Novel page one is the hardest, you say? 11/21/2004

Winter had not left the quiet college town. The night was cold and clear, and frost was settling on the windshields and trees and grass. While the town would normally be fairly quiet, it was even more so now, because it was Easter Night. The shops were closed, families snuggled in for the night, full of Easter eggs, ham, chocolates, and warm Holiday memories.

Being restless youths, and not prone to valuing such fuzziness and family togetherness, four friends prepared for a night out. Tonight was kind of special. Mike had found some Olympic blotter acid, which he proclaimed to be the "best LSD I've ever taken" and which we were all eager to try. Arrangements could be made for buying beer, but the smoke was tough to find that day. Everybody was visiting their parents, or were similarly unavailable. We scraped our pipes and determined to make do with this pleasant trifecta of hallucinogens.

I was not well acquainted with Alex, but he seemed to be a quiet but genial and kind person, and devoid of any malice. Mike was the articulate, intelligent wiseacre of the crew, quick-witted and warm, intensely engaging and personable. He was very likable. Jeff was my old buddy from way back, an outgoing, yet private person, who tended to focus on the trivial, perhaps to avoid confronting his own voids and feelings of inadequacy.

I was vaguely troubled, that day, by some lingering Catholic psychoses, wondering whether I had adequately spent time or energy being thankful for the supreme sacrifice that God had accepted from His Son on our behalf. I remember thinking that I should have spent some time studying the word--that day, especially--as I was having a lot of questions about such matters at that time in my life.

I studied and read the bible, but often had trouble understanding the meanings of what I read. What was my role as a Christian. Should I be preaching to my friends? Why did I feel like I was the only one around me that even contemplated God? Did others feel this, too? Should I be starting a ministry? Why me? I was a devout Christian, but almost ignorant of the meanings of what I read in the bible. I had more questions than answers.

I perceived that I was the only one in the group that was even remotely troubled by such questions. Jeff was not a Christian, and I was not certain about Mike or Alex. Let's just say that Jesus didn't come up in our conversations, unless I brought Him up, and when I did, the subject was quickly changed.

I wondered about the Jewish calender. How could a holiday like Easter bounce around the calender from year to year. What did it mean? Why were there entire leap-months in this lunar calender? Do the cycles even out every so many years? What was up with that? I liked looking for mathematical patterns, but this particular puzzle was a bit too complex for me.

As you can see, my mind jumps from puzzle to puzzle. Sometimes the linkage is tenuous, occasionally lacking altogether, but I like to search for patterns, and meanings to those patterns. I like to understand what I see not just on a level of the individual event, but the event within it's larger context in life, how it fits a pattern, how it describes and affirms a larger truth and makes other unlike things also understandable.

It may seem odd, then for a person like me to take a substance like LSD. You may ask...How is that going to help your quest for knowledge? Won't it just confuse your senses and make it impossible to judge the relationships between things? Won't it make it difficult to find patterns in the jumble of thoughts, visions and stimuli?

Yes and No.

Remember that you are constantly in varying states of awareness in life. You are sleeping. You awake. You drone out watching the news. You focus on a novel. As you drive to the store, you are able to focus on a stimulating song or discussion on the radio with out crashing the car. Your focus is distributed between several different tasks, and none commands all of your attention, lest you crash.

When you drive a familiar road--for instance--you will rarely focus on details about your right foot-- how the pedal you are depressing is called the "accelerator", or, how much pressure you are applying to the accelerator estimated in foot pounds, or, the tetanus of your foot muscles is producing a slight cramp in your toe, or, what color socks you're wearing, or, how does a lever work. When we drive, we don't become lost or confused, or lose our way home--even as trees, billboards, pavement color and light of day change moment by moment and day by day.

No, we don't attend to alot of little details in life. We learn our environment, and then navigate our lives by memory of that environment. In our memory, there wasn't a box in the middle of the floor, so we weren't looking for there to be one in the way, that's why when people leave things in our way, we stub our toes.

And yet, things are constantly changing. I acquired a bad habit, many years ago, of shuffling my feet when I walk. When your little brothers leave all sorts of toys, and tiny pieces of toys, in the way, on the floor, in the hallway, and on the stairs, you learn that by shuffling your feet, you are more likely to knock such an offending items out of the way than to step on them with the middle of your arch. For me, it is better to stub your toe, than to have your whole body involuntarily succumb to the protective spinal reflex that stepping on a "Little People" affords.

I digress. But that is what I do. Digressively, we will arrive at the point, and it is always fun when we get there.

Hallucinogens have the interesting property of reducing the barriers to perception of stimuli, including ones that we have relegated to our sub-conscious, such as the feelings in and of your right foot while you're driving. In this vulnerable state, the subject of the hallucinogenic experiment is deluged with stimuli. This also applies to visual perceptions of light and shade, and to sounds, aromas and thoughts. Words. Feelings. Conceptualizations. Processes. Religions.

