LSD
me in my studio at art college
In 1988 my friends introduced me to The Grateful Dead, taking me to 2 shows in Hartford, Connecticut. I hadn’t used LSD before, but I was a well-established stoner. The first night, some guy with sweaty palms sold us LSD tabs, and I think the LSD was sucked off into perspiration then absorbed into his skin. He was probably tripping balls, but we weren’t. I found my first Dead show to be boring.
My friends exclaimed, “Boring! Didn’t the
LSD…” No, no it didn’t. They told me they’d be sure it was good, effective LSD
for the next show. And, oh my, it certainly was.
my mementos from Grateful Dead shows
I remember spinning around the perimeter of
the convention center all night, my fairy skirt twirling with me, as I figured
out everything about my life. I mean, I figured out all of it and I felt
cleansed and purified. But I couldn’t remember. It was amazing and powerful and
great, but I couldn’t remember.
At dawn, my friends and I decided to drive
back to Virginia. The sun rose softly over a small gathering on the lawn,
people in separate activity yet woven together. A girl playing a recorder while
another swayed in a delicate dance, someone blowing bubbles that lightly
floated about, a boy making a clover chain. I could feel the connection. As we
pulled away, some dude rolled, no flowed, down the street on a skateboard,
gliding back and forth in gentle curves. I watched, mesmerized, in the feeling,
in the serenity. I still tap into it. And we were all in tune and like one, the
kids on the lawn, the skateboarder, my friends in the car on the highway home.
That LSD trip changed me and opened up my creativity. I was an odd college student in the midst of earning a fine arts degree now emboldened to push further into weirdness. I wanted to capture that openness and free my mind further. I wanted to feel like that felt over and over and I wanted to unlock secrets that I might remember and that might make me a happier person.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
I spent the rest of 1988 into 1989 trying to repeat that perfect trip.
I desired it, to hold it, to keep it in my world and not at the edges of a dream.
I tried at a few more Grateful Dead shows. I tried at DC venues like the 9:30 Club, nearby alternative spaces like Wilmers Park, the new year’s show at Warner Theatre with The Cramps opening for the Butthole Surfers. At that last one, LSD was redundant. The show itself was an unreal spectacle bursting with in-your-face noises and flashy costumes and deeply disturbing background videos.
I kept at dosing LSD, weekly, bi-weekly, and I had some fun and crazy moments, and then I didn’t. Then all the colors and sparkles faded, away into the sky, followed by dark moods, then feeling flat, empty, and alone.
Probably I shouldn’t have done so much LSD on top of mental illness and on top of not being treated and on top of active anorexia. But I did, and I won’t judge past me and make my use of psychedelics into a stain on my life. It wasn’t. The beauty that surrounded me, lit me up, woke up parts of my mind lying dormant, that I won’t forget. Sometimes I listen to live Dead music, and I feel it. For a few precious moments, I’m back in the magic.
Comments
Post a Comment