sourlemone
Bluelighter
DXM & Cannabis - semi exp. = Robocop's Tangerine Beams
And so it began. Discordant bells. Staring blankly at my own reflection, shades of rouge-flavoured dementia wafting in from open doors and blanketing the uneasy silence. Insanity.
***
Roughly two hours prior we had all been sitting calmly in a moodily lit downstairs garage. A red carpet beneath our feet, musical instruments scattered between couches, chairs, stools, a computer and countless items of clothing. Bottles of cough syrup lay strewn haphazardly on desks. The upstairs area was comprised of bathroom, kitchen, bed, desk, stereo. Bon voyage.
I had roughly 450mg; my friend S had close to (or more than?) 600mg; friend M, also 600mg; friends J and J-M roughly 450mg each. Doses, however, mean little in the scheme of things. Our friend JC was also present, but he stuck to the ganja. I had a single cone (~.5g, perhaps a little less) about 20mins in; M had a few around the same time. The others may or may not have smoked. That is also, however, completely inconsequential.
We return. I was idly scanning a Rolling Stone magazine, music playing softly, lounging comfortably on a well-placed mattress. Without warning, a creeping dissociative itch made itself slowly felt, rolling over dry skin as ants on a writhing corpse: the first signs of an oncoming delirium for which there would be little accounting for, where time would soon lose all meaning and the exterior reality forgotten. Detached. For a little while we bantered, slightly stoned, a haze of political furore and semi-lucid expression – talk of American presidents serving second terms, bands and books, artsy chatter with no real purpose. Filling up the space.
So we waited. Then, all of a sudden, the wave broke. In an instant we were plunged into the depths of an horrific, insane reality; the lights were dimming imperceptibly, the stairs were climbing ever upwards, cacophony of overdrive, breaks, beats and banshee screams emanating from unknown corners. I was filled with a sudden urge to take up my pen - and so I fled upstairs, cowering in a bathroom, fumbled for my notepad, opened it, the lid off my pen, sat down on a toilet seat. Noticed the scum variously filling cavities in the walls and floor around me. Noticed the sweat dripping, salty, from my jaw. Noticed the mirror, staring blankly at my own reflection…
---
Dementia
Here I am, stuck in a bathroom of a house
I hardly know.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I achieve an air of calm that follows the panic. Once, I looked at myself and felt myself far too far away
---
And there it breaks. My train of thought was interrupted by what I perceived to be screams or shouts that began to fill the air around me – I felt claustrophobic, cramped and constricted and cornered, shockingly alone and rendered naked in front of that cruel, reflective shard that painted my face so. I stood up hurriedly, beginning to notice the room outside filling with people. The bathroom was bathed in an iridescent vermilion glow, crimson fog clouding my clear vision and mingling with harsh halogen light, a strange photonic mockery of nausea.
---
I tried to touch the image that I saw.
Leave you to your own-devices.
Then I am sitting at a desk, Wish You Were Here finally playing. I wonder what drew me to this place, why these visions, why the Kafka like absurdist illusions haunt me.
I can’t understand it.
Is this reality tangible? If I leave my book open at this very page, with the drop of the very pen now…does it still exist?
I am shivering.
Whether from dehydration, the drug’s muscle spasming ne-
now I get writers block.
My mind is unable to comprehend anything
---
I had moved from my lavatory prison into the surrounding room; the mattress where I had lain earlier was, to my eternal surprise, exactly where I had left it. Now, in a flurry of confusion, I began spinning Wish You Were Here; as the trumpets sounded the approach of Barrett’s madness I too was flung back into the incomprehensible darkness of total incomprehension, Conrad style - Hunter S. Thompson found his novel comical (as I had read earlier). Now too could I.
‘Mistah Kurtz, he dead!’ I laughed. Then, reminded of Eliot, I sobered. We are the hollow men.
