

I’m not wolfing this J down; to be truthful quite a lot is burning away while I type.

A new piece of music starts off with a yawning sax riff and slowly adds a beat and the high notes of a plucked steel guitar takes over centre stage.

Sun is streaming through window, curtain is half close to allow me to view monitor;
this restricts light to pleasing level.

I stub Joint out, there’s a feeling of weight in the pit of my stomach, my head feels heavy and my mouth and throat are dry,
nothing unusual there.
Joint must be coming on.

I am always conservative when loading the first J of the day; not wanting to be surprised (chance would be a fine thing!) by an exceptionally strong high.

My second one which I assume will be shortly in the making will be loaded a little heavier to bring on the majority of the? Potential potency.
For one never knows till after three joints the gears' full potential.
I digress and steer away from the future.

I can only write about what I know so everything has to be in the past.
Or indeed present.

I pause to skin and listen for the first time to the music.

I say listen as meaning when I make the conscious effort to concentrate upon what I’m hearing.
Generally most of the time the sounds simply wash over me,
sometimes begging to be heard but often simply there to accompany me.

The gear came in three lumps which means there will be a strong possibility of me suffering burns to the finger ends!,
The sensory cells of which were burnt away years ago,
the numbness of fingers must be a stoners trademark.

I threw out every saved and potential roach when I tidied up and now there’s only one paper packet to butcher.
I recall the advert for the everlasting roach and would consider it an investment.

This J is taking some rolling because the headpiece won’t turn off and I keep breaking off to type, before the words disappear into the ether.
I bought a litre of whisky on Friday and it has lasted till today,
Not one session on it in the meantime has come close to supplying the feeling I’ve got now after only one joint, a lightly laden one at that!

There is no comparison,

I could if I tried, get as relaxed as this with alcohol, but I’d be without most of my body functions!

I take a deep breath, a sip of cold tea, lick my lips and light up. No.2, (I think).
Zippo the smoker’s companion! Too f88888ng true.
I look at the ominous black clouds coming near,
And couldn’t give a fuck, I’m going nowhere.

My day will be governed by the strength of what I smoke now.
I get a slight lock jaw of the right hand side and have to move mouth several times to ease pressure.

My crossed feet are swaying gently to the sounds, sometimes following the base line, then suddenly alternating to follow the path of the increasing archipelago,
As the actions of my feet have happened to coincide with a piece,
I listen and as I do my arms and shoulders relax.

The sky has blackened so much I’m unable to see the keyboard clearly,
which is shit because I hate typing with a lamp on.
I sit and wish for it to piss down and get it over with and return to light.

I check clock and 11 a.m. it shouldn’t be this dark,
that was my way of getting a crafty time check and a grip on reality.

Often time’s importance dwindles so that one has to keep checking physically to stay in touch with reality,
I’ll explain because of the darkness I thought it was later, much later in the day;

From my experience of Cannabis huge chunks of time can disappear quite quickly if absorbed in what one’s doing,
The more intense the workload the faster time disappears.
28 hours can pass by in the apparent space of eight.

The beauty of having non stop, no gap whatsoever sounds is that the brain is unable to keep track of time by subconsciously remembering each track as approximately three minutes and a break equals another track on the way.
The sounds I listen too vary in length from 5 to 24 minutes long and each one eases itself into the next thus time is imperceptible.
Clever,

When you have a single cd which holds 26 hours of unseamed sounds its quite easy to sit through and listen to the lot while working and only become aware of the passing of time because…
The cd has stopped.
I did enable continuous play once but returned to reality cut off of one cd worth of work.
I ramble.

The smoke is quite mild and not too rough on the back of the throat,
I take one through the fist, after stoking it up.

I decide this "motherfucker" was born to be smoked through fist,
despite initial draw taking back of throat off and burning like hell.

I uncross legs and blood flow returns,
my uppermost leg slowly relaxes and increases in weight laying almost apologetically upon the other;
Almost lovingly.

Finally the pressure of remaining a lighter burden disappears and the leg collapses, its full and seemingly increased weight threatening the blood supply of the other thus possibly gaining revenge for previous position.

Doesn’t he ramble?

My mouth tastes like one hundred ashtrays and I hate to think what it would have tasted like if I hadn’t have brushed my teeth this morning.
I’m reminded of the parcel which is expected,
and I hope I can get down the stairs safety and quickly enough to answer it.

I have to resist the thought of having a rollie because plainly there is only enough baccy for the joints so,
Another joint it will have to be,

But is this one simply to appease the nicotine craving or is it a genuine wish to increase stone?
One way to find out.

I panic and tear paper box open to check there is sufficient papers for the day,
luckily there seems to be.
This Joint is a potential fire hazard and the end has to be monitored constantly.
Not wanting to go through the ritual of warming up ever increasing amounts I filled the joint with roughly crumbled potential hot rocks.

Every smoker will know of the perils of hot rocks and the levels of devastation they can cause in clothing and surroundings.
God knows what my parents were thinking when they had to wash a dressing gown which closely resembled a fishing net, full of holes.
I remember my last stoning t-shirt, an extra large Jack D shirt,
absolutely riddled with holes from rocks.
One highly unsuitable as a stoner’s shirt is silk, never wear silk and smoke, stinks rotten!
Why would I be wearing a silk shirt?
Fuck off that’s my business.

I take a sip of tea and make a mental note that,
If I’m unable to move then that will have to last.

Many a joint accompanied by cold tea…also a good mixer for cheap imported whisky!

I find myself; eyes closed listening completely to the sounds, neck relaxing.
I close my eyes and urge whatever stone on, imploring it to enter and take over.
Hoping that for once the stone will be a good one,

The sunlight breaks through the cloud and things seem brighter for a while, but serious,
Too serious,
I decide it’s nearly worth the price and seing as delivery and free baccy was included I cannot grumble,
You get what you pay for isn’t always true in this game,

In fact some of the more expensive deals are often disappointingly poor.
A bottle of whisky costs a tenner but I wouldn’t drink it all,
A ten quid deal can be enjoyed in one sitting if desired,
Without feeling too much guilt.
Who am I trying to convince?

A particularly ballet theme sound fills the room and the fingers dance over the keyboard, hesitating as the music hesitates,
Sad bastard you think.

I check the time and decide its just a little too early for a short.
I consider that decision for a little longer trying to think of a reason not to have one.
After much soul searching I decide to have one, there’s only enough lemonade for one and there’s enough whisky left for two!
Together or separate?
Just enough to make one sensible one.
Three good mouthfuls and mouth begins to become moist again.
Good decision.

Cold tea relegated to a minor placement on the table, further away from the centre,
Feet follow guitar, hands follow bass and drum,
I fear the stone must have peaked and now there is a lowering to a lower plain of pleasure,
The music plays in a depressing funeral like dying theme and ones senses are affected,
intense feeling of sympathy almost with the music.