There are plenty of ideas for blog entries that come to mind.
A problem, though, is whether or not I want to put myself through the ordeal of trying to remember what were some very intense emotional experiences.
I just ordered Chinese takeout from a fairly new restaurant here in Live Oak, stuffing myself with sweet and sour shrimp, fried rice, and an egg roll. It was tasty, but totally unhealthy. Everything was caked in fried batter. I can already feel the queasiness setting in. Unfortunately, I will not be making many trips to that restaurant.
Now I sit down at my computer, with the intention of writing a blog entry about the dogs in my life: Mosey, Wagger, Hard-Head or Twiggy, Molly, Betsy, LuLu, Snout, and Squirt. I have some wonderful memories of them. But they are all dead, now, and the way some of them died is extremely painful to recall.
No, with this food settling uncomfortably in my stomach and the Winter Olympics in Sochi muted on the television behind me as a distraction, I do not think I will write about the good times and then the demise of my dogs. Not today. It is the same reason I have for rarely writing about my experiences at Western Carolina University in Cullowhee. Those memories are just too vivid and intense. To do the memories justice in writing about them would require fierce concentration and large amounts of energy.
Instead, I will write about my acid trips.
I have lived alone for just about half of my life, now. When I return to North Carolina to visit my family, it is always an enjoyable time. I rarely get any writing done, though. There are just too many distractions: Dad and my brother watching basketball on television, my nephew running around the living room and playing with toys, neighbors coming over to visit, full meals prepared by mom, snacks throughout the day, and so forth.
In my regular life, though, there is a lot of quiet time, a lot of alone time. Sometimes, when I step outside to take a look at the stars, or just to get my mail, the air hits me and triggers a memory. The same sometimes happens when I am sitting in my recliner, watching a movie or a ball game, and I am just about to drift asleep.
These memories are unlike others that I have, though. It is a sensation in my body and mind that I cannot adequately describe with words. Smells and feelings wash over me like I am right there again, feeling a certain way in a certain place that I have not experienced before up to that point. They are very brief, and the sensation that comes with them is fleeting. I cannot recreate the sensation once it is gone. I only have the knowledge that I felt it.
To be clear, I have never dropped acid. I refer to these memories as acid trips because I imagine they are somewhat similar to the flashbacks people who have used LSD must experience when a bit of the drug seeps out from their spine, years later. Some of the places to which I am transported are not even memories. I am not sure what they are. It is very real, though. If I have not been there in my past, then my mind has created an extremely realistic scene drawn from something, somewhere.
I have had a number of such trips over the years. Here is a listing of a few:
1) I am a young boy, perhaps a teenager, standing in the parking lot of an amusement park in Wilmington, North Carolina. It is summertime, late afternoon, but not overly hot- at least not to me. I am waiting for someone. Perhaps it is a family member, coming out of the amusement park to meet me in the parking lot. Ice cream. There is ice cream, somewhere. There is the faintest scent of it, combined with the burned rubber and gasoline smell coming from the go-kart track inside the amusement park. It is actually a pleasant combination to me. I like the smell of gasoline in the summertime. I smile.
2) I am in my early 20s, walking on the campus of North Carolina State University in Raleigh. Red brick buildings are everywhere. It is an overcast, autumn day, but not cold. People are in short sleeved shirts, still. I go inside one of the buildings, an administrative building, up to a counter, and tap the bell for service. Now, I notice that there is a young and attractive African-American woman standing to my right and slightly behind me. I am aware that she knows who I am, and that she came here with me. I am wary of her for some reason.
She is trying to play matchmaker with me and the girls behind the counter.
“Not that one,” she says, referring to a red head in sandals behind the counter, walking away from me. “She is too much noise.”
I see a quiet, plain girl in glasses, her blonde hair pulled back from her face, writing on a tablet.
“Now her, she would be suitable for you,” the African-American girl says.
I laugh and think to myself, my match-maker has no idea what I find attractive.
3) I am in an all-white room, covered in tile, with sparse furniture. Two of my favorite girls from law school appear, S. and T. They wear the exact same clothes for some reason. It is wonderful, because they are both very interested in me on this day. They sit down on each side of me. They know that conversation is hard for me, so they are content to talk to each other, fully aware that they are putting on a show. I love watching them and listening to them. I can smell their clothes and their shampoo.
4) I sit alone in a tavern in a village outside of Philadelphia. Though I am in my mid-twenties, I am not sure what year it is inside the tavern. It could be anywhere from the 1960s up to the present. My waitress is beautiful, with soft white skin and dark hair. She wears a small navy blue shirt that sort of looks like a football jersey. It has the number 06 on it. I drink an ice cold mug of root beer. The tavern is busy. I sit at a table some distance back from the bar. My order of the house special hamburger and mashed potatoes is on the way. The inside of the tavern looks like something from Colonial times with high, dark wooden walls. The tables and chairs are made from thick wood as well. The chandeliers providing electric light are dimmed, as light from the overcast day shines in from the windows at the front of the tavern.
I wander outside. The city cannot be seen from this tavern, but I know it is close. It is late summer or early autumn, and all the leaves are on the trees still. It feels great to be outside.
How long have I been here? I know that I can wander into the forest surrounding the tavern and walk and explore for as long as I like.
I like this place, and I hope that I am invited and have the money to stay here for a long time...
These trips are usually pleasant experiences for me. Sometimes one hits that takes me back to an unhappy episode, though. Perhaps I will write about those another day, or perhaps I will not.
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