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Post Cards - Section 2 The Freer I Get, The Higher I Go. The Higher I Go, The More I See. The More I See, The Less I Know. The Less I Know, The More I’m Free.
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Following, are the accounts of two distinct episodes/events from different periods of my life which I believe are necessary, by way of background appreciation of some of the formative influences which definitely shaped my life to come. The first occurred over the period of time between 1956 –1958. The second one took place some nine to ten years thereafter.
- 1 -
-Whittler’s Mother-
It was a warm and muggy summer’s day. The hot August air hung like mosquito netting, as it locked each of us in its stifling embrace. But back then, to a naïve and sheltered middleclass 11year-old boy from Brooklyn, who was gloriously attending summer camp in the Narrowsburg section of upstate New York, all of life, including its prevailing atmosphere, was simply a forest full of wonder. The earth itself was one giant, fragrant laboratory, with any number of hidden mysteries awaiting instant discovery. Camp Chappegat, one of a necklace of campsites surrounding Rock Lake, was but a singular entity comprising a larger aggregate. Collectively referred to as T.M.R., Ten Mile River Boy Scout Camp, together with it’s sister camps, Kunnitah, and Ippitongah--each named after one of the long lost Delaware Indian tribes--participated in a series of subtle whisperings whose untold secrets straddled the surrounding hills and echoed through them like so many unspoken promises. Each whistle of the wind, as it swooshed its way through the needles of the pine trees, was yet another affirmation--one more deafeningly silent testament to the omnipresent spirit of impending revelation. Three comrades, one whittling a neckerchief slide, the other two selecting walking sticks from the myriad number of fallen tree limbs cast upon the ground, made their way to the ballfields after dinner. Free Time at last! Free Time at last! Great God Almighty! It’s Free Time at last! Free Time: The wonderfully, unstructured period of time following dinner, and preceding the evening’s regularly scheduled activities. Yes, after all the day’s knots had been tied; after every lean-tu had been securely lashed together; after every footpath through the woods had been hiked; after all work toward various and sundry merit badges had been completed, here it was at last--the one and one half hour perfect pocket of freedom wherein one could do whatever he wished--where a boy could simply be a boy. No, rather where he could simply… Be! Evidently, lots of others chose the same venue, for as we neared the field we noticed many different groups, each engaged in some familiar form of play. One of these groups in particular caught the whittler’s eye, as they appeared to be playing a different kind of game, a game which none of the comrades had ever seen before. There was a circle of boys raptly enthralled by the activity taking place in its center. Pushing their way in until they at last became part of the circumference, the three comrades watched, mesmerized, as the following scene unfolded. One scout knelt down and began slowly and deliberately, inhaling and exhaling, in a deep and almost rhythmic pattern. After 10 or so of these cycles, one of the other scouts, an older boy well into his teens, approached quietly from behind. Giving him a slight tap on his shoulder, the kneeler abruptly stood up and, throwing his arms into the air, held his breath, as the older boy reached around from behind and encircled his chest in a vice like grip. After a few seconds, the former kneeler’s arms began slowly dropping, until at last he collapsed, falling backwards into his embracer’s supporting arms, who gently lowered him to the ground where he appeared to be fast asleep. Whoah, now! What’s going on here? Let me see. Let me watch and learn. What is this game? Can anyone play? "Ha Ha, I did it! Magic! I put him to sleep. Whoooohoo! He’s sound asleep! Absolutely out cold… I told you! … I told you I could do it!… Ha Ha!" The whittler watched transfixed, as, out like a light, a sort of humming sound began to emerge from somewhere deep within the "sleeping" scout’s prone body. Then, after what seemed like a few seconds, there was an audible inrushing of air--a Whoooooshhhh!--as Rip Van Winkle now came suddenly jerking back into wakefulness. What the??? Now this was really something else. Nothing in his limited realm of experience had prepared him for this. What ever possibly could? Curiosity building, he moved closer and closer in toward the center of the circle, where he watched in fascination, as the older boy repeated his astounding feat on yet another volunteer. Same set up. Same result. How does he do it? What’s the secret here? What am I missing? What… "You there! Scout! Wanna try?" "What?… Who me?…" "Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. You’ll just go to sleep for a minute, that’s all. C’mon, whaddaya say, huh? Wanna give it a shot?" "Well… I dunno… I… I guess so." "Great! All you gotta do is kneel down…" "Like this?" "Uh huh. Now, take a whole bunch of deep breaths…that’s right… Slowly, deeply… in through your nose, and out through your mouth… That’s right… Very good… Keep it up… In… Out… In… Out… Good, good!… Now, when I say so… Stand up and raise your arms up in the air… Up over your head… And make sure you hold your breath… Okay?"