We'll Float.

An easy day. Much needed after the weight of my weekend. Unfortunately, for you, dear readers, i find it harder to find things about which to write when life is going well. I think God makes people suffer because he likes art.

Questions i've thought about today:

Why does pot make food taste better?
Why is it easier to talk to my mom when i'm stoned?
Why did i choose pot instead of cocaine?
How long am i gonna be smoking pot?
Am i a better writer when i'm stoned?

I'm drinking a white russian right now. My roommate is taking her boyfriend's blood pressure. The foster kitty is mewing. Now. Now. Now. These are things that are happening right now. They are small things, but they are important because they are happening now. Right now i am breathing. The manager at my grocery store says that breathing is a hard habit to kick. Smoking cigarettes is, too. Can you keep up with the tangents of this post? My mind, like all minds, goes to about 600 places in one minute. I can't type fast enough to take you with me on all of those trips, but i can give you a brief, disjointed tour of the workings of my body-mind-spirit state, which i'm pretty sure is similar to all the other body-mind-spirit states out there. Even if what i write doesn't make sense, your mind will work to make it make sense. That's what human minds do; they categorize and label so as to have enough structure and grounding to remember faces of friends and family and associated feelings and moods. We can make sense where there is no sense to be made.

But what does any of this have to do with weed? I'm trying to contain this post and give it some backbone or an axis or some point of reference, but the words seem to be getting away from me. That happens sometimes. I feel guilty calling myself a writer since so many of my stories write themselves. They introduce themselves to me, sit down and tell me what they have to say. It's up to me to make them solid, as solid as words can be. But right now, i don't have much solidity in me and i don't want my words, too, either. Fluid. Loose. Flowing. Confusing. Muddled. There is always time to understand. But how often are we in complete understanding of our surroundings? It is rare for me; more often than not, i am surrounded by perplexing circumstances. As soon as i see the light of one situation, another cloudy, misunderstood drama arises to block out that light. One of my teachers said to me, "The spiritual life is 'I don't know.'" I like that so much.

Confused. Perplexed. Misunderstood. Rest there. Rest with your feet unsupported and your head in the clouds. You will either land or keep floating.

SG