Teachings from the Spirit of Cannabis
Nostalgia enters the breath, its smell, its long arms of comfort… they stretch beyond those early years to blush across my skin, into my soft centre, and coil silken tendrils at the nape of my neck. The taut sinews loosen, the tension easing off a little, retuning the strings of the guitar, the steel contracted by the cold weather.
That particular guitar which peers at me suggestively, eyebrow raised, ears twitching,
Its silent shape suspended against the stark white background—
Along with the rest of the ‘band’ who gaze down from their superior positions on the wall of the ‘studio’.
‘Studio?’ Yes, ‘studio’! It suggests talent doesn’t it? Artful pursuits, all colourful and creative,
Yeah, Steam Punk, DM’s, Bohemia and Andy Warhol.
But they’re silently laughing at the dishonesty of the insinuation;
They know that my fingertips do not possess the magic that brings the strings or the keys or the skins of the drums… to life.
I lack the touch that arouses them,
Teases them,
Thrashes them, beats them,
Drives them, vibrates them,
Strokes them,
Caresses them…
…until they murmur back, melancholy, mournfully sighing…
I sigh, reaching back through the vapours of time, fragments of songs and melodies,
Fashioned by a mysterious alchemy, held within the pregnant belly of the band;
The collaboration,
The creative conflicts,
The rapture of singing
The swaggering…
I glance proudly up at my witness, the guitar, yet its ever-critical eye stares coldly back unmoved; the edge of a lip curling sarcastically, disparaging my achievements and mocking the lack of any real talent.
The hubris;
The shame of being caught with pants down in public, now softened by the separation of years passed; I find it best to laugh at that particular arrogance of my youth,
Or preferably to ignore it completely…
Music, the sleek steed that carries me there; I know where I was and how I felt instantly, exactly, precisely.
Memories arise in the smoke of the fire, forming and unforming; drifting in and fading away.
I savour them, like a plump pipe, filled with sweet-smelling tobacco. The smoke after dinner, whilst one ponders a problem… Is this called ‘Sherlocking’?
Pondering a problem?
Probably not, it sounds too vulgar.
Then back to the now and this body, not so exact as it once was and protesting every now and then, but still supple,
still loves to dance, loves THE dance, loves life.
Jolting back to the physical brings the sudden knowledge of its limit—you know that age thing?
Unless you’re under 35 and still immortal of course.
And you know they’re always listening don’t you? Sending adverts to your iPhone, the receiver living in your head, that brain shaped thing.
Wherein you attempt to tune out the muffled shouts from your basement, full of the things you don’t want seen or heard;
The broken things;
The disused but not discarded things,
And the ‘I might need you one day things’
And the ‘it’s sentimental to me’ stuff.
In the corners and the creases, the unsavoury things,
Hiding amongst dead insects,
Dust; distasteful, unsavoury, unjust;
Neuroses sealed tight in 70s square Tupperware,
This one’s a HOOT!
Though he’s a slob, he’s quick off the mark, ‘Ole Anxiety’;
He pricks up his veiny ears, scratches his nuts and rubs his black-nailed hands together; chortling under his breath;
‘Aye aye, here we come then…’ the final syllable slides back into a deep-throat growl.
But today I’m only mildly moved, I know his game so well now, I know all his foul-breathed moves.
Will he attempt that throbbing at the brow? He often opens with that one; it immediately captures the attention of the crowd, reaches right up to the gallery, to the neon flashing: ‘Stroke! Aneurism!’
Maybe he’ll tickle the backs of my legs with his saliva-covered whiskers, until the throb in the calves giggles, ‘thrombosis!’ from there.
He knows I’m not taking the bait, so he tries one last, sloppy, half-hearted effort and goes for that pain in the side, you know, the one where you kind of fathom your appendix is. (See appendix A at the end for more information).
I ease back, shoulders releasing, mildly smug at the defeat.
The temporary defeat.
