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July 27, 2020, Journal
A hole carved into a hillside caught my attention as I was driving down route 6 for my usual morning adventure. This scrubby, sunny spot was far from human habitation, and I was joyously alone. The Regent doesn’t seem to have an occupation that might shift his focus from me.
Carmen bumbled to a halt on the side of the empty road, and I crossed over. The soil in this part of the West Coast reminds me of the dense red clays of the Appalachian lowlands. There, the flat clay particles stack together and form an impenetrable mass that might as well be rock. Nutrients are locked away to all but the most pernicious roots, so the land is both barren and overgrown with useless weeds. Here, the land belongs to itself, graciously excusing itself from usefulness.
It was probably a lot of fun for some fellow and his mattock to come out here and chip away at this remote bit of the South Island. The hillside crumbled easily, but it was hard enough to hold the vague shape of stairs leading up to a small tunnel. Hoisting myself up the sketchy stairs, I found myself in a vaguely symmetrical hole, about four feet tall and two feet wide. The floor was packed down quite well, but New Zealand couldn’t help but cover the damp walls with lashings of moss and a festive fern or two.
I stumped, huddled, through the tunnel, only to find that it was no more than thirty feet long. The opposite end was obscured by the desiccated skirt of a tree fern. Long layers of dry leaves shook like the roof of a tiki bar when I pushed them aside.
There was nowhere to go but straight down. I clung to the outer edge of the hole, finding a ledge that led to a knot of roots to the left. From there, I could see the tiny, steep-walled valley clearly. It was all dense brush and thick, dark leaves that could have been easily accessed from the road, had anyone wanted dangerous footing and lacerated shins. Nothing else, not even a hint of ancient castles or burial sites or even rare, exotic flora.
The tunnel has absolutely no purpose. It goes from nowhere to nowhere, like 18th century follies in English gardens. It tunneled solely for the sake of tunneling. Fucking adorable New Zealand.
It encouraged me to sit right there in the present moment. I shuffled around, settling myself and my backpack until the tunnel’s view was framed perfectly in its front doorway. Maybe this was the whole point: the view.
Yin and yang swirled around each other in the tunnel’s arched frame: ocean filling the shore, vegetation slipping down the hills, and land cupping the river-like road. It sorted itself out as I smoked a morning joint and meditated, the long winter shadows drawing the bright landscape straight like the teeth of a comb.
If only the future could keep its distance… if only it wasn’t so cold, I’d stay here in this mossy birth canal forever and refuse the right of re-entry into the harsh world from which I emerged.
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July 21, 2020, Journal
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July 15, 2020, Journal
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July 11, Journal
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July 9, Journal and Correspondence
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July 4, Journal
10am
I’m relishing the marvelous variety of emotions that my heart is feeling. What a gift it is to be human! My mind is trying hard to sort out the story, but I’ve relieved it of the burden of attachment.
It’s the Sabbath, and a lunar eclipse is nigh. This morning, I opened and consulted my plastic baggie full of the weed that the Mormon and I had bought in Motueka. We’d split an ounce, and half of my half consisted of one massive, sticky bud that celebrated my future joy with an explosion of plush brown hairs. The rest of my half was respectable, of course: average-sized buds and a little shake, but that one superstar bouquet was thicker than the Mormon’s cock, if not quite as long.
This morning, that large, fine specimen of marijuana was gone.
That thieving Mormon!
It must have been him. He’s the only one who could’ve gotten to the baggie. My bedroom door locks automatically when I leave, and Turban, the manager with the only master key, is way too hard-working to be an avaricious stoner. It was equally ludicrous to think that I accidently dropped the monster bud somewhere – you don’t lose something that large that easily, especially when it’s such a lovely, treasured specimen.1
I insisted upon sleeping alone last night because I’m finally getting some good rest at this lodge. Does the Mormon feel as though he deserves to stay in my warm, comfortable space because he’s fucking me? Did he steal the bud as compensation? He must know that I don’t enjoy his company, and that I’m trying to break up with him. Is this his preemptive revenge; his odd sense of justice righting the wrong of my frustration with him?
But it’s such an obvious theft. Surely the Mormon could have been more sly.