… "Okay." "Okay… Here we go… Stand up, now… Raise your arms… Hold your breath!" Feeling somewhat lightheaded, without knowing what lightheaded was, I raised my body into an erect position, and stood as he grabbed me from behind and, locking his hands in front of me, began squeezing my chest. The last thing I remember was, watching my arms slowly and gently dropping down till they were extended almost straight out in front of me. That, and the darkening! Like seeing shadows emerge when the sun momentarily retreats behind a cloud--is it, in fact, the growing presence of the shadows we notice, or rather, the rapid lessening of the light that we perceive--I watched, literally captive, as from the periphery of my vision, I saw the daylight recede, and then, in its place, an emerging darkness arise. Subtle and almost unnoticeably gradual at first, the darkness grew, until eventually, all was consumed in a final and devastating implosion of numbness. Where am I? Everything’s moving… Why… I’m… I’m on a train!… It’s a subway train!… A shaking and roaring subway train! Where am I going? Wait… What’s this?… A face… Whose face is this, hovering over me?… Looking down… From above me… Coming closer… Closer… Mommy!… What are you doing here?… What are you wearing on your head?… What an interesting looking hat you’ve got on… I’ve never seen it before… So short… So black… What’s that attached to its front? … Like a fine screen covering your face… A gauzy, yet sheer, black netting… A veil… It’s a veil… Covering your forehead and eyes… What’s the matter, Mommy…? It’s me!… Why are you crying?… Why are you… Wait a minute!… Hold on a minute!… Oh my God!… Am I…? Oh my God!… I must be… I’m dead!… Oh, no!… This is my funeral!… No!… Wait!… I don’t want to leave yet!… Wait!… Just another minute!… Just… Hold on!… Please!… The train… It’s moving… Goodbye, Mommy… Goodbye!… What a rush… It’s a rushing train!… It’s rushing… It’s …
HAAAAA! HAHAHAHAAAAAAAHAH! AAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHA!!!
What the???… What happened???… What just happened???… What am I doing on the ground?… Why is everyone laughing so loud?… My head… What’s going on here?… Where am I?… The scouts!… Oh!… Gosh!… "How you doin’? You okay? You were asleep!" "Yeah… Yeah… I… I…" (MOMMY!!!…) "Ohhh… I had… I had a dream!… I was on a train… I had a dream… I… I…I…"
With that, and coupled with the dawning sense of recognition and the shock of reemergence, I buried my face into my hands and uncontrollably burst into tears.
Now, you’d probably think, what with the associated trauma of this event being thus firmly emblazoned upon my psyche and all, that from this point forward I would find it pretty easy to stick to the straight and narrow. You’d think I might have learned. So one would think. Beats the heck out of me why not--perhaps forbidden fruit is really the sweetest after all--but this was actually the total opposite of what took place. Over the next couple of years, I became more and more deeply enthralled by this type of secretive experimentation, initiating others into its tantalizing mysteries, and refining my own "technique" to a point where I could, and regularly did, perform this feat upon myself alone, with anyone else’s involvement being totally unnecessary. It was quite simple really, requiring only a brief period of hyperventilation followed by an immediate period of breath holding. My "instructor" had said that all I needed was to close my mouth around my thumb, and blow! And so, over the next year or two, I proceeded to thus blow my brains out at every opportunity I could find, as I relentlessly pursued the path of perfection that comes as a result of constant repetition. And practice away I did. At school, at home, at play. In fact, such was my fascination, that I’d probably still be at it today, diligently blowing away whatever deoxygenated remnants of brain cells I had left, were it not for a simple, yet powerful intervening act of Grace. In fact, such was its power, that I can still recall it vividly. I was visiting my cousins at their summer home at Rockaway Beach. I had stepped into the bathroom having just finished changing into my bathing suit. I remember gazing into the mirror above the sink and watching as the irresistibly familiar urge came over me. Mechanically inserting my thumb into my mouth, I began to breathe and blow, breathe and blow. First, came the darkening… Then, the gentle accompanying sensation of creeping fuzziness as, ninja-like in the night, it softly extinguished the light of consciousness from my eyes… Then, the incredible "buzzing"… I remember wanting to witness the precise moment of transition… to see it occur, when… BANG! The next thing I knew was that somehow miraculously, my hand, which only a moment before had been curled into the classic "hitchhiker-position" with its thumb jammed inside my mouth, was now extended straight out in front of me and, at the end of my stiff and outstretched arm, my palm, now open, was pressed out flat upon the surface of the mirror. Like a football player with goalposts in sight, I had somehow straight-armed the impending source of danger, and was now headed for daylight. The realization that, but for the Grace of God, I could just as easily have been headed for the nearest hospital, with a face full of shattered glass, scared me so that then and there I immediately ceased any further pursuit of this crazy pastime.
