Harry Whitewolf's Blog - Posts Tagged "smoking"
YOUR OWN PERSONAL MEDICINE - A Snippet Story by Harry Whitewolf.
Hazzy haggardly hops off the bus. Half an hour to wait at bloody Eastleigh bus station.
An already made rollie hits his lips and he flips his Zippo into action. Puff puff again. Nothing to do again. Just fill the time with thought and smoke. Hazzy knows he doesn't even really want this thin, bent rollie betwixt his lips, but he sucks on it anyway, trying to ease his f**ked up head, solely brought on from the sleeping pill he took last night.
He doesn't take them often for this very reason. The reason that is the way he feels now. Like he's been smacked in the face by a doped up slab of concrete wired into a wayward Wilko Johnson guitar groove.
The thing is, anyone who doesn't suffer from insomnia and lives their nice, well slept, fresh for the day, down to the gym lives, can't have a clue what the sleepless walker goes through. Man, if you've never slept right, trust me, you can see, feel and think a lot of crazy shit. Now, if you're a non-pot smoker as well as a well-sleeper, it may appear that adding dope into the pot wouldn't help things one iota. (Why I?) But you'd be wrong. At least, for Hazzy. That's the thing- why do we have this crazy notion that things are either good or bad for us? Sure, for some things sure, but I'm talking about a bit of wine being good being bad for ya, a kick o' caffeine being good being bad for ya, a little sweet sugar... It's all so goddamn relative. Is Ecstasy good or bad? Are magic mushrooms good or bad? Is marijuana good or bad? ask the intellectuals over their sixth pint of bitter.
So, back to Hazzy at the bus station. Yep, he's a stoner. And, he feels, a much misunderstood by society stoner too. He's an insomniac, yep. That's why he's adorning such a dragged down face of depression right now, as he automatically rolls, licks and lights again. He knows it's the effect of the sleeping pill, but that doesn't matter one jot. The effect of the pill will pull its own way. Leading him astray into dark cornered days, making him worry about money and a million other things, racing round strange, downward spiral thoughts, feeling black and blue and stuck like glue. It's the pill. It's the pill. Remember, Hazzy. Remember. It always makes you feel like this. Remember? That's why you don't take 'em often. They make you sleep. That's good. They help you get up in the morning when you have to. That's good. Then, around five hours later, the depression'll set in, tiredness will hit and maybe you'll find yourself stood here, wanting your bed or a joint to smoke, feeling fucked, waiting at bloody Eastleigh bus station.
Hazzy took the pill last night, 'cos he'd needed to get up this morning, but he's managed for months without. You see, for Hazzy- because everybody is affected differently by different things- when he has a smoke of weed, it helps him sleep easier. Which is why he smokes it most every night. It doesn't completely conk him out, and often he'll still find the insomniac beast infallibly lurking, but it certainly helps. The pot certainly helps. Now, another thing you should know is that Hazzy has always been anxious and uptight in his head full of thoughts that never cease, that never pause, won't seize, keep rattling around, chattering from somewhere sounds, what's that song playing in the background? How many mental lists to go around? He knows he doesn't think like other people. And sometimes the loneliness of his super speeding brainwaves can start to drive him insane. But the pot helps. For Hazzy- just for Hazzy- the pot really helps. It calms his racing head and helps him rest in bed.
Some say, “Dude, marijuana is my medicine!” meaning eff all by it, other than it makes 'em feel high and happy. They ain't tried living in the insomniac, mad fuelled head of Hazzy. For Hazzy, he's quite serious, as many others are, that marijuana is his medicine.
Which is why he took that pill last night and is currently smoking a fag he doesn't really want in bleeding Eastleigh bus station. Because he's out. Hazzy's dry. Big sigh.
His dealer's phone ain't been answered in two weeks. Something's wrong. Very wrong. Shit mate. Don't know anything other than your first name, your mobile number and the car you drive, but I hope you're alright mate. They've got ya, ain't they?
