A friendship is harder to crack than bone, but an ego will never break.
Fernweh had no desire to get slapped out - again - by Scrib, especially during the midst of an experience that had promised to be amazing. If it had been a mutually agreed scrap, or Scrib was to mentor Fernweh,
things would have been better, but there was no benevolence here. This was a battle between Innocence and Hatred; Scrib's grizzled, hissing stature stood for all that was foul; Fernweh's thin, fearful pose was everything that hatred loved to hate.
Through entheogenic eyes, the battle was beginning to look like a war between demons - a myth unfolding before our eyes. Perhaps this tale would be told for years to come; perhaps this night would be the catalyst to a new cult. Fernweh, the belittled god and Scrib the Devil.
We didn't know what to do about the situation. Scrib's anger was vehemently focused on Fernweh; whenever one of us stepped in to remind him that he was supposed to be a friend, he (rather, the demon that looked through his eyes) would offer us a brief glance that whispered of a tortured mind and a battered soul. His lips would form the shape of a word, but before growling it he'd return his efforts to Fernweh.
Finally, Kevin - the only one bigger than Scrib (who, fortunately, had enough sense left to realize that Kevin could tune him if he stepped out of line) told him that he had three options.
a) if he really had beef then they could duke it out. I regret to admit that we were starting to see the situation from a selfish viewpoint. We wanted peace and quiet; if a decidedly unbalanced fight was the only way to return that, then we would welcome it. We were no better than heartless dictators ushering their troops towards failure.
b) there was a powerful energy flowing between Scrib and Fern that spoke of hushed desires. Their second option was to go off and fuck in a bush to satisfy their secret carnal urges. (In response to this, Fernweh, who'd lost any sense of how to speak, said - entirely straight faced with a serious intention - something about "I love you, just the tip of Scrib's dick in my lungs!" to which I burst out laughing.
c) Kevin would just knock one of them out to get the show rolling.
His threats proved useless once he realized that it was not his battle to win. Instead, we surrounded the two like a group of people placing bets on a cock fight; craning our necks to peer into the psyche of Scrib and unintentionally prod Fernweh's fear.
This is how nobody wants to spend an acid trip. Once it became clear that we were powerless to control the situation (and it's funny how acid has a way of calling upon synchronicity, diverting your energies towards attracting situations that resonate on similar frequencies with your intentions) I decided to bounce and explore Toronto Island by myself.
After a ten minute walk, I spotted a light in the distance and gravitated towards it like a moth (of which I soon found billions.) The building it was attached to was curious; it seemed a combination of a firehouse, a vacation home and an abandoned office. There was a door leading to a washroom, which I wagered was locked considering it was past midnight, so I spent a good 20 minutes scouring the outside of the building in hopes of finding a tap so I could fill my water bottle and bring the group some hydration.
After I'd given up, I checked the bathroom doors which were miraculously unlocked. Nice. I filled up my bottle and brought it back to the group, hoping for them to have reached a denouement. No such luck - fires were raging just as much as they had been before. It wasn't my place to intervene (anymore) so I went for a walk with Squanch back to the bathroom to fill up the rest of our water bottles and contemplate whether or not we should fuck. Sexual energy is a deviant on acid, difficult to harness but once you've mastered it then one can be a master of attraction. It hovers above you, an elusive rope begging for you to grab hold - once you've gripped it, it'll be smooth sailing towards wherever your desires lay. Unfortunately I either didn't care or just wasn't feeling sexy enough that night so we returned with full water bottles and unsatisfied genitals.
When we returned, the situation had dwindled a bit - though acid trips are never so simple. Welcome to the rollercoaster: Scrib's bottomless rage would return for a while, lessen, return, lessen, and as we crested each bump of the ride, the bumps would decrease in stature. Finally, the world seemed to heave a great sigh; each wave that floated through our world breathed in, every sparkle that dotted the glimmering night sky breathed out. We realized the situation was over. We'd talk about it in the morning.
The last words of the night, from Fernweh:
"You can only shit your pants so many times before somebody else shits them for you."
Thursday, 9 January 2014
Demon vs. Demon (part 1)
"HELLO? HEY... HELP?... FUCK!"
At last - word from our comrades. I'd almost given up hope on a rendezvous with them; they'd been lost for a good six hours.We were soon to find that they'd spent three of those hours belligerently wasted on wine, trying to find us.
Well, they'd found us. We could hear them crashing about in the bush a few hundred meters away, shouting for us.
