I stood on the sidewalk eating a candy bar, dark oozing chocolate, appeasing my appetite for sex and company. Spring chirped in the trees as berries blossomed. People bustled by with sideways looks at the anomaly with the candy bar accepting the moment for what it was…. just a moment. I thought about possibly going to a movie or smoking some crack. The marijuana was wearing off because I couldn’t fight off my voracious appetite and ended up killing my buzz. I dispelled the idea of crack because crack is a high maintenance forced social undertaking, and I’m asocial by nature. So, I chose the movie. At the theater, my options were limited to mindless violence, predictable mystery, or some creepy animated movie about underwear and socks with human traits battling it out for dominion over the dresser drawer. I chose mindless violence. It complimented the resonating candy bar. After the movie, I felt Zen-focused; and believed, with a little work, I might be able to become an asskickingmercenaryninja. I filed through the Rolodex of my mind and systematically chopped and kicked my enemies to death, going all the way back to the first grade where I chopped Kyle Boogermun in the neck for calling me a pigeon-toed nose-picker. As I walked through the theater lobby I noticed, once in a while, someone would smile at me. This struck me odd, for I never give birth to smiles. Not even implied smiles I see in the eyes of others exists within mine. The buck stops here. I noticed, near the exit, there stood an elderly woman and a very attractive girl, a hipster chick, standing in what looked to be an uncomfortable silence, like the experience was some kind of oral exam that they hadn’t prepared for. I pictured myself walking right up to the old broad, grabbing her Cary Grant-style, and laying a huge tonguer on her and smacking my chops as I turn to the hipster chick and say, “Whatcha think ’bout that, baby?”, then dropping granny on the stale discarded popcorn-crumbled carpet. But of course, I just walked on out into the cool sterile spring evening. I had to hurry to the nearest bus stop. I didn’t have a watch and the buses stopped running at dusk. I didn’t wait long before my bus squealed to a halt and swallowed me up. The bus was empty save for a petite girl of the dope fiend persuasion. I stayed my distance, but kept her in my periphery for entertainment. She didn’t look awful bad, except for a tad bit of grease and dirt clogging her pores. I imagined myself offering her a place to crash and helping her kick; to my surprise she turns out quite beautiful and, incidentally, the daughter of a prominent doctor who was eternally grateful to me for saving his darling daughter. But my dream disintegrated as I noticed the girl’s index finger probing for foreign matter in her nasal cavity. Such is life. I opened the door of my one bedroom apartment with a jingle of my sparse keyring. In the dim evening glow, I suddenly realized my melancholy approaching critical mass. There happened to be a cure in my freezer, but it was also karmic chemical Russianroulette: Jesus Christ. I had ten hits of primo blotter acid, aptly named Jesus Christ, stashed away for days like this. One hit would have shook my funk, but I opted for two to shake it felony status. Now, most would advise against heavy solo trips with a melancholy segue, but I happen to think heavy solo trips are better, and much cheaper, than psychoanalysis. Besides, the cockroaches in my hovel constitute a mass entity sensitive to my subtle psychic ejaculations; that’s all one really needs, if you think about it, just a sentient audience. Without contemplation, I laid two hits of Christ, juxtaposed, on my tongue. Sizzle…. no turning back. Before a heavy trip into the unknown, I like to meditate to lubricate; focus and hone in on the mission at hand. In this particular case the mission was to keep my sanity for the next twelve to sixteen hours. I found my place for sitting and positioned my zafu meditation pillow on my brown meditation mat. I sat half-lotus (I’m a novice, compared to some) and pulled the imaginary string from my crown chakra to align all of my chakras for optimum airflow. Butterflies were already fluttering so I began my focus count, and slid into my personal mantra, “still the mind.” Twenty minutes in, and the world was breathing with me. I became aware of every tactile sensation on my skin. I felt my nose break away from my eyes, and had to quit the meditation before I was carried off into parts yet unknown. My stomach seemed to be perpetually tensed-up. The evening hue had darkened into a mixture of swirling reds and greens that emanated off the surface of all reality. I switched on the lamp by my couch and it was a cheap blow to my senses. Audio hallucinations crept in behind the veil of actual sound; the sounds of the city streets outside and the multiple vibrations reverberating from the dwellings attached to my own. I had been standing in the middle of my living room for an interminable block of time when the phone suddenly burst forth with a mighty ring stimulating deep dagger stabs of paranoia. ‘What time is it? I don’t even have a fuckin’ clock. I may as well talk to the Devil, or whoever it is.’ These thoughts ran at light-speed through my ravaged mind as I made the mistake of picking up the receiver. “Hello?” “Yes. May I speak with Jeremy Matheson?” It was a damned bill collector! I came close to gagging on what I believed to be the epitome of a capitalist technocracy. I thought quicker than I ever believed possible, and came up with a whopper, “Oh , Jeremy? It’s so sad what’s happened.” “I’m sorry, has something happened to Mr. Matheson?” “You haven’t heard? Jeremy has passed away. He acquired Legionnaires’ Disease from not cleaning out his coffee pot. The world is so cruel sometimes. Consequently, I haven’t drank a drop of coffee since I learned of Jeremy’s condition.” I was getting a little too deep in the shit. “Really? Well…. I’m with C&C credit; and if you could send us a copy of his death certificate…” Click. I hung up. The guy had sounded saturated in Old Sod cologne. The sons-of-bitches just couldn’t get it through their greedy little noggins that I’m broke. The only thing I had in the world was my t.v. They could have it if they really wanted it; hell they would be doing me a great service getting rid of my Devil Box. Speaking of which, I needed some distraction. It was getting incredibly hard to swallow. I had this dry, insipid sensation in my mouth making it’s way into my gullet and I abruptly became keenly aware of my bowels. What lowly castes of creatures would inhabit my digestive tract? A vision of a tapeworm squirming through the quagmire of my intestines invaded the inner sanctum of my mind. I needed the Devil Box. I clicked on my twenty-eight inch view screen to the outside world, and an eerie ultraviolet glow permeated and swirled with the light of the lamp, so I turned the lamp off for optimum influence. I eased myself into position in my “T.V. Chair” a Goodwill plaid special. I felt, from the cloth of the chair, that a lonely bitter senior citizen had spent a lot of time sunken in that seat. I suddenly felt what it would be like to have false teeth slipping around inside my mouth. I needed to floss more. I flipped the stations, in proper attention-deficit fashion, when I happened upon a magnificent display of human achievement, figure skating. I was immediately sucked into an ultraviolet display of ice and femininity. A solo female skater glided in cadence to a symphony. A muscular goddess with a Minnie Mouse demeanor delivered triple sow-cows and double-axles with the grace of the best stripper in Vegas. I could feel the Earth shudder along with the ripple of her tutu adorned flanks as she landed on the ice kicking up enough shavings for an orgasmic Slurpee. I suddenly had an overwhelming need to urinate. I loathe my bathroom when I’m tripping. The mirror sucks me in every time. I thought maybe the sensation to urinate was a trick of the mind, as sometimes is the case; but another sharp pain in my nether regions let me know that it was the real deal. I wish I were barbaric enough to go in a milk jug like Kesey did in, “Demon Box”. But, alas, I’ve been domesticated. My bathroom was incredibly bright, and in desperate need of a good cleaning. It looked like a Mexican prison cell. I tried desperately not to look into the mirror on my way to the toilet, but I caught a glimpse, which was enough. Damn my domineering ego. I shook off my stream with a resonating shudder, and felt quite relieved when the magnetic mirror began to tug at my vulnerable psyche. I walked towards it, averting my eyes, but the compulsion to look was too powerful and I slowly brought my gaze even with my image. I first noticed the huge gaping holes, that were supposed to be pores, pulsating greasy multi-colored fractals. My eyes and nose jutted out separating from my face and rotated counter-clockwise with geometrical swirls of nothingness hovering in my reflection. At this point, I looked more like a lizard than a man. But then I realized I was smiling. That was odd because I was slightly horrified at the moment, believing I must have been some kind of sideshow freak in the eyes of my peers. I couldn’t see how any woman would be remotely attracted to the monstrosity peering back at me. I graduated from horrified to petrified when I realized I had been laughing and talking to myself for an indeterminable amount of time. I had gone insane. There was no turning back; my ego was raping me. I closed my eyelids to cut the umbilical cord of vision and experienced the ultimate phantasmagoric color show. Fractal grins from Hindu demons posed, melted, only to reappear. I enforced my mantra, “still the mind”, and eventually, images of jeweled elephants flowed in and out, carrying gods on their backs. A diamond sun rose on the horizon of an ancient sea, and a foreign fruit-taste flooded my mind as I discovered love once more. I opened my eyes to find myself only an inch or two away from the mirror, this disrupted my newly found altered state, so I swiftly escaped the uncomfortable confines of my bathroom. I was standing in my hallway when an indefatigable pounding noise permeated through my apartment slinging me back into a state of terror. Someone knocked at my door. I shuffled, achingly, to