It turns out, my dick was ripped in vain. My phallus had be fileted for feeble reasons - there had been an alternate entrace to the alleyway, and my fence-hopping was entirely unnecessary. Mike (the hairless methhead) and his woman were crouched in the alleyway, defending their lighters from the wind in a valiant effort to smoke a bowl. I hopped down, pecker held in a protective hands; explained my situation and joined them in blazing a bowl. The smoke hit my mouth like a tsunami of bleached marshmallows; tissues within my throat and lung seemed to peel from the bones they rested on. The hands of the Grim Reaper clawed at the inside of my trachea, damning my cilia and promising them an early grave.
We proceeded out the exit, each yammering about topics that we found far more interesting than they ever should have been. Words tumbled from our mouths but neglected to make their way into anyone`s brains - instead we vomited sentences like verbose volcanoes, witnessing wasted wordplay as it fell flat onto the concrete.
Acid and speed always makes for an interesting combination. The open-eye visuals from the LSD were drastically hindered (doubly so today, on account of acid's merciless tolerance and our experience the night before.) The mindset, however, remained. I was electrified, an energetic enigma, ready to blabber and babble about on-the-spot philosophies that my inebriation convinced me was worthy to rival Socrates.
We returned to the yellow mattress with the rest of our friends and chatted (read: exploded with hyper-fueled conversation fillers) until sunset, until one by one the group began to fall silent. I'd been right - the trip was nothing beneficial. There'd been laughs, there'd been debauchery, that was about it. Not a bad night, but usually on a drug bender I'm at least able to reformat the brain cells that I'm not killing, so they can adapt a new perspective, or absorb some new knowledge. Tonight, they just died.
We began to fall into the sleeplike stupor one finds themselves in after an acid trip, though a few remained awake. I listened to their conversations as I watched a screen of LED lights battle across the galaxies painted on my eyelids; Voyagers struck down Enterprises, cosmoses rose and fell at my will. The conversations outside my world seemed pretty dull in comparison, but I noticed a recurring pattern: the voices seemed to be debating the same views. How could two people argue the same point so vehemently?
"I fucking love drugs."
"No, I LOVE drugs."
The voices continued arguing a series of similar viewpoints until the jaded conversation came to consist of shouts of "I'm FUCKING AWESOME!" I opened my eyes to see who was flaunting their excellence and was blown away to see tha Tyler had been the only one talking this whole time. He'd been standing by himself in the middle of the street, hootin' and hollerin' with enough vigor for me to believe he'd been an entire gang of retards.
"I smoke weed, so much weed, I SMOKE MORE WEED THAN THE MOON WEIGHS NIGGA."
Baffled by his inflated head, his stupidity, and his insatiable desire to advocate himiself to the world, I lay incredulous until sunrise, when he finally returned to the cuddle puddle and started fondling the only single girl here - Squanch. I gauged the situation before deciding not to intervene - Squanch's chuckled "no's," spoke no ill, they spoke only of carnal desires that couldn't be filled in front of a group of hobos. Stage fright?
Eventually the situation blossomed into more defiant "no's," a flurry of mixed messages, confusion, and not enough punches to the head. Squanch's "no's," combined with her positive body language left a lingering scent of irritation and confusion in the air so the group ignored her and Tyler's malfunctioning flirt session and returned to their dozes. The next morning found everyone clothed, happy (if not haggard) and ready to move on.
Sunday, 12 January 2014
A Jibtech's Journey
When you're on top of the fence, the grass doesn't look too green on either side.
With our heads held high with hopes for Fernweh's safety, Squanch and I sauntered back to the park where we'd left Scrib and Hades. Kensington park was always an bustling, odd place - plump moms walked their babies past jabbering jib-techs, creating a stark contrast between the addicted and the inspiring. Kengsinton - despite the high concentration of drug fiends - was a kind of haven. It'd be unlikely to find conflict here unless you went looking for it.
