Ghosts and smokes

Journal

2/9/14
5:31


Just above the section of a once removed ranch bodied house, now sitting above an Indian burial ground, is yet another appendage of dimensional living. The room is quite small and all parental figures are near the west coast. I'm counting my blessings arriving in plastic bags which produce small herbs that probably have ties to California. So in a way, I'm most with my parents when I misbehave.
    "What is this? Look at what we've found!", shouts my mother.
Its seems to be marijuana. My dad is clasping his head is his hands. I had feared this moment for most of my young adult life, but now being eighteen and having the moral sanction of the government, and just getting back from a weekend up north with an old girlfriend with multiple increments of sexual encounters, I was, needless to say, feeling ballsy.
    Its in these strange misunderstandings that I either fight the beast of conservative self-lablers, or laugh at the irony of my relation of this self-deprived follower, as I am one its its own. Its within these times that my parents and I bond and let go of our distinguished versions of control, or self control.
    These god damn walls are talking to me again. I can't tell how long its been sense my last cigarette. The uncertainty is making me want another one but I would certainly rather know if either been a while or a short time, based on my reference point of about a half an hour seeing as I'm writing. Neither would be good for the writers mind. We tend to write best when nature begins to flow backwards through our arteries and filter out messages in layered sort of way, of ancient cryptics that we have seen since childhood, and we almost choke on smoke and air at the same time, but the next few breathes are just dense with gratitude, until it wears off and you look for another flame, pun, or lesson to learn, or to learn again.
    I swallowed something the other night that didn't quite agree with me. it was something I said. By now I can't remember, and I'm glad for that. Hopefully, the little b*****d is completely digested by morning.
I can't seem to make a distinction between which end of the cigarette I'm lighting in the dark when I've been drinking. But I have learned the distinction between when I've been drinking, and when I've been drinking too much. It's when I continue to smoke the filtered end.

    If its one thing I believe in its ghosts, in any form really. Alive or dead, real or not, I don't care. Bring them on, I hope they like tequila,
    I told an ex girlfriend the other day that I know now that after losing you for a year or so, that I want nothing more than a daughter, and to give her three German shepherds that will sleep in her room with her every night as she grows up. I'm only now starting to wonder about the repercussions of this...and here there are I suppose.