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Such was my first foray into realms of consciousness other than those which occur naturally during the course of one’s lifetime and, as with my later drug experiences, this one also carried with it definite signs of forced physical entry. While the aforementioned hyperventilation experiments occurred around 1956-58, a period of both relative personal innocence and global naivete, it wasn’t until some 15 years later, in 1971, that this notion of "breaking and entry" would become crystallized. In discussing his reasons for no longer tripping, a burnt-out, former drug buddy of mine equated the entire psychedelic experience to felony-theft by proclaiming … "Tripping, man, is like Ripping off the Heavens!" Quite a pearl of wisdom there! How I wish I’d had it to ponder over before experiencing the summer of 67… The Summer of Love… The summer of "Sex, Dope and Rock ‘n’ Roll"… Hey!… Bullshit!… Who am I trying to fool, here? Myself? Hah! Even if I had had that nugget, and enough others whose combined weight totaled well over a full pound of gold, I probably still would have blundered my way down the exact same sweet and forbidding path.
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- 2 -
Hey, Toto! We Ain’t in Kansas Anymore!
1967! Something definitely was in the air and, at breakneck speed, it and I were each hurtling headlong toward one another. For believe it or not, up until age 22, I had been as straight as an arrow. Rarely, if ever, did I drink and, although my parents were a pair of dedicated "chimneys", I myself never took so much as one puff of a cigarette. I seldom cursed and, best of all, until just the proceeding year, I was bent and determined to save myself, sexually, for marriage! That’s right boys and girls, I was the embodiment of Oxymoronism itself--a 21 year-old male virgin! In short, I was a very good boy indeed! Like some proverbial "Knight in Shining Armor", with my sword of virtue, trembling but intact, I slew each and every discontented dragon which dared cross my path and rear its prurient ugly head. They didn’t stand a chance, as first, like so many spotlighted deer, I caught and held them transfixed within the blinding high beams of my glorious purity, and then I smothered them to death within my manifold mantle of morality! Yes, I was one gigantic immovable object, all right. Yet, you know what they say--and by the way, maybe someday, someone will tell me just who the hell "they" are anyway?!--You know how the story goes… Yep. How, in the classic conflict between immovable objects and irresistible forces, how something’s got to give?… Well, in the hot and sticky summer of 1966, when I met and fell madly in love with 16 year old Shellee Karber from Oak Park, Detroit, there in the backseat of her daddy’s 57 Chevy, alas but its true Virginia, my heretofore immovable object actually moved quite a bit as it proved little match against the nonstop onslaught of her volcanically smoldering repository of irresistible forces! Talk about working on our night moves… Phew! I believe she must have blown about a "9" on the Beaufort Scale! Taking my hand in hers, together we tore-assed all the way down the road to Lolitaville and, in the course of rapidly making up for lost time, it was then and there once and for all revealed just how transparent and bogus my mission of virginity-maintenance really was. Although, as I think back about it now, it wasn’t exactly what you’d call a fair fight. I mean, on the one side, it was just me and my lonely little virtue, opponents most hollow and unworthy when confronted by her killer knockout combo-- the combined titanic tag team and lethal dynamic duo of rampant desire and raging teenage hormones. I was but a mere whisper in cavernous face of her wilderness. My former battlecry of "No! No! No!" soon became a sickly series of muffled hushed tones, drowned out by the incessant mantric howling of her "But no one will know"! At last, adopting an "if you cant beat ‘em join ‘em" mentality, and deciding that yes, discretion just might be the better part of valor after all, I made a snap decision to reverse direction and change my tune to one of sweet surrender. Amazed by this faculty for tactical resilience, I looked further inward and was delighted to discover an awesome core of strategic philosophical flexibility. This untouched storehouse of vast reserves, coupled with a wonderful capacity--the combined gifts of being able to both instantly adapt to rapidly changing circumstances, as well as concurrently acquire previously unpracticed but highly developed, critically necessary skill sets--soon led me to become the Flying Wallenda of Morality itself, as I began to execute a series of remarkably deft, but previously unperformable feats. Yes, I then repeatedly consummated the famed Triple and Quadruple Somersaults of Ethics, as I proceeded to absorb the equivalent of a cram course in carnal knowledge. It was toward the end of the summer of 67, when things began to deteriorate rapidly. The first bear of a year of Law School hadn’t turned out quite as well as I’d hoped. My Freshman Property instructor, Professor Carlin, had certainly lived up to his "Axe-man" reputation by giving me, along with two-thirds of the class, a glowing "66" as a final