Did he lose respect for me after our vacation to Castle Hill? Or does the Mormon have some sort of compulsion? I’ve seen how naturally he takes whatever he can from the hotel rooms that I book for us: soaps and shampoos, sugar and tea packets, and even a stray towel or two. That joke about how easy it would be to ‘lift’ the TV from our room in Fox Glacier must have required a little pre-meditative investigation. There were many such jokes, and I couldn’t forget his slippery ease at breaking into our locked AirBNB in Canterbury.
The heart swells sweetly with attachment so that the keen sense of betrayal can nestle deeper, like slicing fresh bread.
My mind is spinning with this creative new twist on the story that New Zealand is telling of my life.
I think I finally have a valid excuse to visit Farmer Colin at his new campsite! He has a digital scale. I’ll tell him that I want to weigh my baggie to prove to myself that the monster bud hadn’t just magically broken up into smaller bits overnight. Farmer Colin might even share a hug of commiseration with me or some valuable advice about the Mormon’s character. Maybe these past two weeks without his girlfriend, Colette, had been a bit lonely for him.
I’d planted the seed of desire in him last week. It’s been long enough. Time to see if the seed has germinated.
2:18pm
Farmer Colin’s campsite is number 108.
I waited until noon to visit him, but I still woke him with my tap-tapping on his mustard-yellow caravan’s door. His caravan looked well in the park-like campground on the southwestern edge of Lake Hawea; its mellow yellow blended lovingly with the dry winter grass and brittle green pines. Apologizing for my intrusion, I told him I’d return when he was more awake, but Farmer Colin insisted that I stay. The shadow of Lockdown’s isolation still hung over us all.
The story of The Heinous Weed Theft spilled out after he’d dressed for the cold outside of his fluffy covers and made himself a cup of coffee.
“How well do you know the Mormon?” I asked Farmer Colin, cradling the cup of tea he’d brewed for me in my still-gloved hands. “Am I over-reacting? Is he trustworthy?”
Colin shrugged, three heavy sweaters obscuring the motion of his lithe shoulders. The heat from the fire that he’d started in his little iron stove remained stubbornly sequestered at the far end of his narrow home. His large eyes were bright with interest as he rummaged through the dusty boxes and piles squatting in the corners of his graffitied caravan.
“The Mormon’s always been straight with me,” he said, slightly furrowing his kingly brow. “I know he was in some trouble back in England, but I don’t know what that was about.”
Colin straightened to standing, his beautiful eyes touching mine.
“Sorry, I can’t even find my scales in this mess.”
“No worries.” I paused to take a swallow of the hot tea, warming my nose in its steam. “It doesn’t really matter: it is what it is. The weed is gone. Even if the Mormon did take it, he’d never admit it or give it back. I guess it’s karma2 somehow. I wish I knew what I did to deserve this.”
“Did anything happen between you two?”
“No more than usual. I’ve been less loving to him lately, for sure, because I’m fed up with his laziness. I don’t think he’s noticed. The Mormon keeps promising that he’ll get a job, but he seems quite happy to mooch off me whenever he can. He’s addicted to this sweet lifestyle that I’m giving him. As long as we’re having sex, it’s all good between us. So, we have a lot of sex.”
Groaning and laughing, Farmer Colin rolled his eyes and stretched his plaid-clad arms heavenward.
“Ah. I miss sex.”
Of course he did. A regal, virile young man like him… but it was too soon. The seedling had taken root, but the leaves had yet to unfurl.
“Yes,” I laughed with him. “Sex is kinda great. It gives me energy and makes me vibrant. That kind of connection is so vital to me. I feel like I need it to thrive. Maybe I have a problem with addiction myself.”
“Yeah, nah… You’re fine. It’s natural. I grew up on a farm, and I saw it all the time. It’s not like you’re hooked on ice.” Farmer Colin looked ruefully down at his hot, thick coffee. “We all have needs.”
“How’s it feel to be so far away from Colette after the intensity of Lockdown together?” I asked.
“It’s rough, mate.” Colin averted his gaze. “I miss her, but she has a good job up in Blenheim, and some French friends to talk to. I might go up and meet her in a month or two. It’s a long time to go without her.”