Enveloped in such a maelstrom of thought and feeling, one may begin to become distended, out-of-touch, alarmed, afraid. Panic is a condition to avoid at all costs. I guess this is because the nervous system has a way of descending into the fight-or-flight syndrome which is our protection from danger in the real physical world. When powerful hallucinogens are added to the natural processes in the brain, and combined with panic and adrenaline, the combination may trigger what has come to be known as the "bad trip". The images that people report while in such a state are often very terrifying and they feel a threat to their physical and mental health.

To that end, experimenters--trippers, if you will--tend to get some good beer, good friends and an out-of-the-way and peaceful environment set up in advance. The idea is to stay put, avoid troubling and threatening situations, and have comforts available if things get intense. That is the idea anyway.

You never know what the human brain is capable of until you put it to the test. The will and the human spirit are two intangibles which one is remiss to underestimate. Severe stress reveals much about people and their strengths or weaknesses. Necessity is the mother of invention. All of that.

So frost crunched under the feet of the trippers. We piled into the old but luxuriously spacious vehicle. It was as cold as the outside. Jeff put the car into gear without warming the engine. His dad worked for the auto company, so brand new vehicles were taken for granted by him. We had only just taken our doses at Jeff's house and were still waiting for the effects to kick in. This can be a considerable time, often 60 to 90 minutes. Mike had to stop at his house, midtown.

There was no hint of police that night. Knowing Jeff's poor driving skills, I encouraged him to take it slow, anyway. He seemed calm and in control, so I relaxed a bit.

When we arrived at Mikes' parents house, we were not invited in. Mikes dad was a professor at the University, but I had never met him or the rest of the family. I was little more than an acquaintance to Mike, in some ways. I had spent some time with him and his friends, but mostly at parties, so the impression I got was not based upon intimate detail of his life. I liked him and his friends, but hadn't gotten close to any of them yet. I had never been inside of his house, and at that point, didn't mind not being invited in.

As a matter of fact, I was discovering that I felt bad that it was difficult for me to get to know people. I was quiet, myself, and by nature, I distrusted people. I took my time opening up, and was always uncomfortable with new folks at first, especially women. I secretly feared being hurt, getting attached and then "losing" someone. So I kept my distance, even from most of my friends.

After high school, my small, tight group of friends quickly headed their various ways, mostly away from me, it felt to me. I cringed at the memory of one of my friends telling me that my "whining constantly" about the condition of my life had been getting on everybodys nerves, after which they became difficult to reach. You know the story. Yet, I took it hard. It was personal, and I was lonely, if a somewhat solitary creature.

Determined, in my own young and ignorant way, to not be hurt again, I was "cautious" I told myself. Of course, I was also being narcissistic, attention seeking, immature, and damn near neurotic. This is a side effect of massive doses of denial, self-absorbtion and a mix of narcotics to dull the building pain. Such was my life. I was, admittedly, a wreck!







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There is pain associated with this dynamic, because of the different directions one is being pulled. Introspection can be a fine thing, taken in small doses. Extroversion contains many elements of a cure for my particular social condition of the time, but I wallowed in my fear instead. Finding reason, then, to criticize myself as a coward, I heaped more negative images upon my already damaged self-esteem, and began a process of burying myself in more critiques. After a while, the build up weighs a man down. Alcohol becomes a relief and loosens the tongue, so that I could temporarily loosen up and speak my mind for a while.

However, the tongue, when loose, doesn't make sense to the sober man. The mouth is like a loose cannon, when the brain isn't at speed with it. Words are hurled for effect, for impact, for attention, but they are not well chosen, or thoughtful enough to convey what is lying underneath. Underneath, it is deep. The drunken man is shallow. In a pool of vomit.

It is well that something interrupted my thoughts. I realized with a start, that I was not very well prepared for my trip, at this point. “I must”, I thought, “calm myself down a bit and try to reference the right state of mind for a long journey. I can’t dwell upon this negative stuff,” I told myself, “I just can’t. Let’s see, what is good about my life? I love music.

I am a musician, the most wretched and miserable sort of musician, one who can kick with the best of them, but will probably continue to be kicked to the gutter, despite my fervent desire, notwithstanding originality and character, irrespective of drive or fortitude of will. Fate would always echo what could have been, if only...

If only fate had not afforded that I be born into poverty. My step-father even turned me down when I asked him for a loan for a P.A. system--a necessity for a touring band--telling me that I “would never prosper in that business,” an assessment that became--for me--self-fulfilling. My band quickly faded from the scene, and I washed dishes for a living. You know, he was probably right, but I hope he is still somewhere watching--from the grave-- as I struggle and work and grind along with still an inkling of hope, that somewhere, someone will see the value of what I am trying to accomplish, and discover the joy in the message of my art.

I gradually came to know the truth about what is an extremely corrupt and greedy business--that is: if you’ve got money or backing, you can buy your way onto the charts, but if not, good luck. People like Yoko Ono will still be happy to pry some of your money out of your along the way, leading you to believe that they’ve got contacts, and knowing full well that in the end, they can’t or won’t do a damn thing to help you, but they can help themselves to a piece of your dreams along the way (they just call it a contest entry fee).

America is becoming just like the music industry. Nobody loves you.

Again, though, I realized that I just can’t keep going down this negative path, especially now, as the ringing in my ears began to become acute. I’ve got to think happy thoughts, or I might go banana wonkers.

