Greetings Bolsheviks and Bolshevik fans alike, Party Trotsky here with a summation of a particularly eventful day I spent with Comrade Brezhnev last week. It came to my attention a while back that an acquaintance of mine had come into possession of some of those psilocybin-containing beauties, the magical mushroom. I’ve had a few encounters with this ancient and religious intoxicant, but they haven’t given me the mind expanding results I was looking for. This time however, would prove to be different. Also, disclaimer, this post is kind of long because I have a lot of bullshit to say about drugs, and if you’re not trying to hear slight nonsense, then you can see your way out.
I woke up around noon on Saturday, and after grabbing a sandwich with which (I love alliteration) to hide the taste of shrooms, headed over to Brezhnev’s domicile to imbibe the stuff. A little aside here, I vehemently hate the taste of magic mushrooms; to me they are a combination of horse shit, moldy dirt, and dry sticks. They are an abhorrent substance. I have never been able to stomach the taste, so perhaps the sandwich would conceal the taste and smell enough for me to choke them down. My comrade on the other hand, was being completely bad ass that day and decided to just dump the ground up shrooms into a glass of water and drink it like a boss. We finished up our midday mushroom meal (again with the fucking alliteration), and went outside to smoke a small bowl in order to accentuate the effects of the shrooms. We then sat down to an informative show on one of those learning channels, I believe the show was about fishing or some such nonsense, while we came up on our trip into the rarely traversed paths of the human psyche. Since we were at his abode also, Castro joined us on the couch and observed us to make sure we didn’t decide to burn the place down or jump out a one story window or any of the other idiotic things that the government tells you will happen on psychedelic drugs. It took about thirty minutes for us to start noticing the effects, but it was pretty subtle. It was a change in our demeanor more than anything, a slight softening of the world and its edges, a feeling that everything was ok. I also felt slightly warm and cozy, which was nice. I looked at Brezhnev, saw him smiling for no apparent reason, and I knew he was feeling the same way as me. It was around this point that Castro took us for a ride onto campus, as he had to meet some people there. We walked around on the upper quad for a few minutes, and decided to sit down on the bench and let the high come over us. It was freezing outside, but the world itself was beginning to lose definite shape, and things were awash with an odd light, a sparkly energy that surrounded everything. A second aside, the things that come after this point in the story are extremely hard to explain, ineffable if you will, and they might not make sense to those who haven’t participated in psychedelics, but hopefully you’ll be able to follow my nonsensical drugs fueled ramblings. Also, my mom is watching Knocked Up on the telly as I write this, and it was the part where they trip shrooms in Las Vegas. Ah irony. Anyhoo, Brezhnev and I were sitting on this bench, freezing our asses off, and chit chatting with Castro as he went about his magazine photo shoot. He kept going back and forth between the two of us and the group of people he was meeting, and we kept as far away from that group as possible. But Castro’s in between provided us with two very interesting events. The first is that when Castro told his group, subsisting mostly of black, hipsterish fashion types, that the two of us were on mushshrooms, they were not amused; in fact, they were definitively not about trying to trip some shrooms. I hypothesized later in the dying throes of my trip that this arose from the different drug experiences of black culture and white culture. I’m not trying to stereotype here, but it seems to me that the drugs that are mainly associated with black culture at large (weed, coke, heroin, and that crickety crack), are mostly about escaping reality, which makes sense because black people’s reality is one that can kind of suck from time to time, to put it bluntly, while white people’s reality is not one that is inherently biased against them, so they enjoy exploring and testing the boundaries of the reality they’re given, rather than leaving it entirely. This is not to say that white people don’t do coke or smoke weed, duh, but the psychedelic is a drug that mainly middle class angsty white kids do in order to rebel against their parents, which is ironic because our parents probably took enough psychedelics to kill several small Midwestern towns. I digress from my main story, but I just wanted to share my slightly coherent theory with you all, and please let me know if you disagree, this is by no means set in stone, but it seems to make sense.
The other occurrence that has to do with Castro’s group is when Brezhnev and I observed Castro talking to a member of his group, and they glanced our way a few times, and were talking and laughing. Now in our paranoid state, we KNEW they were discussing us, and I made that point aloud to Brezhnev. The best part came later, when we discussed the trip after it ran its course. We related that observation to Castro, and he told us our suspicions were correct and that they were talking about us, but not only that, they were discussing the fact that we were looking at them, and that we were probably thinking that they were talking about us, which in fact they were. This kind of blew our minds for a second, and since on mind expanding drugs little coincidences become giant world altering events, it was particularly appropriate.