There was a girl lying on the bed in front of me. She was dressed in tattered, black, punk style clothes, as is the fashion with some today. I have never seen a more powerful image of rest - absolute calm, serenity; the human form sinking into slumber to the tunes of a generation ago, and in a second I became the father. Despite the difficulty in communicating any coherent thought or coordinating any non-chaotic motion, I found myself drawn to protect this curious figure spread out on soft cotton sheets, an empathogenic whitewash of sensation that I cannot explain.
She woke, as J arrived. Began asking questions I could not answer, about my play, writing, work. Distraught. I handed her my diary, took a fresh one out of my bag, and fled downstairs before waiting for any more questions. Downstairs was quieter, an understated calm, or at least one that comes before the storm. The light was turned off, and I retreated to the computer desk to continue writing.
---
Trying to write under the light of a computer screen. My pen is writing in neon and every
-thing around me is shifting.
Someday I’ll make it as a writer.
Some straight edge gothic kinda punk kinda faux-anarchist is reading my play.
I wonder what she’ll think of the early drafts
Pity she couldn’t have read the whole thing
That’s the thing. Tripping out in the basement.
Anyway, back to the story
Short term memory terrible, quite dehydrated, somewhat jacked, ha-
---
I casually flicked the Chemical Brothers on, and decided to lay down briefly. Dissolved, dissipated, diffused…words of Coleridge flooding into my mind, but the stark reality of them hitting harder than he may once have imagined. My imagination secondary to the poet’s. I sank at once into the confines of a leather-bound palace, deeper and deeper into the soft, once-living frame, enveloped in a sea of nothingness, the void in totality. I wake.
---
It happened again
An eternity passed in an instant.
I went to lie down on the carpet,
Got Glint playing
Now I can’t even be sure whether or not what I’m experiencing is reality or not
Visceral
[JC] somehow knew of my obsession w/ the word
‘Fuck my Howards, my fingers are fat’
the ultimate antidote to rational conversation
Now I sink into the computer screen,
Inexorably drawn to a point deep in cyberspace, the very beat of the music grating my throat as I enter the music, become one with a sound that now resonates down my oesophagus and the beat rises within me.
My stomach churns in anticipation of the forthcoming bass.
Has the peak finished?
I am still vibrating.
The Trio.
---
I was angry at first. I had let three minutes slip away in peaceful oblivion, slipping away as Renton did into a rose-coloured carpet grave; that passed, and then I was scared; when JC revealed my passion for the word visceral. He claimed to have read my diary, by inference have analysed the innermost of my thoughts, scoured my mind and revealed that very passion, that irrational love. He told me that I like the way the word sounds, despite the fact that I have never really been able to discern its true meaning, only use it in context. I was chilled. Felt as though he really had probed the depths of my consciousness, returned with that single, useless revelation, as if to say: ‘perhaps…we all…are one.’ I was mortally afraid. This notion was not reconcilable with my present state of mind, and as such I resolved to banish it as quickly as possible; and so it was banished. S made some mention of his seemingly swollen fingers (in characteristically comical fashion), and then the music pulled me in. A rollercoaster…
…sucked down an acoustic pathway, mouth dry and caked but dancing in jarring salsa to the intermingling of subwoofer and silence, strange high pitched twangs and rumbling beats. It smelt like burning plastic, cool green tea and fresh powdery snow, an olfactory collage that bedazzled the inner smelling synesthete and projected a plethora of wondrous colour, tones and shades of the spectrum infinite onto the patiently shaking screens of nervous recognition.
Suddenly, it was only S, JC and I. Alone, and the overwhelming sense of unity, a bond, grew from nowhere. The Trio. I sat on a chair. That is, until we were overtaken by madness (once more) – but this time of the utmost magnitude.
The lights went out. I was forced to write in pitch, scrawling diagonally on unseen paper. Any Colour You Like beamed outwards from hidden speakers. Adieu, adieu.
