marijuana dreams

One afternoon I came home to a house clouded with cannabis. I smelt it on his breath. Saw it burning a dirty orange into his eyes. The place reeked of electric guitar hooked up to an amp.

Rotting in the corner: his vacant hopes, some wanton ambitions which had escaped the premises months ago and left a scent behind. He said he'd smoked two cones. He smoked two cones to find himself.

Hungry? I ask him. Nah, he says, I’m gonna play guitar.

So he sits on the couch. Cigarette butt in the corner of his mouth.

I’ve seen some pretty bad shit he says, and breaks his fingers on the strings. I know what it’s like. I've got a passion, you know? I’m just gonna play this shitty guitar. Yeah. Fuck a job.

I pretend to listen as his borrowed words press through the air. Pull a pot out of the bottom cupboard. He lights another cigarette - a cigarette for each song. The tar stains his lungs a kaleidoscope of black and blood.

There’s a map of ash stains on the carpet around the base of the coffee table. It doesn't matter because the house is being sold anyway. We might not get our bond back but it's worth it for a few songs.

Bit fucked up, eh? he says. But that's just how it is. We’re all fucked up, us artists. You know how it is. A statement. Not a question.

People have all this shit happen to them and it’s creative inspiration. They eat sand and then they spit out diamonds.

I find a match and light the gas stove top. Concentrate on the water slowly bubbling.

I guess I’ve spat out some diamonds. God knows I’ve eaten a shit load of sand. Piles of it have scraped red lines through my intestines.

But I don't want to sit where he is or know the lyrics to his songs. Marijuana dreams buckle him over. And who am I to stop him? I enjoy coming home to a cannabis clouded house. It reminds me I’m not the only one who loves being so low.