8:58 p.m. - 2001-05-27
memory
Something reminded me of something else today, a flashback to a feeling of inadequacy and general ignorance towards the rest of the world that I barely feel anymore. This memory of A. and L. struggling to get one tiny drag out of the hybrid weed mixed with dirt, choking on their own saliva and hacking into the toilet, the bathroom door closed to preserve what little smoke was produced. Sparks flying onto the carpeting and L. rushing and screaming to stomp it out before it made a hole. Offering the quickly burning joint to me, me jumping back from the wildly spinning spark, afraid of the sting and feeling increasingly disjointed, thinking about how over half of the kids at school spent their nights desperately seeking the sparse calm smoke spiraling off of brown paper. I felt small and pathetic, crouching with them on the bathroom rug. It was a tiring job, coaxing the high from the flame. I never did take a hit, the fire was burning too erratically, and I'm even scared of candles and lighters. Kneeling in a half-circle around this small burning stick was almost like a twisted worship ritual, overshadowed by the choking feeling of disgust rising in my chest, me pushing it down again and again. I had nothing against pot and I still don't, I'll never have anything against anything that's people's own choice to do or not do. I support legalization. I support free will. All of a sudden I smell it. And I remember the betrayal feeling of recalled brilliance out under the sun, or driving with the moon coming through the top of my car, the top folded in the trunk. The feel of cold lake water against my stomach, or skin against skin on the sand. And I wonder why so much impact comes with this smoke, this supposed relaxation, this tiny magic stick, and why so many things revolve around it. Looking at A. and L., on their knees by the peeling wall and rusting bathtub, I realize I don't understand anything about what motivates and moves my own kind.

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