---
I have never
looked as deep into
my soul
I died
and was born
again
---
The rollercoaster turned inwards, and I delved into the very nature of my own being. Liquidity. Not only was I dissolving but now collapsing in on myself, writhing on the ground and scribbling in states of intermittent subconscious vision – it was blue. That is all I can say for certain. A blue teardrop, made up of infinitesimally small grids, a giant patchwork blob that stretched and moved in complete harmony, the pure essential energy that rests within us all. Base, fundamental. And it sucked me down once more…S’s words also began to fill my paper.
---
I felt like a golden flow
of energy, and I reached
your endpoint
energy flows, golden flows through
everything
Istigkeit. We are everything and nothing
How can I know anything for sure? What
certainty lies here
OVERFLOWING ENERGY
---
At this point, the song was on repeat. We journeyed for who knows how long, the song transporting us all to the ethereal, removed from the meagre, linear plane of existence that held us so. S told me that he has never journeyed so far. Other visions, however, began to haunt me, and the lights seemed to rise a little; epistemological questions plagued my conscience and I could not tell where the trip was heading. Eye wiggles had come and gone, still sweating profusely. We went outside briefly for a cigarette. That was beautiful; but all too short lived. The outside world seems strange, foreign, yet wonderfully poignant (even as it was in stasis!) – if I had have been told that I lived not ten kilometres away, I might have cried. Then, before I knew it, I was back in the room.
---
A beautifully
dark image
a door, paint flaking
red white and blue ====> it is empty
where does this door lead?
We have actually gone insane
====> as the people around me insist a gigantic ball is soon to crush us. In an instant, I am an ant. A mere nothing.
I sit in a room
I am writing
in neon. It is strange
I can’t concentrate on anything but this writing now. I am tripping but at the same time the pen-
beauty when we realize it is only 9.30
Plenty of time
---
Intensely fragmented thought gives rise to horizontally exaggerated forms, arrows leading to tangents and descriptions made post haste. I thought the others had finally gone mad. I saw them all reaching into the empty space that filled the room from floor to ceiling, holding loftily some sort of imaginary sphere, everything but to be crushed. I was reduced to a speck, a nothing, and the weight of the world bore down on my shoulders as even Atlas should not have had to endure. Complete, utter insanity. Then, as soon as it had come, it floated away, and we were all released. Return.
When I returned this…door - appeared in my scope of vision. I could not tell whether I had actually seen it or not; but it remains even now crystal clear in my mind. A plain, white door, sterile if it were not for the rich lipstick red doorframe and lusty amethyst indigoes that dominated the carpeted mist. Paint, as I noted, flaking. A single door handle. Wooden shards and wisps of undercoat…the door leading to the answer, to the conclusion, to an end, to infinity. A door that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and so I was left, awestruck and morose, left with the poet’s dreadful task of recreating the unimaginable. I think: or was it yellow? A nuzzling yellow mist? A yellow mist, rubbing its back on window panes only to curl around the house in the evening and sleep? I am haunted once more by empty modernist imagery.
A temporal shift. Something bizarre happened here. Something I cannot truly account for. As I sat in a penitent, reflective silence, nothing once more with my pad on the floor in front of me, someone whispered: (I believe it was S): ‘I am Robocop.’
I was stuck in my own little world of confusion and longing. Then I heard others whispering. ‘Who is Robocop?’ ‘You are Robocop?’ Gasps, sighs, grunts. I looked up. There was S, on the chair, arms extended, guns in hand, a flaming sword flailing and wreaking havoc and bringing vengeance down upon the swine that infested our den of stench and corruption. His armour glinted in stale twilight. Time slowed almost to a halt, if it still existed at all, and people were ducking, lurching, swinging and swaying as they tried in vain to escape the cold justice of Robocop.
---
What the fuck is going on
We were all dead, lying foetal, curled as we listened to the lingering guitar resonating in the background
Sofly, we wake from death
As we are born, a primeval order emerges and S becomes Robocop.
As we are born, he begins to pass judgment on the world.
As we are born, we die again and the judged fall in a cataclysm of amnesia, sweat and madness. Delerium. We wake and realise…
it was all a dream.