I guessed it was time to face the fury of psychedelics and leave my shell. I crawled out of my sleeping bag like a snake shedding skin; offering Hades and Kevin a mumbled greeting with haggard eyes. Gathering myself, I joined their conversation, sharing answers and responses that I'd concocted in regards to Hades' philosophies.
Fernweh and Scrib continued to lumber towards us through the underbrush. As their voices came within reasonable distance, we arose and went to help guide them towards our camp spot. We found them barely fifty feet away, presently stuck in a prickly ravine; lost and guided only by starlight.
There was nothing we could do to help without sticking ourselves in the mass of sharpened agony - all we could do was chastise them for neglecting to notice the path that lay ten feet next to them.
They eventually made their way out, and the night's atmosphere twisted itself upside down; a trapeze artist flipped to come crashing on its head. We found out that Fernweh hadn't just been screaming for help identifying his whereabouts - he'd been shouting to something above, shouting for some sense of liberation from Scrib. Scrib had resumed the bullying that he'd inflicted on Fernweh the week before.
The scene the week prior had been more than enough - Scrib's fists would fly through the air unmediated; his presence too profoundly infuriated (and infuriating) for anyone to intervene. If anger had a physical form, it had been Scrib that day - and anger's favourite meal was fear. Today, Fern was clearly afraid, and Scrib was a starved vulture. He hissed threats, growled demands and promised to provoke Fern into a fight before the end of the night. The last time I'd heard Scrib snarl this sadistic voice had been enough to burn it into my memory; writing this paragraph digs up charred sections of burnt remembrance.
The psychedelics enhanced the intensity of Scrib's rage and, likewise, our perception of its incredulity. Scrib's rage had become manifested into his entirety. The four of us remaining could feel his fury as it transcended past his outer shell and into our own bubbles; the waves that breathed around Scrib's body pulsated with vermillion and crimson. His words, however veiled by his rage, remained articulate and terrorizing.
"YOU ARE SCARED.
YOU ARE AFRAID.
IF YOU TRULY LOVE ME
THEN YOU WILL FIGHT ME."
At last - word from our comrades. I'd almost given up hope on a rendezvous with them; they'd been lost for a good six hours.We were soon to find that they'd spent three of those hours belligerently wasted on wine, trying to find us.
Well, they'd found us. We could hear them crashing about in the bush a few hundred meters away, shouting for us.
I guessed it was time to face the fury of psychedelics and leave my shell. I crawled out of my sleeping bag like a snake shedding skin; offering Hades and Kevin a mumbled greeting with haggard eyes. Gathering myself, I joined their conversation, sharing answers and responses that I'd concocted in regards to Hades' philosophies.
Fernweh and Scrib continued to lumber towards us through the underbrush. As their voices came within reasonable distance, we arose and went to help guide them towards our camp spot. We found them barely fifty feet away, presently stuck in a prickly ravine; lost and guided only by starlight.
There was nothing we could do to help without sticking ourselves in the mass of sharpened agony - all we could do was chastise them for neglecting to notice the path that lay ten feet next to them.
They eventually made their way out, and the night's atmosphere twisted itself upside down; a trapeze artist flipped to come crashing on its head. We found out that Fernweh hadn't just been screaming for help identifying his whereabouts - he'd been shouting to something above, shouting for some sense of liberation from Scrib. Scrib had resumed the bullying that he'd inflicted on Fernweh the week before.
The scene the week prior had been more than enough - Scrib's fists would fly through the air unmediated; his presence too profoundly infuriated (and infuriating) for anyone to intervene. If anger had a physical form, it had been Scrib that day - and anger's favourite meal was fear. Today, Fern was clearly afraid, and Scrib was a starved vulture. He hissed threats, growled demands and promised to provoke Fern into a fight before the end of the night. The last time I'd heard Scrib snarl this sadistic voice had been enough to burn it into my memory; writing this paragraph digs up charred sections of burnt remembrance.
The psychedelics enhanced the intensity of Scrib's rage and, likewise, our perception of its incredulity. Scrib's rage had become manifested into his entirety. The four of us remaining could feel his fury as it transcended past his outer shell and into our own bubbles; the waves that breathed around Scrib's body pulsated with vermillion and crimson. His words, however veiled by his rage, remained articulate and terrorizing.
"YOU ARE SCARED.
YOU ARE AFRAID.
IF YOU TRULY LOVE ME
THEN YOU WILL FIGHT ME."
Thursday, 2 January 2014
Foreshadow (2)
Smooth sailing today.
We watched the eye of Toronto Island grow larger with each passing moment as we glided across the harbor. We docked and vacated the vessel.