Consciousness stretches away before me; the infinite mirror of corridors; scenes abstracting time, or dimensions.
I know beyond the door in front of me, the one pretending it’s a bathroom, is the step over the threshold into the vastness of the universe; the one that’s portrayed as a sea of stars because after all, black is just too boring to represent NOTHING,
the void;
No, you need stars and galaxies and spirals of light; they pretend its all wonder, awe, inspiration and joy…
But you can’t polish a turd… I know death is out there, waiting.
Waiting.
Somebody pointed him out to me you see, when I was so so small. I didn’t realise he wasn’t one of the good guys until I stepped out of my teens and entered the world;
I suddenly noticed the concrete of it, the hard lines, the disappointment, the terrible wrong turns…
Enter the years of Pandora’s dark narcissism as she elegantly, with one pointed toe, leapt out of the proverbial.
Anyway… Where was I? Yes, I was introducing you to my companion. Surely he needs no introduction by now;
You know, ‘Thingamybob’… the one with the scythe!’
We’ve long since stopped talking, He and Me. I pretend it’s because I’m so used to him. But he knows I’ve not forgotten. He’ll give me a dig sometimes, just to remind me…
‘He used to abuse me night after night; Oh yes! He drove me half mad with terror!’
He loved it. He didn’t ease off out of mercy, you know; letting his heel up from my head for a moment, to let me get my breath back, though I screamed at him a couple of times. No! He stopped all that because it got to be just plain tedious.
I’ve digressed. The sound of the rain outside bouncing off the roof and windows; it tickles behind my ears and brushes across my hair; my scalp purrs… the deliciousness of the cat flexing, fur rippling and I am brought back to my physical senses.
Yes, a corridor stretches forward; a wide legged bend, into the vastness; the stars, planets and galaxies, all of which live of course,
Inside me,
Inside my core,
Not out in front as I’ve just described, no.
But this way you’ll see it better. So, stand, feet hip width apart, crown chakra pushing up and opening toward the skies, vertebrae stacked on vertebrae, spine aligned.
Breathe in and bend forward from the waist, arms loose, wide and embracing, enjoy the stretch.
Back in the body, at least somewhere in there, melded into the fabric of the chair, I see again the corridor (yes, I have to be different; it’s not a tunnel, its rectangular).
This time, I watch the unfolding with calm amusement. I realise in a wordless, unformed way that, it/he/that—wins.
Always.
So it’s not mercy, its boredom—the reason it eases off.
It knows how long it has to wait, it knows the time and it knows the date.
That could make a good chant, could it not?
‘It knows how long it has to wait,
It knows the time,
an’ it knows the date!’
Was there ever a better slogan for the class bully?
Back to the corridor; breathe and stretch…
breathe and stretch…
Then I think I realised; it’s finite too, the Terror.
Either the stop sign of a solid brick wall,
STOP. END. FINISH.
OR
Terror is a doorway, an opening, a portal, an orgasm into all potential, quicksilver, liquid gold…
An ecstasy of realisation AND awe AND the anticipation of the leap, the bungee jump into oblivion!
What if it’s now, right now?
NOW!
No, no thank you. I’m still not ready yet. And knowing you as well as I do I fear that even when I am, you’ll have the last laugh and whisper in my ear,
’Oh dear, dear, dear… Only joking!’ as the door slams SHUT!’
And it might have ended there, that episode. But of course there’s never an ending, just a pregnant pause, or an awkward silence or a shameful gasp after the unexpected ‘pop’ of a long suppressed fart.
What followed were gems from the universe. Gems cascading down, sparks and ideas and flashes and insights and things so important that you HAVE to listen, it HAS to be spoken, it has to be shared and broadcast far and wide… that creative thrummmm.
But I never learn, I always think I’ll remember!
The key points,
Or at least the essence,
or at least the vague meaning
or the general concept.
This is what chose to be recalled and recaptured.
Warm regards,
The Countess Cannabis