ISSN 1758-6488
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LSD Fiction |
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But this night at The DMZ, you had Frank Sinatra on the sound system, “A Summer Wind,” and Joe said, “I’m not doing any shit anymore.”
I go, “So we’re not gonna put it in the city’s water supply?”
Yardley snorted, as I wanted, because of the cliché-ness of what I said. All these people were very excited about LSD just as we were getting sick of it.
“I mean, I’m not sorry, I did it and there are some benefits like—maybe music’s more interesting—“
“Not for me,” I say, because I was thinking about just that,”For me, it trivializes, I don’t know, Bach, and makes him all these lines and busy-ness and chaotic bustle-and I just think, you know? Better when I’m down.”
Yardley shakes his head, says, “The fuckin’ Beatles are getting high. It’s great music. It’s a new world.”
Joe is serious: “Bio-chemically, the drug’s influence is to take all the synapses in the brain and focus them on a single point, so, yeah you are distorted but I mean, that’s all it is doing.” Joe isn’t shaving and is wearing round wire glasses, and he gets louder when more serious and says, “ I can’t read when I’m high anymore.”
Wide assed and thick-necked, the cops at the counter look around and Yardley and I are two firehoses going shh.
Yardley whispers: “Bull. I say it’s opened doors and windows, man, and look around you? Come on, man.”
He’s right too. I knew more, and more quickly, after that night than other people. Like in my classes, the Philosophy Professor is saying about if reality is subjective or the History guy about the world melting at Hiroshima or in Anthropology, how people without rituals and belief systems or culture are loathed by other tribes-how they only drink fermented hooch and lie in mud and don’t bother even to groom away the lice or I read how for mystics and physicists all time is all the time or time is a net with a bead of NOW at the knots that join THEN with NEXT and I get it, fully, thoroughly, and nod.
The Haunting. I think it’s full title is The Haunting of Hill House but it’s from a story by a literary writer, so maybe that is what makes it such a scary movie, and so good, even today, but then for me it’s a supernatural experience, the watching of the movie, as it brings back how she huddled into me, skin warm from that day’s sun at the lake, and shuddered at the scene where the walls bend in and the carved wooden faces stretch and scream, and lord knows why I knew to put my reach where I did and feel that divide in her, or what her inspired her sigh- magic, terror, desire, wonder?
