On Wednesday, my mind expanded and contracted.
Grayson prepared mushroom tea for two, and we sipped out hot drinks hesitantly. The taste of the mushrooms brought me back to around a year and a half ago, when I first ate them. That time was part revelation, part disappointment, as euphoria and visual effects led to awful stomach pain and an odd depressive state. This time, though...anything but disappointing.
After the mushrooms started to kick in, Max, Grayson, and I went on a walk through Long Beach. As we walked along the sidewalks of the residential streets, the world exploded with color. The houses in the neighborhood are small, mid-century homes with vibrant painted colors - blues, purples, greens. I continuously stopped with a child-like "Oh wow!", to pick the spiky seeds off of a tree, or look at flowers, or marvel at the day-glo luminosity of the houses. I couldn't help but smile the entire time.
Once back at the apartment, I settled into a beanbag in Grayson's room and stared at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes, the stucco swirling in baroque, ever-changing patterns, sometimes appearing translucent, allowing me to somehow see beyond. We put on Shpongle, an electronic group who make music specifically for tripping, and Koyanisqaatsi.
For a good hour or so, I lay on the beanbag, swaddled in blankets, watching the backs of my eyelids. The imagery was so vibrant I often questioned whether my eyes were truly closed. Figures appeared to be standing above my lying body, sometimes beckoning, sometimes making gruesome faces. Many of them were inexplicably Asian. I puzzled at the thought that I was somehow subconsciously birthing these images, that any image ever seen in my mind's eye is purely the work of my imagination. As the visual effects began to wear off, I opened my eyes and found that, as I stared at Grayson's face, his eyes were mouths, moving with each word he spoke. Didn't bother me at all.
So, yeah, I had a good time.
A week or so prior, Grayson and I went on an adventure about Long Beach, going to a bookstore, record store, and vegan restaurant. The bookstore was one of those used types brimming with old paperbacks and dust, seemingly unorganized rows upon rows. In the back I found a few boxes inexplicably filled with some stranger's memorabilia from times past - old photos, a standard reply to a letter sent to John F. Kennedy, ancient football programs. Amongst it all, I found a number of pieces of black construction paper, glued to which were old photographs from what seems to be the teens to the 1920s and 30s. I was enamored by enough of these pictures that I bought a handful of them for five bucks. Here are some of my favorites:
( I wish I knew who these people were, or areCollapse )
A reminder for things to talk about next time, for it is far too late now to squeeze them in:
- John Featherstone
Until next time, though, those topics shall remain murky and unexplored. Much love to everyone; comment and let me know you exist.