Two men could sit in silence forever

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As long as the other one aint asking questions, then I don’t have to. Sitting on the first level of a obscured hut built by bamboo. Passing the pipe around. I tried to be good and bought some organic tobacco. Now I'm mixing the hash with what should be in a tea bag. But its good enough. I know if I drop this lighter the place would go up in flames. Its barely standing up at it is. I am sitting cross legged and lost all feeling in my left foot. I wouldn’t have the capacity to get down those stairs, the ones that are hard to get down with two legs. Plus I've got a sprained ankle. Rolled it whilst pissed the other night. Rolled my ankle and rolled down the hill. The pressure doesn’t bother me, the hand stays still, holding the match. The world gets a little lighter and the owner and I sit in silence.

This morning I took the walk I need to every few days to go to the ATM. Out of town, my town anyway. Walk along the river and I see the lady with no arms painting with her feet. The figure of a tent peg and she is still finding a way. If art is my religion as I claim; she is my true deity. Every time I walk past I give her money. I gave her $10 this morning. I will have to start walking a different way or ill end up broke. She might have enough money for new arms by the time I leave.

Another man, who is missing the second half of every limb sits on a ledge. He looks as if Giuseppe never finished Pinocchio. He too, with his stumps that have smoothed like stone, paints. He is a little harder to give money too, because there's nothing to give it too. But he drops his little brush and between his elbows grabs the note.

Its inspiring to see those still finding a way. I can relate, cut my fingers off and ill talk shit on the page with my nose. These limb lacking idols are creating better art than me and I've got hands! How much calmness and perseverance to get to the point you can create good (ok) paintings with your toes. With your elbows. They’re the example! That’s what I shout when I see other beggars. Doing fuck all but have their hand out. Get a job!

The hash is kickng in and there is three of us now on top of the hut. Passing around my pipe and my hash and my herbal tea. They aren’t happy with the mix and I passionately agree.

“It’s the first time I've had it!”

The owner rolls the smoothest joint you will ever see. With his tobacco but my hash still. I wonder if they will make me pay for the coffee I had.

He lights it and passes it. I start to get the giggles now. Conversation is trying but cant get past an initial question. Im trying to hold in a laugh. It would be fine to laugh but the fact none of us are talking would warrant explanation and I didn’t have one. Which gives me the giggles more. Light falls into the hut and the smokes dances to death out the window. Its hard to relax around people. Through no real fault of their own. I just think they think like me but no one thinks like me because I'm a basket case. And I can ignore it but only consciously. I left there whilst I could, they charged me for the coffee.

It was my birthday the other day, ticked over the years to have thirty of them. At this age your birthday isn’t yours, it’s a celebration of your mother. It means more to her. It doesn’t mean anything to me. Birth day; the day a stranger brought you in to this world despite the sacrifice of her body and the genuine chance of dying. Then that lady loved you like no one else ever will.

Prince didn’t count his age, said it’s the only way you do age. Well, he is dead now so how did that go. There is a difference between aging and dying. You can die young whilst the vessel is old. You can die old whilst the vessel is young. So many people are afraid of their body aging, and they grow old whilst clinging to their youth. I don’t want to die, I know its an illusion. The living mourn for the dead whilst the dead are crying for breastmilk.

The rest of the day was slow, a few lines here and there. A few thoughts. Few passages ill try and slide into stories as if they’re made up on the spot. But getting high too early in the day. Fellow stoners know, its just too much to deal with. Alcohol is different. You drink and keep going up until your either asleep, spewing up, fighting or fucking someone. You cant overdose on hash, only on thoughts, only on anxiety that lighting is going to strike you and kill you even though it isn’t raining. That a person is going to start talking to you. The dry cotton mouth as you shovel more food into your dopamine receptors to calm them for an hour. So, with discipline you push that first toke back a few hours and when you reach the plateau you're in bed, maybe even someone else’s.

It’s a new day now, the morning starts the same way. Dry mouth and fat swollen head. Walk to the beach, meditate and wash all my woes with the healing waters of the river. Morning grievances are mocked by the night and the nights grievances are forgotten. I went and got my beard trimmed. Sitting there, in an outdoor chair, as the man shapes my beard and cuts the hairs on my neck far too high, a large bull with curling horns walks by. Its funny how quickly things just become normal. He gave me a massage afterwards and I paid him. My beard looks fucking ridiculous. But maybe okay. It looks as if I have a mask on for covid. Remember those things?

Walking, a family hail me over and give me some rice pudding type thing. I sit with them and no one really talks to me but the essence in the air is loving. Two younger girls, no older than fifteen keep looking at me smiling. Come back in a few years girls.

I say thanks to no one, as they’ve all now dispersed and I keep on moving by foot. A man without a leg is playing the flute. Another artist making his way. He wasn’t very good on the flute and didn’t have an excuse. You don’t need your legs to play the flute, but maybe he struggled to get to practise.

I feel a little more loved and more optimistic in this so called spiritual pursuit. When you see the fruits of the worshipers and the kindness bursting from their chest. When they give you love with nothing expected in return. It is rare. Very rare, but to see it once or twice is enough. To know it exists is enough.

For a long time I have always had one foot in the spiritual world. Maybe better explained as one toe. But have always held back, and for what?

To fit in with a group of friends that will fuck your ex-girlfriend first chance they get?

To deny your own spiritual path to try and fit in and only show anger and frustration to the world because of it.

I don’t know man, you know, it could be for this shit too. Writing. Who wants to listen to some blissful cunt tell you about life. How would a Guru hold up crawling through roofs trying to wire a PowerPoint for $120?

I guess its all a spiritual path and it’s not that serious. Its rare to see an Indian angry. You find yourself muddled up into a ball all trying to go the same way and your cock is on the back of the person in front of you. A man has his elbow on your back. Everyone is just laughing or smiling. Their religion holds up so well that they’re all child-like. And still they can stand their ground when required. Child-like, not childish. But lets not fall prey to blanket statements.

I guess I'm just saying, that maybe falling from the cycle of Samsara is a little more important than impressing your friends or a dead Bukowski.

So, I'm going to the beach. The beautiful women I'm too scared to talk to await me.

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