Stepping foot onto Toronto Island was nowhere near as transcendental of an experience as my last ferry ride. Stepping onto the mainland of Horseshoe Bay after leaving Vancouver Island is always an interesting experience; leaving the serenity of Nanaimo reminds you of how the mainland's been corrupted by the scars that huge cities has left on the country.
We set foot onto what was essentially a massive city park - that happened to be an island. It was fairly obvious that its entirety had been fabricated by man - the trees, young and meticulously manicured, said so. There wasn't a single sense of nature's feng shui here, yet, the manmade forest was far more beautiful than the asphyxiating atmosphere of Toronto's concrete jungle (except for the thick clouds of mosquitos that didn't understand personal space.)
We wandered past a map on our way to our undiscovered destination. What a huge island this was! Toronto Island boasted a theatre, a small theme park and a small commercial sector loaded with pizza shops and donut stands, as well of miles of paths that cut through the immaculately organized grass patches and sparse forests.
While we journeyed, Hades whipped out the acid and cut a few hits off. The five of us munched our psychedelics and wandered far enough off the beaten path that we felt safe from the civilized section of Toronto Island. After we'd dropped, Fernweh and Scrib absentmindedly wandered off with the bag of wine we'd collectively paid for, but we weren't worried. We'd find them soon enough - with or without the wine. We did find them, but we were hardly prepared for how dire the circumstances would be.
The remainder of the group - me, Hades, Kevin and Squanch - found an inviting patch of grass and graced it with our butts. Kevin promptly impressed me by showing his incredible tolerance to pain by chomping down two of the bhut jolokia (ghost) peppers that I'd bought in Kensington Market. Ghost peppers, bested only by the Trinidad's moruga scorption peppers, are the second spiciest in the world. Merely passing them to Kevin and licking my fingers provides a burn strong enough to cause sweat to bead on my forehead, and I consider myself to be an aficionado of spicy food. Kevin didn't even bat an eye before he chomped and swallowed both of the peppers. Damn.
The four of us set up a fire and began to descend into our psychedelic adventure au francais by roasting up some Hobo Escargot. Squanch found a snail and passed it to Hades, who de-shelled it, popped it on a stick, and cooked it over the fire for a minute. He sprinkled a bit of caesar seasoning and a flake of a ghost pepper onto it and munched it down with a grin.
The sun sank beneath the distant cityscape in Toronto as our minds began to vibrate at an all-too familiar frequency. Unfortunately - as I'd anticipated - this resulted in a massive panic attack for me and I receded into my sleeping bag to try and nap the anxiety off. As any psychonaut knows, sleeping during the peak of an LSD trip is like trying to sleep in a mosh pit - though, instead of being bombarded by elbows and fists you're being attacked by powerful thoughts that leave you far too awake.
This most recent discovery:
Sanity comes in pill form;
Sometimes it helps to have a switch for your brain,
a switch that you can only flip by popping that one last tab.
I pondered the essence of life and my existence while I listened to the conversations that ensued outside my sleeping bag. For six hours I listened as Kevin and Hades spoke. It seemed Squanch, too, was isolating herself from the group for anxious reasons, as her voice was unheard.
I learned much from the two boys. Hades - a philosopher, a deeply curious soul who had grown tired of letting himself be shacked by society's chains - guided the conversations. He knew that here was more for him to see than the charred grill of the restaurant he worked in; he expressed his desires to drop everything and come traveling with me and the boys (a conversation nearly identical to the one that me and Scrib had had a month before.) Hades had been born in South Africa and had thus already traveled halfway across the world, so he figured he might as well explore Canada while he was here.
Hades had a pleasant way of poking at people's inner personalities. He seemed to be bringing Kevin out of his shell; Kevin's "gangster" armor was wearing thin and his soul had begun to leak through the cracks. Soon the two were sharing their opinions on life, love, and laughter. This was a beautiful moment - a classic bonding experience, accentuated by the loving (albeit dangerous) push of acid.
Things would have been much better if the night had stayed this way...
We watched the eye of Toronto Island grow larger with each passing moment as we glided across the harbor. We docked and vacated the vessel.
Stepping foot onto Toronto Island was nowhere near as transcendental of an experience as my last ferry ride. Stepping onto the mainland of Horseshoe Bay after leaving Vancouver Island is always an interesting experience; leaving the serenity of Nanaimo reminds you of how the mainland's been corrupted by the scars that huge cities has left on the country.
We set foot onto what was essentially a massive city park - that happened to be an island. It was fairly obvious that its entirety had been fabricated by man - the trees, young and meticulously manicured, said so. There wasn't a single sense of nature's feng shui here, yet, the manmade forest was far more beautiful than the asphyxiating atmosphere of Toronto's concrete jungle (except for the thick clouds of mosquitos that didn't understand personal space.)