We spoke for two hours about love and life, as he downed three cups of coffee and an equal number of hand-rolled cigarettes. That sweet boy did have needs. Could I fulfill them? Not today. I’d let him simmer overnight; let the seedling reach out for sustenance of its own volition.
I’d been so hungry for this type of conversation; this kind of quick, fun repartee that lit up my neurons and opened my heart. I felt brighter, and when I left Farmer Colin’s caravan, the low sun sparkled his welcome. There would be a lunar eclipse3 tomorrow afternoon, and the naughty Earth would come between the King and Queen of our solar system. As above, so below.
1 https://wanderlust.com/journal/aparigraha-learning-to-let-go/
2 https://path.homestead.com/karma1.html
3 https://www.space.com/buck-moon-penumbral-lunar-eclipse-july-4-2020.html
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June 25, Journal
As silent, cold, and deadly as the Sword of Justice, I left the Mormon behind in Geraldine. I’d finally had enough of his laziness and selfishness. My bags were packed tightly into Robert (my rented SUV) and I skittered over the gravel driveway, roaring south on Rt. 79 at exactly 10am this morning: alone, my shoulders throbbing hot with tension.
The responsibility of maintaining a household as well as the financial burden of a week’s vacation in a lonely side street of the town of Geraldine had landed fully on me. A week of sleeping on a fancy memory foam mattress that crippled my back with pain had aggravated me enough to imagine that the Mormon himself was plastered on my spine like a tick, sucking away my resources, much in the same way as my vagina was perpetually receiving his legacy. The lower right side of my spine glitched often and held me prisoner until I could painfully unfurl from its grasp.
It was time to leave Geraldine. She’d set the stage for the darkest night of the year; she was heroic. She lay right on the edge of a moody microclimate and was subject to a damp heaviness that dragged at her hems and sucked at her boots. Perhaps the Mormon was sensitive to that feeling, and perhaps that’s why he habitually luxuriated in bed until 10 or 11am.
Well, today, the vacation’s over! Our check-out time was 10am, and I intended to leave this unhappy spot punctually, with or without the Mormon.
Of course he was late and slow. But I’d told him, the night before, while we were taking our last bath together; I’d laid out my schedule and intentions while the Mormon watched me with bright eyes over the edge of the bathwater that separated us. His pupils were pulled in tight, and the hazel color of his irises shifted from blue to grey, as fast as the liquid below them. I believe that I was clear and polite. The warm bath had softened my back, and I was more relaxed than I’d been for quite a few days.
Three days ago, I got a haircut for the first time since I’d left the United States back in October. The intervening 9 months had been stressful, delightful, mercurial, and most of all, dirty. My damaged hair resorted to tangling itself into an unpleasant nest at the nape of my neck, spraying split ends backwards like a surprised skunk. Since Otago’s relentless cold forced me to wear a wool hat continually, it seemed like a waste of effort to do anything more with my hair than braid it and shove it under my hat.
I even left the hat on when the Mormon and I fucked. It was often so cold in his caravan that I wore all my warmest clothes to bed except one leg each of my 2 pairs of pants, to accommodate our frequent coupling. Being in Geraldine afforded me a heater and thick, soft blankets, which I piled lavishly on my side of the bed. It had been so pleasurable to flop my naked body over in the night, affixing it to the warmest, most solid bit of flesh available, and rubbing it sleepily to unroll luscious sexuality.
Haircut Day marked a shift in our interactions, just like the world swerves to a new paradigm every time the moon goes dark. I let the Mormon drive us to Christchurch, where I’d scheduled my haircut. He was feeling pleased with himself as a result of sex, weed, and good food, and gabbled away at me about the tiny house he wanted to build out of a shipping container. Pulling into a gas station, he miscalculated his entry, and thunked into a low concrete post, which was painted a happy yellow to celebrate the occasion.
I groaned in despair (and also to release some of the pain that had reappeared in my lower back) and escaped the vehicle to assess the damage. The Mormon followed, his eyes a remorseful nut-brown, and the earflaps on his hat hanging low.