---
I wrote as best I could what had transpired, and read it out for all to hear. Order had been reconstructed from nothingness, and we were amazed. Dumbstruck. We must have sat for some time; and then someone decided we should go for a walk. Venturing out barefoot down to the convenience store for cigarettes, a Maxibon™ I owed M and some water; we ventured out later also for pizza, which we never ended up getting; I cannot tell in which order we went, or between which entries in my notes, for I stopped recording so intensely somewhere here. The store clerk was congenial. Friendly, for late at night, and the cigarette was sweet. Now, the peak was most definitely past, coordination a little more sure, yet the outside world was still bizarre - nothing made any sense.
---
I can’t remember anything I have written
that loss of time.
I sit down and have forgotten what I set
out to do
‘I have legs’
===> Kafka’s trees
it is true, indeed very evident
apparent
‘[JC] has two heads’
[JC] denies it vehemently
then we screw around with him and tell him he has two heads.
Remembering back to a time when I was slowly going mad in [J’s] bathroom
only the calmness
The aesthetics of language, visceral again
A word for the sake of its own resonance, again
Absurdism
===> as the grown men begin peddling in the air
peddling…peddling uphill…
I can only pedal fast. No control.
---
At any rate, we were back now. There was talk of nitrous, but only J and M had some; they frolicked, eyes rolled back, orgasmed. Mentally, that is.
---
And then we sit in the dark room. [J] is rolling on the floor in a perpetual orgasm, an equilibrium of pleasure. I don’t know quite what to make of it.
‘De-generates.’ I say to [JC].
He agrees with a laugh
‘I am so far away from what I am’ says [J].
we are junkies, dark shapes that lurk in corners, awaiting a passerby. Junkies we are not, the term has too many negative connotations. Still, we sit in shadows, loking out through windows vaguely blocked by tangled palm fronds, elephantine trunk leaves dangling auspiciously on the wind.
Pink Floyd again.
More lucid now, more coherent. Need a bulb.
---
By now the only physical effects were a slight decrease in motor control, still the sweating, still mild confusion. Peace had overcome everything, and we even started to reflect; some were saying it was the hardest any drug had ever hit them. Remembering that we had only taken cough syrup helped reassure troubled minds. The dilation of time became even more apparent when it hit us that what had seemed like an eternity had now passed; time passes indescriminate of thought or emotion, day in, day out. We know that, yet we seemed to have warped the very fabric that surrounded us, or it had warped us. JC was suitably unimpressed by the amount of time passed, although I cannot even imagine what thoughts were running through his mind. My final entry on the premises.
---
‘I feel like I have a huge tumour on the back of my head.’ says.
That heavy, slightly nauseating feeling
of an empty stomach
[JC] has been a passive observer all this time, endless.
The different phases of the trip become evident.
TIME has lost all meaning, all significance. We sit now and cannot recall, for lack of short term memory and dissolution into the earth, what happened only a minute ago. We do not know how the night has progressed, I cannot even remember what candy I spawned with my pen a second before.
I wonder what it will be like when I hit sobriety. When I reach zero again, stop my advance towards the infinite.
how I will compose the report
This was a creative surge, but at the same time I must remind myself
Kafka – was straight edge. And a brilliant writer
drug induced lucidity/creativity, is all too
temporary.
This must not be the basis of a life, a style.
a rung on the ladder, nothing more
---
***
And so I sit recollecting in a park.
---
No moonlight, only vague tangerine beams coming from flickering parklamps.
The air is fresh, smells clean. A light breeze, and the clouds are matted softly against a dark cobalt blue canvas, everything is at peace.
---
I recall the excess. The destruction of all emotional and physical barriers in the face of an unpredictable force, unprecedented madness. Reduction, dissociation. Overflowing energy. A cold sweat. Sinking.
I can see them all now. A repository of talent, men sitting in a dingy, cellar-like jam room. Adolescent collaborators with their beginnings in Sydney’s underground of the noughties.
Liquidity.