Apart from druggies swooning MILFs, there was also a pile of hobos conglomerating on a massive yellow foam mattress by the side of the park. This is where we found Scrib, Hades, and a host of other weirdos that Hades seemed to know. Tyler was there, a narcisisstic oogle
oogle: (n.) street kids with no street knowledge; or individuals who resorts to the street lifestyle as a method to inflate the ego; panhandling to be "cool," fantasizing about hopping trains to feel "worthy." Often oogles have homes available to them with food, electricity and shelter. Essentially, wanna-be veteran hobo.
whose ego would later be the source of our evening's amusement; Sara, a smiley and thoroughly promiscuous girl who would later become very close to (part of our) crew, and some bald dude who was too deep into crystal meth for anyone his age (or any age, for that matter) to be. The rest of the group, filling the remaining spots on the mattress, failed to fill a spot in my memory.
This would be quite an interesting crew to explore psychedelics with. It'd be up to us to maintain any mental productivity - the collective IQ of this group seemed to gravitate towards the double digits. Nay, this would not be a night to evolve, this was to be a night o fdebauchery, cheap laughs and feeling "cool."
Haces was quick to dish out tabs of LSD, but before we dropped, Ogre appeared. Ah, Ogre... if ever a dealer was prophetic, it was him - a poet and wordsmith, synchronous with the city's desires - Ogre would always appear when you needed drugs (or, in this case, when you didn't need them.) Regardless, he offered us a deal on speed that we couldn't refuse. Had he shown up twenty minutes later, the acid would have been in full blast and we would've declined, but I took up his offer. Sometimes I feel like Ogre bent the will of causality to make sure he was in the best places to make sales at the best times.
Scrib, still offset by the injuries he'd caused Fernweh, declined my offer to smoke the jib and remained silent, seated on the ground next to the mattress. Even though he'd broken my other husband, it was painful to see him dealing with such guilt. My heart went out to the both of them, my distaste went out to the idiocy of their arguments.
On my journey to find a smoke spot, I encountered the overwhelming stench of heroin wafting from a building next to me. It seemed like an Asian activity centre; signs baring Chinese letters hung atop the roof and a herd of chairs sat unoccupied in an ampitheatre-esque room. I stepped inside. The building was vacant except for two very lethargic Asians, slumped in rickety chairs at the front of the hall. The lingering stench of heroin told me that I'd just stepped into an opium den.
I racistly assumed that the two Asian folk wouldn't understand me if I asked them for heroin (or a bathroom to smoke drugs) so I left. The next place I stepped into was a restaurant owned by a fat Italian cunt who was ignorant to my needs to "relieve myself of this explosive diarrhea." He told me to find somewhere else, I told him "fuck you, I'll just shit in your back alley." I don't know why I didn't just drop my pants and deuce right there, but something held me back. Instead, I got antsy and decided to blast my speed in the next available spot - indoor or outdoor.
Unfortunately, that spot happened to be on the other side of an arched, wrought iron gate. Somehow, I hoisted myself up and over it, but I managed to flip myself upside down and tangle myself in the arched section of the fence. In a flailed attempt to disarm myself from the fence's grip, my dick got caught on one of the arches the instant I unlatched myself. As I tumbled downwards, my poor schlong stretched beyond reasonable dick-stretching limits and snapped back like a broken guitar string. I was rewarded with a new phallic scar, and a surprise: two of the kids we'd dropped acid with were already in the alleyway, and they were toking speed too!
With our heads held high with hopes for Fernweh's safety, Squanch and I sauntered back to the park where we'd left Scrib and Hades. Kensington park was always an bustling, odd place - plump moms walked their babies past jabbering jib-techs, creating a stark contrast between the addicted and the inspiring. Kengsinton - despite the high concentration of drug fiends - was a kind of haven. It'd be unlikely to find conflict here unless you went looking for it.
Apart from druggies swooning MILFs, there was also a pile of hobos conglomerating on a massive yellow foam mattress by the side of the park. This is where we found Scrib, Hades, and a host of other weirdos that Hades seemed to know. Tyler was there, a narcisisstic oogle
oogle: (n.) street kids with no street knowledge; or individuals who resorts to the street lifestyle as a method to inflate the ego; panhandling to be "cool," fantasizing about hopping trains to feel "worthy." Often oogles have homes available to them with food, electricity and shelter. Essentially, wanna-be veteran hobo.
whose ego would later be the source of our evening's amusement; Sara, a smiley and thoroughly promiscuous girl who would later become very close to (part of our) crew, and some bald dude who was too deep into crystal meth for anyone his age (or any age, for that matter) to be. The rest of the group, filling the remaining spots on the mattress, failed to fill a spot in my memory.
