Dream of: 24 November 2001 (2) "Baudelaire"

I had gone to visit Walls in a house where he was staying. Another fellow was with Walls; the three of us sat on the hard-wood floor and talked. Someone finally said something about smoking some marijuana and Walls went to fetch some. When he returned with a small baggie of pot, I asked him if he wanted me to help roll. He indicated he did, and he and I both began rolling joints. The other fellow, however, said he wasn't interested in smoking any of Walls' pot because he (the other fellow) only smoked "Thai." I asked him whether he was referring to pot from Thailand and he confirmed he was. He proceeded to extol the virtues of Thai pot, and he even sang a few verses of a song which he had apparently composed while smoking pot. I told him that I would like to smoke some Thai, but that I never had smoked any because it was so rare. He regretted that Thai pot was so difficult to obtain, but he maintained that with effort it could be found.

Walls finished rolling his joint and I also finished rolling a jumbo joint. Walls lit his up and I lit mine; he and I began toking while the other fellow watched. I was thinking that when we finished, I might take Walls and the other fellow out for a meal. I only had about $20, but I felt obligated; I didn't want to simply smoke Walls' pot and not give him anything in return.

As I began to feel the effects of the marijuana, I began to regret what I was doing. It seemed I was just wasting time by smoking marijuana. Now the whole day would be shot. I should've been spending my time writing. I recalled a poem I had just read a few days earlier by Charles Baudelaire, in which he had talked about wasting time with the hookah. I could relate to what he had said. Of course Baudelaire had been referring to smoking opium, not marijuana. But Baudelaire and I had similar habits. I liked to smoke, but smoking seemed pointless. It seemed the time had come for me to stop smoking marijuana.

Someone knocked at the door and Walls stood to answer. When the door opened, a young blonde woman was standing there. She could clearly see we were smoking pot in the room, but she didn't seem to mind. She had come to fetch Walls for something, and soon everyone walked outside. Sitting in front of the house were two super-sleek white cars – very fancy models. Someone was already in one car; Walls got into the driver's seat of the other one. Walls and the other person were talking to each other. I now recalled where I was – an estate in the country. Walls was a caretaker at this country residence for a wealthy man. Part of Walls' job was also taking care of these cars.

The property was quite extensive, and even included an airfield. As I strove to find a better view, I began effortlessly floating up into the air until I was high above the airfield. Verdant green grass stretched off below me; two men could be seen playing golf. As easily as I had risen, so easily did I once again descend to the ground.

A plane was approaching the runway, heading in for a landing. I thought the owner of the property might be on the plane. Just as the plane touched down, one of its wheels flew off, but the plane didn't crash. Obviously, Walls, since he was the caretaker, would need to recover the wheel. What a desultory life Walls must lead, simply being the caretaker for someone else's property.

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