NB: italics are actual excerpts from notes taken on the night. Brackets my editing. Cheers.
And so it began. Discordant bells. Staring blankly at my own reflection, shades of rouge-flavoured dementia wafting in from open doors and blanketing the uneasy silence. Insanity.
***
Roughly two hours prior we had all been sitting calmly in a moodily lit downstairs garage. A red carpet beneath our feet, musical instruments scattered between couches, chairs, stools, a computer and countless items of clothing. Bottles of cough syrup lay strewn haphazardly on desks. The upstairs area was comprised of bathroom, kitchen, bed, desk, stereo. Bon voyage.
I had roughly 450mg; my friend S had close to (or more than?) 600mg; friend M, also 600mg; friends J and J-M roughly 450mg each. Doses, however, mean little in the scheme of things. Our friend JC was also present, but he stuck to the ganja. I had a single cone (~.5g, perhaps a little less) about 20mins in; M had a few around the same time. The others may or may not have smoked. That is also, however, completely inconsequential.
We return. I was idly scanning a Rolling Stone magazine, music playing softly, lounging comfortably on a well-placed mattress. Without warning, a creeping dissociative itch made itself slowly felt, rolling over dry skin as ants on a writhing corpse: the first signs of an oncoming delirium for which there would be little accounting for, where time would soon lose all meaning and the exterior reality forgotten. Detached. For a little while we bantered, slightly stoned, a haze of political furore and semi-lucid expression – talk of American presidents serving second terms, bands and books, artsy chatter with no real purpose. Filling up the space.
So we waited. Then, all of a sudden, the wave broke. In an instant we were plunged into the depths of an horrific, insane reality; the lights were dimming imperceptibly, the stairs were climbing ever upwards, cacophony of overdrive, breaks, beats and banshee screams emanating from unknown corners. I was filled with a sudden urge to take up my pen - and so I fled upstairs, cowering in a bathroom, fumbled for my notepad, opened it, the lid off my pen, sat down on a toilet seat. Noticed the scum variously filling cavities in the walls and floor around me. Noticed the sweat dripping, salty, from my jaw. Noticed the mirror, staring blankly at my own reflection…
---
Dementia
Here I am, stuck in a bathroom of a house
I hardly know.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I achieve an air of calm that follows the panic. Once, I looked at myself and felt myself far too far away
---
And there it breaks. My train of thought was interrupted by what I perceived to be screams or shouts that began to fill the air around me – I felt claustrophobic, cramped and constricted and cornered, shockingly alone and rendered naked in front of that cruel, reflective shard that painted my face so. I stood up hurriedly, beginning to notice the room outside filling with people. The bathroom was bathed in an iridescent vermilion glow, crimson fog clouding my clear vision and mingling with harsh halogen light, a strange photonic mockery of nausea.
---
I tried to touch the image that I saw.
Leave you to your own-devices.
Then I am sitting at a desk, Wish You Were Here finally playing. I wonder what drew me to this place, why these visions, why the Kafka like absurdist illusions haunt me.
I can’t understand it.
Is this reality tangible? If I leave my book open at this very page, with the drop of the very pen now…does it still exist?
I am shivering.
Whether from dehydration, the drug’s muscle spasming ne-
now I get writers block.
My mind is unable to comprehend anything
---
I had moved from my lavatory prison into the surrounding room; the mattress where I had lain earlier was, to my eternal surprise, exactly where I had left it. Now, in a flurry of confusion, I began spinning Wish You Were Here; as the trumpets sounded the approach of Barrett’s madness I too was flung back into the incomprehensible darkness of total incomprehension, Conrad style - Hunter S. Thompson found his novel comical (as I had read earlier). Now too could I.
‘Mistah Kurtz, he dead!’ I laughed. Then, reminded of Eliot, I sobered. We are the hollow men.
