Hangover day number four in a row. I
fell out of my bunk bed at 11am and sparked a joint to dull the
throbbing in my head. I needed a serious caffeine injection just to
stop slumber from reclaiming me as I typed. I haven't even thought of
work, let alone made an effort to find any. The electrical soup of my
thoughts struggled to find some reason not to just give up and let me
spend the day as a blissfully ignorant moron.
Strangely enough, such a junkyard brain
often tosses up amazing nuggets of wisdom. Even though smoking subtly
changed from a source of inspiration to a sower of stupidity, it is
still a seed of introspection as well. Truth be told, it was the main
catalyst for this move to Tasmania. Wrapped in a thin sheet in the
air conditioned darkness of my Broome bedroom, and a thick veil of
stoner bliss, I was pondering the future for my nomadic existence.
Out of the quagmire of dreams and counter theories came a flash of
clarity. An image so exact and focused, my recall of it could be
compared to, say, the accidental sighting of a hobo's broken zip
letting his air plane leave its hangar. The same sort of lucidity
that is strangely lacking when you get a good eye full of some
topless stunner sunning herself on the beach.
Feeling the need to share such a
transcendental insight with others so easily influenced, I appeared
before my house mates, robed like a munted messiah desparately
seeking some disciples. My idea was met with far more approval than
my toga party appearance was, and the message garnered enough support
to see it through to fruition. Thus, I celebrated my powers of
divination with another serve of holy smoke that rendered me
redundant as a conduit of providence. And for better or worse,
unconscious.
But, as I sat in rare Hobart sun
listening to brain cells dying, I realised I had hit the bottom
again. The devout Buddhist meditating four hours a day 10 years ago
would probably be mortified at the sacrilegious stoner I was now. My
dwindling money was stimulating the local economy, but not my
motivation. I was boozing like alcohol was the elixir of life, not
the antithesis of it, and I was smoking mainly for the sake of
'religious observance'. I'm not yet destitute and homeless, but
that's not rock bottom for me; that's game over.
Rock bottom is realising I am not doing
what life wants me to do. Nor am I even looking to. Moving to
Brisbane eight years ago, I managed to avoid changing anything but my
postal address for about two months. Such a Herculean effort of
denial should have won some sort of award, but no, it's only benefit
was showing me how bad I can let things get before I decide to do
something about it. It's not laziness as such, its just not trusting
that I am doing the right thing by putting myself out there for
change. And not seeking to make the most of the opportunities
presented. No matter what the situation, a positive can always come
of it. A four day bender was obviously the right tonic for me to see
that a four day bender is not a constructive use of a life like mine.
So what is a constructive use of a life
like mine? I'm too Jim Morrison right now to answer that question and
lets be fair, one realisation at a time please. I'm happy enough
knowing that I can see the destructive direction of the last few
days.....er, months, and I am inherently too motivated to keep
denying a truth once it has become painfully aware to me.
My time in Hobart is to be a working
holiday, as unsure as I am which ones of those two will be
emphasised. Life is a holiday when you live somewhere different every
six months, make new friends, change jobs, fall in love, piss away
every penny you earn and generally avoid anything that qualifies as
commitment. The uncertainty, loss, and unknown risks do scare many
off I know, but would you take more risks if you knew you were dying
and this was the only life we have? A Pink Floyd lyric sums it up
succinctly by stating we're all “one day closer to death”. I may
choose to settle down sooner rather than later, and doing so may
finally spare the world from my inane stoner dribble.