We wandered past a map on our way to our undiscovered destination. What a huge island this was! Toronto Island boasted a theatre, a small theme park and a small commercial sector loaded with pizza shops and donut stands, as well of miles of paths that cut through the immaculately organized grass patches and sparse forests.
While we journeyed, Hades whipped out the acid and cut a few hits off. The five of us munched our psychedelics and wandered far enough off the beaten path that we felt safe from the civilized section of Toronto Island. After we'd dropped, Fernweh and Scrib absentmindedly wandered off with the bag of wine we'd collectively paid for, but we weren't worried. We'd find them soon enough - with or without the wine. We did find them, but we were hardly prepared for how dire the circumstances would be.
The remainder of the group - me, Hades, Kevin and Squanch - found an inviting patch of grass and graced it with our butts. Kevin promptly impressed me by showing his incredible tolerance to pain by chomping down two of the bhut jolokia (ghost) peppers that I'd bought in Kensington Market. Ghost peppers, bested only by the Trinidad's moruga scorption peppers, are the second spiciest in the world. Merely passing them to Kevin and licking my fingers provides a burn strong enough to cause sweat to bead on my forehead, and I consider myself to be an aficionado of spicy food. Kevin didn't even bat an eye before he chomped and swallowed both of the peppers. Damn.
The four of us set up a fire and began to descend into our psychedelic adventure au francais by roasting up some Hobo Escargot. Squanch found a snail and passed it to Hades, who de-shelled it, popped it on a stick, and cooked it over the fire for a minute. He sprinkled a bit of caesar seasoning and a flake of a ghost pepper onto it and munched it down with a grin.
The sun sank beneath the distant cityscape in Toronto as our minds began to vibrate at an all-too familiar frequency. Unfortunately - as I'd anticipated - this resulted in a massive panic attack for me and I receded into my sleeping bag to try and nap the anxiety off. As any psychonaut knows, sleeping during the peak of an LSD trip is like trying to sleep in a mosh pit - though, instead of being bombarded by elbows and fists you're being attacked by powerful thoughts that leave you far too awake.
This most recent discovery:
Sanity comes in pill form;
you can now put your thoughts in your pocket
and carry them around
until you're ready to take a razor to your brain drippings,
lacerating each loose idea,
chopping creativity into the dust of stars.
Sometimes it helps to have a switch for your brain,
a switch that you can only flip by popping that one last tab.
I pondered the essence of life and my existence while I listened to the conversations that ensued outside my sleeping bag. For six hours I listened as Kevin and Hades spoke. It seemed Squanch, too, was isolating herself from the group for anxious reasons, as her voice was unheard.
I learned much from the two boys. Hades - a philosopher, a deeply curious soul who had grown tired of letting himself be shacked by society's chains - guided the conversations. He knew that here was more for him to see than the charred grill of the restaurant he worked in; he expressed his desires to drop everything and come traveling with me and the boys (a conversation nearly identical to the one that me and Scrib had had a month before.) Hades had been born in South Africa and had thus already traveled halfway across the world, so he figured he might as well explore Canada while he was here.
Hades had a pleasant way of poking at people's inner personalities. He seemed to be bringing Kevin out of his shell; Kevin's "gangster" armor was wearing thin and his soul had begun to leak through the cracks. Soon the two were sharing their opinions on life, love, and laughter. This was a beautiful moment - a classic bonding experience, accentuated by the loving (albeit dangerous) push of acid.
Things would have been much better if the night had stayed this way...
Dreams of a Black Man #1
Stupid Car Thieves
The vehicle was hazy, serene, and utterly silent save for the sizzle of the joint`s ember and the rustling of our jackets as we passed the cannon back and forth. If one were to look hard enough, deep within the depths of the smoked out car, the intoxicating fog had encapsulated two slack-jawed, red-eyed males. One flaunted shaggy brown hair and a goofy grin; the other sported a red hat was worn at an angle that was both impossible and awkward. From outside, the sun`s rays were diluted by the ambient, aromatic atmosphere we`d created for ourselves in the sedan.
The smoke was so thick that we weren`t aware of the people standing outside until the door was swung open. The smoke was quickly whisked into the atmosphere, as was the serenity, sanity, and relaxation we`d surrounded ourselves with. The entire mood was sucked out of the car as if the outdoors were a huge vacuum. One of the guys spoke.
“We're stealing your car.”
“Oh,” I answered.
