Read or Write before Sleeping
Before bed your mind needs time to wind down. The National Sleep Foundation recommends engaging in a calming activity like reading or writing in the last hour or so before bed in order to help slowly shift your mind into sleep mode. Kathleen K. suggests you drop the “screen” and get your hands on a printed book or a journal or some colored pencils and a sketch pad. Give the diodes a rest, go analog and tactile.
The Stoner potcentric sexotic fictional memoir series is meant to be a trilogy about a smart guy with a naughty habit. I always knew that this counterculture reefer and romance diary was going to fuse back into the Kathleen K. Books collection once pot was no longer taboo. The voice of Jamie in Sweet Talkers is closest to my own, of course; that’s non-fiction. Stoner is closest to my heart. Stoner would love me, that’s what I realized. I’d be his dream female. I didn’t understand that when I wrote the books, not in those words, not with that impact, but, in fact, that character is my masculine inverse with a twist.
So, I bequeath to him this blog and all its linkage to temporarily stand-in as Book III of his (our) potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs presented as rambling narratives. Posting here is the au courant version of his inner monolog. Not coincidentally, this is the 60th post, this is my 60th year… Steeping is not just for tea, it works on character too. We’re “late Boomers”, Stoner and I, born in the second wave of the early 50’s, and I know we had our trail blazed by the true believers in peace and love and understanding who rebelled against war.
I hate to even whisper that Stoner is already dead for fear he’ll overhear me. I do want it understood that he lives on the pages and he will survive them; he is my ever-love. What the ongoing posts do is champion his causes: stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness. What can I say? Now he knows everything.
I got a weed grinder, a cylinder of compartments. The top comes off so you can fill the grinder cup with clumps of pot, that container has small open-holes interspersed with grinder-bumps, those bumps work against the bumps inside the lid when you screw them together then twist them back and forth. A middle compartment caught the rough-ground pot. There was a screen to shield the third chamber if for some reason you wanted to sift the contents. I like it rough cut so I don’t over-work it. Rustic.
There is tribal unity in Ganga Land, the pot is still illegal but now we’re allowed to buy our paraphernalia in tobacco stores; however, we have to pretend our quirky tools are intended for something other than their purpose-designed function… who needs an alligator clip with a feather on it, really? Water bongs? Dozens of brands of rolling papers? Grinders? Since the pot accessories are offered in an adults-only venue of cigarettes, cigars, pipes, etc., there isn’t much community resistance to pot any more. Our brothers smoke it, our neighbors, our grandma. Law enforcement has been told to let it go so they could concentrate on getting the thieves and muggers and killers out of the way of the rest of us.
Getting high was still underground, not a topic of conversation, off-limits like money and sex, to each his own except in private or when in mutual pursuit.
Another epidemic of mating and procreating swept through my crowd and once again I studied it to strengthen my defenses. Familyhood altered every single friend of mine who experienced it. You promised to give parts of yourself to others, to blend with them, to take on their burdens in exchange, to gain momentum with their help. Very complicated. Decades in the doing, never really done.
We singleton are marked too, we’re more and more ourselves, richly spiced with our long marinade in personal choices. We live where we fit in, we can drive a small car, lift our own credit score, without worrying about the ricochet on a partner. Singlehood is a sleek social vehicle, I’m not tethered.
Aside from the arrangements, it’s still all “living”, if you think about it. I got problems. You got problems. My problems at this point are trivial compared to the sorts of misfortune that careen through the population. Can’t judge your problems, I‘ll never understand them like I do my own. We each have our own sticky thinking, forever reassessing the ordained choke points. It’s true I could be better, as well as much much worse.
“I’m freaking out about this wedding, man.”
“Probably so, but that’s no reason to hog the high.”
“Finish it. I, I gotta tell you, this is HUGE. I’m leaving Man Land.”
“I hear it’s a bitch.”
“SEE! You don’t hear that word on Married Island.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I’m going into a new world, with this one guide, one partner, forever. How can I promise that?”
“Do you trust her?”
“Can you ever trust something that can bleed for a week and not die?”
“It’s an old joke. Females are alien to us at a primary level. I’m a guy, I think that’s funny. How am I going to live the rest of my life thinking that’s not funny?”
“It’ll be easier to resist laughing after you’re married… because she’s not going to allow you to get high any more, right?”
“Now, that’s harsh.”
“I’m just saying…”
… heard you, man. Let it go.”
I fashioned my own DeGunkerator using a stout glass jar with a solid lid. It was big enough for pipe parts and was filled with the leftover chemical solvent I’d used on other, larger resin-clogged parts. It’s science after all and scraping is ridiculous. I like clean stems and bowls; I don’t want my finger to stick to the carburetor.
