Buoyed

Today could have been a fucking disaster but the Gods are smiling on me. That’s a nice change. Last I’d heard they were running a sweep, trying to guess the exact adjective that would describe the way I’d fuck my life up. Thor had his money on ‘monumentally’ while Ganesh had his hopes pinned on ‘irreparably’. If I had any money I would have sunk the wad on ‘inevitably’. Safe as houses… in Gaza.

I managed to put off filming to the very last minute. What, with a hole in my face I could hardly face my public all bloodied and swollen. I’d look like a common street hood. AlTHOugh, street hood chic is making a comeback. I could ride the wave as if it were like a swell or surge of fluid or someshit. I’d do good hood.

Plus, chicks dig jerks. I’m living proof. I’m so damn amiable that no bitch will come near me. Perhaps I should stop calling them bitches... from across the street. Yeah-nah, that could be a dangerous move. If I start treating women with respect they’ll start wanting more, like rights and self esteem and a union. “Liberate yourselves girls. Burn your make-up. No, not that stuff - the stuff on your face.”

Things seem to be back to normal. Actually, better than normal. All of the depression that comes with getting your face smashed up has faded away to reveal quite a high spirited version of myself. Who’da thunk he was under there all that time? If I’da known I’d’ve bathed more often. I’ve hit my stride. I think it comes with being busy at work – even though I’m relegated to menial paperpushing. Nonetheless, stimulation is stimulation. It’s fun for a week – I couldn’t do it for a living. I’d slit wrists… not mine… someone else’s… as like a protest.

Indeed, it feels like everyone in the community is looking at life here afresh. Still, I’m a little cynical about my own sunny disposition. I booked a flight home the other day and I’ll admit, it does feel good to have an end date. A little surety and some security. But it can’t really just be that, going home doesn’t exactly overwhelm me with joy. I have no idea what I’ll do for cash when I get back there. I’ll have enough savings for a couple of months of cocaine and hookers – but what am I going to do for fun? Not knowing where your next paycheck is hiding can be a real pain in the arse… no wonder I’m going bald… in my pants.

Still, I gather that my last few weeks here will be quite an enjoyable time. I’m going to miss the people here, and the work – if you can call it that. I’ll miss the romance of the adventure – and there really still is some. But if there’s one thing that community life has taught me, it’s that I have my own culture, my own mob, and my own responsibilities. And while the culture may not be at risk of dying out, the people in it still need support getting through their lives. I’m better suited to helping them. I’m one of them. That used to make me feel guilty. Now, at least for this moment, it has me buoyed.