“Yeah. It's okay, though” Two guys and a girl let themselves into the back seat and sat down.
The guy who'd announced their intentions spoke up with a grin. “My name's Jeff,” We shook hands.
“Nigel, nice to meet you. You want to get high?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Sure thing,” I answered, passing him the joint. He grinned and brought the doobie to his lips while I was introduced to the other two.
“So, yeah. We don't really have any weapons,” Jeff said as he passed the doobie around the back seat where they'd taken up residence. “So we figured we're just going to call BCAA and tow the car away from you.”
“Right, sounds good,” I answered, taking the doobie back. The air in the car had thickened again; the humidity of our new passenger's breath mixed with the greensmoke to create a dense, Amsterdam-esque environment.
“Let me just grab my laptop out of the trunk, and any other valuables.”
“Yeah, sure thing man.”
“Really?” I was incredulous. “You'll let me do that?”
“Sure, we don't care.”
“Shit, man! If I was stealing a car I'd go the whole nine yards and take everything in it!”
Jeff shrugged as I popped the trunk. I went and stuffed my laptop back into my pack and returned to the driver's seat.
“Hey, wait,” Jeff mused. “This is a robbery! You guys aren't supposed to feel comfortable. We're supposed to kick you out, or something. Or you can just get out. Either way, you're not supposed to feel comfortable!” He paused and thought for a moment. “We'll just get out, I suppose.”
Jeff and his two accomplices let themselves back out of the car and stood around awkwardly outside.
Peter and me looked at each other with glazed eyes and kept passing the joint until the tow truck showed up.
“Let's get the car towed to Mill Bay!”
I nodded and rolled down the window. “Hey, guys. You should probably get the car towed to my friend Ky's house. That's a great place to take a stolen car.”
“Yeah?” Jeff asked, slowly fading in to visibility as the smoke that separated our faces began to dissipate. “Sounds good, You guys go tell the truck driver how to get there.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
Once the car was rigged up on the tow truck, me and Peter hopped into the cab to give the driver directions. We waved goodbye to the thieves and towed “their” new car to my friend's house, and they waved back stupidly as their potential harvest was towed to somewhere they didn't even know existed.
The vehicle was hazy, serene, and utterly silent save for the sizzle of the joint`s ember and the rustling of our jackets as we passed the cannon back and forth. If one were to look hard enough, deep within the depths of the smoked out car, the intoxicating fog had encapsulated two slack-jawed, red-eyed males. One flaunted shaggy brown hair and a goofy grin; the other sported a red hat was worn at an angle that was both impossible and awkward. From outside, the sun`s rays were diluted by the ambient, aromatic atmosphere we`d created for ourselves in the sedan.
The smoke was so thick that we weren`t aware of the people standing outside until the door was swung open. The smoke was quickly whisked into the atmosphere, as was the serenity, sanity, and relaxation we`d surrounded ourselves with. The entire mood was sucked out of the car as if the outdoors were a huge vacuum. One of the guys spoke.
“We're stealing your car.”
“Oh,” I answered.
“Yeah. It's okay, though” Two guys and a girl let themselves into the back seat and sat down.
The guy who'd announced their intentions spoke up with a grin. “My name's Jeff,” We shook hands.
“Nigel, nice to meet you. You want to get high?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Sure thing,” I answered, passing him the joint. He grinned and brought the doobie to his lips while I was introduced to the other two.
“So, yeah. We don't really have any weapons,” Jeff said as he passed the doobie around the back seat where they'd taken up residence. “So we figured we're just going to call BCAA and tow the car away from you.”
“Right, sounds good,” I answered, taking the doobie back. The air in the car had thickened again; the humidity of our new passenger's breath mixed with the greensmoke to create a dense, Amsterdam-esque environment.
“Let me just grab my laptop out of the trunk, and any other valuables.”
“Yeah, sure thing man.”
“Really?” I was incredulous. “You'll let me do that?”
“Sure, we don't care.”
“Shit, man! If I was stealing a car I'd go the whole nine yards and take everything in it!”
Jeff shrugged as I popped the trunk. I went and stuffed my laptop back into my pack and returned to the driver's seat.
“Hey, wait,” Jeff mused. “This is a robbery! You guys aren't supposed to feel comfortable. We're supposed to kick you out, or something. Or you can just get out. Either way, you're not supposed to feel comfortable!” He paused and thought for a moment. “We'll just get out, I suppose.”
Jeff and his two accomplices let themselves back out of the car and stood around awkwardly outside.
Peter and me looked at each other with glazed eyes and kept passing the joint until the tow truck showed up.