“It’s ok,” he insisted, “Look, It’s just a scratch. I’ll get it right. Don’t even worry about it; the Mormon will fix it right up. You’ll see. You’ll never know it happened. Just a scratch, doll.”
“Dude.” I let the pain of financial loss surface for the first time, and shook my head, my desolate eyes glued to his. “I don’t have insurance. They’ll charge me for this. It’s not just paint. There’s a crack in the bumper.”
“It’s ok,” the Mormon repeated. “I’ll sort it out. You just go to your appointment, and it’ll be fine by the time you’re done. There’s this special cleaner that you can get that fixes scratches just like this. Look, it’s just a scratch. Don’t worry, doll, I’ll sort you out.”
Ignoring my aching back and holding on to my struggling faith, I leaned into the Mormon’s comforting arms. He’d sort it out. He’d take care of me.
It was hard to maintain an acceptable level of small talk with the hairdresser, but since she’d arranged a beautiful, Covid-free salon solely for me, I gave it a good try… until she began to massage shampoo into my neglected scalp, and I fell into a silence of well-deserved receptivity.
Ahh. This is why I was willing to pay triple the cheapest rate. This warm, well-decorated salon with all of its delightful organic products was completely mine! The hairdresser was generous with her nimble fingers, weaving lavender-scented cleanliness in and out of the nerve endings clustered on my head. My crown chakra loves to be stroked, and the joyous sensations in my scalp flooded down my body in soothing waves, sparking at nipples and crotch, and oozing around my rigid shoulders. Behind closed lids, I rolled my eyes back in their sockets and my breasts seemed to grow in the warmth of my softened heart. How could I lament the end of the head massage when it meant that the hairdresser would be laving my hair with long licks of warm water from her hose? I released a little sigh, and collapsed back against the sink in surrender, letting the erotic sensations soothe me.
She dried me off with a soft towel, and did a passable job at cutting my hair, removing 6 murky inches of its length.
The freedom and sensuousness of the haircut didn’t last long. I bounced out of the salon to the beat of my swinging hair, and found the Mormon seated in front of the scratched front bumper of the SUV. The yellow concrete was completely gone from Robert’s red withers, and he’d done a good job of removing the scratch as well. Only a few deep whiskers of damage remained around what was indoubtably a crack.
The Mormon looked up at me with pride, and I couldn’t help but hug him and thank him for a job well done. A bumper like that couldn’t cost more than $700, right? And maybe the rental company wouldn’t notice it. That right bumper was the only clean corner of the SUV, but I would rent it for a little longer to build up another layer of dust as camouflage.
Showing off my shiny new hair to the Mormon, I felt as though I’d shed my old hang-ups about him along with those 6 inches.
“That’s nice, doll,” he complimented me, “It’s too bad we’re not going out on the town to show you off. Look, your hair is just about as long as mine now.”
The Mormon pulled the long portion of his hair out of the tightly twisted knot above his right ear. It made a rope thin enough to tie onto itself, but he still always secured it with a black hair tie. His long hair dropped free from the top of his head, covering the short hair on the back and sides. Was it a reverse mullet? And indeed, the roasted cashew-colored locks did reach below his wide shoulders; almost as long as my expensive new cut. He smirked up at me with those Brad-Pitt lips: a ’90s teenage heartthrob, if you ignored the deep wrinkles in his forehead and the untended forest of facial hair around his mutton chop beard.
“Look, look,” he said, and I looked into his eyes as though I was looking into a mirror.
“You’re so cute,” I told him, with a long kiss. “Does it worry you at all that we’re starting to look more like each other?”
“Nah. It’s a good look.”
I was my normal, cheerful self1 again, but I still installed myself (permanently) behind the steering wheel. I decided to take charge of the music as well; at least while we were still close enough to Christchurch to get a good radio signal. If the Mormon wasn’t too annoying, I’d let him play his fantasy theme music in the remote mountain passes of Otago on our journey home. For now, I’d found a station that seemed to suit my needs: fun music from the ’90s that I could sing along with.
