"My client is a writer, a story teller, he is engaged in a work of art and the Laws of the land do not apply to ART." Countered Lazel.

"Your client is part of the illegal underground cannabis sub-culture and at best a minor writer in a rainbow of greater talent."

"OBJECTION" screamed Glitter as he launched himself across the room and grabbed the prosecutor around the neck and made as if he was about to start squeezing, then abruptly, he let go and was back in his seat before the guards so much as moved a muscle. This is not to say that Glitter was equipped with super human speed or anything, more an indication to the guards supreme indifference to well being of the prosecutor and of course exactly the kind of theatrics most of them thought had been missing in court for awhile, actually upon further reflection it was more like a slight raising of his voice tone and a sharp raise of an eyebrow, but hey, I'm on the side of the guards, I prefer a bit more drama in the action....

"I have constructed my own niche, the entire BBt-PPP is nothing more than the personal files that I display in a public arena where other dudes can find them. Find them or not, then read them or not, then believe them or not. I have no idea, 100% of people are like 100% of people and cliches spring too readily to tongue, anyway, I found that the sooner I stopped thinking about what other people could be thinking about me the more time I found I had for thinking."

"That has no bearing on the fact that you are breaking the Law."

Lazel cleared his throat and segued "This next piece of prewritten whimsy goes toward establishing my clients view point your honour, I might add the basic position is that the cannabis laws in any one point of   "Reality" are irrelevant to this globally significant art project, and that, in fact, the government of Australia are actively discriminating against my client achieving his potential as a writer and story teller."

"Does your case hinge on this?" asked the judge?

"No" replied Lazel.

"In that case I'll allow it." said the judge, as he settled back to read..

Just gone dawn, March 28^th 1994. Sydney, Australia.

I watched as the eyes of the airport security guard passed right through me, he took me at the same face value that the customs officer did somewhat later. Just another face in the crowd, my blood shot eyes stared unblinkingly back through him. I realized that I was in the one place in the world where blood shot eyes are the norm. Whatever, I felt that I would have the advantage in any situation, after all, I had been awake for five days and the doors of perception were swinging wide open courtesy of the Mescaline laced joints I had smoked in the skybus, Ha, I was high above the Pacific ocean in more ways than one.

When I see the Customs desk for the first time, my pulse rate takes a sudden jump, I remember that I’m about to transport illegal drugs into Australia, I say to the security guard in fluent colloquial Australian.

"G’day mate, where’s the dunny?"

He smiled and pointed at the toilet. As I walk in that direction, I take a quick mental check on the speed of the stone that I been rolling for years, as always I decided that it could roll faster. Besides I reasoned, the safest way to transport illegal drugs is in your blood, I went into the nearest cubicle sat, shat and took the contraband out of it’s hiding place in my sock. One joint, one measly joint, hardly qualified me as a dangerous drug smuggler, yet in the eyes of the law I would be every bit the criminal as if I was carrying kilo’s of cocaine. If I burnt it now I would avoid entering Australia the old fashioned way, the same way my great-great grandfather got here, in chains. I contemplated throwing it away, but it was the last joint, of the last crumbs, of the best ganja I had ever smoked, so that was not an option, I sparked it.

I’d rolled me a couple of mile high spliffs before I left Dallas, then I just lit up in the back of the plane half way across the ocean. I could hear the nostrils twitching all around me, but it was like such a real life incredibly cool thing to do that no one said a word, it was as if the ganja made me invisible, my luck continued and I blew that last spliff in that cubicle without incident. I wiped away the traces of my last stateside meal warily, Tex-Mex cooking is like that, it’s only safe to eat more, when your ass hole stops burning from the meal before. When I left the air of the cubicle was also free of any illegal aromas, Tex-Mex cooking is also like that.

I was center stage at the next potentially defining moment of my life, I took my place in line for customs, if this dude checks the dates of the stamps in my passport or even looks at a computer then I’m fucked, then I could care less as the relaxing aroma of eucalyptus seeped vaguely through the Air Conditioning, the smell of destination sanctuary, just the other side of this unit of officialdom. I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. I packed the whole depth of my relief of coming back to Australia without hand cuffs on into one sentence.