Love the carburetor. In some pipes, there is a vent that is covered while the bowl is lit then released for the inhale, jetting smoke and air, to be covered when not in use. It’s a fuel mixer, letting you adjust the strength and speed of intake. Misuse often causes that sputtering throat-freeze of an over-blow, when you’ve taken in more than you can handle. Over-hitting is not about ego: it’s about lung capacity and bio-mechanical stuff. Amateurs clamp their lips shut even as the throat is closing which makes them feel they’re suffocating resulting in spewing the mouthful of smoke out in a phlegmy cough. (Not cool.) Find a way to divert the thought of releasing the pressure and hold in that high. Force those capillaries to OPEN for access to the bloodstream. Don’t swallow air, sip it in with quick gasps, and distract your gag reflex with air rushing up and over your lifted tongue. Misdirect the nose with that rush on the roof of your mouth. The pot is expanding so make room in your head; you know you’re on Launch Sequence. Pot uncurls in your body then does something to your thought processing center. Choke smoke down and absorb it, you can’t beat a hit like that. Finessing this recovery does serve to separate the weenies from the dogs.
French Toast is a perfect post-stone meal. It’s easy to make well, scalable from two or twenty, seeming indulgent but actually just bread-eggs-milk (±cinnamon) (±vanilla) quick-fried in hot butter, crisp on the outside, steaming on the inside.
Syrup? Too sweet for me, probably why I add the cinnamon. It’s more savory that way, still rich. Coming off a good long stone, it’s time to refuel. Not motivated toward anything elaborate to make but demanding something satisfying to eat.
I find that chronic herbal use eliminates the munchies, those attacks of hunger associated with a drop in blood sugar, when taken to extreme can cause a drowsy stone. You get a flash of heat when your body signals you’re going too far down and need to eat NOW. I consider that lazy (poor planning).
I expect a dip in blood sugar so I pair pot with a beer (carbs), or sweet creamed coffee, or ice-cold juice. Then I stop and let my body reach its equilibrium. I don’t slam quick drinks because I’d be tilting my metabolism the other way. I’m nudging my chemistry. Not fire-hosing my head.
Lola was married when I met her, one of a group of hikers volunteering to clear the trails after a long hot summer. The day was perfect for light-duty preening of a semi-natural forest. When the walkway was inspected closely, we could see the stream of visitors had squashed edge-plants and scattered litter in the oddest places (tucked in tree branches, under a rock but still clearly visible). We were part of a trio working about ten feet in from the edge and we treated it to a preening, careful to prepare for the coming winter. Next spring would be more fruitful if we took some time with it in the fall.
Lola wasn’t married when I met her again, in an intersection downtown, as far from the forest as she could be, out of context. I finally slotted the info correctly and reversed my direction to accompany her to the curb so we could talk. We made a date for drinks the next night.
I like the wait for a date. I want to anticipate the possibilities of this person, and of the person I happen to be at the time. I appreciate things I’d have scoffed at when I was younger; I forgot more than I remembered about the bad times. Instead, I was filling up with memories of excitement and kindness. No drama. Friendly games, formal quests, to be her bedmate, to have a play date. To hold her tight then let her go. Roger that.
She offered her honor.
He honored her offer.
The rest of the night,
he was on her and off her.
That cracked me up when I was a kid, carefully crafted to sing-song innocently, simple words like “on her” and “off her” burst into sublime imagery in my sex-obsessed head. I was still snickering at the idea I’d actually ever have the opportunity to do it, do it all night long.
The amazement remains, that any of us can connect to another of us like that, with the odds stacked against us logistically and socially, and requiring emotional balance on top of that… how do we dare do it?
Some people make it hard to tell if they’re available: inexperience or game-playing are the same to me, I veer off, dampen my signal, pull back. This is the Prime Directive, avoid Crazy. Innocent or sly are out on the edges of the natural curve of common women. The Bell curve that puts most women in the middle. Those are my people, not a princess or general among us, no NFL or WNBA, we’re in the mainstream. As we rush along our own river of circumstance, each tending to their own busy business, we share rhythms of the work week, the month end, the school year. There’s the challenge of arranging our activities, sleep work play, so often complicated with intertwining schedules of the mated and the replicated. When I find a woman with her own calendar, I rifle my open agenda in response, like ruffling feathers. If you’re not single, I’m not interested “that way”. If you lie about being single, I’m not interested at all. I keep it simple so I don’t lose my head when tempted by temptation. I don’t need to be making moves on somebody to enjoy getting to know them. There’s so much more to them than sex, and knowing that makes sex all the better.
#sexotic #potcentric #KathleenK