A charmed life...
By mauichuck1
Published: March 29, 2012
Updated: April 7, 2012

A charmed lifeÖ

Some might say that I finally made it. I say itís about time.

But what does making it mean? To me it means access: plain and simple, it's the ability to do whatever you want when you want to do it. I know a lot of fantasies stray quickly to sex and all-night partying, but the type of access I always wanted was different. The access I strived for my whole life was freedom.

Freedom doesnít come with a night of debauchery and random acts of sex. If anything, that will put chains on you faster than robbing a bank.

No matter how much your bank account says you have, youíre not much good if you have to crawl to the bathroom and watch the contents of the prior night's orders go down the drain after wafting into your stinging nostrils. Sex isnít that great when you can barely get it up or even remember the positions you were in. Short term memory loss: one of the downfalls of the chronic drinker. I always wondered why I felt so coherent in the moment but would struggle to recollect the events only eight hours later.

Back to freedom. Itís eleven thirty in the evening. The housekeeper, who comes twice a week, has put the house through a deep cleaning. There isnít a speck of dust in sight, and believe me, I look. When my house is clean, my mind becomes empty, in the way the ocean is still on the surface. I like to surf now and then, so a ripple in the mind makes for some drama. The drama is easily taken care of now that I know what it actually is, means, and how easily it can be discarded. But there's something about a clean house creeping into the silence of midnight. I cherish it.

Freedom sparks an idea, a simple concept, that I know now is derived from inner wisdom. I listen, then respond. I open the door to my attic and crawl up into my secret garden. The dim light illuminates an antique set of old medicine drawers. I got the idea from an old movie, not to put them into my attic, but to keep all my medicines in proper order. I keep them in the attic because of the silly things we call laws. Laws that make one paranoid. Laws that make the mind run away from you right when you think you had it cornered and it was ready to divulge its best kept secrets.

I open a two by three drawer on the top shelf and grab a metal tea baller. I donít know if thatís the correct name, and Iím too lazy to look it up as I had already drunk the tea almost an hour ago. The warmth in my body is taking over my head, making it less of a fighter and more loving to my fingers pressing down on the soft keys of my laptop.

I need only text my driver. An agreement we had established long before this night after a few uncomfortable gibber-filled conversations on my end in an attempt to explain my wish.

The text is simple: Grab my assistant and pick me up. I want to drive around the backside of the island and see what inspires painters who paint the moonlight.

Fifteen minutes later, a soft knock. A second later, Iím in a town car. My assistant, a twenty-one year old girl who loves my writing and aspires to be a writer one day, sits in the front. Ambient music plays at a low level and all the windows are open including the sunroof. When my mind finally feels embraced enough by the fungus and my ego finally gives into the comfort of not having to control every thing around it, my filters disintegrate and I begin to narrate. My assistant records as much as she can gather from the sounds coming from this strange instrument that at any other moment I would have no problem calling a mouth.

The total package to do this without paranoia, guilt, or regret, and purely for the impulse of the beating heart seeking to align with the pulsating night, has cost me more money that I ever would have dreamt of spending before. I used to dream about having money, fame, etc., and the stuff I would splurge on. Now the money to me is just a key to a comfortable chariot.

I used to have to conjure up such fantasies and wait until my girl was in bed sleeping soundly just to have the silence enough to write a little under a thousand words about some weird reality I would rather be living in. If the people saying that I made it were actually right, well, then most of the story above would be true.