‘What’s Up‘, by 4 Non-Blondes2 came on, drawing me into a rare moment of song, believing that this moment was mine. I got real high while I waited at a traffic light, and rolled slowly out of Christchurch traffic with the Mormon glued to his bong next to me. And I screamed, not really at the top of my lungs, but with passion, “What’s going on?” as I went three-quarters of the way around a wide roundabout towards home, towards Geraldine. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Linda Perry was praying for in the middle of the song. My God, did she pray…
“Restitution? Absolution?” I mused aloud to the Mormon, who clung with tight bones to the inside of Robert’s frame as the centrifugal force pulled him out of his comfort zone. “What does a person pray for? Revolution! Of course! That’s exactly what we need, my friend. We’re so close to a new world. I can feel the earth changing to accomodate the newness; the infinite possibilities of a new plane of existence.”
“It’s 50kph here.”
“Thank you.”
Pink Floyd and Milky Chance3 filled the time in Robert’s interior. We sped home to Geraldine at exactly the speed that I chose.
For the following two days, I watched myself lose faith in the bond between the Mormon and I. He was a fine fellow, but I clearly did not have a peaceful spirit in his presence. The Mormon was quite sensitive. Unusual sounds or the persistent low hum of electronics would occupy his mind until he could locate their source and silence them. Surely, he could sense that I was less kind and generous to him now. If he did notice my increased coldness, the Mormon never mentioned it; possibly because we continued to enjoy a vigorous sex life.
I wanted my desertion of the Mormon this morning to be his fault. Of course he’d been lazy and slow. Again. I’d woken him at 8am, 9am, and 9:30, with ample, loving warnings about our imminent departure (at least the first two times). Of course he didn’t respect me or the landlady. Of course I was fooled into monogamous love by my nether regions. Again. But it was still me that ditched a friend. The Mormon didn’t think that he should hustle to stick to my schedule, because I wouldn’t do him wrong, would I?
I stopped Robert in a tiny graveyard that stretched along a cold, dark blue stream. My half-ounce was tucked under the passenger seat, nice and safe in an old blue plastic ice cream tub. I packed my little glass pipe with weed. Filling the Ford with smoke, I sat. I sat until my impatient mind found good reasons for the Mormon’s adversity to work. I sat until I remembered his cute tea rituals and his roguish smile, and my desire for him.
Half an hour later, I returned. The Mormon had packed up; right quick, too. I caught him outside, talking quickly and forcefully to one of his mates on the phone. As soon as he saw me, he hung up and went back inside to busy himself washing the dishes like a responsible adult. I helped him dry, and we left Geraldine together: him, sullen and slumped in the passenger seat, and I, silent and authoritative behind the wheel.
“I thought you said that I was special,” the Mormon blurted, as prudishly sectioned Canterbury flew by.
“You are special,” I insisted. I’m never wrong. “You hear things that other people don’t hear, you catch details that most men wouldn’t notice, and you have interesting beliefs about the nature of God.”
I knew he wanted me to say that he was special to me, but I’d grown bored of telling him that I loved him. It was always going to be true, but it was old news if it wasn’t going to be reflected back at me. I wanted to talk about something new.
“I believe that my Dad has a form of autism called Asperger’s Syndrome4. Have you heard of that before?” I asked.
“Yeah,” the Mormon replied, his anger rising up over the center console. “I have. Some wankers think that I have it, and I don’t. I know I don’t, and those wankers that say I do can sod off.” He fell back into his seat, still fuming, and I turned on the radio as an offer of peace.
When the radio shushed into static, the Mormon asked if I wanted to listen to some of his music.
“No, thank you.” I was exhausted enough to be brutally honest. “I prefer silence.”
“How about the radio?”
“No, thanks. We’re out of range for the radio. I prefer silence.”
The silence was tainted by his wet breath and fearful indifference. It was going to be a long 6 hour journey to the Mormon’s caravan. I took pity on him and asked about the only one of his hobbies that did interest me: Mormonism.
“Do Mormons believe in heaven and hell?”
“Yeah, well, you die and go to heaven or what you call hell. Until the Final Judgement. Then you rise up, and we’re all judged, and then there’s the Celestial Kingdom, and the Terrestrial Kingdom, and the Telestial Kingdom.” His eyes reanimated, and he settled into the role of Hierophant with relief. I began to lose track of which kingdoms did what, and prodded him to explain. “Yeah, there’s the kingdoms, and before that is the spirit world, the spirit prison, and before you’re born, you go through the Veil of Forgetting.”