There was a girl lying on the bed in front of me. She was dressed in tattered, black, punk style clothes, as is the fashion with some today. I have never seen a more powerful image of rest - absolute calm, serenity; the human form sinking into slumber to the tunes of a generation ago, and in a second I became the father. Despite the difficulty in communicating any coherent thought or coordinating any non-chaotic motion, I found myself drawn to protect this curious figure spread out on soft cotton sheets, an empathogenic whitewash of sensation that I cannot explain.
She woke, as J arrived. Began asking questions I could not answer, about my play, writing, work. Distraught. I handed her my diary, took a fresh one out of my bag, and fled downstairs before waiting for any more questions. Downstairs was quieter, an understated calm, or at least one that comes before the storm. The light was turned off, and I retreated to the computer desk to continue writing.
---
Trying to write under the light of a computer screen. My pen is writing in neon and every
-thing around me is shifting.
Someday I’ll make it as a writer.
Some straight edge gothic kinda punk kinda faux-anarchist is reading my play.
I wonder what she’ll think of the early drafts
Pity she couldn’t have read the whole thing
That’s the thing. Tripping out in the basement.
Anyway, back to the story
Short term memory terrible, quite dehydrated, somewhat jacked, ha-
---
I casually flicked the Chemical Brothers on, and decided to lay down briefly. Dissolved, dissipated, diffused…words of Coleridge flooding into my mind, but the stark reality of them hitting harder than he may once have imagined. My imagination secondary to the poet’s. I sank at once into the confines of a leather-bound palace, deeper and deeper into the soft, once-living frame, enveloped in a sea of nothingness, the void in totality. I wake.
---
It happened again
An eternity passed in an instant.
I went to lie down on the carpet,
Got Glint playing
Now I can’t even be sure whether or not what I’m experiencing is reality or not
Visceral
[JC] somehow knew of my obsession w/ the word
‘Fuck my Howards, my fingers are fat’
the ultimate antidote to rational conversation
Now I sink into the computer screen,
Inexorably drawn to a point deep in cyberspace, the very beat of the music grating my throat as I enter the music, become one with a sound that now resonates down my oesophagus and the beat rises within me.
My stomach churns in anticipation of the forthcoming bass.
Has the peak finished?
I am still vibrating.
The Trio.
---
I was angry at first. I had let three minutes slip away in peaceful oblivion, slipping away as Renton did into a rose-coloured carpet grave; that passed, and then I was scared; when JC revealed my passion for the word visceral. He claimed to have read my diary, by inference have analysed the innermost of my thoughts, scoured my mind and revealed that very passion, that irrational love. He told me that I like the way the word sounds, despite the fact that I have never really been able to discern its true meaning, only use it in context. I was chilled. Felt as though he really had probed the depths of my consciousness, returned with that single, useless revelation, as if to say: ‘perhaps…we all…are one.’ I was mortally afraid. This notion was not reconcilable with my present state of mind, and as such I resolved to banish it as quickly as possible; and so it was banished. S made some mention of his seemingly swollen fingers (in characteristically comical fashion), and then the music pulled me in. A rollercoaster…
…sucked down an acoustic pathway, mouth dry and caked but dancing in jarring salsa to the intermingling of subwoofer and silence, strange high pitched twangs and rumbling beats. It smelt like burning plastic, cool green tea and fresh powdery snow, an olfactory collage that bedazzled the inner smelling synesthete and projected a plethora of wondrous colour, tones and shades of the spectrum infinite onto the patiently shaking screens of nervous recognition.
Suddenly, it was only S, JC and I. Alone, and the overwhelming sense of unity, a bond, grew from nowhere. The Trio. I sat on a chair. That is, until we were overtaken by madness (once more) – but this time of the utmost magnitude.
The lights went out. I was forced to write in pitch, scrawling diagonally on unseen paper. Any Colour You Like beamed outwards from hidden speakers. Adieu, adieu.