the door, and leaned towards the crack and whispered, “What is it,” with a mouse-like squeak. I realized my stupidity and immediately overcompensated by screaming, “What do you want, man?!” “Could you burn your evening down?” Can I burn my evening down? I believed the devil was playing some sick adolescent prank on me. “Turn your television down, please. My wife has to work in the morning.” Shit! My Devil box was almost deafening. I rushed over and clumsily shut off the source of the calamity. “Sorry, man,” I called out to my disgruntled neighbor. I breathed a little easier when I heard the door slam across the hall. I desperately needed music. Fortunately, I had headphones. My stereo is an out-of-date cassette player from the late eighties, but my buzz had no particulars at the moment. I set it off with some Jane’s Addiction, “Pigs in Zen.” Heavy sensual blasts of mysticism mixed with musk, while in the background I hallucinated audio screams and whip-cracks, (or did I). Perry Farrel cut deep into my limbic region carrying lyrics to virgin territory. I shut my eyes and visions of human immolation in the fiery pits of a volcano morphed in and out of my third eye. I followed up with Pink Floyd’s, “Animals” and transported on a journey of piercing guitars in theme to visions of anthropomorphic hordes of beasts running across green pastures, consuming all in their wake. Then, I was ready to experience what Hendrix had to offer…. After going to a place that transcends mere mortal observation only a demigod could justifiably translate, I desperately needed fresh air; even if it was city air. I was peaking, surfing the apex. I crept out of my apartment like a disheartened cat burglar that has stepped in dog shit, descended the stairway like a freshly healed paraplegic at a tent revival. The outside air was crisp, and shockingly cold; for all I adorned was a well worn Black Sabbath tee-shirt and jeans. My vision blurred as my serotonin adjusted. I heard, to my right, a muddled conversation, then the slam of a car door as an engine revved off. “What you be doin’ out heah this time o monin’?”sounded an invisible bass voice from between two parked cars. “Who, me?” “Nah. The otha dumb white dude in a tee-shut standin’ next tah ya.” “I’m just getting a breath of fresh air.” “I-I-I just gettin’ a breath o fresh aya,”he said mockingly. “Pecka-wood mothafucka.” I just looked at the ground and gave up trying to locate the source of the hateful voice. It took about a half-second to realize that the air wasn’t as fresh as I had originally thought; so I headed back into my depressing domicile. I could faintly hear a few chuckles and muffled,”motherfuckers” as I ascended, dejectedly, up my stairway. I climbed the stairs with a deep feeling of violation. It was my neighborhood, too. They could sling all the damned dope they wanted; I didn’t care. Just because I was a little white guy, they believed me to be weak. Maybe the next time I would go outside wearing a kilt, swirling a mace above my head, and bludgeon them all like Braveheart or some shit. Whatever happened to the warriors? My ancestors would have crushed those guys and left their corpses for carrion. I felt like the domesticated poodle longing in my deepest instincts for the raw hunt, the savage kill. I needed transcendental meditation. I felt like I had been out of my abode for a lifetime. My dwelling, the extension of my being. I really needed to clean. When I crossed the threshold, I got down on the carpet and rolled around to get the feel of Me; to get intimate with the parasites, the dust mites who viewed me through their….eyes? It was me, my true self, in the muck. “Get to know your provider,” I screamed in my mind, “Get familiar with the god of apartment G1. I’m a loving god, a mighty generous deity!” I had gone completely insane. I got into position on my mat and zafu. My joints ached from the tension of the trip. I pulled the “string,” took a breath, and went immediately into my mantra, “still the mind.” The events of the day played out in slightly exaggerated fashion as they flashed through my mind. Then, a light began to shine from somewhere. It was filled with warmth and held the presence of countless beings, all connected by one ultimate entity. Millions of voices whispered affirmations into my third eye as I transported to the infinite Now. Much better. Now. It was morning time again. It was time to wind up and wind things down. As I once again descended my stairway to greet another day, I welcomed all who wished to join me on a vicarious jaunt through a much smaller universe with much larger wanderings. The sun shone incredibly bright, and Spring chirped in the trees as I stepped out of another day.
I’d like to thank Paul for posting this short story. It was one of my first. I apologize for the lack of paragraph separation. I sent Paul a screwed up file; and while he may be super smart, he’s not a mind reader. I hope I didn’t cause any psychedelic mental mash ups! Thanks again, Paul. And it’s good to know we have a talented cat reeling in the chaos in our Department of Post-Reality Studies…
I did find it a bit hectic at first but it’s a really good story.