It never used to be a problem. Sure, there'd be dry times. (The non-pot smoker has no idea of the tales that can be told of waitin' for the man or trying to find one. But those are stories for another time.) But things would always sort 'emselves out in two or three weeks max, and there was always someone Hazzy knew to bug for a bit of blow if he was desperate. But that was back in the city. Back in his youth. Back in the days when his mates still smoked, and had introduced him to it, before they'd all gotten health conscious or married or whatever being thirty something with kids does to ya. Shit, Hazzy doesn't know anyone round here any more for that sort of thing. The only people that Hazzy knows that smoke always score through him. They're wanting as well. Hell, can you imagine, after a stress filled, killing, worst day of your life at work or whatever, at the end of it you were told you can't have a drink? Whaddaya think you'd think? Come on, most people like a drink to relax, surely? Imagine it. Prohibition over night, and nowhere to get it. Or whatever your fix to get your kicks is. Can you imagine? They ban shopping, T.V, video games, Facebook, the gym, Valium, Viagra, McDonalds, gambling, whatever. We're all addicted to something.
“Oh, but marijuana stinks something awful,” says an imaginary old upstart in Hazzy's hazy head. “Yeah?” replies Hazzy inwardly. “Well, listen lady- I don't like the stink that comes out of all these cars and HGVs, but what can I do about it?” Hazzy always has that thought- about ciggies alone; how is it people can point the finger at him, a non-driver, for secondary cigarette smoke, when they're polluting the Earth's air with all sorts of shit all around Hazzy all the goddamn time, and he's not ever allowed to go up to some guy in his Audi waiting at the traffic lights and say, “Hey! Turn off your engine you moron!” and so on?
He needs a spliff. He's out. And last night's sleeping pill's now knocking him out. Always in an endless cycle of awkward sleeping habits.
Hazzy stubs out his fag as he's approached by a snazzy cap wearing teenager. Wanting Hazzy to buy cigs for him, 'cos he's only seventeen. Sure. Any younger and he wouldn't. But Hazzy had been allowed to legally buy ciggies at sixteen, before the law had changed, so why shouldn't this guy be entitled? He's after twenty five grammes of Golden Virginia after all. That's an experienced smoker asking.
“Sure,” Hazzy says, as the guy takes ages pouring out his change into his cupped hands, trying to scramble together nine quid, Hazzy looking at the fumbled youth action of it all and rolling his eyes. (Jeez, nine quid for twenty five grammes these days!)
Once he's returned from his errand, and given the young guy a couple of filters too, and just as the guy's beginning to disappear, Hazzy, in his sleeping pill hungover state, says quietly, “Err... Don't s'pose you know anyone to get weed off do ya?”
The youth dumbly smiles, replying, “Nah mate.” Ah well. It was worth a stab. But, jeez, he's resorted to this. It's taking the piss. Asking a spotty youth half his age for an effing contact. Jeez. Still no dope then. Just the one: Hazzy. Who hopefully you may have a little sympathy for, and as a non-pot smoker reader, maybe you'll see the law is crazy. 'Cos Hazzy won't grow his own 'cos he don't wanna get caught, and yet he buys from people who buy from people from the back street back trade, and if Hazzy wants his medicine, then he's gotta contribute to the illegal, criminal drug operation of which he doesn't wanna have a part. All because gardening is against the law. Because you can't tax it.
And the one difference between green and other drugs that any commentators always seem to overlook is that it's the only illegal drug that can be had in the same way as a drink. You can have a beer, feel it, but not get drunk. You can have a spliff to just take the edge off. You can drink more and get merry. You can smoke more and get high. You can get messy and wasted. You can get messy and wasted.
It's about how you use something, why you're using it, and how it affects you. Hazzy needs his medication.
