When I suddenly act cute for no reason and nod approvingly in a smart conversation on the subtle difference between blended grain and blended malt whiskey, I know I am being daft. So here I was with random people [being pals with this one hell of a guy, only] at 4am, passing the pot to the distant twinkle of a starry sky. I’d this sense of a cross between being lightheaded and permagrin. Or both.
Smoking grass is such a youthful thing to do. There is a boylike recklessness to it. The Jamaicans call it spliff, I think. I was trying hard to remember name of this guy from ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ who does dope. That Irish bloke Wilde, who left the British Isles forever -- after being jailed for being a non-conformist by the prudish Brits -- made his protagonist smoke weed in his masterpiece.
Last night the night sky was sooty and the lights would flicker like a musical rhapsody. I could soon spot stars. Rare. Ever since I left the hills, I haven’t really seen the stars sparkle. There were these stars, on a clear cloudless night, hundreds of them, muted silver in color, no bigger than orchid seeds. [Jesus probably got it wrong when he said in the Bible: The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field: Which indeed is the least of all seed] Orchid seeds are much smaller, I reckon, and the stars these days look tinier and farther away than their usual.
The night changed shades. Like a gal changes clothes. From pitch-black to a deep azure. The leaves were visible, clung tightly to twigs in the tall park trees, reveling perhaps in a quiet plant hug, while the whole world slept around them, disturbed only by the silly cackle of our stoned laughter. A cricket hopped on a cork and disapprovingly jumped off the Bowmore cap, wiping its antennae as it disappeared into the night. There was no cricket song to the darn insect.
Pals in pot fumes are like these wacky songs the soul needs from time to time.
Sameer
