mais plus alors?

Overcome earlier tonight with an intense nostalgia - not exactly desire - for my companion of more than thirty years, maryjane. It was the clacking of a perhaps unseasonable warm wind in the palms outside my soon to be vacated door. Two of these three palms are what Aotearoans call cabbage trees, the Maori word for which is titi ... from the sound of the wind in their leaves, the music the spear-like leaves make as they beat together. Why does this cause regret for my marijuana years (as if they were really over?)? Something about the way the numinous would impinge upon my dis-or-re-ordered consciousness when I'd smoke the local weed on one of my returns home. A sense of imminent revelation, as if the savage spirit of the country walked abroad and sneered at what it saw, to quote Katherine Mansfield; except it was always a thrill to me, not a slight or a deficit. A worry, yes, but only during the twenty minutes of paranoia following the initial inhalation of smoke. I don't want to take drugs to have a spiritual experience said John Archer (op. cit.) to me once, years ago now. Well, yes. Or, no. Or: I don't know. If someone (fat chance ... ) were to walk through the door right now with a big number I would fall upon it with an appetite that has nothing to do with the spiritual (except, perhaps, later ... I might see ... god in the jade tree). Oh, to be alone with the insatiable and unappeasable memory of an addiction ... A tout prix et avec tour les airs, même dans des voyages métaphysiques.—Mais plus alors.