Saturday, November 05, 2005

Pogo Boy

Often when I get stoned, I talk a lot. After a big night out, a few wind down spliffs actually wind me up and my brain and mouth go into overdrive. This is pretty strange and usually confusing for me because on the whole, I don’t talk a hell of a lot. I once read that someone said of Australian film director Rolph De Heer, “Rolph doesn’t do small talk.” I thought that was dead cool, and I like to think people say the same of me. “Quick doesn’t do small talk.” That’d be cooler than penguin pooh.

Anyway, I get stoned and the torrent of idiotic small talk is staggering. I hear myself talking and talking and I’m thinking holy fuck where is this coming from? Make it stop. And Cameron usually looks at me with this kind of wide-eyed bemusement, her head shaking slightly, and I can tell she’s thinking holy fuck he’s doing it again – he’s doing a month’s worth of talking every passing minute. I’ve got, like, brain hands snatching at passing random thoughts and… well that was a freaky little metaphor that was clearly never going to go anywhere. Brain hands? Point is, I just go on and on and on at a dizzying pace pausing only to smoke some more and quickly start talking again because it’s very very important that I just keep telling Cameron everything I can possibly think of until I realise that I’m doing it again and I really must make an effort to stop and let her have a go at this talking thing which is the most fun you can have with your mouth and finally after many failed attempts I actually manage to shut it.


Clenched jaw. Fists. Force mind to be blank. No thinking. Fingernails digging into palms. Make mind blank. Perspiration. Bite lips. Bite tongue.

And finally when I just can’t stay silent for another moment, and when it becomes obvious that Cameron is not going to help me by speaking, I tell her, “Well at least I’ve been upholding my end of the conversational pogo stick.”

I actually said that once. It was quite spectacular. I was so impressed that I texted it to a friend, and for a while was known as Pogo Boy.

Speaking of text messages, I was cooking dinner the other night while Cameron was indoor rock climbing. Tinkering with a creamy pasta sauce, my phone buzzed. The message said: Sorry. I have the salt grinder with me.

I pursed my lips and pulled a fish face for a few moments before writing: Okay, thanks for telling. I’ll have to use thigh sweat then.

I still haven’t found out why she took the salt grinder rock climbing.


Kelvin said...

Kia Ora (Hello) from a krazy blogger "across the ditch". You didn't do that aussie trick, by any remote chance did you ? The one where you take your brain out, twrill it around on a stick and then put it back in. Because if you did, i think youput it back in the wrong place (hehe)As for the salt grinder - it was "rock salt" she was climbing. I'll be back...

Quick said...

Kia Ora back at you.

I am frequently misplacing my brain. Sometimes it misplaces itslef. It's got a mind of its own.

And rock salt... yes. That explains it... wait on, no it doesn't.

Boy Wonder said...

Brain hands...nice should trademark that before Paris does...