Ear and Foathing in Vas Legas

March 2012
This historical treasure was found by Johnny Duke, Raoul Duke’s grandson. As we all surely know the legalization of marijuana throughout the Western world and most Asian and European countries came to bless the human race two years ago. But what you may not all know is that during this epic movement another historical storm was brewing in London.I had known Johnny for many years and it was him that retold me the story of his grandfathers' uncovered treasure. I have tried to capture as accurately as possible the events of this day, and as close to how Johnny described it to me, so with that here is what happened.

Johnny Duke was sitting in his favorite lake-side cafe, sipping his favorite beer, smoking his favorite Amsterdam-gold, and writing his favorite type of story during his favorite time of day when the sun had almost set. “Ok” he thought. “So ill have just the one now, go to Dory’s, have some more and then figure out what we’re doing from there.” The calculation seemed good. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a ‘larger-than-your-average’ piece of rectangular colorful cardboard and ate it.
“Brrrr!! soo much brr brrr trooouble in the wooorld.. brrr brrrrrrr!!!” rattled and sang his personalized ringtone. It was a police officer from London.“Eh? What was that?” English accents were a ‘head-fuck’ according to Raoul. “Yes, I’m his grandson. Really? (Shit!) Umm, yea ok, for sure I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks." He pushed his back into the flax chair and reached for the ashtray, then the beer. A few contemplative moments passed in silence and up he rose. Spontaneity was a thing Raoul lived by, “It always works out, you’ve just got to let go and it will work out. It’s like crossing a road.” His mates were used to hearing about it, especially when they embark on a new adventure, or just had a massive night that ‘spontaneously’ ended up lasting a few nights. So he grabbed his red, green and yellow wallet, thanked his friend behind the counter and stopped dead. “Shit! Fuck..” he thought, remembering what he just took. And as he carried on walking not too fast not too slow he started grinning. “Fuck yea, plane-trip!”

He arrived in London, although he thought he could have been anywhere. Luckily for him he travelled light as he didn't want to have to think about anything other than whatever it was that he was already thinking about. So it only took him a few hours to leave the airport because the doors were understandably hard to find.

Here I must intervene as the story understandably gets a bit messy from this point onwards but I will say that Johnny had an ‘interesting’ first few hours in London. He ended up wandering and exploring the streets of the city throughout the night, watched the sunrise (not that it would have been visible, or at least not the way we lucky Kiwis know it) from the rooftop of an old abandoned house and then felt sober enough to finally find his grandfather’s place. A few coffees later he was standing in front of a black lawn with ‘do not enter’ tape all around and traces of ‘important people’ having been there. Luckily for him it was no later than 5am so he was left undisturbed to save what was left of his granddad's life.

When he first read this unpublished, secret writing of Raoul’s, Johnny was well surprised. It was nothing like the writing he had ever read from Raoul’s collection before. It was somber and very personal. For Johnny it was an instant peer into his grandfather’s spirit, and this overwhelmed him. He had thought he knew Raoul better than anybody; after all he was his idol, his inspiration. And as he was reliving in front of me his account of the first time he read it, I couldn’t stop my tears. Johnny was broken; this piece of writing had changed him forever.

Why is it that when I look inside my mind I see these colours? Hazy baby pink, hazy baby blue, hazy violet, yellow, white. Boundless is their existence, refreshing is their light. Each particle of haze, each cotton ball of blurred colour vibrates warmly to the sound. Vibrating like water in my veins forming shapes of harsh or soft edges. There are stars behind these colours; I think it's the sky, but not as you know it. I don’t think there are birds, no I see no birds. Birds might seem free but they are no better off than you or me. The colours of existence, of endless existence, of a place where anyone can go but cannot remain forever. The mind is truly the only place left to roam free in this world. Yet this place I visit, this familiar, refreshingly liberating, boundless place has its price. After all I am bound to the constraints of time and its’ physical existence and so I eat and eat these hallucinatory gifts from this earth only so I can leave it again to experience the feeling of endlessly outstretched wings. Yet when I land again the world punishes me mercilessly for being such a traitor. I am either a brave man or a runaway wimp.