grade. Sixty-fucking-Six!!! Never mind that I had really studied my ass off--I actually put in 40 hours each week in class, plus an additional 40 hours, at least, each week outside of class engaged in further study. Never mind that I was motivated (albeit by fear) to succeed. Never mind any of that happy horseshit! The simple fact was that I was now staring at a grade of 66, the precise and devilish mathematics of which meant that, while I didn’t have to repeat the course--No, no! 65, you see, would have been a failure, and would have required repetition--any intentions I had of being able to transfer to another Law School, say to upgrade to a better one in New York for example, were now altogether hopelessly crushed and gone forever because of what the glorious grade of 66 would mean to my overall average. Actually, the truth be it known, I guess I kind of called this upon myself as when early on in the year, after having heard about his reputation yet not really wanting to believe it, I decided to circumnavigate the issue and sought out a private meeting with the good Doctor himself. Armed with a fabricated story about needing to transfer back home to New York by year’s end, I informed him of my plans and, taking the bull by the horns, had the balls to ask for his help in the matter by requesting a letter of recommendation. I’ll never forget the impish little "twinkle" which appeared in his eyes as he responded thoughtfully… "Okay, Mr. Paul… (CHOP!) I’ll see what I can do!" (CHOP! CHOP!)
Thanks a bunch, Professor! Anyway, in addition to my career plans being suddenly thrown into a tailspin, my social life was now also veering off toward hell in a hand basket. It wasn’t that things were all that bad, really, it’s just that I wasn’t quite prepared for the particular ultimatum which 17 year old Shellee then handed down, as she informed me that I needed to either marry her--RIGHT AWAY!--or else, present her with her freedom! (Would you like Curtain Number One, Vic, with the Snakes and Rat Poison, or would you prefer Curtain Number Two--the ones with the Spiders and Rusty Razor Blades???) Some choice for a scared and messed up 22 year-old. Looking back, although I’m very glad I didn’t bite the bait and surrender my hand, heart and soul to her, the choice I eventually did make proved equally quite fateful. Thinking--no, desperately hoping that it would somehow bring us closer together, I offered her the one other bit of untarnished goods I had left in my arsenal--my sobriety! Remember now, this was 1967! The second great migratory wave of consciousness of the 20th century was already underway. Earlier, in the 50’s, it had been the likes of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti. Literary lions who illuminated the way by sounding the clarion call for an entire "Beat Generation". Now, almost 20 years later, the Hippies, a new generation of people still reverberating with its echoes, came streaming out of the American woodwork and were on the move once again, throbbing their way across the heartland. From all over the country, a passionate and communal heartbeat--a new vibration--arose. Souls churned with it; hearts burned to it. Not necessarily heading toward any particular destination, but rather engaged in a massive moving away from any and all perceived vestiges of hypocrisy and societal sham, these Flower Children tuned into this wondrous new sound and, heeding its call, embarked upon any and all appropriate means of transportation at their disposal. Some flew Jefferson Airplane. Others came by Magic Bus. Some closed their eyes and rode on Steppenwolf’s Magic Carpet, while some tripped upon Dylan’s magic swirling ship. Others, only moments before slipping into unconsciousness, boarded the Doors’ sensuous Crystal Ship. Regardless of "how" they came, two things they each had in common. First, any way they could, they each got as far the hell out of Dodge as they were able to, and secondly, they all got there… on time! From the inner sanctum of Oak Park, Michigan, as in countless other sheltered suburban enclaves all across the nation, little Shellee’s eardrums resonated sympathetically as she too heard the call. Many times thereafter we engaged in the following conversation, the same never-ending circular exercise in frustration and futility: Vic, I want to smoke pot… No! Why not?… I said no! But why?… Everyone else is… I’m not everyone else! But… NO!!! On and on, ad nauseum, we regurgitated in this manner, each of us taking our best shots upon the other, until at last, on that fateful early fall afternoon, in an emotionally weakened and wearied state, I found myself alone with Rory Stirton, a visiting mutual friend of ours. Together, the preceding summer, the three of us had attended Camp Maplehurst, overlooking beautiful Torch Lake, situated high atop Michigan’s spectacular Upper Peninsular. In a desperate act aimed at salvaging whatever might be left of my crumbling relationship, hoping against hope, I caved in like a ton of bricks and asked Rory to procure some Marijuana and prevailed upon him to serve as our "Guide" the following weekend. Hailing from California, I reasoned, meant that both Rory’s value system as well as life history would have created greatly favorable circumstances allowing him to be intimately familiar