In honour of my fast approaching fortieth birthday, I decided to tempt fate and all the muses by dropping acid for the first time in more than ten years. What a frikkin feat! And what a thrilling relief to reacquaint myself with Don Acido, feel him course down my spine, through my mind, and up behind my cheek bones, once again, after all these years without. Back in the day, in the ugly 80s, acid came to define me as a person, my habits, my mental aesthetic, my raison d’être. It was even my nickname in highschool. The first time I tried it, on a warm summer Soo night when I was only 16, I swore, as soon as the feeling had me taken over completely, that I would continue to drop “until I died.” But aging forecloses itself on such lofty ideas and there came a time, a million trips later, when I wanted nothing more than to want to do acid, but only that initial idealized desire remained. I had, like little Jackie Paper, unwittingly grown up and in doing so, grown away from my dragon, who, without me, sadly slipped back into his cave and ceased his fearless roar. (The song still makes me cry.)
But the other day, right out of the bluest skies, opportunity, in the form of a little square paper, fell right onto my now-willing tongue. I loved the idea of dropping acid ten days short of my fortieth birthday—I could still be a rebel and do irresponsible, ungrown-up things, even AT MY AGE! And no one could stop me! (“Fuck You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me!”) And with that one little hit, I was led directly to twelve straight hours of virgin-pure pleasure and play, Fun with a capital F and laughter straight to God, and I’m sure it trimmed at least six months off my total year-bank. Surrounded by clean dirt and stick-bugs, I tripped around the Rio Seco, my pockets heavy with quartz and candy, and the sun bored itself into each and every one of my pores and my sweet skin shone with the heady security that THERE WAS NO SAFER PLACE IN THE WORLD FOR ME. I was carried forward by my armpits and set down face to face with the wind and that secret underscore of reality that Albert Hoffman, that blessed old Swiss dude (R.I.P., old friend), gifted us with, from that fateful moldy piece of bread, over 70 years ago.
To my surprise (and relief) I managed to trip the whole trip in Spanish. Even with all the liquids in my head gone bonkers (flowing snot, salivation turned up to eleven and tears popping uncontrolably from my eyes—but still no dislodging of the puke ball trapped in my throat) my mind wrapped itself around the Spanish version of the words and they actually emerged as such, from my mouth, whenever necessary. That little slice of our psychedelic world remained for me and my tripping partner, A., consistently, linguistically, hispanically, intact. This was a good sign—I am a better person in Spanish, and the fact that I could not only PERCEIVE in Spanish, but COMMUNICATE too, upped my ante as a human, in my own eyes anyway.
After it was all over, I waited for the comedown for days. But there was none, not even an iota. The whole post-trip week was sweet and light as cotton candy. I ate well and slept full and felt consistently giddy and grateful. Eight days later, good things continue to happen to me and the hit’s blessings continue to shine on: an older body but one more connected to its own fountain of truth; a stronger, saner, more situated brain; and a heart safe and relaxed enough to truly embrace the coming Argentine autumn (and beyond that, the first full winter this cold-sensitive ass will have faced in seven years.)
But I have a tuque now.
And a hot-water bottle.
And an acid connection.
I have almost grown-up.
Remember when I dosed Al Wood in the early nineties and he carried an alarm clock named Randy around with him for a week? Then he asked me maybe a month later, "When does it stop?" And I said, "When does what stop?" And he said, "The acids." (which he pluralized)
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