PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE
RETICULATED DAYS IN THE LIVES OF A REGULAR MAN
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 CHAPTER 7
"My life is not important. Maybe the poems and songs are."
-- Kell Robertson, 1994
Today is somewhat special. Diane & Rachel are on their I-90 way to Toledo, 100's of miles west, for Central's Band Competition. Rachel is on one of the buses, & Diane is in a car with 4 PTA ladies sharing the driving. Doug is sleeping but it's only 8 in the morning, Saturday morning, & when he wakes & gets things together I'm taking him over to my sister's house so he can play with his cousins all day & hang out & generally dig childhood experience. Maybe he'll see, touch, smell, & hear a clown-nose red gladiolus flower which he will remember vividly 30 years from the moment. Then again, it's a rainy, chilly, drizzling, all-day-rain gray sky outside, so chances are a lot of his hours will pass in Game Boy Nintendo land. David, his older cousin, has a Game Boy too & different games; they'll swap little cartridges & yell at video bosses & laugh thru another level.
I'm spending the day here at the word processor with my pipe, cigarettes, & coffee. A guy from work, Chris, was supposed to lay some mushroom on me yesterday, but never came by. I was going to trip for the first time in about 20 years. Like Cheryl sd when I told her my plan on the phone, Write a series of Mushroom Poems. Chris still might show up today. Destiny is not controlled by forces & actions of humans. Mind Expansion is Revelation, & I wonder if I really remember the feelings of Zen Universes 20 years ago; have I actually retained LSD memory? If I trip now, will I remember my memory?
I will not include "acid stories" in this dictation. Everybody has their "acid stories", & likes to tell them rather than hear somebody else's; providing they lived a normal 60 & 70's america as teens & hippies & explored drugs of the times like most people my age.
I've written stories of tripping in the past already. Some have seen print in the little, obscure, underground mags over the years. I know I tried writing while tripping, but it was impossible to topple the very act of typing with weavable snake-headed fingers. Is it more possible 20 years later?
Writing is Mind.
A Mind is a terrible thing.
Wasted & aged in 90's Amerika. & the Soul, of course, is the Heart of the Mind & the Pulse of Motherfucking Time beats our meat to shreds of Silence. So be it, this Galactic Monstrosity. This Physicality. The Psychic Connection snapping at eons of oxygen molecules. Mammalian Guts go dirt & stone on the relative surface of Planet Earth a few billion years from something happening so intense it's all we know we don't know & will never know about the Birth of Creation. Humanism is a funny declaration in light of the Cosmos.