high hell ·
30 October 04

Promises are not meant to be broken. When it comes to draw, you can’t make promises if you don’t intend to fulfill them. If someone can’t get you the shit, they should tell you. This doesn’t happen (may be once in blue moon and a red sky simultaneously). The worst thing is being told there’s something to smoke, when there isn’t.

I was meant to meet up with the guys for around 6.30-7pm. I got there a bit early, and met one of their friends. The Chief was still doing some work, and Peter (the friend) was trying to get the shesha working. He’d put so many goddamn holes in the foil, everytime he was sucking in, it was just air. There was too much water in it in the first place, which meant the smoke couldn’t fill the chamber. Perhaps this should have provided a warning of the coming night.

We pretty much cleaned the shesha. The coals, which were once black and smooth, were now demolished like the crumble on an apple pie. Piles of ash scattered around the basin of the tobacco chamber, as Peter demonstrated his inability to inhale. I don’t know if it’s kids these days, I wouldn’t really want to go down that road, but I don’t think they’re as healthy as they used to be when I was school or college. Still, best not to be to old about it.

I couldn’t mention the weed in front of Peter. It was information for our ears only. The Chief was pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing. We’d have green; I could bring the films, and we’d buy a pizza or some munchies. I decided to pre-prepare before arriving, and went to the local dodgy market. I bought:

• 2 x cartons of Del Monte Pure Orange Juice from Concentrate on sale for less than a quid
• 2 x cool original doritos
• 1 x big pack cheese doritos – so big you could hide a dead body
• 1 x of trebor xxx extra strong mints
  
  I thought for a while, as I was waiting to be served. Should I? Or shouldn’t I? The queue was down two kids in front who couldn’t decide whether they had enough money to buy the sweets they wanted to buy. This was indicated by the need to ask “How much are these” every 12 seconds, which started to do my fucking head in.

  My turn had arrived, and I hadn’t made a decision. The Asian lady at the desk took my stuff, and put a carrier bag in front of her on these neatly designed hooks. It was only the other day that I learn that so-cornershops were actually started by Sri Lankans. Of course, in this day and age, and in truth, the word “paki” springs to mind for most people when they think of cornershops. I don’t find it offensive, I just find it historically inaccurate now. Still they’re all the same right? All of us?

  Still, Paki or not, she couldn’t have done worse to look like dog shit. As she started to barcode the goods, and place them in the bag; while sporting and ugly fucking apron with the company badge on her left, I finally came to a decision. Sort of.

  “20 Marlboro Lights as well please” would I really smoke 20? If I was going to be stoned, I’d probably wouldn’t smoke as much anyway. I promptly changed my mind and asked for 10 instead. She laughed and asked, “You’ve changed your mind?” I wanted to say,

  “No you fucking idiot. I numbered a pair of goats testicles 10 and 20, rolled them across hot coals while drinking llama milk and singing ‘Praise Fucking Jesus’”

  I stared through the window, polluted by the artificial light glowing from the lamps; it looked as though the reflection of the light against the window had been painted against the darkness, using it as a canvass. I looked back at the Asian lady who provided the total cost of the goods. In that moment I thought, “Why are you still alive, when you’re supposed to be dead?” and handed her ten pounds.

  I listened to my trance on the way, which kept me cheerful. I hadn’t shaved, and the ol’ mexicana beard and tash was back. I wore Paul’s cap, which I’ve had since I last saw him. I didn’t want to put gel in my hair, plus, it suited me in a rather dull way. Reading the book, I wondered if I would ever finish it. It’s been three months since I started reading it, well, perhaps less than that. Page 153 was in the top corner; only 30 or so pages to go.

  The author is really quite beautiful; at least from inside of the back cover. It’s carefully shot, but is she wearing make up? I can’t decide. That picture alone; you could just fall in love with the woman. It could just be clever composition, so I tried to search for other pictures of her on Google just now, but found a few of her from the University she went to. I think it’s that Universities claim to fame or something. She looks good with her hair tied back or just long and free. I can’t even say, from those pictures, that she looks anything special. There is something about her though, which works for me. Lovely picture.

  An hour or two at the office, and the shesha depleted of all it could offer, The Chief called it a night and Peter headed his own way home as we disappeared around to SJ’s flat. As we walked along he started to talk about SJ going to Canada to see this girl. It’s all Internet stuff, but has lasted for a good while, possibly years. He’s never seen her face, but she has seen his. He’s going to Canada, to see her. It’s not weird, or strange, except for the fact that he hasn’t seen her. Regardless of what she looks like, she’ll get the worse end of the deal. I think they’re in love, even though he hasn’t seen her face. The guys a lazy fucker, he’s hopeless, with no ambition nor any desire to achieve. He may be good at heart, but it takes more than heart to make a relationship work.
  

