I did inhale. So did/does much of young Chile

I'm guessing that this particular blog won't be to everyone's taste. Yes is it about weed, yes I have done it, and no I don't really like it (although I may take some if you're offering, depending on what kinda day/week/month it's been)




I like what it does but not how it feels.

And down.

Barbed fireworks exploding in my throat.

I splutter out the remaining shards of my consciousness to general hilarity. "She did it in one! Nice one!"
The odd compliments that accompany this odd sport- "Well done. You managed to assure your loss of self by swallowing all the knive-d smoke in one go. Nice nihilism."

I splutter. And cough. Helen is similarly indignant. It is to expected: no-one mentioned that sand-paper effect of the contents of the smooth glass tube.

I'm so concerned with assuring the complete removal of my innards via the medium of multiple coughing fits that it takes me a while to realise I’m loosening. Losing… Loosening my control on my sense. on my. On.

Curled up cocoon like on the sofa, discarded juice testimony to discarded attempt at quelling the dry flames. Flashes of pain now mere flashing. Multicoloured diamond criss-crosses lighting up the "real" outside. Losing "me". Losing my time.

Dialogue between a me voice and my cocooned self on the sofa. Constant "me" seems surprised at which point in my life she's stumbled on. "Oh so we’re in Chile now?"

Melting limbs again, sinking. Sinking into the sofas as, what was that line?
"As my known me rots".
This’ll all be worth it if it manage to get that lost poem back again.
"Last night i discovered cubism, much to my own surprise.
My left arm swapped with my right one, my skin swapped with me eyes".

(Writing this now, I wonder how that poor lost moleskine is doing. Thoughts of me , of old hims, of Cuba. Poems and scribbles, numbers and figures. Happiness and fear, anger, love and finding square one all over again. Wandering somewhere between Hong Kong and Shanghai in my mind, now mouldy, maybe even burnt- ash joining us all over again.)

Words and music reach me form far away. Kevin makes excuses for me. God I’m stoned

The cold burns my shoulder sparkly warm as I sink into the bed. Spinning to a crescendo, to the brink of pain, then back again. Spinning on an ever-changing axis. Each move pulling me in different vibrations. Frequency responding in different parts of the hollow instrument I’ve become.

Loss of control- I’m locked inside and can’t find the way out. Where did i put the bloody off-button? I’m always loosing such important things


I make it home. In my confusion I sit next to the taxi driver- he looks disgruntled but doesn’t comment. Kevin shouts something I don’t catch (presumably wrong door?)
It feels like a long ride- I fight to keep awake as we cover the 400m to my door.

And I don’t like it. Wondering why I smoked when I often end up feeling like this. My known me melts and everything breaks up. Heart beat insane. yet I don’t know if it's my motor or my senses that are going haywire.

Yes, I don’t like how it feels, yet I like what it does.

Tensions falling like peels from shoulders, discarded gloves
of reality and "am"- meaning starts to break down
symbolism inverted, staring at the grinning clown
sandman scared away, as his existence is put into doubt
as time gives up, colours grow, ration looses clout.
as senses invert, limbs swap around
my flying becomes easier, as my sky becomes my ground

reminded of how Sally fell flat on his face, hoping inspiration would come from Sambuca´s drunken stupored slumber.

And yet. Today. I am slow today. No flight, no coloured sight. Slow today- hollow headed and a sparkling pain in my back.



I did try. And I did inhale.
And the point is, so did a significant proportion of the Chileans I met. Indeed in some circles not smoking would put you into a insignificant minority

I know a few people out there who I would assume do not smoke, and yet I know a whole lot more, that definitely do. In my time in Chile I cannot remember one Chilean who turned down a joint, when passed to them.

This is incredibly significant considering recent laws to make cannabis a class A in Chile. A decision ridiculed by the independent press, yet trumpeted by the dominant right and their mainstream newspapers.

It is symptomatic of the disjuncture between most young people and the political classes, and parallels wider social trends. Political apathy is rife, personal distrust epidemic, and the only grass-roots party with real and growing following is the Pinochetist* Unión Demócrata Independiente.
(the serious part of this is to be continued)

*People may quibble my labelling the UDI as Pinochetist. It is true that from 2004, they and Renovación Nacional have increasingly tried to distance themselves from such positions. A wolf in sheeps' clothing is still a wolf, no matter how much free food they may give out