"Glad to be home," I said.

His reply was to stamp my passport Arrived Sydney and say "Next."

I wandered off to see if I was in for a win or a loss on the luggage carousel, not for the first time did I stand and wait for everything I owned to emerge from behind the rubber curtain. Three years I’d been living out that back pack and it contained every thing I hadn’t impulsively abandoned on my abrupt departure from Dallas. The fact that all I owned before I impulsively left Dallas was what I hadn’t impulsively abandoned on my departure from Australia only simplified the process. 

Relief washed through me as I finally spied my back pack, last off the plane as usual, I had nothing to declare and passed straight on through, luck was obviously still with me. Outside in the sunshine, just grooving on the fact that I had done it. I had made it back to the life raft in one piece, my thought train chugging in time to what ever weird vibrations I had picked up over the ocean. I force my mind to interface coherently with reality, aware again of the following crowd. Had my latest break been clean? I wondered as I wandered cab-wards.

Reality Check, survival instinct kicks in. The situation in front of me was nothing new, in fact, if there was one place I wanted to be in the world right now I was probably in it. Sydney, the city of my birth, I had missed her so much during my years of self imposed exile. I knew her capricious ways, Sydney is a whore who only pays attention to those with pockets filled with gold. The mescaline over dramatizing the situation as usual. Options overload. Next step critical. I pause to marvel at the way I had eluded the trap that obviously hadn’t been set.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Where is the rest?"

"What rest? It's part of a work in progress." said a puzzled Glitter.

"The point being?" inquired the Prosecutor.

"There is only one kind of a person that could write a story like the one above." said Lazel

"By the actions described, I would have to say a criminal." declared the Prosecutor.

"No, Mr Prosecutor, a writer is the only person who could write those words." said Lazel.

"It is well written, perhaps a trifle too optometristic for my taste." judged the Judge.

"Optometristic?" asked Glitter.

"Too many I's."

"I couldn't help it, I don't like to write I all the time either, but some time it's unavoidable, anyway I hope it helped pass some time."

"Is it true?" pounced the Prosecutor.

"True?"

"Yes, did you smoke illegal drugs on a commercial Jet Air craft and in a toilet cubicle at Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney, on or about March 28th 1994?

"Actually I smoked a joint on the way to D/FW, 2 at D/FW, I also sparked a spliff on the Dallas -LA flight, 2 more whilst walking between the terminals at LAX... Oh, and I blew out the cab driver in Sydney as well."

"Your honor this man shows not the slightest remorse at breaking the law."

"I agree with the Prosecutor" said Glitter "But how can I show remorse for a crime which is illogically illegal? I simply smoke spliffs like some people smoke cigarettes, there is nothing wrong with smoking cigarettes at the moment is there?"

"What about the heath considerations?"

"Personally I look at all forms of smoking as an insurance policy AGAINST old age. I have no real desire to get old, hence I smoke, surely after 37 trips around the sun I should be allowed to decide what is right for me."

"It is not up to you to decide what the laws should or should not be."

"Then in other words Mr prosecutor you deny me the right to decide the chemical content of the fluid that fuels my brain? Surely no elected government has a right to mandate the permissible chemical blood additives of it's members with out first asking if the members wish their Government to have such control over their brain fluid? I can only view the current Cannabis Legislation as a gross violation of my rights as a free thinking individual."

"The law it self is not at issue here, your breaking of it is the only matter for this courts consideration."

"Consider this," said Glitter "We have already passed the limit of the amount of weekly words that the average cyber citizen has the available media minutes and/or the inclination to read in any one part of the wwweb, as I've said before, I am a multi genre-ational character and I exist in several formats at once, these other zones require my constant attention and I won't be back this way till it's time again, so if you have one last thing you want to ask me now would be the time, as I am about to disappear elseweb  to chat with some co-conspirators, we have a bunch of Global PPPartys to coordinate."

"What makes you think that you are so special Glitter? What gives you the right to come and go as you please?"

"I'm the one who taps the qwerty keys."

"Oh."