with each and every in and out of the entire Counter-Cultural experience. Hell, next to me, he was the fucking Godfather of Psychedelphia itself! Anyway, placing my trust in him, I consented to "smoke" with Shellee that following weekend. Never mind the bag full of neuroses and anxieties I’d been carrying around forever. Never mind that I had misplaced motivations and was fearful, insecure, upset and confused. All I know, is that when I entered that house that night, although outwardly I may have appeared to be the Serenity Prayer’s Poster Child incarnate, if you could have but stolen a quick peak at my insides, I’m sure the scene would have resembled something like a Slinky Toy that had gone up alone, against a gang of Shredders, and lost! The weekend party was in full flight as the three of us made our way into one of the rear rooms. Adopting an unconscious but defensive posture, I sat in a comfortable chair with my back to the wall, a la Wild Bill Hickock, so no one could sneak up behind me, and faced the center of the room. Rory took his seat about 3 feet in front of me, to my right; Shellee sat somewhere to my left. The room was dimly lit with a sweet smell of incense hovering in the air. Various black lit posters from the Family Dog and Filmore West Auditoriums covered the walls. On the floor lay a dark and beautifully adorned paisley Persian rug. Beams of light, from a nearby rotating color wheel, made their way through as with each passing spin they landed upon, and momentarily illuminated their panels, so that each poster took on a unique and living presence all its own. On the stereo, accompanied by swirling sitars, Donavan mordantly intoned something about the legend of a girl child Linda: Oh, I dreamed you were a jewel. Sitting on a golden crown on, My Head… My Head! And then, no sooner than you could say, Puff the Magic Dragon, from his pocket, Rory pulled out a baggie and from its contents, proceeded to roll up a nice fat joint. Lighting it, he slowly and deeply took a long, loud hit: Phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhht! Holding his breath so as to prevent the escape of any precious matter, he looked up at me and, catching and holding my gaze, passed along the number. Never having so much as puffed on a cigarette before and, with a lung capacity measuring around 1 Billion on the Virgin-Potento-Meter, I took what must have been one of the longest and deepest tokes in all of recorded history. With my lungs on fire and screaming in silent protest, I behaved in a manner most shameful and polar opposite from that of our good and trustworthy President Bubbah, from the great state of Arkansas, the home of the Razorbacks and other swine--I did inhale, and held my breath for what seemed like for-fucking-ever! I recall vividly, the first painful, burning stinging sensations, as various and sundry pharmacological substances harshly assaulted the previously undefiled tracts along my virginal tracheal landscape. I seemed to catch fleeting glimpses as instant seedlings appeared to secure prompt footholds and immediately blossom into numerous overnight reforestation projects, each one complete with its very own mature timber operations in on-going enterprise. My throat was a raging inferno--a burning and fetid, heaving and gigantic, preternatural swamplike wasteland! But!… Would I dare and let go, and surrender even a wisp of smoke?… so much as one single globule of the God’s breath?… Hell, no!… I wouldn’t go!… But what’s this? The joint had somehow traversed the room and had made its way back into my hand. Time for a second hit. Opening my mouth and being somewhat surprised at seeing no smoke escaping, I once again repeated the process. Outwardly, my ears heard the long sucking, hissing: Wwwwwwhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssssst! Inwardly, in my mind, I perceived a faintly subtle but definite screaming type sound begin to arise, sort of like the sound one would attempt to make if they had been locked alone in a public theatre at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and a fire had just broken out. It was as if each one of the millions of cells within the linings of my lungs contained its very own miniature amplifier, and was now blaring out the following perverted chorus: Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhh! Ahhhh! Feedback! The Breakfast of Champions! This went on about once or twice more, when I recall the beginnings of a slight spinning kind of light-headed feeling coming on. Very subtle, at first. I guess I must have attempted to stand, because I vividly recall glancing over at Rory and seeing him place both his hands on the arms of his chair as his body tensed and began to move forward. I recall thinking to myself: Hah! He thinks I’m going to need help standing… Ha ha! I don’t need any help, but, hey, now… I am seeing a few "stars"?… (You know, those briefly erupting pinpricks of light you see when your brain is momentarily deprived of Oxygen?)… But if this is being "High", I really don’t see what the big deal is… I really don’t… I really… I…
