16th February 2012

Post with 2 notes

Eating the Blood Root

The chocolate edibles slid over our tongues and you barely tasted the psilocybin. The trees soon became like soldiers, or posts with flags on them like you see sometimes in those period movies about the height of Britain. As we stomped across the small grass our nerves became aware, our senses attuned, so that blast of open air and sea breeze of the beach was like laying underneath some giant cover on a giant bed and thinking it’s night time and then having the blankets drawn back to reveal beautiful, brilliant sunlight.

We walked and talked and rocks and birds and seeweed spoke aloud as well, we all singing the desperate fragile lullaby of the universe. Singling like old blues singers about a Mississippi the size of everything, the great water. The waves sung back, their elegant whitecaps dancing and hanging there for us, momentarily, as our mental cameras took still photographs of their fractal brilliance.

Towards the end of the night the wind picked up, and we sought a few stray logs to sit down upon. We imagined, out there, near the water’s edge a fire burning and all the babes of 1950’s Bunny Surfer Wonderland were there. That Frankie guy too. And there was a speaking stick and they all took turns, and some blond guy grabbed it and started jumping over the fire with it, dancing with it, letting it carry him in a different way.

As the light falls from the sky, a calm sets over us and we are humming with the kids swaying there in some imaginary past tense, some dream we share together.

We walk back through the forest slowly. There is a bathroom at the beach entrance. I walk in and flip on the light, the smell is startling. The process of having a poo is peaceful and almost reassuring. I breathe through my mouth slowly. I am one and all and now…

Tagged: prose

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