The Most Magnificent experience within comprehension... yet.
Today I decided around 1:30 that I would get stoned and take a bike ride. I thought it would be an interesting experience, and a good test of the Great Experment. 2 o'clock comes and I go downstairs and prepare my works, a disc and Do it To it. This turned out to be an auspicious and impressive set of hits. Finely ground, firmly packed, totally vaporized and inhaled. Very quickly I began to realize that this was as stoned I had been since the first time it happened, by far. I mean, some dizziness (still dizzy as I'm writing this an hour later), disorientation, and what must have been some very fruity posture.
Preparing for a bike ride is a challenging thing. There's clothing, and complicated back pack and mp3 player rigs, Helmets and gloves. And that's all without even sitting on a bicycle. I felt very nervous about this as I approached the garage. This was far beyond any physical activity I'd done while stoned. Driving is undemanding because there's no balance involved. There was a good chance that I would be too slow to notice something or fall out of balance and cause a pretty bad wipeout. That would be no good. But straight I know I can fucking OWN the two-wheel ten speed, so I proceed anyway. Time to push it to the limit, bra. I maneuvered the bike down the driveway and pedaled away into the new blacktop streets feeling childishly far from home, no idea what to expect.
Immediately I was plunged hands feet and head into one of the most wholly rewarding experiences of my life. With a newfound clarity I had appreciation for this masterful form of operating a two wheeled velocipede. The relaxation and then the power as I pumped myself up the first hill, and the pleasure with which I went into the relatively low gear that would carry me through this long (not very long) bike ride. I steered around onto the prairie path and there the voyage began. A sunny day, over a softly grey-white path with green on either side and comfortable blue above. Right away things were feeling magical, like a fantasy world with some write-guy's injection of goofy steampunkism to explain bikes instead of horses. The riding alone was completely mind-blowing, self-propelling myself on a device of incredible mechanical advantage typically taken for granted. This was only a beginning.
The people were next, and the realization of how happy I was to see them as compared with the ill-will I had for my fellows just this morning while shopping for groceries. What I was feeling was a complete diametrical opposite of what I knew surely was myself just two hours ago. Then there was resentment and anger but later on only joy as they biked past me with their helmets on their heads and sunlight flashing over them. And just then the tail end of the Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid soundtrack was playing whistfully, talking about an old friend's betrayal and the ensuing loneliness of the outlaw. Our opening scene was pure love, romantic and otherwise, for everyone I passed. This first chapter was a high note.
Then things took a cue from the change of music as the doors' Strange Days album played as my Fated Trip, if you will, turned into a magical mystery tour of epic proportions. The surroundings were new and magnifcent, for they inspired and frightened me at the same time, dips and bridges and climbs. There was the sudden exciting reminder that this was my first ever stoned bike ride, sprouting a good, excited terror for the feel of my hands on the bars and my feet pumping the pedals. Just past the bridges the true adventure set in as the familiar path was seen. Every bump and arrangement of trees was exhilirating. Occasionally I threw open my mouth and shouted incoherently into the wind with bliss. And in the midst of this thrilling moment there was a dulcet note.
This note that stopped the string section was of percussions as my feet and abs had been pumping their requisite mile or two and now a brilliant, breathtaking feeling was ocurring on me. Where my legs met my abdomen there was this pulsating and tingling warmth like the kindling of a fire in belly. (hee hee, belly) It completely filled me up and controlled me in a relaxed and unconcentrating exctasy. Now I wonder that this should frighten me as I was still pedaling rather fast on a light bicycle over an admittedly bumpy and rutty prairie path. And Stranege Days played and love me two times babe, the poem about the pulsating stallions as they crash a stagecoach that absolutely consumed me, and then moonlight drive. I was fucking stoned and fucking loving this. This was fucking going to the Eleventh notch on the oh my fucking god meter in my head.
