Bingo Ball Tank Head ~ 2000

Just after the Milennium Party of 2000 seemed like such a catalystic time.  Something started brewing when we stopped drinking a couple of years previously, but 2000 the pot was boiling over.
 
I didn’t date this but I think it was January 1st, 2000 ~ might have been the 2nd, the parties in those days lasted days.
 
“My head feels like one of those big smeared scratched perspex tanks that bingo callers keep their dented brightly coloured numbered balls in, all bobbing around, anxiously jostling and nudging each other out of the way in their need to be addressed and dealt with.  I have a compulsion to sort my coloured numbered balls out and commit them to paper and leave my poor battered head free.  The arbitrary corny nonsense of the “New Milennium” has been a monstrously profound and momentous occasion for me personally, as it signals the end or an age of confusion and muddle headed, fuzzy, out of my face couple of decades of alcoholism and drug abuse, to say nothing of hypochondria.  Because all the things that were lurking around in my subconcious for years, suppressed, stifled and unexplored, are all clamouring to be dealt with at once!  Perhaps if I write everything down on paper, I can sort out my bits of paper, file them, re-arrange them, shuffle them around until they are all tranquilly resting in their alloted places, leaving me headache free, for once.  I could cry with releif, and frustration too, that I can’t get the words out quickly enough.”
 
So no changes there then, still shuffling bits of writing around, trying to categorize them.  Will they ever rest tranquilly in alloted places?  In the ‘come down’ phase I wasn’t seeing all the insights and inspirations and connections of the drug taking at all, just the confusion.  These days, I recall it all fondly, as a time of much fun and widening perspectives, questioning beleifs, impulses and spontanaeity.  One thing you don’t usually remember is a past headache.
 
“I had a sudden panicky fear then that my head was about to explode with the pressure of all these coloured plastic bingo balls multiplying, putting horrible pressure on the brittle perspex of my skull.  If I continue to think of headaches in this way I will surely go mad in a very short time!”
 
It seemed like all the usual calming down methods were out of bounds, too:
 
“….and strangely we’ve both felt that smoking hash makes us feel more awful than ever.  Good god, before long coffee will be giving me diarrhoea and smoking will make me cough….I’m finding this writing business very therapeutic so far, and I’m almost tempted to say that even if I never write a book at all, I will keep writing until my perspex tank is empty of those persistently tumbling balls.  Or will I be dead then? I wouldn’t want it to be empty!  Just more managable, I want to be in control of my balls…..How on earth am I going to get to sleep tonight if I don’t smoke a joint? I dare not, my head will fill with bingo balls again.  I feel like I’ve embarked on a backpacking holiday in a cold country with a sprained ankle and a stiff neck.  But it’s worse than that, because if it was a holiday, I could cancel it and go home.”
 
Which led to a long sub-ramble about what or where home really is….