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.

Silence.

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.