So, I’m supposed to be writing something about midwinter in the snow but I’m stuck in this fucking car that’s broken down in the middle of nowhere.
I was supposed to be on my way to a solstice festival where there was going to be lots of drugs, sex, talking to secret rocks and other weird worshipping rituals but this heap of shit I call a car decided it was time to say goodbye to the cruel world and choke on its own carburettor.
I should have taken the magical mystery tour bus along with all the other losers but thought it would be better to arrive and leave when I wanted to, in my own transport.
In truth I didn’t feel up to listening to 100 green bottles of beer on the wall or awful rendition of Beatles songs sung again and again by over pissed and under sexed middle aged wanna be hippies who forgot to look for a future while trying to find the now in their sad little pasts.
If I’d had some decent drugs I probably would have been able to put up with the torture but my dealer was sold out and I was left not high but definitely dry.
My own fault, and now I was paying karma for being a procrastinating, should I or shouldn’t I go straight as the new year ticked its way around yet again, dickhead.
I missed the good old days when I would float away on the perfumed smoke of hashish or dropped a tab of good acid with friends and found myself coming down a couple of days later, not knowing what I’d done or who I’d done it with but knowing I’d had a fucking great time doing it.
Nowadays everyone seems to be content throwing their bodies around to shit music that only sounds good when they’ve put their brains into overdrive with mind fucking hydro or super sped up speed in all its different chemical forms that take a huge tax on the endorphins floating around in their little explored and often underfed heads.
Fuck I miss the good old days!
You’re probably wondering what on earth I’m going on about, what has anything I’ve said so far got to do with snow in mid winter.
Well the answer to that is, absolutely nothing!
In the southern hemisphere the north’s winter solstice is our summer solstice
I’ve never seen snow, smelt snow, felt snow or tasted snow.
Living on one of the driest continents on earth, I’m highly unlikely to unless I dress up like a yuppie and somehow wheel my wheelchair down to the little snowy mountains and stay in one of those awful imitation Scandinavian ski resorts where most people can’t ski but try and look like they have so often, they can’t be bothered anymore as they try and look interesting while waiting to score a root or two from some unknown they’ll never have to see again once the unsatisfying act is over.
I’ve never been to a solstice festival unless you call the second Aquarius festival held at Nimbin in the mid eighties a solstice gathering and all I can really remember of that was lying in a tepee smoking this beautiful green hash oil and staring out through the flap at the mountains surrounding us and wishing I never had to leave that altered blissful state.
So for the sake of research for the topic I thought I should go to a real solstice festival where they dressed like druids and called each other brother and sister and thought themselves closer to god/nature and all his/her bundle of mysterious secrets that he/she kept stashed in the back of his/her eternal memory.
As I sat in the car wishing it would actually snow so I didn’t have to wish the fucking air conditioner in the car was working as I melted like an icy pole in the sun, I should have given thanks that I was missing out on all the sanctimonious, higher than though bullshit that was going on at the festival of pretend druids and druidess’s who had the secret knowledge of how to talk to rocks and twigs and other things like that.
Instead, in lieu of any good acid to drop or mushrooms to ingest, I closed my eyes and imagined what a snowflake might actually look like. I pictured a white, sparkling, paper star, doily cut out type of thing floating down out of the sky and upon landing, instantly bursting into flames as it touched the hell hot bitumen of the road that stretched out in a straight line towards the horizon to nowhere.
It just wasn’t the same as the real thing, I knew but it was the closet I was ever going to get.
Eventually my car became born again as the guy from the nearest little shit town garage I had phoned three hours earlier, finally arrived and tickled the car back to life and left with my signature and a whole lot of my money.
I looked towards the horizon to nowhere, somewhere over which, the solstice festival was a grooving and a happening and then I looked towards the direction that led back to my home, where although not to everyone’s taste, was a place I knew well.
A place where I could be myself without trying to be concerned about being anything but, a place where if I couldn’t think of anything for this fortnights topic, it didn’t matter.
It was my universe and I was the god of all of it and as can sometimes happen, my universe collided with another and a whole lot of dribble poured out creating a whole other universe and that’s my excuse for not writing anything about the topic for this fortnight.