“What!?” I spun around to face him as fully as I could, spine protesting mightily. “What do you know about the Veil of Forgetting?”
That was Eastern philosophy, wasn’t it? Where did the Mormons get this yogic idea? Vedanta philosophy calls the veil ‘maya’.5 I’d encountered the idea when reading the works of American trancendentalists in Mr. Zimmerman’s 10th grade English class, and then I read as much as I could find about philosophy in our local library. There wasn’t much substance in those manila card catalogues to chase after.
It wasn’t until the fresh green May of 2005, when I encountered a plethora of exciting books at a Quaker Meeting House yard sale in my home town, that my spirit re-awoke, like a freshly-hatched baby snake at the mouth of his momma’s tunnel, looking out into the sunlit vistas that spread before her in infinite directions. My arms were full of jewels: the I Ching, the Kama Sutra, a feng shui manual, Fromm’s The Art of Loving, de Beauvoir’s Le Deuxième Sexe, and as a crowning gem: The Book, by Alan Watts. This modest selection shaped my synapses (and my life) irrevocably so that the convoluted ideas of Samhkya philosophy that I later learned in yoga classes made perfect sense to me.
The veil of forgetting appeared in The Book as a fable for children. Watts likened it to a game of hide and seek with ourselves; where we hide the truth of One-ness so that we can enjoy two-ness. How did that figure into The Book of Mormon? Did they remember what was behind the veil, or did they only know that there was something worth remembering? Does my Mormon hold the key to enlightenment? Is he worth my time?
The Mormon didn’t know. He just repeated himself, unable to verify that he actually understood the Veil of Forgetfulness and what it hid. Unsatisfied, I kept on speeding home.
There must be a good one out there. Men wrote the books on enlightenment, after all. It must be possible to have a Y chromosome and a direct knowledge of Truth in the same organism. Granted, men’s egos are larger, and probably more difficult to remove. That, and their lack of experience in being empty containers makes it naturally harder for the Source to penetrate and dominate them, so it’s reasonable to assume that when one man did become enlightened, he thought it was a big deal and had to write a book about it. Such a stiff, hard man-ego must leave its mark, even in dissolution.
I know there’s more than one man like that: enlightened to the simple Truth of it all (that we are all God). Statistically, extraordinarily conservatively, there must be at least 200 of them that aren’t already partnered or dead. And I can’t be the only woman, either. If women are more naturally suited to enlightenment, surely, there must be at least 500 in this world, at this time. Where are they? Is there no one with whom I can share the Truth (and my life)? Would I forever follow these red herrings that men laid down in lieu of roses, faithfully finding dead end after dead end?
Four silent hours later. we rolled into a town near Wanaka, just 10 minutes away from the Mormon’s town, looking for dinner in the shopping center just across the street from the lodge where I’d weathered the lockdown. As it happened, the only sit-down restaurant in the area was having a Quiz Night, and we were forced to eat amongst jolliness and good cheer.
If the 21st of June was the winter solstice here in the Southern hemisphere, then the 25th must be Christmas! The Mormon and I gave in and joined the rowdy game. Literally half the questions were about cricket, so we lost badly; but, in the process of losing, we grinned and spoke to each other easily again, as though a curse had been broken.
Back at the Mormon’s cold caravan, I unpacked only my essentials so that I could drive away again the next day. I didn’t know where I’d be going, but the rules were: one night per week for free in the caravan. Perched on his bed as lightly as a Carolina Wren on a twig, I sat nervously next to the Mormon. Did our lack of connection mean no more sex? Had I been too annoying to love?
“Here. Don’t be silly,” he grumbled gently, pulling me without resistance into a warm, dark embrace.
1 By normal self, I mean my current ego; my current, favorite adornment for my naked soul (or atman). It’s how I define myself positively in the world: it’s the loveliest and most transparent dress that my third chakra wears; my favorite perspective and expression, my favorite veil, and that which I hope is least clouded by fear or ignorance. Here, my heart is open, and that allows my atman (or soul, or that which perceives) to expand in comfort and make room for the Source. When my heart is closed, I do not feel like my ‘normal’ self, despite having spent much of my life that way. Weed helps my heart open, but it isn’t necessary.
