Go deeper, go farther

It was suggested to me, in jest (I hope), that I should drop acid and see how my drawings come out.

I responded, “you think my pictures can get any weirder?”

Yet, as I am doing my doodles, there is a voice, prodding me.

“Go farther, go deeper,” it says.

How can I hop deeper if I do not know what I am doing?

Acid. LSD?

First of all, if I get caught with illegal substances in my system, I loose my license and job.

Second, I have a history of substance abuse, I am an alcoholic, and I do not want to risk anything that might send me back to hell.

Third, I have been there, and I have done that, once was enough.

I said all that, so that I might tell this story:

I was a year out of high school, a collage drop out, working a job I did care about, living at my mom and dad’s home, no girlfriend and no direction other than getting a black belt in Taekwondo.

My group and I decided to do some hallucinogens. We had a plan. I and a couple other guys, would take the pill, stay at my friend’s place Friday night and recover saturday. I was told that I would be incapable of functioning the day after.

We got off work at 5, dropped soon after, and waited for the drug to take effect.

I had wanted to experience the mind expansion that was promised by Tim O’leary and all the proponents the drug culture. At least, what I preserved them to say.

Turn on, tune in, drop out.

But, more than the noble pursuit of mind expansion, I was just plain bored with life.

The anti-drug, scare flims they had shown us in school convinced me to try drugs. I saw a world of excitement. As I have said, my own life was dull to the point of madness.

In retrospect, I can not imagine such a self deluded boy could have been my younger self.

In those days, young people played games in places called arcades. There are still a few like places; (Dave and Busters), but in my youth there were arcades in every mini mall.

My group went to our arcade. We were into fuseball. I confess, I was never very good at the game. Half way through the first game the drugs hit me.

I was paying goalie. The ball rolled right by me and I never even tried to stop it.

It was the funniest thing I had seen in awhile. If the ball had been fated to score; what difference did it make if I tried to block it. And if it was the ball’s fate to miss it would miss regardless of whether or not I was the instrument of fate. So, why try to manipulate fate? It was all predestined. And, it was, the funniest thing I had ever seen.

I went off in a fit of laughter. I had used pot before, but this was 100 times more intense. Making eye contact with one of the other ‘trippers’ we made an immediate connection and a group giggle fit.

“We better get him home.” In those days I seemed to have a habit of embrassing my friends. Even in my own circle of friends I was not cool. On acid, I was in need of watching over.

Back at the house we formed a pot circle. Three of us were tripping, a like number were only smoking weed. The bong got to me. I could not fathom why I was holding a pot pipe. What was the point? I hated pot, it only made me spacey and forgetful; it was redundant! And besides, I was already so wasted I feared permanent brain damage.

And why did everyone suck on the mouth piece? What would happen if one blew on it? Would it produce a musical note? Like a horn?

“Ah, who messed up the bong?” said the next guy to get the water pipe. He turned to glare at me.

I giggled so hard I almost fell off my chair.

The guy threatened to kick my ass and that was even more funny. He got up to come at me, the other non-tripping guys held him back. I could not stop laughing.

The rest of the night is a mumbled, shattered and disjointed batch of memories. At one point I almost panicked wondering if I would ever be straight again. But once again, my friends kept an eye on me.

“Don’t worry, no one will notice the new you.” I have not seen or heard from any of these ‘friends’ in thirty years!

I saw no real hallucinations. But, it seemed they were just under the realm of perception.

A group of young ladies joined us. They came to get high. Quite a surprize as I remembered this clique of ladies as very straight laced and conservative. In my memories they were cheerleadrs, but that is a fantasy, I mean story, for another time.

I think I had a conversation with one of the gals. I was trying to explain that while I could not see them, I felt I could feel an alternate reality just below the surface, and I was very close to being able to see the third eye buried just below the skin of her forehead.

I said something profound like: “dogs would eat shadows if they drove cars.”

The ladies left. Again I had embrassed my friends. I am tripping man. Somehow, I gained a pad of paper and cayons. I began to draw. Days later, I found the drawings. I had been studying the art of Mad magizie. The long night of tripping produced a batch of figures and faces in the style of my favorite cartoon artists, not bad, but nothing more than ordinary. I am rather doubtful that mind-expanding drugs will improve my drawing. Again, hoe much weirder can they get?

Looking back. I am not ashamed nor do I regret the experience. I do not feel I explanned my perception. Altogether, I found the experience disappointing and unnecessary. If I must use a substance to push the boundaries of my creativity then I’ll just have another cup of coffee.

After all. If one is creative that gift will shine through with practice and study. Chemical stimulants will not bring out, that which is not there.