  I think The Grudge is meant to be ironic; a film that gives you such expectations, such excitement and what it might deliver, that it ultimately disappoints. The Grudge? The Grudge is to show it to everyone, and to let them feel your suffering at having watched it.

  
  After some fucking around, spending another ten quid on fucking food because The Chief didn’t want to order a fucking pizza, two hours later we headed back to SJ’s. On the way, SJ’s mentioned that he didn’t have much. I think The Chief was ore pissed off than I was. Actually, that’s a lie; I was pretty fucking annoyed. I wondered if I could eat all that fucking food sober.

  We got to his flat, and after dropping all the shit wherever we needed to, we headed to his room. He carefully picked of a skin, which was folded. He called The Chief over, and I stood up to see what this was. He unravelled one end, which revealed what looked like a toothpick with a flattened leaf no bigger than a 1/4 of a penny. Even that description is fucking generous. He then revealed the other half, which revealed the rest of the toothpick like twig and another leaf, flattened, and about 1/4 the size of a penny. I laughed with a sigh.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at what was promised. He mentioned that their other friend took the rest, because he didn’t think he would smoke much. I personally would have just eaten the damn thing, it was that bloody small. But no, they decided they would smoke it. Not in one joint, not in two joints, but in three. What that meant was, three joints that smelt like a cigarette, smoked like a cigarette, but was rolled as a joint with just a hint of weed, so subtle you wouldn’t even know if you’d smoked it.

  The first one wasn’t that bad, and I could taste the weed. It was fucking barely there, but I could taste it. The rest of the joint tasted like a fucking cigarette, which it was since that’s where the damned tobacco came from. Without a filter, it felt like smoking a cigar made of toilet roll.
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  We marched on though, and the second one was barely smokable for me. We passed it around, but we may as well have had a cigarette each and stuck that on a fucking rota for all the good we were getting out of the fucking joint. We watched Scrubs, much to the annoyance of SJ, who wanted to watch Friends.
  
  “Listen, we should watch Friends man. I don’t like Scrubs, it’s just stupid humour.”

  “What the fuck do you mean stupid humour? What do you think Friends is? It’s the same fucking joke for ten fucking years; you and every other fucking muppet on this planet has been brainwashed into thinking the only fucking comedy that existed on this planet was Friends. Scrubs a 100 times better than that one trick fucking pony show for retards”

  “What’s so funny about this? All they do is dream, and talk stupid and there’s no point to it. It’s not even realistic”

  “What the fuck do you want?! How realistic is Friends? You got two fucking retards who can’t make up their mind about each other for ten whole fucking years; you got the two most outlandish, most unrealistic morons of the world that use the same fucking joke ad nauseum; then you have the two least likable, least interesting people in the fucking world who get married. Let’s not forget to add canned fucking laughter, because hey, without it, it’s not a comedy.”
  
  The toing and froing continued as what I was saying was actually very irrelevant. What it meant was that I could distract SJ with my argument while watching Scrubs with The Chief and just pissing him off. His flat, his room, his chairs, blocking his vision. Friendship has no barriers.

  The Chief wanted to watch a film. I brought The Grudge, Infernal Affairs 1 (not knowing if they would like it, I didn’t bring the other two DVDs), Old Boy and Happy Tree Friends. I insisted they watch Happy Tree Friends first. They sat and watched one episode and said it wasn’t funny, it was just sick. This coming from one of the two that has openly admitted to having 10gb of porn on his hard drive. Neither liked it, so we started to decide on the other films. SJ hates subtitled films. He only prefers them to be in English. Or Bollywood. I hate both, and I wouldn’t subject my innocent life to the latter.
  
  “We should watch this Old Boy thing, it looks good.”
  “It’s one of the best films I have ever seen. It’s just fucking incredible, and to be remade in the US with some Hollywood twats.”
  “What’s it about?”
  “Ah, well may be we shouldn’t watch after what SJ said.”
  “What did he say?”
  “What did I say?”
  “Well, you know in Scrubs, when the twat admits to having made out with his mother, well, it’s sort of like that…”
  “Incest? Urghhhhhhh. That’s sick man, how can you watch that?”
  “It’s not that fucking simple. The film is like a Greek tragedy, it’s powerful, but it’s incredible. You don’t dismiss a film based on subject matter – that’s just fucking stupid. But I don’t think you should watch it. The incest is….suggested.”
  “I think we should watch it?”
  “You mean like…Cruel Intentions?”
  “Well…n….yessssss. Like Cruel Intentions, I guess.”
  