“Let's get the car towed to Mill Bay!”
I nodded and rolled down the window. “Hey, guys. You should probably get the car towed to my friend Ky's house. That's a great place to take a stolen car.”
“Yeah?” Jeff asked, slowly fading in to visibility as the smoke that separated our faces began to dissipate. “Sounds good, You guys go tell the truck driver how to get there.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
Once the car was rigged up on the tow truck, me and Peter hopped into the cab to give the driver directions. We waved goodbye to the thieves and towed “their” new car to my friend's house, and they waved back stupidly as their potential harvest was towed to somewhere they didn't even know existed.
Monday, 16 December 2013
Foreshadow
"Hey, where do I know you from?"
"I dunno. Uhm, you probably know my twin... Dina?"
That was it. I did know Dina - I'd met her briefly in Victoria before our journey had begun. The girl curled up in her jacket, shielded from the wealth of passers-by with her sign (entailing how BROKE and HUNGRY she was, obviously), was Squanch. How I recognized her, I'd never know - seeing her and her sister side-by-side six months in the future would prove that they didn't really look that similar.
Either way, this awkward introduction was enough to spur the beginning of a very interesting relationship. The ensuing conversation revealed that she, too, was interested in delving into the world of psychedelics. She left her hobo partner and joined our crew, adding her subtle, self-conscious voice to the music (noise?) of me and Fern's belligerence, the contemplative ring of Scrib's thought-provoking words, and the excitement of our new friend Hades.
There were five of us now, and we began making our way to the ferry terminal. We'd unanimously agreed to spend the duration of our acid trip on Toronto Island (a laughably named, man-made chunk of dirt that I'd never known to exist before.)
The ferry ride introduced us to another soon-to-be member of our psychedelic journey - Kevin. Kevin was a friend of Hades, and quickly proved himself to be more manly than any of us: he chomped back two of the ghost peppers I'd been smuggling around without so much as shedding (too many) tears. The mere smell of the bag was enough to make most people cry.
Kevin was a thick, put-forward fellow from Barrie, Ontario. His voice was laced with the residual sound of an adolescence cloaked in anger, but it seemed that he was now stepping away from the merciless, soul-crushing grip of gangsterhood. He wore a smile now, but it seemed to mask a childhood of difficult years.
His ability to rectify aggressive situations would come in extremely beneficial later in the evening - but we couldn't have guessed that. For now, our zealous chattering promised a colourful night filled with laughter and philosophy; there was nothing to foreshadow the psychotic and painful spiral that our acid-fueled night would offer. At the time, though, our hopes were high. We watched the eye of the island grow larger with every moment, unprepared for the heinous events that would forever tarnish my memories of Toronto Island.
"I dunno. Uhm, you probably know my twin... Dina?"
That was it. I did know Dina - I'd met her briefly in Victoria before our journey had begun. The girl curled up in her jacket, shielded from the wealth of passers-by with her sign (entailing how BROKE and HUNGRY she was, obviously), was Squanch. How I recognized her, I'd never know - seeing her and her sister side-by-side six months in the future would prove that they didn't really look that similar.
Either way, this awkward introduction was enough to spur the beginning of a very interesting relationship. The ensuing conversation revealed that she, too, was interested in delving into the world of psychedelics. She left her hobo partner and joined our crew, adding her subtle, self-conscious voice to the music (noise?) of me and Fern's belligerence, the contemplative ring of Scrib's thought-provoking words, and the excitement of our new friend Hades.
There were five of us now, and we began making our way to the ferry terminal. We'd unanimously agreed to spend the duration of our acid trip on Toronto Island (a laughably named, man-made chunk of dirt that I'd never known to exist before.)
The ferry ride introduced us to another soon-to-be member of our psychedelic journey - Kevin. Kevin was a friend of Hades, and quickly proved himself to be more manly than any of us: he chomped back two of the ghost peppers I'd been smuggling around without so much as shedding (too many) tears. The mere smell of the bag was enough to make most people cry.
Kevin was a thick, put-forward fellow from Barrie, Ontario. His voice was laced with the residual sound of an adolescence cloaked in anger, but it seemed that he was now stepping away from the merciless, soul-crushing grip of gangsterhood. He wore a smile now, but it seemed to mask a childhood of difficult years.
His ability to rectify aggressive situations would come in extremely beneficial later in the evening - but we couldn't have guessed that. For now, our zealous chattering promised a colourful night filled with laughter and philosophy; there was nothing to foreshadow the psychotic and painful spiral that our acid-fueled night would offer. At the time, though, our hopes were high. We watched the eye of the island grow larger with every moment, unprepared for the heinous events that would forever tarnish my memories of Toronto Island.
