On Being On Hallucinogens

May 16, 2011 § Leave a comment

A wing – or was it a petal? – stuck in the nearly invisible web of a spider. It fluttered in the wind. “There’s physics happening over here,” she said, “there’s some physics happening here.”

She fucked the flowers by smearing pollen on her face from some rhododendrons and then rubbing herself on the other flowers. “I’m a bee,” she said. “Bees are such sluts,” I said, “wonderful little sluts.”

Patterns and patterns and patterns and patterns.

My favorite part is losing the feeling of complete solipsism, that breaking down of the boundaries between you and what you perceive as the outside world. As if you are finally aware of your outer atoms mixing amongst those of everything else in existence. I am just a greater concentration of things, one realizes, I am simply a certain density, always in flux. If you tried to walk through me an infinite number of times, you’d have to succeed at least once.

“To be in flux: a paradox,” she said. ‘Well,” I said.

It seemed the trees had gathered for a reason, as if they were waiting for something, or someone, as if they were waiting to hold council.

“Isn’t it great that we have a sack that will carry our pee around for us?” “Absolutely,” I replied.

How primitive we must seem to flowers, I thought, gently jerking-off a pistil. What with us still needing two of us to procreate and everything.

From the hill in the park we watched people in evening gowns and suits go into a clubhouse. We lit a joint. “Life is a race, and we are beating them,” she said. “We are beating them so hard,” I said.

And when it began to rain we were not bothered. Everything in it’s right place.

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