This would be quite an interesting crew to explore psychedelics with. It'd be up to us to maintain any mental productivity - the collective IQ of this group seemed to gravitate towards the double digits. Nay, this would not be a night to evolve, this was to be a night o fdebauchery, cheap laughs and feeling "cool."
Haces was quick to dish out tabs of LSD, but before we dropped, Ogre appeared. Ah, Ogre... if ever a dealer was prophetic, it was him - a poet and wordsmith, synchronous with the city's desires - Ogre would always appear when you needed drugs (or, in this case, when you didn't need them.) Regardless, he offered us a deal on speed that we couldn't refuse. Had he shown up twenty minutes later, the acid would have been in full blast and we would've declined, but I took up his offer. Sometimes I feel like Ogre bent the will of causality to make sure he was in the best places to make sales at the best times.
Scrib, still offset by the injuries he'd caused Fernweh, declined my offer to smoke the jib and remained silent, seated on the ground next to the mattress. Even though he'd broken my other husband, it was painful to see him dealing with such guilt. My heart went out to the both of them, my distaste went out to the idiocy of their arguments.
On my journey to find a smoke spot, I encountered the overwhelming stench of heroin wafting from a building next to me. It seemed like an Asian activity centre; signs baring Chinese letters hung atop the roof and a herd of chairs sat unoccupied in an ampitheatre-esque room. I stepped inside. The building was vacant except for two very lethargic Asians, slumped in rickety chairs at the front of the hall. The lingering stench of heroin told me that I'd just stepped into an opium den.
I racistly assumed that the two Asian folk wouldn't understand me if I asked them for heroin (or a bathroom to smoke drugs) so I left. The next place I stepped into was a restaurant owned by a fat Italian cunt who was ignorant to my needs to "relieve myself of this explosive diarrhea." He told me to find somewhere else, I told him "fuck you, I'll just shit in your back alley." I don't know why I didn't just drop my pants and deuce right there, but something held me back. Instead, I got antsy and decided to blast my speed in the next available spot - indoor or outdoor.
Unfortunately, that spot happened to be on the other side of an arched, wrought iron gate. Somehow, I hoisted myself up and over it, but I managed to flip myself upside down and tangle myself in the arched section of the fence. In a flailed attempt to disarm myself from the fence's grip, my dick got caught on one of the arches the instant I unlatched myself. As I tumbled downwards, my poor schlong stretched beyond reasonable dick-stretching limits and snapped back like a broken guitar string. I was rewarded with a new phallic scar, and a surprise: two of the kids we'd dropped acid with were already in the alleyway, and they were toking speed too!
Thursday, 9 January 2014
Cracked Friendships
A choice to cloud your judgement is redundant.
We were awoken by a paramedic the next morning. She was standing next to a slouched Fernweh who wore a deathly grimace and pale skin. The paramedic was far from her natural habitat, surrounded by dirty backpacks, crumpled sleeping bags, escargot remains and smoking embers.
I snapped to alertness - Fernweh wasn't one to make acquaintances with medical personnel. He hated hospitals - their presence, their power, the people who worked for them, the people who suffered in them. He'd always told me that he'd rather die than check into a medical facility, so I was more than worried about how he was doing.
"I've got to take this guy to the hospital."
The paramedic's words, like icicles, solidified my fears. We hadn't known Scrib had hit Fernweh that hard. His slaps, while sting-worthy, hadn't seemed too powerful. I was even more blown away that Fern was accepting the help. He must have been in a bad state.
The paramedic had found Fern wandering Toronto Island by himself, wheezing like a malfunctioning grandpa, and had done a quick checkup. Her resulting assumption was that his sternum was cracked, broken by an intense blow. The entire group glanced at Scrib (undoubtedly invoking curiosity within the paramedic) but said nothing. Scrib didn't so much as blink.
After the paramedic hauled Fernweh away, we packed up our stuff and started a largely silent walk back towards the ferry terminal. Scrib's face slowly fell into a fearful grimace. Was it fear for Fernweh's safety? Or a fear that he'd stepped over the line and lost some good friends? Perhaps (and more likely) he was afraid of the demons that hibernated within his soul, scratching the surface, craving fresh air and howling to be set free.
