A birthday love story with no title yet.
Jugo Silene — a revolutionary, carpenter, coffin-builder, chemist, jack of all shades — loaded the pipe.
Jugo Silene was my dream man. By saying he is my dream man, he may or may not exist. But that matters very little to the story that follows. So.
Jugo Silene — a dream, a revolutionary, carpenter, coffin-builder, chemist, jack of all shades — loaded THE pipe.
He gave me a ghoulish smile, replete with thick-lidded eyes, dark, dry hair, fit for kindling. His father was Lebanese, and his mother grew up in Hong Kong. Sometimes he worked as a bartender. He was a perfect cross between Marlon Brando and Charles Manson. With both hands, he presented his little pipebomb.
“What’s in that?” I asked, not lifting a hand to take it from him.
“It doesn’t matter what it is, specifically. It’s something I’ve devoted a lot of time to.” He answers with an odd faraway look in his eye.
Charlton Heston would have shot this guy on sight. No, not the doddering fool in that Michael Moore movie, the Heston that runs from zombies. It was then that I realized that I was in love.
“How is that supposed to relax me?” I challenged. “I mean, look at you.”
“One of my requirements in forging friendships is that you do some psychedelic shit with me. Besides, look at you. We’re both dead already. Are you hanging on to some concept that you might have a mind to lose? A brain to damage?”
Like an idiot, I decided to forgo issues of trust.
Kids, don’t try this at home. That was always good advice. But I’m never going home.
Never smoke for flavor.
Smoke for effect. Smoke for Europe after the rains.
Rain after idiot, blinking at the flickering monitor as self stop checking back.
Laid out, a flakewit landscape.
Inexplicable pulses. Wired like a christmas tree involuted.
Chromotic-somatic starway to hefting.
Rebirth, like happy birthday baby.
And then I realized it was sound. And there was a voice.
Jugo had put on a tape somewhere in my buzzing, an old analogue magnetic cassette on a dual deck beat-out music unit with busted CD player. Popped open mouth, open wide for mechanic. Speaking erudite with a high, calming voice.
For a full half hour, I thought I was listening to Mister Rogers reveal the secrets of the universe. It wasn’t the first time I had complete auditory hallucinations. But I was mistaken.
It was outside my head.
When I had recovered the ability to find my throat-bladder, I finally shrieked, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE LISTENING TO?”
Jugo rubbed his hands together over his head, Kundalini-cally (if there is ever such a word – and what a word it would be!), smiling like a Honda Accord with too much hair. “This is Terrence McKenna. Have you ever heard of him?”
“You got any Deep Purple?” I grinned back.