For real, I still write things. I’ve written more about cannabis than Melville wrote about that damn whale (click here for proof), I still get my weekly words in The Telegraph, and yesterday, I was tapped to be a regular writer for The Gulch. But I’m still a drug dealer, too, which is fine and dandy, but being a kingpin isn’t as lucrative as you’d think. Hell, my hash is in eighty shops now, but the needle hasn’t moved.
I guess I’m just typing to figure things out. We’re on the Big Island right now, me and the family, and the black sand from that beach I sat on this afternoon has worked its way into my mind, not just my underwear. I want to live here. I never want to go home, and I never want to give back the silver Jeep I rented from Avis. But nothing is going to make those “wants” come true besides a lot of money or an asteroid hitting the mainland before my return flight, and neither is on the radar.
All the futile actions are complete. I stole a Homes and Land from a coffee shop and found all the homes I could afford if the mortgage regulations from the early nineties were still in place. I’ve checked Indeed for any open Kona jobs, and sure as shit, “writing drug dealer” doesn’t net any search results. I can’t stay here, and I can’t crunch a way to get back here permanently with the faculties currently at my disposal.
The only thing that’s left is to write a book.
That’s how to get here amongst all these chickens and slow traffic. That’s how to stay away from Homes and Land and Indeed. I’ve done it once or twice, but I scrambled through and came up short because I’m impatient and impulsive. But I’m going to start anew when I get home, so I can have a new home. I’m warming up right now in this blog, because this is the first place I wrote for strangers, so I’ve come back to the beginning, just like Vizzini told Inigo to do. This is where I am, and this is where I will stay. I will not be moved.