2 https://youtu.be/o4P3sa9c9KI
3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkF3oxziUI4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymgYEQgSqLI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVjiKRfKpPI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX-QaNzd-0Y
4 https://www.autismspeaks.org/types-autism-what-asperger-syndrome
5 https://www.yogaenred.com/en/2015/01/15/maya-el-velo-de-lo-invisible/
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June 5, Journal
Drew the Drug Dealer was a kind, affable guy. The Mormon met him years ago on a jobsite, and this was the first time he’d been to Motueka to visit his old friend.
Last night, I returned to Drew’s house to pick up an ounce of good weed and the Mormon with whom I’d be splitting it. Somehow, the Mormon found enough cash for his half. He explained how difficult it was to get funds from his bank in England, and that he could only access $200 at a time. I, on the other hand, had an American credit card that was easily exercised daily, so it was hard for me to understand the intricacies of British finances.
Drew lived among the golden kiwi orchards just north of the town of Motueka. He’d really lucked out with his place – it was a two-bedroom flat with free water and electricity for only $220 per week. The interior explained it all.
Dirty dishes climbed the kitchen walls, which were grimy with grease and festooned with cobwebs. Every surface was a study in accumulation. Dust had graduated to dirt in the places that weren’t rubbed shiny by Drew’s passage. The toilet was an atrocity. Not just the commode, but the entire room. I thanked the yoga gods for the strength that allowed me to hover effortlessly over Drew’s bespattered throne in Chair Pose.1
I did enjoy Drew’s company, though. He understood the Mormon; at least enough to hold a respectable conversation with him, and to ignore his more bizarre comments. Drew had spent over a decade of his life living in the neighborhood of King’s Cross in Sydney, so he was no stranger to odd characters. We listened with delight to his sordid tales of gang violence and cross-dressing.
He presented us with a fat baggie of weed, and after the Mormon and I had sniffed it appreciatively, the Mormon carefully pulled out a thumb-sized bud and presented it to Drew.
“Thanks, mate,” the Mormon said. “A bit for you there.”
He turned to me to explain, “You gotta sort out your mates, you know, doll.”
I did know, even though I’d never shared anything with my weed guy back home. In fact, I usually enjoyed a few puffs from his own expertly rolled blunts after an hour of conversation.
I loved my local weed guy, Jake. He was a vegetarian body-builder who did social work in the poorest communities in our town. The nail on his right pinky finger was always left long and sharp to slit open the tobacco leaves around purchased blunts that needed a lavish boost of marijuana. He was outspoken about his socialist tendencies, and he always listened to my uneducated political ideas patiently; his intelligent, celery-green eyes open to the eastern philosophies that I endorsed.
Jake truly listened. His bookshelves were thick with Karl Marx, the Bhagavad Gita, and Anime classics. As a teenager in Philly, he’d been the lead singer in a death metal band, and Jake still made brilliant music alone in his apartment in the heavy, smoky hours after midnight. Kindness and friendship were of utmost importance to him, and if he wasn’t asexual2, I’d gladly have dated him.
Drew reminded me of Jake, and I wondered if it was common for hardcore and kindness to coexist in the same person.
It was obvious that Drew had once been incredibly good-looking, but round jowls hid what should have been a chiseled jaw, and his dark hairline was making an early escape from his pockmarked face. An old back injury kinked his spine, but his blue eyes still held some fire.
Drew slouched across the entirety of an ancient black leather loveseat, continually placing things into his mouth for consumption. First, he’d roll a cigarette, and smoke that with a can of beer. Then, he’d snack on a pile of greasy food from the local fish’n’chips shop. Next, it was time for a huge hit of weed, and, minutes later, the cycle would start again.
The Mormon and I both thought that Drew’s method of smoking weed was both ingenious and ridiculous. We were still using the plastic, skull-shaped bong that I’d acquired in Takaka in February, and the Mormon would always slide weed into his ‘rollies’. Drew, however, was a Kiwi. He was innovative, and he was a craftsman.