He boards the bus, knowing what he has in his pocket'll have to suffice for tonight. Shittin', effin', Herbal Haze. Whassat? I hear you say. Oh, didn't you know? You can get all sorts of legal drugs these days, which aren't the real McCoy, but work anyway, getting to the consumers through legal loop holes, when god knows what is in 'em. Sold as 'incense' and 'plant food' and 'not for human consumption test chemicals' with a million nasty words on the packet about being harmful if swallowed and numbers for POISON CENTERS- in large letters. What the hell's a poison centre anyway? Herbal Haze. It ain't marijuana. But he's just bought it nevertheless.
Hazzy just has his Haze for taking the edge off when he's dry. This ain't stuff to get addicted to. Man, this knocks the shit outta any marijuana Hazzy's ever known in terms of just getting you fucked, and not in a good way. Two drags down and you're out of it. Pot impersonator legal highs: stronger, uglier and worse than nature's crop. What a backwards world it is. Stop.
As Hazzy boards the bus, in mad, chaotic, sleeping pill and pot-less thoughts, wondering if he really does want to smoke that stinking legal shit tonight after all, he decides to pick up a few beers later, so at least he's got a choice.
An already made rollie hits his lips and he flips his Zippo into action. Puff puff again. Nothing to do again. Just fill the time with thought and smoke. Hazzy knows he doesn't even really want this thin, bent rollie betwixt his lips, but he sucks on it anyway, trying to ease his f**ked up head, solely brought on from the sleeping pill he took last night.
He doesn't take them often for this very reason. The reason that is the way he feels now. Like he's been smacked in the face by a doped up slab of concrete wired into a wayward Wilko Johnson guitar groove.
The thing is, anyone who doesn't suffer from insomnia and lives their nice, well slept, fresh for the day, down to the gym lives, can't have a clue what the sleepless walker goes through. Man, if you've never slept right, trust me, you can see, feel and think a lot of crazy shit. Now, if you're a non-pot smoker as well as a well-sleeper, it may appear that adding dope into the pot wouldn't help things one iota. (Why I?) But you'd be wrong. At least, for Hazzy. That's the thing- why do we have this crazy notion that things are either good or bad for us? Sure, for some things sure, but I'm talking about a bit of wine being good being bad for ya, a kick o' caffeine being good being bad for ya, a little sweet sugar... It's all so goddamn relative. Is Ecstasy good or bad? Are magic mushrooms good or bad? Is marijuana good or bad? ask the intellectuals over their sixth pint of bitter.
So, back to Hazzy at the bus station. Yep, he's a stoner. And, he feels, a much misunderstood by society stoner too. He's an insomniac, yep. That's why he's adorning such a dragged down face of depression right now, as he automatically rolls, licks and lights again. He knows it's the effect of the sleeping pill, but that doesn't matter one jot. The effect of the pill will pull its own way. Leading him astray into dark cornered days, making him worry about money and a million other things, racing round strange, downward spiral thoughts, feeling black and blue and stuck like glue. It's the pill. It's the pill. Remember, Hazzy. Remember. It always makes you feel like this. Remember? That's why you don't take 'em often. They make you sleep. That's good. They help you get up in the morning when you have to. That's good. Then, around five hours later, the depression'll set in, tiredness will hit and maybe you'll find yourself stood here, wanting your bed or a joint to smoke, feeling fucked, waiting at bloody Eastleigh bus station.
Hazzy took the pill last night, 'cos he'd needed to get up this morning, but he's managed for months without. You see, for Hazzy- because everybody is affected differently by different things- when he has a smoke of weed, it helps him sleep easier. Which is why he smokes it most every night. It doesn't completely conk him out, and often he'll still find the insomniac beast infallibly lurking, but it certainly helps. The pot certainly helps. Now, another thing you should know is that Hazzy has always been anxious and uptight in his head full of thoughts that never cease, that never pause, won't seize, keep rattling around, chattering from somewhere sounds, what's that song playing in the background? How many mental lists to go around? He knows he doesn't think like other people. And sometimes the loneliness of his super speeding brainwaves can start to drive him insane. But the pot helps. For Hazzy- just for Hazzy- the pot really helps. It calms his racing head and helps him rest in bed.