---
I have never
looked as deep into
my soul
I died
and was born
again
---
The rollercoaster turned inwards, and I delved into the very nature of my own being. Liquidity. Not only was I dissolving but now collapsing in on myself, writhing on the ground and scribbling in states of intermittent subconscious vision – it was blue. That is all I can say for certain. A blue teardrop, made up of infinitesimally small grids, a giant patchwork blob that stretched and moved in complete harmony, the pure essential energy that rests within us all. Base, fundamental. And it sucked me down once more…S’s words also began to fill my paper.
---
I felt like a golden flow
of energy, and I reached
your endpoint
energy flows, golden flows through
everything
Istigkeit. We are everything and nothing
How can I know anything for sure? What
certainty lies here
OVERFLOWING ENERGY
---
At this point, the song was on repeat. We journeyed for who knows how long, the song transporting us all to the ethereal, removed from the meagre, linear plane of existence that held us so. S told me that he has never journeyed so far. Other visions, however, began to haunt me, and the lights seemed to rise a little; epistemological questions plagued my conscience and I could not tell where the trip was heading. Eye wiggles had come and gone, still sweating profusely. We went outside briefly for a cigarette. That was beautiful; but all too short lived. The outside world seems strange, foreign, yet wonderfully poignant (even as it was in stasis!) – if I had have been told that I lived not ten kilometres away, I might have cried. Then, before I knew it, I was back in the room.
---
A beautifully
dark image
a door, paint flaking
red white and blue ====> it is empty
where does this door lead?
We have actually gone insane
====> as the people around me insist a gigantic ball is soon to crush us. In an instant, I am an ant. A mere nothing.
I sit in a room
I am writing
in neon. It is strange
I can’t concentrate on anything but this writing now. I am tripping but at the same time the pen-
beauty when we realize it is only 9.30
Plenty of time
---
Intensely fragmented thought gives rise to horizontally exaggerated forms, arrows leading to tangents and descriptions made post haste. I thought the others had finally gone mad. I saw them all reaching into the empty space that filled the room from floor to ceiling, holding loftily some sort of imaginary sphere, everything but to be crushed. I was reduced to a speck, a nothing, and the weight of the world bore down on my shoulders as even Atlas should not have had to endure. Complete, utter insanity. Then, as soon as it had come, it floated away, and we were all released. Return.
When I returned this…door - appeared in my scope of vision. I could not tell whether I had actually seen it or not; but it remains even now crystal clear in my mind. A plain, white door, sterile if it were not for the rich lipstick red doorframe and lusty amethyst indigoes that dominated the carpeted mist. Paint, as I noted, flaking. A single door handle. Wooden shards and wisps of undercoat…the door leading to the answer, to the conclusion, to an end, to infinity. A door that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and so I was left, awestruck and morose, left with the poet’s dreadful task of recreating the unimaginable. I think: or was it yellow? A nuzzling yellow mist? A yellow mist, rubbing its back on window panes only to curl around the house in the evening and sleep? I am haunted once more by empty modernist imagery.
A temporal shift. Something bizarre happened here. Something I cannot truly account for. As I sat in a penitent, reflective silence, nothing once more with my pad on the floor in front of me, someone whispered: (I believe it was S): ‘I am Robocop.’
I was stuck in my own little world of confusion and longing. Then I heard others whispering. ‘Who is Robocop?’ ‘You are Robocop?’ Gasps, sighs, grunts. I looked up. There was S, on the chair, arms extended, guns in hand, a flaming sword flailing and wreaking havoc and bringing vengeance down upon the swine that infested our den of stench and corruption. His armour glinted in stale twilight. Time slowed almost to a halt, if it still existed at all, and people were ducking, lurching, swinging and swaying as they tried in vain to escape the cold justice of Robocop.
---
What the fuck is going on
We were all dead, lying foetal, curled as we listened to the lingering guitar resonating in the background
Sofly, we wake from death
As we are born, a primeval order emerges and S becomes Robocop.
As we are born, he begins to pass judgment on the world.
As we are born, we die again and the judged fall in a cataclysm of amnesia, sweat and madness. Delerium. We wake and realise…
it was all a dream.