Back to the actual trip, where Brezhnev and I were still fucking freezing and the world was still fucking glowing at me. We decided we would walk back, as Castro said it might be a couple hours, and our little journey back was very interesting. Time dilation became a factor as we left, and it was extremely hard to move, as if I was walking through some sort of jelly. So not only was time no longer making any sense, but neither was motion. Two very distinct laws of the universe brought to their knees by the power of a little psilocybin running through my bloodstream. My companion was very quiet on the trip back, as this was his first time tripping I knew he was experiencing things that I didn’t want to intrude on, and we walked mostly in silence back to his casa. I was looking everywhere during the walk, trying to soak in all of reality while my mind was in such a state, and something about the nature of my observations intrigued me. They were very fresh. I mean that whenever I’d look at a bush or tree, it was as if I was seeing that tree for the first time. This was slightly revolutionary to me when I realized it, but I quickly began to enjoy it and take advantage of my new way of interpreting experiences. I liked it, because it reminded me of my childhood, my feelings were very nostalgic, and I don’t think I’d ever considered before how much having prior experience and memories affect the way a person processes and brings in information. I hadn’t really thought about the ways I took in info as a child before this, and I’m thankful that the mushroom experience changed that.
Anyways, we arrived at the house, and we had yet to begin peaking. This would happen shortly. We decided to put in Chappelle’s Show in order to geek out a little, and I think I may have smoked another bowl, but I could be wrong. What occurred hereafter can only be described as moments of pure hilarity, punctuated by moments of near ego-loss. Chappelle’s Show was the funniest thing I have ever seen, and sometimes I would be laughing so hard, I’d start thinking that maybe I should stop laughing, otherwise I wouldn’t stop. I started to become frightened of laughter, even though I was compelled to continue geeking it out. Then all of a sudden I could feel my thoughts. Seriously. Those shits started in the bottom, and bubbled their way up to the top of my mind grapes. That sentence was nonsense. In my inebriated state, all I could think about was the biological processes and consequences of having consciousness, which is classic drugged out thinking. It was an interesting thought, that maybe, fucked up on ancient Mesoamerican religious sacraments, I could imagine what my thoughts would feel like, because there is an actual physical process behind that, now I’m of the opinion that it feels like something bubbling in your mind... Obviously this didn’t really occur, I think the science folks reading this will agree, but at the time that was the most logical explanation I could get from the feeling I was having.
Back to the A plot, around this time, a friend came and joined us on the couch, and the presence of a new person forced me to actually focus on reality for a hot second, as I’d been stuck in my own jibber jabber for a while. Brezhnev was still having a good time, as he commented to me about the poster on the wall, of a skeleton, that was really doing some interesting things. I believe it was along the lines of, “that skeleton is leering at me”, or maybe “that skeleton is a lot of colors”, my memory fails to produce an exact sketch, but he was right, that skeleton was definitely almost every color.
Still reeling from that rush of psychedelic energy that happens when one does these things, I became consumed with a second thing, a string of paper ghosts hanging from the wall. The edges of the individual ghosts were nonexistent, and they were shifting back and forth at a rapid pace, which helped give me a rise in the visual aspect of the tripping. Oh and the walls were breathing, but of course that goes without saying. And I think it was all tinged in red maybe? It’s hard to recall in fine detail, but I think it definitely reminded me of that lucy in the sky stuff, although I’d call it more focused that the other hippie shit, that lucy stuff sort of just makes your brain explode and then put itself back together again piece by piece, like rebooting a computer. Shrooms are much less intense than that, more pleasing to the senses, more of a warm melting feeling, rather than knocking you around a few times like L does. I highly recommend it to all who read this. So around this time Castro returned from his photos hoot (photos hoot was one of the corrected choices Word gave me when I spelled photo shoot as one word, thought I’d keep it for dramatic effect), and seeing as Brezhnev had never seen if before, decided to watch Zoolander. We laughed, we cried, we came down to the sights of Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson becoming best friends. The trip was basically over by the time the movie ended, so it was the perfect accoutrement to finish out our mental exercises. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Go out and try them shits, please. We pontificated about hippie bullshit while on hippie bullshit and I would make this a requirement of anyone who partakes in aforementioned substances. Yes yes y’all, the logic behind the last several hundred words has been shaky, so apologies and congratulations to anyone who stuck it out all the way to the end here. Adios.
p.s. Later on that night, i was walking home and came upon a copy of the new york times. being the consummate liberal that i am, i promptly stole it, and perused it the next day while driving my prius, drinking a latte, and retroactively bitching about bush. good times.
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