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It's Friday afternoon. I am driving my house down the West coastal highway on the South Island of New Zealand. My house is a van... in case that didn't make sense the first time. I just got new speakers fitted to him (My house is called Fred. Some Danish dudes named him that and who am I to interfere); I test them out with some Floyd, Thievery Corporation, Shpongle... the bass response is like an elixir of life after a month driving without it; the full hit of the fruit. Now Hendrix wails with Voodoo Chile. Switch to the radio: 106.5, every tune's a banger. I've found my happy frequency. Freedom of the open road (until Fred gets sick... more reason to enjoy his health now).

Fisherman tries his luck

I stop to have a swim where the river meets the sea. Some seabirds are diving for their dinner. A van full of fisherman pulls up to try their luck. I tread water and see who will score first. The water flows quickly but the picture is serene. My mind buzzes - but they are creative thoughts - interspersed with awareness of the beautiful surroundings and my place in it all. Behind the fishermen, there are dark clouds on the horizon. They say a typhoon is coming. It hasn't rained in a month and there are bush-fires everywhere. The land is arid, the plants are dying of thirst. I've enjoyed blue skies every day, but I welcome the rain.

Internally, I know the blue skies will persist. Now I smile for no reason. I'm content in my solitude. There are songs in my head, rhythms that demand to be transposed onto my leg, or a tabletop, or (better yet) a guitar. Melodies that ask to be hummed - and I'm willing to oblige. A joke on a napkin. A poem in a notepad that's falling apart, just like I did: it wasn't like this before. Not long ago dark clouds filled my sky. At the time it was terrible. I begged for it to stop. Now I accept the darkness: welcome it; transform it. A signal that must be received before it will dissipate, so it won't blare on for a whole lifetime.

The van of freedom (and *some* rust)

Those that know me might remember. I only got through it due to loved ones stubbornly being there no matter what, so I was lucky. But sometimes even that isn't enough. There are too many stories where this is the case, and many of them are close to home. The conversation about this is starting to be had, but it is a big conversation and it's long overdue. So now that I have some perspective and can see the dark from the light, it's time to write about it and add a little to the dialogue. Find the writings in the Psychedelicacies section, then. Comment if you want. There are so many stories to be told.

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