Rediscovered Country

The other day, out of the blue, I got a phone call from an old friend. He told me he was getting married and he’d started college and might possibly be a daddy. I was thrown for a loop, and a little confused. A little about Mark: We used to be drug buddies back in the day. At the time Mark barely had his high school diploma, yet he was one of the smartest people I knew. Whenever Mark and I would hit the bong, and snort a few lines of K, Mark's ideas and observations, and I know he didn’t know this, mirrored those of great thinkers. He had a quality I WISH I had. He was a creative thinker. He had a quick mind, albeit corroded by the tons of blow, weed, and extacy we took. I had a few clever ideas too, but it could have been because of the drugs, or because I was with Mark. Like a maestro conducting a philharmonic he could lure out creative thinking from us with a few quick movements of his illusionary baton. Or, again, it could have been the drugs. You see the drugs acted as a catalyst in a weird neurological reaction. The drugs were that essential spark which, when injected, would travel the length of my bloodstream and ignite the sluggish Frankenstein monster of my imagination. The drugs usually led to some incredible reflection and deep conversation, or some really amazing visual and psychological, "Calvino-esque" journeys, which Mark and I would then discuss in a salon setting.

Question: have you ever videotaped yourself tripping on acid? It's surreal. A glimpse of someone else, not the same you that you usually see in the mirror when you brush your teeth or pick your nose, but a stranger, or perhaps someone who is dressed just like you and shares some common physical traits such as height and hair color; but wearing a Mission Impossible-style rubber mask only meant to resemble you. A mask that on all accounts looks like you, but something about it isn’t quite right, and a bit macabre. Mark's idea not mine. He had lots of ideas. As much as I hate admitting this, I’m not capable of thinking up anything ingenious or clever on my own. I’m a collector of facts and clever catch phrases, that’s all, nothing more. I’m hollow.

Mark and I don’t really talk much nowadays. As I mentioned, we’ve moved on with our lives and we’re doing our own thing. Lately, I tend to stay away from the harder shit. Wonderment, and that thrilling sense of adventure I used to get when I’d dive headlong into the unknown, has been replaced with paranoia and way too much obsessive self-reflection and introspection. I think the older we get the less liable we’re able to enjoy acid or mushrooms or any of that because we’re reminded of what we haven’t accomplished, or all the things we have, but wish we hadn’t. The last thing I want to do is relive every single fuck up I’ve ever made over the past 26 years over and over for fourteen hours straight. Why? Cause I’m scared. I’m scared shitless actually. Scared of the self-imposed truths we all keep so tightly locked away in the Pandora-boxes of our subconscious. However, I often wonder if there would be any way to possibly persuade Mark to come out of retirement? Even for just one week, or just one night? I wonder if he’d be willing to join me in Vegas on one last hurrah, to be my “Dr. Gonzo” one last time? An even more pressing question is…having Mark there with me, would that make the experience fun?