Another interruption. A squirrel was chasing a cardinal. They appeared to both be fighting over a small bit of food that a resident had put out for the birds. I thought briefly how the animals had weathered the winter well, perhaps better than their observer. In time, spring would be fully felt, and I would hopefully put the long cold winter blues behind me.

Mike was back in the drivers seat, now. He indicated one more errand before we could settle in for the evening. He wanted us to see the Inglis House, a place that his father worked and that he claimed possessed one of the finest hillside views of our hamlet. We agreed to go, not having any spoken objections. Though I felt somewhat uneasy about the detour, I said nothing--as was my style. I was content to follow, and not to lead.

Along the way, the psychedelic haze crept slowly in. One of the first things I noticed was how ordinary things began to take on new meaning and new appearances. At first, the trees begin to look taller, displaying more contrast between themselves and the sky. They begin to sway gently, in a sort of unseen wind. They are speaking, beckoning to you with their branches. Then they are overwhelmingly beautiful, living giants, peaceful, soaring above the houses, giving home to birds and animals. They are food, shelter and clothing, if not simultaneously, then in their time. A tree then begins to acquire an aura of the traits of a warrior; braving the cold, the tree stands solid in the face of the burden of the cold; it is fit and strong--a survivor.

In this manner, things around me began to acquire traits in such a manner that associations and groupings equated such things as blankets to mothers, chewing gum to the nipple, blood to expediency. The unexplained becomes briefly explainable--in a nutshell--as our need for our nurturing mother. All impulses arise from this basic instinct, and end with the next generation reaching out for its’ mother, in a cycle of need, reaching out for some nurturing. A true unity is found within all things and surrounding all humanity-- and it is mothers that unite us.

A blanket is my mother. Plants and trees offer sustenance and succor, as our mothers breast once did, and before that, her womb. All pain is a necessity born of the blood of birth, without which naught would be possible. Life clings to life and is remarkable in its tenacity, but always requires a womb to flourish. In a way, by proxy, everything becomes your mother, or sister or brother.

It is a remarkable feeling, one of connectedness, of the common theme that unites us all. But I also felt that a strong sense that unity was lacking at the core of humanity. Our individualistic society encourages an “every man for himself” ethos; the nuclear family, the easy mobility of people has fragmented families yet further, adding to the social disconnect of individuals. It takes a whole village to raise a child, goes one saying. However, when both parents are working, and everybody is chasing the dollars, folks are too busy to raise the kids. Kids end up raising kids. My little rag-tag bunch of tripping friends was my family today.

At the Inglis House, Mike was eager to scope it out. He wasn’t sure that the House was entertaining guests this weekned or not. He urged us to stay put while he checked it out. He disappeared down a long, curved, unlighted path into the darkness. I got out of the car to smoke a cigarette. Jeff and Alex followed. I was asking Jeff if he was feeling anything, when headlights split the darkness.

Traveling quickly down the narrow lane, the vehicle pulled slightly left around the circle, revealing a Security logo, then veered to the right to catch us and the car in its’ headlights. A young man with a flashlight quickly exited the vehicle and approached us, saying, “Excuse me, folks, but this is private property. May I see some form of ID please.” I patted myself down, happy that I had not forgotten my wallet, today. Just then, Mike appeared at the top of the driveway and smoothly said, “Excuse me, orrificer”

We three tried to choke back the laughter, as the absurdity of Mike’s exclaimation hit home. Here we were about to be arrested for trespass and Mike was busy throwing veiled insults at the Security Officer. I looked at the ground and pretended to wipe the tiredness from my eyes, and tried not to laugh out loud.

“These are my friends. My dad works here. I was just going to show my friends around, if we weren’t bothering anyone. My dads name is “Ira” and he is in the directory. You can call him directly, and he will vouch for me.”

“Ah, okay, but I’m going to have to run your licenses, it’s just policy. I’ll be back in a minute,” said the officer.

Mike seemed wholey unconcerned, and turned to tell us that the house had guests tonight, so it probably wouldn’t be such a good night to see it. He indicated that the “rent-a-cop” didn’t have any authority to arrest us, so, he said, “as long as he don’t call the cops in, we’re cool. And he won’t. We didn’t do anything.”

After a few minutes, the officer returned our IDs and bid us to leave, and not to return. “This is private property,” he repeated. “Even,” he pointedly told Mike, “if your father works here. We’ve had complaints around here recently, so please, if you want to stay out of trouble, stay away from here.” We all nodded our agreement.

Mike called out loudly, “Thank you, orrificer. You’re doing an excellent job!”

We cringed again, expecting the “orrificer” to detain us further. All three of us said, almost simultaneously, “Shut the fuck up, man,” or words to that affect.

We piled into the rapidly cooling car and headed downtown. There was one last stop. We needed beer. We stopped outside a central campus beer store and parked in a no parking zone. Mike, the quick talker of the bunch, got out of the car and began approaching carefully selected strangers. The first one nodded and proceeded with Mike into the store. A few minutes later, we were the proud possessors of a case of premium imported beers.

The caboose was not far away. An empty parking lot abutted the railroad crossing.