The next part was the strange and frightening climax. A team of men dressed identically in pale white khakis and white polo shirts like an executive wierdo team-buidling warrior within troupe out for a prairie path walk. Or seeing the frisbee and football (soccer) in their members hands I suppose it's just a very well organized IBM Men's Saturday out for some men in their late thirties and forties. And I ride right on past going out. The warmth on my abdomen were like warm butterfly massages trickling up my skin or some sensual harem girl or belly-dancer's fingers. I was going all out fucking poetic on this one. Then I realized just how far I was away from both my home and where I was going and it began to grip my throat with worry. Or maybe that was just the chinstrap? How long could this go, as people are strange when you're a stranger is playing in your ears, and you are very far up the river? Then I broke through from the trees that had surrounded me and I was in villa park, pumping on my bicycle with the wind whipping up my legs and past my face and sunglasses. I had arrived at Shangri-La, the park to which I'd meant to go and quench my terribly cotton-mouth thirst at the drinking fountain and look at the children's playthings. I bent over the fountain and sucked clumsily at the water with lust and pleasure, like an ancient olympic victory. I looked at my distorted reflection on the zinced fixture of the fountain and laughed goofily. Everything began clicking in my head as I righted the bike and began backwards with refreshed pallette.
I felt vicotirously proud, and even ventured a few stalker's glances at the backsides of the people as I powered myself past them. For a moment things became very sexual as I slowly rolled into the denouemont of this ride. Soon Jim Morrison was beginning to sing about when the music's over and I settled in concentrating about how to write (right) this and bemoaning everything I'd have forgotten an hour later. Already slipped my mind how I'd dangerously shot the gap between two passing trucks in the street and merely laughed in my inebriation? I passed by the group of white-clad IBM executives, as I was heading in and they were heading out. The music became wild and elsatic as the last bridge was crossed and the last dangerously sharp corner was navigated through safely. And then it was only up the hill and around the cars and back into the garage, stow the bike and come inside and refresh myself with well deserved water. As the music finally comes to a close I look up and see just an hour has passed since I first inhaled and got so thoroughly stoned. Just an hour? It felt like it had lasted forever, but having ended at all it ended too soon. And I am happy.
Now we roll the bittersweet credits as the tale comes to an end and the author gets to eat a tremendous clif bar and some incredible chocolate chip cookies, and inbetween writing he can get up to see Jim Rome burn the shit out of the royals for allowing Four back to back home runs to the victorious ass white sox? Suddenly I see the great appeal of Jim Rome's style. And already the process comes to a close, One hour to get stoned and take a special ride, and one hour to sit and happily recount the entire experience. (and still pleasantly high).
Today I decided around 1:30 that I would get stoned and take a bike ride. I thought it would be an interesting experience, and a good test of the Great Experment. 2 o'clock comes and I go downstairs and prepare my works, a disc and Do it To it. This turned out to be an auspicious and impressive set of hits. Finely ground, firmly packed, totally vaporized and inhaled. Very quickly I began to realize that this was as stoned I had been since the first time it happened, by far. I mean, some dizziness (still dizzy as I'm writing this an hour later), disorientation, and what must have been some very fruity posture.
Preparing for a bike ride is a challenging thing. There's clothing, and complicated back pack and mp3 player rigs, Helmets and gloves. And that's all without even sitting on a bicycle. I felt very nervous about this as I approached the garage. This was far beyond any physical activity I'd done while stoned. Driving is undemanding because there's no balance involved. There was a good chance that I would be too slow to notice something or fall out of balance and cause a pretty bad wipeout. That would be no good. But straight I know I can fucking OWN the two-wheel ten speed, so I proceed anyway. Time to push it to the limit, bra. I maneuvered the bike down the driveway and pedaled away into the new blacktop streets feeling childishly far from home, no idea what to expect.
Immediately I was plunged hands feet and head into one of the most wholly rewarding experiences of my life. With a newfound clarity I had appreciation for this masterful form of operating a two wheeled velocipede. The relaxation and then the power as I pumped myself up the first hill, and the pleasure with which I went into the relatively low gear that would carry me through this long (not very long) bike ride. I steered around onto the prairie path and there the voyage began. A sunny day, over a softly grey-white path with green on either side and comfortable blue above. Right away things were feeling magical, like a fantasy world with some write-guy's injection of goofy steampunkism to explain bikes instead of horses. The riding alone was completely mind-blowing, self-propelling myself on a device of incredible mechanical advantage typically taken for granted. This was only a beginning.
