Fourth of July Weekend as a Salvia trip

I am in a room somewhere in the Berkeley Hills overlooking Sebastopol listening to side 3 of The Basement Tapes rolling a joint and taking in fireworks over the shoulders of social strangers, piss drunk and totally sober. I'm talking to a girl I met at a party while on LSD the night before moving here, and she is a Sister of Mercy, in the Cohen sense. I'm holding in the butane fueled purple smoke and expecting pixelized vision, impatient but no longer afraid.

Talking animals about a simulated normality, too many details to know, blue shirts without context. They go about their individual businesses like wind-ups, like scripts. Wood forms on walls compose the sterilized cool of an electric guitar base, I nob. Flowing color, sinking contentedness, baseless reality, I move. Cool as a cucumber, I remember, these are my friends. I remember, I am on drugs. I remember, They too are on drugs, we're doing fun together. Experience show, take I and my baggage away and leave stuff- colors, movement, feelings. I try and answer a question about Michael Paradis, I slur, I am back.

Three days, more like four with Thursday chores ending at 9:30AM. Only bits of it worth repeating are the aforementioned salvia experience, the box of infinite joint rolling and record library at the Berkeley Hills BBQ, and spending Sunday being with somebody so interested in what I had to say as to make me believe I could change them, that I was insightful.

I ate a lot of other people's foods, drank from their cups and piggy backed on their virility. My skin grows thick and I wear flare on my pants and out of my head, an androgynous warning that the rules do not apply.

I am, I realize at the end of the trip, Michael Paradis, and these are my friends, and we're all on drugs together, pretty much all the time.