Dozens of empty beer cans decorated his filthy coffee table. One of them lay on its side, with a valley creasing its uppermost surface. Drew punched a small ring of holes into the deepest part of the valley, and carefully placed a little globe of marijuana onto that shiny silver landscape. He held the mouth of the beer can to his own mouth, and lit up, dragging smoke through the beery vessel in one, long, manly pull.
“Mate, you’ve got a killer system there,” the Mormon laughed.
“Yeah, mate,” Drew’s retained breath made his response sound throttled. A massive puff of spent smoke swirled above us as he exhaled. “It’s my religion.”
“The world is anxiously awaiting your Bible, man,” I said. My exhalation was nowhere near as impressive as Drew’s, so I tried again.
“He’s the only one of us that has a legit religion,” I added, swinging my gaze over to the Mormon and smiling at him broadly.
“Fuck, yeah, I’m legit,” the Mormon responded. “I’m a priest.”
“No shit.” Drew straightened his spine out of complacency for the first time.
“I’m not shitting you.” The Mormon’s wide open smile did make him hard to believe. “I’m an ordained priest, mate. I can perform marriages and everything.”
The Mormon had my complete attention. The wrinkles of his life were surprisingly deep.
“How long did that take? Why did you do it? What did you have to do to become a priest?”
“It’s not that hard, really. You get the priesthood conferred upon you if you just remain faithful for a little while. They just lay their hands on you, and God passes through them to you.”
“That’s amazing! So you know about the laying of hands.” I’d seen that in my childhood at the churches that I was obligated to attend. “How did it feel when God passed into you?”
“Awesome.” The Mormon’s eyes were large and serious, and he seemed well aware of his temporary celebrity status. “The power of God is electric. It’s like drugs, like a high that takes over you completely. I felt it on both sides: when I was being ordained, and when I laid my hands on others. The connection made me want to be part of the church. I’ve never felt such power before.”
“Mate.” Drew’s red eyes watered, but he backed up into a space of comfortable disbelief. “That’s brilliant. I wish I could experience that, but that’s not my scene.”
The Mormon shrugged.
“It’s pretty fucking cool, mate. I should go to church. It’s been years.”
“And now you’re consorting with a Jewish girl who believes that she’s God,” I said, ruefully.
Drew laughed, and the Mormon seemed confused.
“I’ve felt that power, too,” I continued. “A lot. When I meditate, when I’m in a spiritual place, or around spiritual people. I think it’s always there, but you just have to set yourself aside and become a vessel for it. It’s way easier to do that when the people around you can do the same thing: it becomes a conducive environment for God. I love that Mormonism recognizes how easy it is to hold God in you, and that you don’t need to have a special education to be close to the Divine.”
The men mumbled agreeably, and I left the room to visit Drew’s questionable restroom facilities. As I left, I couldn’t resist peeking back over my shoulder because I felt eyes velcroed to my swaying hourglass figure. Sure enough, there was Drew; sitting upright and mostly sober, naked lust darkening the hot blue of his eyes. The power that poured through me from that connection was Amazing Grace. Didn’t the Mormon notice?
Men. I love them, and I wish I could fuck them all. Drew’s performance would be abysmal, though, given the strength of his addictions.
Drew generously offered us the use of his second bedroom for the three nights that the Mormon and I would be staying in Motueka. I declined graciously, but the Mormon was grateful that he’d had a free bed for the night that I insisted upon being alone with Pup’s memory. For the next two nights, however, I arranged a room for both of us in the same local hostel that had accommodated me on my night alone.
It took the owner of the hostel several minutes to recognize me from the previous day.
“Oh. You’re back.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got a friend.”
“Yes. I found an Englishman.”
“That easy, huh?”
“Yeah, man. They’re everywhere. Just picked this one up off the street like a ripe fruit.”
The hostel owner grunted, and the Mormon followed me passively, without a word, to our cozy little room. I was still wet from Drew’s lust, and I didn’t waste any time riding that Latter-Day Saint home to the Celestial Kingdom.
1https://www.yogaoutlet.com/blogs/guides/how-to-do-chair-pose-in-yoga
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