  We put the film on for all of 10 minutes. We saw Oh Daesu holding the suicide jumper with the puppy, as he beings to retell his story. The film was running the credits at the start, and Oh Daesu had just managed to get out of the Police Station. All through that 10 minutes, SJ was bitching, “This film is shit man. It doesn’t even look real” or, “That’s stupid man. Is this film just about drunks in a Police Station?” or simply, “I hate subtitles man, I’ll wait for the English version. Can’t you get this dubbed?”
  

  He’s never seen her face, but she has seen his. He’s going to Canada, to see her. It’s not weird, or strange, except for the fact that he hasn’t seen her. Regardless of what she looks like, she’ll get the worse end of the deal.

  
  The sheer frustration and hatred I felt was not at his knocking the film, but the pettiness and narrow minded nature of the beast. As I said, this is the laziest bastard in the world. He’s also the most annoying; ready to make a drama out of any situation he could possibly make to cause a scene with someone he knows. To strangers, he’s just a pleb, but to us, he’s an annoying pleb. It makes me wonder if he’s showing his trueself to this Canadian chick, or may be what he needs is a woman to keep him in check. At least she’s 25, and not 18. That would just creep the fuck out of me. Goodluck to him.

  Still, we stopped the film and in went The Grudge. Of course, he was complaining all through this as well. The Chief was determined to watch it. I guess SJ’s annoyance was affected due to the fact that both he and The Chief were buzzing like crazy. I can’t believe we had two cigarettes and mini spliff and they were gone. Well, not stoned, just buzzing. I spent 20 minutes that night trying to convince The Chief that there was a fucking error in his text on screen. He kept hiding the fucking error with his hand, shouting
  
  “Go on then! Tell me where it is. Show me, go on.”
  “If you get your fucking hand out of the fucking way I can show you, you twat.”
  “Go on. Where? I don’t see it. It’s right.”
  “There you blind, stoned bastard.”
  “Oh yeah. Sorry man, I think I’m buzzing.”
  “For fuck’s sake….”
  
  I shouldn’t smoke weed; in any amount. While SJ went to sleep, The Chief and I watched The Grudge. I’d seen it three or four times before, and I didn’t like it much. In fact, it’s a pretty average film with 0 scares. I often sell it as the next Ring, but when I play the DVD for my friends, no one likes it. I think The Grudge is meant to be ironic; a film that gives you such expectations, such excitement and what it might deliver, that it ultimately disappoints. The Grudge? The Grudge is to show it to everyone, and to let them feel your suffering at having watched it.

  As the film went on, I just agreed by humming with The Chief as he talked like a man with fever, taking in tongues. In my head, I was thinking about the wrong things. I actually wanted to cry. I wanted to just curl up and cry, and try to cleanse my head of the thoughts. I couldn’t talk, because I would have cried. What was running through my head, was probably more frightening than what was on screen.

  Of course all imaginations are more frightening. I was starting to feel sick, as the violence, death, and acts of immorality and betrayal escalated in my head. The sickness came from not the thoughts themselves, just the sheer number that was in my head. Like when you pour too much hot water in your tea, and it spills over the edge. You still have to drain a bit before you can hold it steady. I need a brain drain.

  It was a pretty lackluster night, and the weed was pretty non-existent. I couldn’t sleep as I slept next to The Chief on the floor. He snored like an asthmatic horse, as I stared at the gap between the curtains. I ran my fingers through my hair, and enjoyed the sensation of strands drifting through my fingers. I was smiling, but I don’t know what about; I was happy, and I had happy thoughts, but I couldn’t picture them; like deconstructed paintings being reconstructed from different pieces, and creating something greater, better, happier.

  I didn’t sleep that night. I told The Chief it was way before my bed time, as I don’t go to bed at 2.30am. He eventually went to sleep, and I tried to. I closed my eyes, but when I closed them, I went into this stunning, incredible world where all my fears were gathered, and they kept morphing into a bigger, greater, sicker fear.

  In my mind I was asking for more, and more. I couldn’t get enough of all these mutations, these transformations and merging and dividing. Images leaked into each other; faces become unrecognisable; colours of blood red and abyss black, fell together to form anger, and hatred, but in such a poetic and beautiful way, that I felt drawn to it further.

  Remember back to when you were a child. Try to remember when you did painting, and when you first played with those paints that you draw in water. I think they were acrylic paints; but they were so dense that they sank to the bottom of the tray, and when you placed a piece of paper over the tray, it created a pattern.

  You could swirl the paint around in the water, and it would deform and change, and become something more fragmented and wild. Imagine that same technique applied to your dreams and nightmares, so they become one and the same, mixed, contaminated, vile and yet innocent and pure. That’s what I saw when I closed my eyes, and it blew my mind.

  Even darkness has it’s good points.