#313: SCHMUTZIE'S RURAL WEEKEND

In relating anything about my weekend away in the country, I am stumped as to where to start. Do I simply write a chronological account of events, detailing what happened from the moment Carkus, D, and D's brother pulled up in front of our building to pick us up on Saturday morning until the moment D dropped us off again on Sunday afternoon and my legs were so tired that I could have slept on the flight of stairs up to our apartment? I was chronologically impaired a good portion of our stay, so my narrative would get a bit sketchy somewhere around nine or ten o'clock on Saturday night. Do I attempt to give you a detailed account of my fungus-inspired psychosis, how psyllocibin took me in its giddy grip and sent me running down a muddy road with a blanket over my head and laughing at the fireflies? There is nothing like being there in the middle of the happiest insanity, but it becomes a very difficult story to tell to those who weren't in the midst of it with you. On the way home, I did try to write down a bit of what it was like to be standing in that road:

I repeat. I repeat. I repeat. You are standing on this road. Look around. There are your feet tied firmly into their boots and your boots pressing firmly against this wet mud road. You are here. Look around.

And then she found herself as if she had just dropped into her own consciousness from a great height. And then she peered ahead into the darkness through the June night air that glittered with the possibility of fireflies and saw him, or rather knew his mutual placement on this road by the stars that were his teeth. He had a mouth full of stars, and she had a tongueless cavern disappearing impossibly into the interior of her belly.

- We are here escaped her mouth in a gaseous hush.
- Where?
- We are here again nearly echoed against the close-ceilinged sky that hung softly by.

The silence grew, punctuated only by sighs at the thrill of fireflies, and her blanket wrapped itself around her head, carrying her forward to the next signpost hidden in the dark.

Now do you see why my weekend is so hard to relate? I am beginning to think that I will not waste too much effort explaining. I will tell you, though, that before the mushrooms were eaten, before we had even had much to drink, the Fiery One looked up at me from a chair and told me how he felt so good, so high, and so did I. The people and the land out there by that valley were so... There was a level of comfort and good will that we rarely... The energy about the place and the celebration was... We were so surrounded by warm people and good land that we felt high in the middle of it. It seems that relating anything is difficult. Perhaps if I were a hippy with a drum I could hammer out some beat-styled poetry for you, chronicling the news of our travels like a troubadour. I will save you the pain.

How to describe how I felt? This photograph I took of a friend of mine a couple of months ago goes a long way to illustrate my manic joy as I tripped along in the middle of Saturday night:

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And after such induced and freakish glee, I always feel more clear, more real, more focussed. It is as though all kinds of insecurities, worries, fears, anxieties build up like a plaque in my brain, and letting my mind run loose and crazy for a few hours blows it all out again, leaving me free to think with far less clutter to slow me down.* Today, I feel solid and present in a way that I have not in a long time, and I am so thankful that I was able to get to this place by way of Carkus' parents' farm surrounded by good people. I have a tendency to become lost, to forget myself amongst the myriad petty banalities that coat my life, and there is nothing like remembering that I am still here, that I am not forgotten or ever truly lost. I thought I was losing myself, that bits of me were falling away from the main, but I am still here. I am still standing in the road with my feet tied firmly into my boots and my boots pressed firmly against the ground.

*Lest you think that I run around like a maniac on mushrooms on a terribly regular basis, I will assure you that I do not. Being the sort of person with a fairly quiet life, a full-time job, and thirty-plus years under my belt, I am much less likely these days to have the time, energy, and resources to indulge. The last time I did anything like this was two years ago.

Now that I've written that, though, I'm wondering why I bother explaining myself to those who may be in disagreement with my activities. If you don't like it, to put it quite simply, I DON'T CARE.


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"One" by Mary Oliver

Elan MorganComment