The people were next, and the realization of how happy I was to see them as compared with the ill-will I had for my fellows just this morning while shopping for groceries. What I was feeling was a complete diametrical opposite of what I knew surely was myself just two hours ago. Then there was resentment and anger but later on only joy as they biked past me with their helmets on their heads and sunlight flashing over them. And just then the tail end of the Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid soundtrack was playing whistfully, talking about an old friend's betrayal and the ensuing loneliness of the outlaw. Our opening scene was pure love, romantic and otherwise, for everyone I passed. This first chapter was a high note.
Then things took a cue from the change of music as the doors' Strange Days album played as my Fated Trip, if you will, turned into a magical mystery tour of epic proportions. The surroundings were new and magnifcent, for they inspired and frightened me at the same time, dips and bridges and climbs. There was the sudden exciting reminder that this was my first ever stoned bike ride, sprouting a good, excited terror for the feel of my hands on the bars and my feet pumping the pedals. Just past the bridges the true adventure set in as the familiar path was seen. Every bump and arrangement of trees was exhilirating. Occasionally I threw open my mouth and shouted incoherently into the wind with bliss. And in the midst of this thrilling moment there was a dulcet note.
This note that stopped the string section was of percussions as my feet and abs had been pumping their requisite mile or two and now a brilliant, breathtaking feeling was ocurring on me. Where my legs met my abdomen there was this pulsating and tingling warmth like the kindling of a fire in belly. (hee hee, belly) It completely filled me up and controlled me in a relaxed and unconcentrating exctasy. Now I wonder that this should frighten me as I was still pedaling rather fast on a light bicycle over an admittedly bumpy and rutty prairie path. And Stranege Days played and love me two times babe, the poem about the pulsating stallions as they crash a stagecoach that absolutely consumed me, and then moonlight drive. I was fucking stoned and fucking loving this. This was fucking going to the Eleventh notch on the oh my fucking god meter in my head.
The next part was the strange and frightening climax. A team of men dressed identically in pale white khakis and white polo shirts like an executive wierdo team-buidling warrior within troupe out for a prairie path walk. Or seeing the frisbee and football (soccer) in their members hands I suppose it's just a very well organized IBM Men's Saturday out for some men in their late thirties and forties. And I ride right on past going out. The warmth on my abdomen were like warm butterfly massages trickling up my skin or some sensual harem girl or belly-dancer's fingers. I was going all out fucking poetic on this one. Then I realized just how far I was away from both my home and where I was going and it began to grip my throat with worry. Or maybe that was just the chinstrap? How long could this go, as people are strange when you're a stranger is playing in your ears, and you are very far up the river? Then I broke through from the trees that had surrounded me and I was in villa park, pumping on my bicycle with the wind whipping up my legs and past my face and sunglasses. I had arrived at Shangri-La, the park to which I'd meant to go and quench my terribly cotton-mouth thirst at the drinking fountain and look at the children's playthings. I bent over the fountain and sucked clumsily at the water with lust and pleasure, like an ancient olympic victory. I looked at my distorted reflection on the zinced fixture of the fountain and laughed goofily. Everything began clicking in my head as I righted the bike and began backwards with refreshed pallette.
I felt vicotirously proud, and even ventured a few stalker's glances at the backsides of the people as I powered myself past them. For a moment things became very sexual as I slowly rolled into the denouemont of this ride. Soon Jim Morrison was beginning to sing about when the music's over and I settled in concentrating about how to write (right) this and bemoaning everything I'd have forgotten an hour later. Already slipped my mind how I'd dangerously shot the gap between two passing trucks in the street and merely laughed in my inebriation? I passed by the group of white-clad IBM executives, as I was heading in and they were heading out. The music became wild and elsatic as the last bridge was crossed and the last dangerously sharp corner was navigated through safely. And then it was only up the hill and around the cars and back into the garage, stow the bike and come inside and refresh myself with well deserved water. As the music finally comes to a close I look up and see just an hour has passed since I first inhaled and got so thoroughly stoned. Just an hour? It felt like it had lasted forever, but having ended at all it ended too soon. And I am happy.
Now we roll the bittersweet credits as the tale comes to an end and the author gets to eat a tremendous clif bar and some incredible chocolate chip cookies, and inbetween writing he can get up to see Jim Rome burn the shit out of the royals for allowing Four back to back home runs to the victorious ass white sox? Suddenly I see the great appeal of Jim Rome's style. And already the process comes to a close, One hour to get stoned and take a special ride, and one hour to sit and happily recount the entire experience. (and still pleasantly high).