A line had, indeed, been crossed. The line had been crossed so far that it couldn't even be seen - but we could not be too enraged. Fernweh and I had known that this would happen - Scrib was our friend, and we loved him. That being said, we knew the repercussive effects of drinking with him, and we stood by him in that - but Fernweh had been unwise to drink four litres of wine with him. Like juggling dynamite over a bonfire, things could take a turn for the worse.
Along the way, somehow we decided to drop more acid (Scrib exempt) but we figured we'd get back to Toronto, check up on Fernweh in the hospital, and grab a case of beer beforehand.
After a short ferry ride and another stint of Hades' generosity (he'd already supplied acid and our ferry tickets) we had a case of beer in our hands. We hustled towards the hospital, but Scrib declined to journey the entire way. His words were laced with regret, but he spoke no word of apology and said he'd wait for us at the park. Hades decided to join him. Squanch and I left the case of beer with them and brought three - one for each of us and one to smuggle in for Fernweh.
He wasn't at the hospital. The nurse said he hadn't been registered; she called the other hospital and he wasn't there either. I assumed he'd either used a fake name or was still in E.R., so we figured we'd check back tomorrow - hopefully he'd be out by then.
We slammed his beer on the way back to the park, a cheer to battles lost and futures won.
We were awoken by a paramedic the next morning. She was standing next to a slouched Fernweh who wore a deathly grimace and pale skin. The paramedic was far from her natural habitat, surrounded by dirty backpacks, crumpled sleeping bags, escargot remains and smoking embers.
I snapped to alertness - Fernweh wasn't one to make acquaintances with medical personnel. He hated hospitals - their presence, their power, the people who worked for them, the people who suffered in them. He'd always told me that he'd rather die than check into a medical facility, so I was more than worried about how he was doing.
"I've got to take this guy to the hospital."
The paramedic's words, like icicles, solidified my fears. We hadn't known Scrib had hit Fernweh that hard. His slaps, while sting-worthy, hadn't seemed too powerful. I was even more blown away that Fern was accepting the help. He must have been in a bad state.
The paramedic had found Fern wandering Toronto Island by himself, wheezing like a malfunctioning grandpa, and had done a quick checkup. Her resulting assumption was that his sternum was cracked, broken by an intense blow. The entire group glanced at Scrib (undoubtedly invoking curiosity within the paramedic) but said nothing. Scrib didn't so much as blink.
After the paramedic hauled Fernweh away, we packed up our stuff and started a largely silent walk back towards the ferry terminal. Scrib's face slowly fell into a fearful grimace. Was it fear for Fernweh's safety? Or a fear that he'd stepped over the line and lost some good friends? Perhaps (and more likely) he was afraid of the demons that hibernated within his soul, scratching the surface, craving fresh air and howling to be set free.
A line had, indeed, been crossed. The line had been crossed so far that it couldn't even be seen - but we could not be too enraged. Fernweh and I had known that this would happen - Scrib was our friend, and we loved him. That being said, we knew the repercussive effects of drinking with him, and we stood by him in that - but Fernweh had been unwise to drink four litres of wine with him. Like juggling dynamite over a bonfire, things could take a turn for the worse.
Along the way, somehow we decided to drop more acid (Scrib exempt) but we figured we'd get back to Toronto, check up on Fernweh in the hospital, and grab a case of beer beforehand.
After a short ferry ride and another stint of Hades' generosity (he'd already supplied acid and our ferry tickets) we had a case of beer in our hands. We hustled towards the hospital, but Scrib declined to journey the entire way. His words were laced with regret, but he spoke no word of apology and said he'd wait for us at the park. Hades decided to join him. Squanch and I left the case of beer with them and brought three - one for each of us and one to smuggle in for Fernweh.
He wasn't at the hospital. The nurse said he hadn't been registered; she called the other hospital and he wasn't there either. I assumed he'd either used a fake name or was still in E.R., so we figured we'd check back tomorrow - hopefully he'd be out by then.
We slammed his beer on the way back to the park, a cheer to battles lost and futures won.
Demons to Demons pt. 2
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."
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."
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.
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