On LSD and solitude
Twelve feet puttered along the path, pine needles strewn, our steps growing sluggish as the LSD seeped in (not all acid deserves capital letters, but this lsd was LSD).
Under the redwood canopy, a cornucopia of throat-clearing noises. A tiny bird sang loudly.
That was the last time I dropped acid, and now, as I rode atop the ratchet sack of bolts that was my bicycle out into the dark dusty desert toward all the colors, here came this time.
I had been certain that if I just took my body a few hundred miles into the desert, covered it in dust, drenched it in oppressive amounts of sunshine, ate slop from a can and shed society’s expectations, then I could be happy.
I thought, I need to get out of this city. But my mind followed me here. In retrospect, what I meant was, I need to get out of this body.
So I bike. My internal compass scrambles eggs. All five senses multiply and multiply again. The cacophony of sound at Burning Man was little spoken of before I landed here, but it is a unique and powerful din indeed. The lights are easily spotted from the International Space Station. And so each sense grapples pitifully with its surroundings while Brinn and Alma lead us deeper into the desert.
Oh right, Brinn is here, and a girl he just met.
At once we all see the Ferris Wheel engulfed in flames, spinning violently in the night, and we make for it. The smoke chokes my lungs. Sparks fly in all directions. Mostly into the sky.
We ride on.
We’re nearing the trash fence now, the outer limit of the burn.
There’s an art project which is a gas station called Awful’s. Who the fuck wants to be at a gas station? I guess that’s why they give out sandwiches. No one would come here.
Since we’re on psychedelics, do you guys mind if we call it something more romantic than “the trash fence?”
Brinn says it’s a beautiful name. For its honesty. And precision. Because everything else is called the “Magical Glowing Orb of Delphi” and shit.
But can’t there be anything in between? Not all things are either magical orbs or trash fence. There’s, like, eggplant. And arroyos.
We fall off our bikes into a round of sound with back-to-back sofas at the center. I melt into couch and it’s the first thing in years that feels like home and I realize I’ve been seeking comfort for so long. But dissonant cellos are stabbing me in my fucking earholes. If this art is illustrating how you can feel comfort and discomfort at the same time, it ain’t cute.
That’s when a warm and pleasing mop of blonde hair sits down beside me on the couch with a flamethrower-sized thermos of hot ginger tea. I can’t place her lilting accent but I fumble with my cup and I can smell the herbs spill and splash through the warm desert night.
She seems firmly grounded. I tell her about the ear-fucking and she shrugs. I kind of liked it.
Brinn leads us to colorful oasis after oasis, climbing everything in his path. Alma and I light cigarettes and stammer attempts at conversation, losing our minds. Eventually I realize I need to leave them. Wasn’t this a date? I’m a third wheel. I have to find my special place where I’m supposed to be.
I muster the courage. A few awkward hugs later I’m cycling into the dark. I feel so alone.
Who yearned so deeply for this crazy carnival that it was actually created?
Beside a fake purple deli, a massive metallic octopus with googly eyes sends fire into the sky from each tentacle in rhythm with house music.
They say you “drop acid,” but acid also drops you. It lifts you out of the nonsense of daily life and drops you on your fucking head. Drops you onto a high and uncomfortable pedestal of sensation.
It’s a challenging acid trip. But I can move through it. I have a wellspring of unfounded confidence when it comes to getting a grip.
I take a generous dollop of time (for it’s a long cycle back to camp) to remember yesterday morning, when I pulled up to a dusty piano with missing sharps. As I lay my fingers on the keys, sounds came, but not exactly the ones I expected. They weren’t so far off that I couldn’t play a song. Just confused enough to add tension and uncertainty.
Was perspective really just illusion filtered through bias?
Earlier in the week all kinds of things happened to me.
I had peak experiences with talented musicians.
I was surprised by the gall of performers who had nothing to share but insisted on amplification.
I met women who wanted to kiss me.
I received hugs of “Welcome home, baby.”
I treated strangers to sips of infused tequila, picklebacks and bubbly water while they lounged in the hammock structure I sweated my balls off to build.
I drank vodka from a plunger while waiting in line to join a naked foamy shower dance party.
I stared strangers in the eyes for four minutes.
I told Morgan from Pleasant Hill everything and she told me everything. I lost myself in her crooked teeth. We hugged for a month.
I saw people lose consciousness and others rush to make sure no one died. They succeeded all but one time because you can’t protect a guy from carbon monoxide poisoning in his own van if you don’t know he’s in there.
A beautiful young woman tripped into a sea of bikes and hit the dust. Her eyes rolled back into her head. When she came to, she said, I thought I was dreaming. I finished my margarita and rode to Hardly’s for a shot of whiskey and played Radiohead on the piano.
I asked questions of strangers. David wanted to shake hands with every creature along his evolutionary pathway back to the time of the apes. Melanie was somewhere between vanilla and sloppy cheerleader as a 15-year-old. Liam wanted to know what other people had said. I poured absinthe in their mouths. They trusted me.
Roy was nine years sober. Just alcohol. He had strong opinions about gender. And meat. And “fat chicks.” I smelled an asshole drunk. I gave him a big hug for his achievement. He did seem to know something about trust.
I went to the temple and cried tiny tears. So many people there have lost so much. And some people are just sad for all the pets that don’t get adopted. It’s a place of wild swings.
But now is now. I cycle further. I comb through these experiences and weigh each one in a tiny hand in my mind.
As I ride by three people-cupcakes, I wonder how many words have been wasted trying to pen a single feeling. High on my rusty two-wheeled chariot, perpetually in motion, I feel lonely.
What is it about being alone that’s sometimes so wholesome, and other times such a pity party?
Some quiet time alone feels nourishing, like watching the lights flick on, one by one, in homes nestled in the hillside on a warm night, alleyways wafting dinner smells at moonrise. But long bouts of solitude are a forgotten teabag, a mint sprig muddled too long. They turn bitter.
What a delicate little houseplant I am.
Hours later, the pedaling ends. I’m at camp. I climb into my canvas tent and marvel at the little desert home I apparently made for myself. I see for the first time that I’m thoughtless about spaces. I curl up atop the air mattress and savor the luxury of soft linen. Nine million decibels rage forth outside, the sound of a village getting off.
Daylight breaks and I drift off to sleep.
