SO MY delerium went, on that black sand beach, for the first week or two.
Then I grew bored. So very, very BORED. And not long after I did my first festival straight: Splore, an hour outside Auckland. It is not recorded in these pages because, and I have to be honest here, it sucked the fat one - hard.
While all my friends charged around, while John learnt how to dance to Drum and Bass and Sarah got sunburnt and the whole of Splore shaked and shuddered, I was in my tent early, tired. Water, good vibes and the contact high weren't nearly as energising as I'd hoped.
It felt as if I slogged through a damped-down monochrome whilst all my friends soared in glorious HD and after this worked on me. But I was a dog with his favourite chew: I growled and held on. I feared for the meaning of my travels otherwise. For the terminus they harbored. In all I straight edged for fourteen weeks.
Looking back now I see it was inevitable I would crack and just as inevitable it would be at John's house. John was a good friend, a man of moderation I much admired. Wildy successful in business, a salesman extraordinaire and yet electronica enthusiast and rager also, John had seen me go through many life-changing schemes over the years. Let me correct that. He'd seen me start many life-changing schemes over the years.
Because they always ended in a swift crash, the wheels of the wagon broken, the bodies and aspirations flying. More often than not John sabotaged the wagon himself, waiting until my back was turned to snap a few spokes - not out of malice, you understand, but because he knew my heart wasn’t in it.
That night, at his house, two weeks before boarding my first plane, sitting outside, his pack of cigarettes lying provocatively unmentioned between us, John rolling one of his perfect double-skinner spliffs - for me of course, that is, unless you want to partake, Izz? - it all reached a final point of saturation, the desire and the weakness. My constant companions I could no longer dissolve.
They'd been on the swell over the weeks, feeding off every close-fought battle, augmented, like being struck in the same knot of muscle, continually, the ache deeper with every blow. And I felt compressed, ever more oppressed by the pressure, self-applied. It lay across all my vistas like a pyroclastic cloud. And the remembrance of Splore lingered. And it occurred to me I’d become so fixated on the outcome I’d forgotten about the experience.
And I really, really, really wanted a durry.
When the harpies came to tear off the roof: sometimes it was better to open the front door. I crumpled, a paper pillar. I strapped on a gold watch and marched straight edge Izz off into retirement. I had a few beers, had a few cigs, and later we enjoyed the spliff as John had always known we would.
* * * *
* * * *
Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment.
Your support means a lot.
Also, sharing is caring.
* * * *