WHAM!!! What the!?!?!? The first thing I became aware of was realizing that I must have passed out and was now lying face down on the floor on my hands and knees. I recall trying to open my eyes and see: First Big Mistake! (Don’t get Stoned and Pass Out--Especially Not Your First Time!) Everything became nothing, and then "Nothing", was all there was! Pitch-blackness itself filled my entire field of vision. I started to panic. Why cant I see?… Where is everybody?… Where am I?… Calm down, Vic… You’re okay… You’ll be okay… Just hang in there!… Hey, wait!… What’s this?… Soft… Familiar… Warm… Soft… It’s… It’s the rug!… The rug!… Okay!… It’s the rug!… All Right!… Yep! I must be on the floor… All right!… I’m on the floor!… Even though I cant see it, I can still feel it under my hands and knees!… So, I’m on the floor!… I’m in the room!… I can "see" by feeling… At least I know where I am!… Now, let’s see… Maybe if I can just lift my head up a drop and "look" out in front of me… Second Big Mistake! (Don’t Force the Issue!) The next thing I was aware of was this gnawing feeling that the entire floor of the room had begun to resemble a kind of invisible Coney Island type, Amusement Park Ride… It was exactly as if the floor were some kind of flat, planar surface--like a giant table top--and I was propped up on my hands and knees, somehow balanced on top of it. Only now… Horror of horrors!… The operator had entered, thrown the switch, and the ride suddenly began to move--not actually move so much as it began to kind of tilt! Slowly, at first… Up and down… From my head to my feet… Then, picking up a little speed, from side to side… That’s right! The entire floor! Tilting!… Back… Forth… Up… Down!… Still, complete and utter darkness! No sight! Just this "seeing" taking place through my sense of touch. With an increasing feeling of "acceleration" rapidly heightening all around me, I reached out and clutched at the very fibers of the rug itself, desperately attempting to hang on and not be catapulted from the ride altogether. Phew!… Thank God I’m on my hands and knees… I mean, if I wasn’t, I certainly would have been knocked down by now, from all these tilting forces… Phew!… At least I could take some small measure of comfort from this thought. Phew! Comfort's good! Comfort’s the first step toward regaining control… Third Big Mistake! (Don’t Lull Yourself Into a False Sense of Security!) As if things weren’t already proceeding badly enough, just when I was sure I’d lose it for good… the Fun House Operator must have spotted my feeble attempt to reach out for some measure of psychological comfort. From his secure perch somewhere off in the wings of my mind, he decided he’d throw in a little something extra into the mix! I mean tilting is good, so how about jacking it up just one more level? Can you handle it, kid? Come on boy, you’re doing fine! … Let’s see… In my bag, here… Ahh… Here we are… Hold on now, boy… Ready now?… How about some… SPIN!!! Oh my God, no!… Oh no! In addition to everything that preceded this, now the entire room was also beginning to whirl!… Clockwise… In complete, and dizzying, 360 degree rotations!… Spinning… Tilting… Spinning… Tilting… Up… Down… Front… Back… Side… To… Side… Left… Right… Oh, God!… Please!… Please, make it stop!… Please, make it stop!… I’ll be good!… I’ll do anything!… You’ll see!… I promise!... Just, make it stop!… Please!… Fourth Big Mistake! (Don’t Show the Devil Any Signs of Weakness--He’ll Exploit Them All… Sure as Hell!) Oh come on, now, son! It’ll be over soon enough. Don’t go "baby" on me now. We’re just getting warm, here. I’ve still got a few good things left here inside my bag I thought you’d like me to see… Now, where is it?… Where did I put that good one?… Hmmmm… No!… No!… No!… No!… No!… My God!… How much more of this can I take?!!… The spinning… the tilting… the speed… If I can just hold on to the floor and not be thrown off into space… Thank God, at least it’s not actually flipping over… Aha!… Good going, boy!… That’s it!… That’s the one I was looking for… Good going, son!… You did it!… You found it for me!… No! No! I didn’t mean that! I didn’t say that! I didn’t think that! No, no, no! No, no! Please! Please! Please!… Not that one, too!… No!… The Flip!… Yes, the flip!… Hang on there, Cowboy!… You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!… Here it is… Ready?.. Ready or not… Here it comes!… Heeeeeeeeeeeers Flipper!!! At that point, as if this ride wasn’t going badly enough, now, the very floor itself became its own lone and disconnected object, floating and wheeling about through the inky blackness and nether regions of Space, as, in addition to spinning in circles while tilting violently back and forth, up and down, it now began executing a series of rapid fire, 360 degree, head-over-heel Loop-de-Loops! I felt like Thor Hayerdahl, lying alone and powerless, cast adrift upon his rudderless Kon Tiki raft, in the midst of a violent and unforgiving ocean, while being hurled about, madly to and fro, from the mouth of one unending tsunami into another. No, no, no!… No, no, no!… Hang on, kid! No, no, no!… No, no!… You’re doing great!… No, No, No!!! Just one more left… Here in my bag… No!… No, no, no!… No, no! Last one, I promise… You’ll love it!… No!… No!… No!… It’s a special one! I saved the best for last… I call it… Oh kid, you’re gonna love this… It’s… "The Death Spiral"!!!… No!… No!… No!… No!… Oh, no no!… No, no!… Oh, no, no!… Oh, no!… Oh, No!… Oh, No!… Oh, No!… Oh, No!… No!… No!… No!… No!… No!…NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I don’t remember exactly "seeing" any of what I’m about to describe take place, so much as "living" and experiencing it with every fiber of my being. The floor, my former and feeble impotent little life raft of only a moment before, was now suddenly gone! Vanished! Kaput! Good bye! No more! Nunca! Nada! There was now, just my body, helplessly caught up in the midst of the most gigantic and frightening White Tornado--a twister like Vortex, a gaping Funnel cloud from the mouth of Hell itself--which had appeared out of nowhere, and into which I was now being hurled backwards so that, in effect, I was carrying out a series of unending backward somersaults. All reference points became quickly meaningless as the only things I remained aware of were: 1) the swirling, churning vortex which now entirely engulfed me, 2) the unending series of backward somersaults, and 3) the trailing sound of my voice screaming out NOOOOOOO, as it echoed through my brain like a thousand atom bombs exploding simultaneously. How long this went on I cannot say. Gradually, I became aware of a feeling of descent, as I continued my flipping and realized I was heading toward the narrow and tightly constricted opening of the funnel’s bottom-end. Almost there… Almost there… And then… Birth!!!… Birth, and Peace!… Next thing I know, the vortex is gone! I’m in the room again. The floor is back. I’m flat on my back upon it. The spinning has stopped. The tilting has stopped. All movement has ceased! Hallelujah! I’m on the Floor, and the floor is behaving like a floor! Another good thing, my eyes are open and, blessing of all blessings, I can see again--with, and through, my eyes! And what’s this I see?… To my right… It’s Shellee’s face! Shellee! Why, she’s holding my hand… and… why… There’re tears in her eyes!… Tears of concern… Concern for me!… Oh, how kind… Oh, how sweet!… Oh… And here, on my left… Holding my other hand, and, without tears but looking plenty worried just the same… It’s Rory!… Rory!… My friend!… Rory!… It’s so good to see you, man!… Wow!… What a trip I’ve been on!… Wow!… What a trip!… Oh, wow!… Oh… Excuse me for a second will you, I’m just gonna’ close my eyes for a second and take a nice breath… A nice, deep breath… Boy, it’s good to see all of you… Fifth Big Mistake! (Don’t Assume Anything!) Wait a minute!… Shellee!… I thought you were over here on my right!?… Rory… I thought you were on my left?!… Well, then, what’s your head doing jumping like that over to Shellee’s?… Rory!… Hey!… Rory!… How’d your head switch over here to Shellee’s?… Why!… They’re both switching back and forth!… Back and forth!… One with the other!… One to another!… Shellee!… Rory!… Rory!… Shellee! Oh, my God!… Oh, no!… Not again!… Oh no!… NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! The Vortex!… The Screaming!… The Somersaults!… Same as before… Just once more!… After this next ensuing period of "More Of The Same", only, thank God, somewhat lesser in both duration and intensity, I was once again, back in the room. For the remainder of the evening, the same event occurred and recurred, again and again, only each time, thank the Lord, in diminishing units of both time and intensity. I probably experienced this cyclic, "Death and Rebirth" dance, a total of some 10 - 15 different times over the course of the entire evening. During the course of a lifetime, a man must often deal with great and trying circumstances which cross his path. In my own life, I’ve oftentimes felt as if I’ve been engaged in a continuous uphill journey--sort of an arduous and ongoing Iditerod of my Soul. There’ve been many occasions on which I’ve actively identified with noble Ulysses, whose chains, while sparing the lives of himself and his crew, by keeping him lashed to the mast of his ship, also allowed his unplugged ears to embrace the haunting strains and forbidden Songs of the Sirens as he, helpless but joyful, embraced ensuing Madness head-on. I’ve had numerous experiences, both rich and varied. Some were positive. Some, not so. But if I were forced to dig deeply from within my vast buried treasure chest of unpleasant experiences, this one I just shared with you would have to rank right up there toward the top of the list--it might even stand out there alone at the front as certainly being one of the all-time freakiest, and most intensely negative single incidents which I can recall laying havoc to my total arsenal of external as well as internal reserves. This wasn’t a "trip"--a mere psychedelic experience--this was akin to facing the old Death- Meister himself! One last memory pertinent to this event with a connected observation, and I’ll move on. If you remember, when I began smoking, Donavan’s Sunshine Superman album had been playing in the background. Ironically, during my trip’s worst, and most intense moments, it was the haunting refrains from his "Season of the Witch" which I’ll never forget, filtering in and out from the corners of my consciousness. I’ve chosen to format it in the following fashion for appropriate reasons:
It’s strange… So strange… It’s strange… So Strange…
nick’s out to make it rich… The rabbit’s running in the ditch… Oh no! Must be the sea- son of the witch, yeah! Must be the season of the witch! Ye ah! Must be the season of the Witch!
