Changed
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Sep 19, 2006
- Messages
- 2,974
7pm, the ghoulish October sky night is blood red and fluorescent smeared. Before us is a bag
of musty crusty reality rending mushrooms-- first we must assemble our two man tent (with
considerable difficulty, as it usually goes) and wander the crunchy leafed forest square
circle in search of suitable wood for burning. Fully engulfed in a Northeastern autumn orange
and red tree tapestry, it doesn't take long to assembled a suitable collection of kindling--
nice fat logs that take only one chop to reduce to burnable size. Having earned our reward
with sweat on our brows, we settle into our comfortable camping chairs, twofold, lounging in
the face of a crackling night cold fire. The sweat on my back and forehead slowly evaporates
in a cooling way as the breeze whirls through the bare trees tall. The mushrooms are consumed.
8:30pm, of course, we must break the cardinal rule of crusty mushroom ingestion: food
consumption-- hot dogs, what else? Two suitable long sticks are gathered from a'near and the
mushy meat we skewer . Anticipation and smiles as the magic does its work in our stomachs--
slight rumbles and tumbles let us know that they're working wonderfully. The hotdogs simmer
and drip fat into the growing fire, spreading a sweet smell up through the air, into the
tree-top bare canopy and finally onto the jet stream of crisp autumnal air. Slightly blackened
and with near-fire rock-crisped bun, slathered in ketchup and dastardly neon yellow mustard,
the hot dogs are wolfed down voraciously.
9pm, the once-green forest, now grey (engulfed in the full blackness of early-autumn sundown),
starts to once again appear green-- and orange and pink and red. Trees tall and spindly sway
hither and thither as the wind sweeps through our sacred semi-circle. Warmed by shit-kicking
boots (worn only for sweat-brow yard-work or stomping through slop on the way to forest
weekend hijinks), woolen socks from the Christmas stocking hung with care, and fuzzy Syracuse
sweat-shirt (grey and six sizes too big, purposefully)--also wrapt with warmth by a scratchy
wool blanket (M's, not mine), I ooze into my form-fitting camping chair as the fire continues
to crackle and our consciousness quickly becomes one not two.
10pm, Jim Morrison emerges from the darkness shot forth from a sightless spotless specter,
pointed towards the ceiling of the world. Poems reverberate almost soundlessly, yes
psychically-- from the speakers? No, the words appear to be emanating from our now entwined
consciousness. Closed eyes and lean back in the chair, almost too far, shed my blanket as
sweat rolls down my back and legs, the fire roaring a great colossus of wood and smoke and gas
and heat and life-- shift the legs and AH HA! those are legs! hands! hands rub the legs as the
fire spits heat and love from its center onto the world. Attempt to stand and fall back into
the chair laughing as for the first time M looks over and suddenly it becomes clear-- we've
been the same person, the same hands, legs, sweat, chair, hair, mushroom stomachs and shitty
intestines for the past three hours or perhaps for infinity in our sharp air forest-fire October haven.
11pm, words attempted, failed, gobbledy goop spouts out and up and over-- going nowhere.
Fitful laughing in unison the only suitable form of communication in these circumstances--
laughing for hours and years and eternities as Jim Morrison suddenly becomes serious and
produces pragmatic poems with only the accompaniment of a single guitar and a flute, the foxes
of the forest retreat to their dens as maniacal laughing and guitar and flute and poetry
prodigiously ripples through the leaf-less maze of breathing Oaks and Ashes.
12pm, tent bed sleeping bag warm dreams and shrinking fire, left sputtering to maybe warm the
now-tent-dwellers overnight, dreams of endless deserts horse-ridden West accompanied by skinny
Jim Morrison shirtless with coiled yellow-white snake upon his shoulders and organs and flutes
and angels burst forth with a grandeur reserved only for mushroom sleeping dreams in sweet New
York upstate forests.
Oct. XX, 2006?
of musty crusty reality rending mushrooms-- first we must assemble our two man tent (with
considerable difficulty, as it usually goes) and wander the crunchy leafed forest square
circle in search of suitable wood for burning. Fully engulfed in a Northeastern autumn orange
and red tree tapestry, it doesn't take long to assembled a suitable collection of kindling--
nice fat logs that take only one chop to reduce to burnable size. Having earned our reward
with sweat on our brows, we settle into our comfortable camping chairs, twofold, lounging in
the face of a crackling night cold fire. The sweat on my back and forehead slowly evaporates
in a cooling way as the breeze whirls through the bare trees tall. The mushrooms are consumed.
8:30pm, of course, we must break the cardinal rule of crusty mushroom ingestion: food
consumption-- hot dogs, what else? Two suitable long sticks are gathered from a'near and the
mushy meat we skewer . Anticipation and smiles as the magic does its work in our stomachs--
slight rumbles and tumbles let us know that they're working wonderfully. The hotdogs simmer
and drip fat into the growing fire, spreading a sweet smell up through the air, into the
tree-top bare canopy and finally onto the jet stream of crisp autumnal air. Slightly blackened
and with near-fire rock-crisped bun, slathered in ketchup and dastardly neon yellow mustard,
the hot dogs are wolfed down voraciously.
9pm, the once-green forest, now grey (engulfed in the full blackness of early-autumn sundown),
starts to once again appear green-- and orange and pink and red. Trees tall and spindly sway
hither and thither as the wind sweeps through our sacred semi-circle. Warmed by shit-kicking
boots (worn only for sweat-brow yard-work or stomping through slop on the way to forest
weekend hijinks), woolen socks from the Christmas stocking hung with care, and fuzzy Syracuse
sweat-shirt (grey and six sizes too big, purposefully)--also wrapt with warmth by a scratchy
wool blanket (M's, not mine), I ooze into my form-fitting camping chair as the fire continues
to crackle and our consciousness quickly becomes one not two.
10pm, Jim Morrison emerges from the darkness shot forth from a sightless spotless specter,
pointed towards the ceiling of the world. Poems reverberate almost soundlessly, yes
psychically-- from the speakers? No, the words appear to be emanating from our now entwined
consciousness. Closed eyes and lean back in the chair, almost too far, shed my blanket as
sweat rolls down my back and legs, the fire roaring a great colossus of wood and smoke and gas
and heat and life-- shift the legs and AH HA! those are legs! hands! hands rub the legs as the
fire spits heat and love from its center onto the world. Attempt to stand and fall back into
the chair laughing as for the first time M looks over and suddenly it becomes clear-- we've
been the same person, the same hands, legs, sweat, chair, hair, mushroom stomachs and shitty
intestines for the past three hours or perhaps for infinity in our sharp air forest-fire October haven.
11pm, words attempted, failed, gobbledy goop spouts out and up and over-- going nowhere.
Fitful laughing in unison the only suitable form of communication in these circumstances--
laughing for hours and years and eternities as Jim Morrison suddenly becomes serious and
produces pragmatic poems with only the accompaniment of a single guitar and a flute, the foxes
of the forest retreat to their dens as maniacal laughing and guitar and flute and poetry
prodigiously ripples through the leaf-less maze of breathing Oaks and Ashes.
12pm, tent bed sleeping bag warm dreams and shrinking fire, left sputtering to maybe warm the
now-tent-dwellers overnight, dreams of endless deserts horse-ridden West accompanied by skinny
Jim Morrison shirtless with coiled yellow-white snake upon his shoulders and organs and flutes
and angels burst forth with a grandeur reserved only for mushroom sleeping dreams in sweet New
York upstate forests.
Oct. XX, 2006?
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