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
Shitstorm
Scrib's morning jumpstarted into a confused shitstorm - quite literally. Clenching his buttcheeks, he vaulted from the chair he'd been crumpled up on all night. He had no time analyze his surroundings (other than coming to a quick conclusion that he had no idea where the fuck he was) before he bounded down the staircase of what seemed to be someone's front porch. He hustled into the back yard, exerting every ounce of his haggard consciousness towards keeping these furious turds safe within his bowels. Finally, once he'd leaned up against a fencepost and dropped his trousers, fully exposed and indifferent, he dropped a violent deuce fit for kings.
Relieved, he was met with another problem. He searched the yard for anything he could use as toilet paper and his eyes landed on an old, dewy paperback a dozen feet away. With his pants dangling around his ankles (and hoping that nobody inside whoever's house this was was watching him) he crab-walked over to the book. It was damp, its pages soggy and thus perfectly absorbent, and he wiped with glee before leaving his steaming pile and returning to the porch.
By that time, me and Fernweh had concluded that Aidan had most likely gotten ahold of one of his friends and organized a crash party for us on their front porch. Unfortunately, we had no recollection of who that might be, and Scrib had just shat upon their property, so we decided we ought to leave. The sun, looming overhead, promised an inviting day.
Little did we know how wrong the sun can be.
Since Scrib was trying to dodge the cops, and we'd grown tired of Queen street, we decided we'd bring our obnoxiously polite selves down to King street. We dove into our usual pastime of screaming and bellowing good wishes to passersby from across the street (or yelling pleasant greetings into their faces from mere feet away) earning us many awkward smiles, a few startled jumps and the odd returned greeting. Today, however, something different happened.
Today, our obnoxious pleasantries were received quite well by a young brown man named Hades. In response to our bloodcurdling shrieks of "HI!" and "HELLO!" and "HAVE A GOOD DAY!" he managed to squeeze in a few words. Those words, being: "Hey, guys. Wanna do some acid?"
Relieved, he was met with another problem. He searched the yard for anything he could use as toilet paper and his eyes landed on an old, dewy paperback a dozen feet away. With his pants dangling around his ankles (and hoping that nobody inside whoever's house this was was watching him) he crab-walked over to the book. It was damp, its pages soggy and thus perfectly absorbent, and he wiped with glee before leaving his steaming pile and returning to the porch.
By that time, me and Fernweh had concluded that Aidan had most likely gotten ahold of one of his friends and organized a crash party for us on their front porch. Unfortunately, we had no recollection of who that might be, and Scrib had just shat upon their property, so we decided we ought to leave. The sun, looming overhead, promised an inviting day.
Little did we know how wrong the sun can be.
Since Scrib was trying to dodge the cops, and we'd grown tired of Queen street, we decided we'd bring our obnoxiously polite selves down to King street. We dove into our usual pastime of screaming and bellowing good wishes to passersby from across the street (or yelling pleasant greetings into their faces from mere feet away) earning us many awkward smiles, a few startled jumps and the odd returned greeting. Today, however, something different happened.
Today, our obnoxious pleasantries were received quite well by a young brown man named Hades. In response to our bloodcurdling shrieks of "HI!" and "HELLO!" and "HAVE A GOOD DAY!" he managed to squeeze in a few words. Those words, being: "Hey, guys. Wanna do some acid?"
Monday, 2 December 2013
Throne of Trash
Whether it was the drugs, the perfect form-fitting nature of our environment, or the quality of Toronto's garbage, we couldn't tell. What we could tell, was that we were far more comfortable we'd been since the journey started (except maybe for sprawling out on Carla's double bed back in Calgary.)
On second thought - this was way better.
"Right?" Scrib was in full agreement, and we both leaned back against our garbage bag thrones. We listened to the beating of the wind against the dumpster's steel casing and flashed a condescending grin towards nature. Dumpsters had saved us from the elements again.
Smoking drugs outside had proved difficult. Smoking drugs in here had proved excellent. Once we'd finished the first bowl of our jib, we fell into the most intense and hyper-motivated bro-talk I'd experienced since the days of being an e-tard in high school. We evaluated our entire friendship from the moment we'd accidentally laid eyes on each other at a party years ago; we pin-pointed our positive memories and repented in regard to negative ones; we analyzed and contemplated the reasons we were friends and why we were going to stay that way. We picked apart our contrasting personalities; Scrib's anger and my lax amiability made for an interesting balance - our shared desire in linguistics and freestyle poetry was a fantastic bond, and the fact that we were both introverts stuck trying to thrive in an extrovert's world held us together.