Some say, “Dude, marijuana is my medicine!” meaning eff all by it, other than it makes 'em feel high and happy. They ain't tried living in the insomniac, mad fuelled head of Hazzy. For Hazzy, he's quite serious, as many others are, that marijuana is his medicine.
Which is why he took that pill last night and is currently smoking a fag he doesn't really want in bleeding Eastleigh bus station. Because he's out. Hazzy's dry. Big sigh.
His dealer's phone ain't been answered in two weeks. Something's wrong. Very wrong. Shit mate. Don't know anything other than your first name, your mobile number and the car you drive, but I hope you're alright mate. They've got ya, ain't they?
It never used to be a problem. Sure, there'd be dry times. (The non-pot smoker has no idea of the tales that can be told of waitin' for the man or trying to find one. But those are stories for another time.) But things would always sort 'emselves out in two or three weeks max, and there was always someone Hazzy knew to bug for a bit of blow if he was desperate. But that was back in the city. Back in his youth. Back in the days when his mates still smoked, and had introduced him to it, before they'd all gotten health conscious or married or whatever being thirty something with kids does to ya. Shit, Hazzy doesn't know anyone round here any more for that sort of thing. The only people that Hazzy knows that smoke always score through him. They're wanting as well. Hell, can you imagine, after a stress filled, killing, worst day of your life at work or whatever, at the end of it you were told you can't have a drink? Whaddaya think you'd think? Come on, most people like a drink to relax, surely? Imagine it. Prohibition over night, and nowhere to get it. Or whatever your fix to get your kicks is. Can you imagine? They ban shopping, T.V, video games, Facebook, the gym, Valium, Viagra, McDonalds, gambling, whatever. We're all addicted to something.
“Oh, but marijuana stinks something awful,” says an imaginary old upstart in Hazzy's hazy head. “Yeah?” replies Hazzy inwardly. “Well, listen lady- I don't like the stink that comes out of all these cars and HGVs, but what can I do about it?” Hazzy always has that thought- about ciggies alone; how is it people can point the finger at him, a non-driver, for secondary cigarette smoke, when they're polluting the Earth's air with all sorts of shit all around Hazzy all the goddamn time, and he's not ever allowed to go up to some guy in his Audi waiting at the traffic lights and say, “Hey! Turn off your engine you moron!” and so on?
He needs a spliff. He's out. And last night's sleeping pill's now knocking him out. Always in an endless cycle of awkward sleeping habits.
Hazzy stubs out his fag as he's approached by a snazzy cap wearing teenager. Wanting Hazzy to buy cigs for him, 'cos he's only seventeen. Sure. Any younger and he wouldn't. But Hazzy had been allowed to legally buy ciggies at sixteen, before the law had changed, so why shouldn't this guy be entitled? He's after twenty five grammes of Golden Virginia after all. That's an experienced smoker asking.
“Sure,” Hazzy says, as the guy takes ages pouring out his change into his cupped hands, trying to scramble together nine quid, Hazzy looking at the fumbled youth action of it all and rolling his eyes. (Jeez, nine quid for twenty five grammes these days!)
Once he's returned from his errand, and given the young guy a couple of filters too, and just as the guy's beginning to disappear, Hazzy, in his sleeping pill hungover state, says quietly, “Err... Don't s'pose you know anyone to get weed off do ya?”
The youth dumbly smiles, replying, “Nah mate.” Ah well. It was worth a stab. But, jeez, he's resorted to this. It's taking the piss. Asking a spotty youth half his age for an effing contact. Jeez. Still no dope then. Just the one: Hazzy. Who hopefully you may have a little sympathy for, and as a non-pot smoker reader, maybe you'll see the law is crazy. 'Cos Hazzy won't grow his own 'cos he don't wanna get caught, and yet he buys from people who buy from people from the back street back trade, and if Hazzy wants his medicine, then he's gotta contribute to the illegal, criminal drug operation of which he doesn't wanna have a part. All because gardening is against the law. Because you can't tax it.
