Tomorrow we’re going to buy me an ipod. It’s not so much the thing of buying a thing. Today it’s the choice between music and drugs. Not fun drugs but the drugs doctors hand out. And I’m not much of a one for the doctor. Today I said well look I’m already going to go to my acupuncturist. I’ll go when we’re in Auckland. Then today, tonight, this evening, I looked outside. I ran upstairs for the camera.Tonight abba was playing and I felt happy again. And I thought, bloody hell. Abba makes me happy. That’s what ‘makes me happy means’. Because is this unhappiness me. Or a thing. Or a thing in me? Is it something I can have removed? What am I supposed to do with it? And then along came music and made me want to dance. And it made me happy. And Astrid was all for dancing to the music as well.
And deeper than that. Sometimes I wonder whether my investigations further into life are here to make me happy, or to make me discover and if not being happy is a part of that. Although in my quest to discover things I did discover the biggest happiness I could ever feel. That time I was in the big dome of suspension – there in Brazil – the big dome of the best loveliness ever. I wonder if that was Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s pleasure dome? I know it was what Hunter S. Thompson was looking for. One night I sat outside my thatched hut with my cigarette and my cargo pants and thought I felt just like him after he’d been here. There.
And then the night after the night after that. When nothing happened and I was left watching the mosquito netting all night. All night watching silvery rays wander down from the moon. Lighting the night grey. Lighting the night silver. Lighting the silver night with solid beams and silvery shimmery reflective rays coming down from the moon. And thinking. Oh hey this is god. I love god. God is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever. Felt. FELT.Yes. Felt. And then god gave me a vision of photographing apples on wooden floors with old fashioned school chairs. Very simple stark rooms. Apples. Wooden floors. Aqua detailing. And lovely old wood. But that was so much later than the first time I was in Brazil.That time I could feel Hunter S. Thompson. Out there smoking my cigarette. The first time in Brazil was well before that and a much more interesting story. But that story is reserved for later.
I wrote a big long rambling piece of writing about this. Which I have just written over. My main point was, well, I’ve been wanting to write about this for a very long time. And this being my blog I’ve decided I can just write whatever I want and I don’t need to start a new secret one because this is my blog and it’s me and who I am. And now by writing this I might be inviting some form of criticism as I have done in past posts. This time I would ask please if you don’t like what I write â€“ if you don’t agree with me â€“ well, you don’t have to and you have every right to be you and have your own opinions. But if you find yourself there I would politely ask you to take yourself elsewhere â€“ I am not in a space where I want to engage in any conflict please. This is my space, and you are very welcome not to visit. And to people who want to visit you are very welcome. And I’m just going to hit publish now. Thanks.