in the weeds
i first got high in college, my senior year. ‘when does it begin?’ i wonder. ‘i don’t notice anything…’. i lay back on a filthy dormitory persian rug, closed my eyes and tripped into cartoon land. Daffy Duck quacked at me in a field of sunflowers, leaping and laughing, an animation by Van Gogh. a week later i listened to Horowitz perform Chopin’s funeral etude. my mother appeared in a pale blue greek robe crossing a cracked Dali desert. her head fell back, freighted with sadness, an exaggerated Picasso profile weeping slow motion mercury tears. she held my father in her arms, like a baby, his tiny limbs were crooked and blackened like the burnt ends of match sticks. she traversed the landscape in deliberate Martha Graham strides. her movement echoed the dark, basso piano chords Vladimer struck. i was shattered by the visceral hallucination that came on by inhaling this tiny, dried up plant. it was 1967 and i jumped on the flower power bandwagon. sadly, years later, i got paranoid every time i smoked. i talked too much, i laughed too loudly, i stared too aggressively and hated the high. pot stopped being fun. some wise old goat on a Cambridge street corner explained that this happens to some of us. that it’s physiological. the body reaches a tipping point. the bad outweighs the good. Mary Jane scowls. she’s over you. she’s moved on. after many more tests to prove him wrong, i gave up. i stopped. no more Ganja. no more paranoid nightmares. not for me. in the late 90’s a friend came to town. we went to his brother’s apartment. the pipe was passed. maybe this time, i hope. maybe this time my body’s cured of its aversion. 2 puffs later i’m in orbit. i can’t shut up. i can’t uncross my legs. i’m frozen, babbling and jumping out of my skin. my friend turns to me and says, deadpan: ‘you know, Rick, no one is listening to you’. it took every ounce of energy for me to stand up, find a dark empty room, lie down and wait for it to go away. my body once again rejected the high. lately, however, on occasion, with rarely more than one other person, i can handle a one-shot hit and be ok. it’s fun again. pissing takes a century and every conversational nuance is brilliant, insight at every corner. i get lost in the face of the beautiful. wow, man, your teeth, your crooked yellow teeth are fuckin beautiful, and the place where your neck disappears into your shirt…
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
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