I turn on the TV, and it's Entourage. They are on their way to Joshua Tree to eat mushrooms. The calm smile I sat down with shifts towards anxiousness. I've seen this episode. I know what happens. But I can't look away. They arrive and the camera pans around to show off the landscape. Can see how this would be a mecca for a lot of people. Exactly the sort of place people would go to find a connection with the earth, a sense of balance within. A destination.
It is big there. Very dry, very rocky, very big. Way too big. Too much open space. My chest tightens as I prepare to identify with the the sense of panic the first person to get lost will feel. It's Ari, and he begins to get scared very quickly. It's getting dark. He is hollering and no one is there. No one can hear him. The more alone he feels the more freaked out he gets.
My chest keeps tightening. I'm right there with him. He gets Lloyd on the phone. Lloyd is concerned because he knows the first rule of tripping is the buddy system. Always stay with a friend. Even though the other person is tripping too, their head will never go to the same place, so you will keep each other grounded.
I only once lost my sense of reality. Leaning over the back porch of a Cambridge triplex. Top floor of course. The overgrown mass of plant life below to looked like a very cozy, welcoming place to relax. And that lovely nest began to look close enough to reach. Fortunately my tripping boyfriend said the one most concise thing to snap me back to reality. He said, "You're acting like Pete." Our dear friend Pete was the guy you never give acid to. The kind of guy who is likely to dance along rooftops completely sober has friends who know better.
I miss Pete. I miss all those guys. I miss that who time in my life. I have several tales of Pete, and lots of rememories of that apartment on Beacon street. The Throwing Muses lived downstairs, but we were all scratchy garage rock back then, and we thought they were pretentious. Those stories are for another post.
It is big there. Very dry, very rocky, very big. Way too big. Too much open space. My chest tightens as I prepare to identify with the the sense of panic the first person to get lost will feel. It's Ari, and he begins to get scared very quickly. It's getting dark. He is hollering and no one is there. No one can hear him. The more alone he feels the more freaked out he gets.
My chest keeps tightening. I'm right there with him. He gets Lloyd on the phone. Lloyd is concerned because he knows the first rule of tripping is the buddy system. Always stay with a friend. Even though the other person is tripping too, their head will never go to the same place, so you will keep each other grounded.
I only once lost my sense of reality. Leaning over the back porch of a Cambridge triplex. Top floor of course. The overgrown mass of plant life below to looked like a very cozy, welcoming place to relax. And that lovely nest began to look close enough to reach. Fortunately my tripping boyfriend said the one most concise thing to snap me back to reality. He said, "You're acting like Pete." Our dear friend Pete was the guy you never give acid to. The kind of guy who is likely to dance along rooftops completely sober has friends who know better.
I miss Pete. I miss all those guys. I miss that who time in my life. I have several tales of Pete, and lots of rememories of that apartment on Beacon street. The Throwing Muses lived downstairs, but we were all scratchy garage rock back then, and we thought they were pretentious. Those stories are for another post.