And the one difference between green and other drugs that any commentators always seem to overlook is that it's the only illegal drug that can be had in the same way as a drink. You can have a beer, feel it, but not get drunk. You can have a spliff to just take the edge off. You can drink more and get merry. You can smoke more and get high. You can get messy and wasted. You can get messy and wasted.
It's about how you use something, why you're using it, and how it affects you. Hazzy needs his medication.
He boards the bus, knowing what he has in his pocket'll have to suffice for tonight. Shittin', effin', Herbal Haze. Whassat? I hear you say. Oh, didn't you know? You can get all sorts of legal drugs these days, which aren't the real McCoy, but work anyway, getting to the consumers through legal loop holes, when god knows what is in 'em. Sold as 'incense' and 'plant food' and 'not for human consumption test chemicals' with a million nasty words on the packet about being harmful if swallowed and numbers for POISON CENTERS- in large letters. What the hell's a poison centre anyway? Herbal Haze. It ain't marijuana. But he's just bought it nevertheless.
Hazzy just has his Haze for taking the edge off when he's dry. This ain't stuff to get addicted to. Man, this knocks the shit outta any marijuana Hazzy's ever known in terms of just getting you fucked, and not in a good way. Two drags down and you're out of it. Pot impersonator legal highs: stronger, uglier and worse than nature's crop. What a backwards world it is. Stop.
As Hazzy boards the bus, in mad, chaotic, sleeping pill and pot-less thoughts, wondering if he really does want to smoke that stinking legal shit tonight after all, he decides to pick up a few beers later, so at least he's got a choice.
THE ROAD TO PURIFICATION: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash.
COMING VERY SOON: THE NEW BOOK BY HARRY WHITEWOLF.
A post-modern, pot smoking Egyptian pilgrimage. The true story of a backpacking journey like no other!
THE ROAD TO PURIFICATION: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash.
When Mad Harry spontaneously books a flight for Egypt, he doesn't know that he's about to embark on a fate given pilgrimage.
In fact, he's not even sure why he's going, or what he's going to do when he gets there.
All he knows is he's got to get away.
Guided by signs in numbers, names and otherworldly encounters, Mad Harry's trip often seems to be a magical manifestation of his mind.
A crazy headed, hassle driven, sleep deprived, dope smoking journey with non-stop tests of trust and temptation.
A holiday this is not.
This good humoured true story is told in a frank, rhythmic and playful voice. Set in 2010, shortly before the revolution, it's a backpacking odyssey through tremendous temples, towering pyramids, chaotic cities, small villages and dirty beaches, with a backdrop of ancient spiritual gnosis!
In real life, the story of this book took place seven months before the tale told in my debut: Route Number 11. But The Road To Purification is more of a sister book than a prequel and it can most certainly be read in its own right.
A post-modern, pot smoking Egyptian pilgrimage. The true story of a backpacking journey like no other!
THE ROAD TO PURIFICATION: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash.
When Mad Harry spontaneously books a flight for Egypt, he doesn't know that he's about to embark on a fate given pilgrimage.
In fact, he's not even sure why he's going, or what he's going to do when he gets there.
All he knows is he's got to get away.
Guided by signs in numbers, names and otherworldly encounters, Mad Harry's trip often seems to be a magical manifestation of his mind.
A crazy headed, hassle driven, sleep deprived, dope smoking journey with non-stop tests of trust and temptation.
A holiday this is not.
This good humoured true story is told in a frank, rhythmic and playful voice. Set in 2010, shortly before the revolution, it's a backpacking odyssey through tremendous temples, towering pyramids, chaotic cities, small villages and dirty beaches, with a backdrop of ancient spiritual gnosis!
In real life, the story of this book took place seven months before the tale told in my debut: Route Number 11. But The Road To Purification is more of a sister book than a prequel and it can most certainly be read in its own right.
