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Oct. 27, 2006 There’s nothing I’d like more than to rent or buy a stone cottage with a thatch roof somewhere in paradisical Indonesia, equipped of course with a mini-refrigerator and a laptop computer, and there, seated in a big rattan chair outside in the shade on a brilliant warm day, smoke marijuana cigarettes to my heart’s content. For this scenario to be perfect, it should take place at a time when buying and smoking marijuana have been completely legalized, so that I’d need only visit the neighbour lady’s mini-grocery to buy another ounce whenever I ran out. I wouldn’t drive a car at all. In fact, I don’t even know how to drive. Anyway, off the few paved two-lane highways, there is very little driving in Indonesia . I’d merely walk to town now and then, or along the beach. My afternoons would be filled with sublimely beautiful, otherworldly marijuana-induced fantasies and visions. I’d join in the festivities and festivals that take place in the islands regularly. Unfortunately, marijuana is not legal now, and in order to buy it, I would have to deal with people I dislike and risk being arrested. Obtaining a residence permit for Indonesia may not be so terribly easy either, though if I had one, I could afford the low prices that are current in that archipelago, once called by its more evocative name, the East Indies. Then, too, marijuana fantasies are not always delightful and beautiful. Sometimes they are ugly, frightening or annoying. So what is left of my beautiful daydream? If I should elect to take up smoking marijuana again, after more than 30 years of doing entirely without it, I’d probably end up sneaking around some public park in the US or abroad, looking for someone disreputable-looking enough that I would adjudge him to be a dealer and then making a purchase, looking over my shoulder to make sure the police weren’t around. Then I’d take it to some miserable little room in the slums and stand at the window, huffing and puffing, trying to prevent the telltale odor from invading the hallway. An hour or two later I’d be in bed, saying to myself that it was poor marijuana. It wasn’t worth the bother. It seldom is. The following morning, feeling ashamed of myself, I’d brush my teeth very, very vigorously, as if to rid my memory of every trace of this latest little disappointment. I’d look at my desk, kicking myself for not doing some of the things that I should have done. I didn’t sort the papers that needed sorting. I didn’t write the pages I had planned to write. I didn’t memorize the lyrics to that new song I was trying to learn. I didn’t sew up my sweater where it was beginning to come apart. I didn’t work on those word lists and grammar lessons that I was trying to master. I didn’t proofread any of my writings. And I ask myself, “Why did that punk burn me, selling me inferior stuff? Didn’t he realize that if he’d treated me right, I’d have been his loyal customer? I should really go out and look for him, and beat his tail.” At least that’s the way it used to be for me, until I finally stopped smoking the worthless stuff. Basically, in 1969, when I got married I had decided to swear off, but I smoked an occasional marijuana cigarette for 5 years after that. I had a friend who brought some over every couple of months, and I just went along with it. Finally, I stopped without qualification in 1974. ------------ About the author Thomas Keyes: I have written two books: A SOJOURN IN ASIA (non-fiction) and A TALE OF UNG (fiction), neither published so far. I have studied languages for years and traveled extensively on five continents. Email: udikeyes@yahoo.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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