Apparently, however, reliving an entire friendship while smoking meth in a dumpster disorients you. (That's a sentence everyone should be able to say at least once in their lifetime... right?) The next time we checked our clocks and the bag of drugs, we realized that we'd been sitting in our trash castle for almost 45 minutes. 45 minutes that Fernweh had been left waiting in the blustering wind a block away, while we were inadvertently smoking his portion of the drugs. Fuck. There was too much dopamine battering our brains for us to remember how to feel sympathy, but we knew it was time to go back.
We vaulted out of the dumpster and hustled back to Fernweh and our new photographer friend, Aidan (who none of us really seem to remember, save for our lingering Facebook relationship that had sprung up and confused us the next morning.) He remembered us, though.
While me and Scrib had been elatedly experiencing the highest point of our relationship, Aidan and Fernweh had been stranded in the windstorm, their hair slapping their faces and their arms huddled up under their jackets, oblivious to our whereabouts. We tried to buy their acceptance. We didn't say sorry, but we offered the next best thing: food. Before we'd jumped out of the dumpster, we'd ripped open one of the bags and scored ourselves an apology gift - two boxes of KD, an unopened package of microwave popcorn, 2 cans of tuna, and a box of crackers - all prior to expiry. Great!
We'd expected rage, but what we received was worse: disappointment. We passed Fernweh the rest of the drugs and he trudged off into a corner to smoke them by himself. Me and Scrib's buzz hit the ground as guilt wrapped its hands around the euphoria we'd been unjustly experiencing. We watched Fernweh flick his lighter dejectedly while the wind kept beating the flame out, occasionally managing to blow out a meager puff of smoke.
He finished blazing the meth and stood up to walk back towards us. I guess he'd managed to get some decent hoots, because that was where everyone blacked out.
On second thought - this was way better.
"Right?" Scrib was in full agreement, and we both leaned back against our garbage bag thrones. We listened to the beating of the wind against the dumpster's steel casing and flashed a condescending grin towards nature. Dumpsters had saved us from the elements again.
Smoking drugs outside had proved difficult. Smoking drugs in here had proved excellent. Once we'd finished the first bowl of our jib, we fell into the most intense and hyper-motivated bro-talk I'd experienced since the days of being an e-tard in high school. We evaluated our entire friendship from the moment we'd accidentally laid eyes on each other at a party years ago; we pin-pointed our positive memories and repented in regard to negative ones; we analyzed and contemplated the reasons we were friends and why we were going to stay that way. We picked apart our contrasting personalities; Scrib's anger and my lax amiability made for an interesting balance - our shared desire in linguistics and freestyle poetry was a fantastic bond, and the fact that we were both introverts stuck trying to thrive in an extrovert's world held us together.
Apparently, however, reliving an entire friendship while smoking meth in a dumpster disorients you. (That's a sentence everyone should be able to say at least once in their lifetime... right?) The next time we checked our clocks and the bag of drugs, we realized that we'd been sitting in our trash castle for almost 45 minutes. 45 minutes that Fernweh had been left waiting in the blustering wind a block away, while we were inadvertently smoking his portion of the drugs. Fuck. There was too much dopamine battering our brains for us to remember how to feel sympathy, but we knew it was time to go back.
We vaulted out of the dumpster and hustled back to Fernweh and our new photographer friend, Aidan (who none of us really seem to remember, save for our lingering Facebook relationship that had sprung up and confused us the next morning.) He remembered us, though.
While me and Scrib had been elatedly experiencing the highest point of our relationship, Aidan and Fernweh had been stranded in the windstorm, their hair slapping their faces and their arms huddled up under their jackets, oblivious to our whereabouts. We tried to buy their acceptance. We didn't say sorry, but we offered the next best thing: food. Before we'd jumped out of the dumpster, we'd ripped open one of the bags and scored ourselves an apology gift - two boxes of KD, an unopened package of microwave popcorn, 2 cans of tuna, and a box of crackers - all prior to expiry. Great!
We'd expected rage, but what we received was worse: disappointment. We passed Fernweh the rest of the drugs and he trudged off into a corner to smoke them by himself. Me and Scrib's buzz hit the ground as guilt wrapped its hands around the euphoria we'd been unjustly experiencing. We watched Fernweh flick his lighter dejectedly while the wind kept beating the flame out, occasionally managing to blow out a meager puff of smoke.
He finished blazing the meth and stood up to walk back towards us. I guess he'd managed to get some decent hoots, because that was where everyone blacked out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)