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Well now. Quite a trip. Quite an experience. Did it do a damn thing toward accomplishing its intended purpose? Did it salvage our relationship-- Shellee’s and mine? Hah! I bet you could already smell the answer to that one coming a mile away. Not even close! What I didn’t realize at the time was that desperate attempts are usually just that and nothing more--floundering and impotent, pitiful little stabs of self indulgence, born of desperation, which usually turn in upon, and wind up totally consuming themselves in the process. Oh well, at least I now knew better--right? Rrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight! Well, at least I would never, ever again go near the dreaded devil’s weed--the evil Marijuana--right? How could I! Indeed! If included within the definition of the word "right" is a time span of about "6-months", then I guess you could say: "Right!" Because then, believe it or not, just as intensely horrible an experience as I had had that first time, some 6 months later, when my roommate, another camp buddy of mine named Richard Stocker--Richard who had 2 gray striped kittens named Harry and Krishna--turned me on and, lovingly placed a pair of headsets over my ears, my tormented soul became quickly soothed as I soared away and coasted along to the gloriously rapturous and magically lilting refrains of The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band! Yep, from that moment on, I sort of climbed-in-the-back-with-my-head-in-the-clouds-and-was-gone!!! And, friends, I’m afraid that just might have been all she wrote, as my life continued along on its rapidly deteriorating arc until I eventually checked out almost altogether, and wound up being checked in by my parents, bless their hearts, into the Psyche Unit of Brooklyn’s Maimonides Hospital, somewhere around late fall of 1968, for the first of three--count ‘em: One! Two! Three!--full blown nervous breakdowns. Looking back, a few things stand out and strike me as somewhat ironic. First, if you recall, I wasn’t kidding about the unbelievable amounts of time I was devoting toward the pursuit of good grades during that first year of Law School. I believe I clocked in somewhere around 80 hours per week--40 in, and 40 more, at least, out of school each week. My head was either lodged in front of a Casebook, or engaged in articulate and scholarly flights of legalistic fancy by participating in and among any number of study groups. My grades overall, with the glaring exception of "Professor AxeMan’s", did reflect these efforts quite satisfactorily, as I even recall with particular glee, achieving the second highest grade out of Professor Quinn’s entire Agency class--my best friend, to this day, Mr. Alex Goodwin, with whom I studied together for this particular final, wound up number one. I was number two. Well, guess what? Don’t ask me about the whats and wherefores; the hows and whys. All I know is that once I discovered drugs, in the fall of 67, I went on to set a new land speed record for achieving a combined Post Graduate/Mad-Doctoral Degree in Layman’s Pharmacopoeia. I honestly don’t recall spending another single straight moment until I opened my eyes that day in 1968, and discovered I was in Gracie Square Hospital, and had just come to after receiving I have no idea how many volts of electricity. (Hey, what’s that I smell burning? Why, I guess it’s me!) Anyway, the ironic part, is that from the fall of 67, through the fall of 68, I was so blown away--literally and figuratively--that I honestly don’t think I put in as much as a combined total 40 hours of study and effort throughout the entire second year of Law School. This isn’t ironic; it’s actually perfectly understandable given my new and passionate, full-time pursuit. What is very ironic, however, at least to me, is that overall, I don’t recall my grades at the end of the second year being any the worse for wear! How ‘bout them apples, Consuela!? If there’s a lesson here, I’ve no clue what it is. I’m merely passing this along as an observer! |
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