---
I wrote as best I could what had transpired, and read it out for all to hear. Order had been reconstructed from nothingness, and we were amazed. Dumbstruck. We must have sat for some time; and then someone decided we should go for a walk. Venturing out barefoot down to the convenience store for cigarettes, a Maxibon™ I owed M and some water; we ventured out later also for pizza, which we never ended up getting; I cannot tell in which order we went, or between which entries in my notes, for I stopped recording so intensely somewhere here. The store clerk was congenial. Friendly, for late at night, and the cigarette was sweet. Now, the peak was most definitely past, coordination a little more sure, yet the outside world was still bizarre - nothing made any sense.
---
I can’t remember anything I have written
that loss of time.
I sit down and have forgotten what I set
out to do
‘I have legs’
===> Kafka’s trees
it is true, indeed very evident
apparent
‘[JC] has two heads’
[JC] denies it vehemently
then we screw around with him and tell him he has two heads.
Remembering back to a time when I was slowly going mad in [J’s] bathroom
only the calmness
The aesthetics of language, visceral again
A word for the sake of its own resonance, again
Absurdism
===> as the grown men begin peddling in the air
peddling…peddling uphill…
I can only pedal fast. No control.
---
At any rate, we were back now. There was talk of nitrous, but only J and M had some; they frolicked, eyes rolled back, orgasmed. Mentally, that is.
---
And then we sit in the dark room. [J] is rolling on the floor in a perpetual orgasm, an equilibrium of pleasure. I don’t know quite what to make of it.
‘De-generates.’ I say to [JC].
He agrees with a laugh
‘I am so far away from what I am’ says [J].
we are junkies, dark shapes that lurk in corners, awaiting a passerby. Junkies we are not, the term has too many negative connotations. Still, we sit in shadows, loking out through windows vaguely blocked by tangled palm fronds, elephantine trunk leaves dangling auspiciously on the wind.
Pink Floyd again.
More lucid now, more coherent. Need a bulb.
---
By now the only physical effects were a slight decrease in motor control, still the sweating, still mild confusion. Peace had overcome everything, and we even started to reflect; some were saying it was the hardest any drug had ever hit them. Remembering that we had only taken cough syrup helped reassure troubled minds. The dilation of time became even more apparent when it hit us that what had seemed like an eternity had now passed; time passes indescriminate of thought or emotion, day in, day out. We know that, yet we seemed to have warped the very fabric that surrounded us, or it had warped us. JC was suitably unimpressed by the amount of time passed, although I cannot even imagine what thoughts were running through his mind. My final entry on the premises.
---
‘I feel like I have a huge tumour on the back of my head.’ says
That heavy, slightly nauseating feeling
of an empty stomach
[JC] has been a passive observer all this time, endless.
The different phases of the trip become evident.
TIME has lost all meaning, all significance. We sit now and cannot recall, for lack of short term memory and dissolution into the earth, what happened only a minute ago. We do not know how the night has progressed, I cannot even remember what candy I spawned with my pen a second before.
I wonder what it will be like when I hit sobriety. When I reach zero again, stop my advance towards the infinite.
how I will compose the report
This was a creative surge, but at the same time I must remind myself
Kafka – was straight edge. And a brilliant writer
drug induced lucidity/creativity, is all too
temporary.
This must not be the basis of a life, a style.
a rung on the ladder, nothing more
---
***
And so I sit recollecting in a park.
---
No moonlight, only vague tangerine beams coming from flickering parklamps.
The air is fresh, smells clean. A light breeze, and the clouds are matted softly against a dark cobalt blue canvas, everything is at peace.
---
I recall the excess. The destruction of all emotional and physical barriers in the face of an unpredictable force, unprecedented madness. Reduction, dissociation. Overflowing energy. A cold sweat. Sinking.
I can see them all now. A repository of talent, men sitting in a dingy, cellar-like jam room. Adolescent collaborators with their beginnings in Sydney’s underground of the noughties.
Liquidity.
NB: italics are actual excerpts from notes taken on the night. Brackets my editing. Cheers.
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