Saturday, February 28, 2009
Marijuana Dreams - Pt 1
After a particularly high dose of herb, i go to bed. I fall asleep. I awaken. The Sun is shining through my window and its rays hurt my eyes. Slowly, i open them. A cool breeze kisses my forehead. I am drawn outdoors.
I step out of my house. The sky seems to be a tall glass of vodka with a lemon slice (probably the sun) squeezed onto it. My eye greedily drinks as much as it can, until my brain feels numb. After a long silence I hear something buzzing in my ear. At first i think its Jefferson Airplane playing their no. ones. But then i hear someone reciting "Ode to Melancholy" by Keats. One of my favorites.
I notice a single tree somewhere in the meadows. I walk towards it. It has all kinds of fruits laden on it. I pluck a banana, 2 apples and a pineapple from it. The pineapple hurts my fingers. I notice them cut and bruised. An angel appears from one of the apples and a green wicked creature from another, as i keep eating the apples. Then the angel and the goblin ram into each other and i see a baby being born.
The baby explodes into a hundred bubbles.
Suddenly i see carnival tents all around me. Freaks, dwarfs, elephants, children sucking on cotton candies. Remember, that at this point i have no money, no friends around and especially no herb. I enter a tent. I see an ugly refugee from the free love generation snorting on his coke. Stay away from powders, Kids.
The pattern on the tent begins to swirl. It forms a revolving passage. I walk through it to a dance hall filled with Proto-Hippies. They are dancing and singing and laughing. One girl has i particularly broad smile. I enter her mouth and find myself in the San Francisco of the middle sixties.
I crash into "consciousness expansion" or you may call it a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the herb Culture.
But no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you are
here and alive in this corner of time and the world.
"My head is heavy, my limbs are weary,
And it is not life that makes me move."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley.