Looking for Something Different

(the rather dull and depressing story of my first acid trip)

By Erin M Murphy

April, 2014

Exiting the garage with a keyboard in one hand and notebook in the other, I was surprised by the early morning light.

It was 5:30 AM, I was aware of the hour, yet there was still something shocking about the break of day. Another dawn crept its way into existence, as the relentless fury of winter was replaced by a symphony of singing birds. I listened to their song and felt grateful for a new season as I hoisted the keyboard into the trunk.

I sat in the driver’s seat, and strangled the steering wheel as if it possessed some sort of secret inside its leather. Loosening my grip, I decided to take a deep breath and survey the condition of my car. The passenger seat was covered with coffee cups, articles of clothing, notebooks, restaurant straws, nickels and pennies. I turned my neck, almost fearfully, toward the back seat. It was worse.

Where the floor should have been, drums, more notebooks, a tambourine, multiple pairs of shoes, an entire winter wardrobe, more restaurant straws, a box of cereal bars, a couple tubes of toothpaste, colored pencils, and a Chinese wishing lantern, sporadically littered the area.

My friend Levon emerged from the garage to spike a piss on the side of the building.

I rolled down the window and said, “If the cops pull me over right now they are going to think I’m a crazy person with all this shit in my car.”

I AM a crazy person. But I’m the kind that knows it. The ones that have no idea, those are the ones you need to worry about. I believe exploring the depths of our own madness, with an eagerness to examine all of its corners and crevices, despite how uneasy it makes us feel, is an essential part of living.

“Yeah they will probably think you’re tripping on drugs or something.” He said while laughing and pissing.

Either they’ll know I’m on drugs, or suspect I’m living out of my car, I thought as I attempted to reverse out of the driveway.

“What are you doing? You know you can just pull forward and leave that way, right?”

No, I didn’t know. How could I? This was the first time I’d been to this garage, and we arrived in the dark when I was half drunk. Now I was tripping on something called LSD.

Waving farewell toLevon, I cautiously tapped the gas pedal and inched my way down the dirt path, toward an exit I wasn’t aware existed.

***

Earlier that night, I got out of work sooner than usual and sleep wasn’t an option. It was 10 P.M. on a Friday, which is like early dismissal during a school storm in the restaurant industry. So despite the exhaustion brought on from serving bacon burgers and smiling constantly, I phoned a couple friends. First, I contacted Hillary because I knew she would answer. She’s like me, in the sense that she’s always trying to live in the company of others, regardless of the circumstances. Hillary would prefer to have a couple drinks at the same local bar each night, rather than sit home alone.

The other person I messaged was a friend named Levon. He’s someone that I find more interesting than most people, but never spent enough time getting to know over the years. Until now.

Hillary and I arrived first. While we were saying hello and giving the other bar regulars kisses on their cheeks, the bartender already had our drinks waiting. Stella and Pino Grigio standing side by side, awaiting their own kiss from our lips. Sometimes Hillary would switch it up by ordering a Captain and Coke, mostly on weekends, but I always stuck with Stella. You see, I’m a beer drinker (since my divorce from Jack Daniels), and I’m usually the one driving. Anything stronger than Stella tends to blur my vision.

We sipped our drinks over small talk. I even felt happy for a moment after inviting myself to sit at a friend’s table, because “Hey Jude” was playing on the juke box and for once, I was out of work at a decent hour.

Levon showed up shortly after, and we made our way over to a couple of empty bar stools. While sharing stories and discussing matters of the heart, I felt thankful. It felt good being able to sit there and have a real conversation with someone. Recently, I’d been losing a bit of faith in humanity, so this sort of interaction was exactly what I needed.

“You know, I’m sitting here looking at everyone, and I can’t help but wonder, is this it for most of them?” He questioned as he studied the faces of the bar guests.

“I think the same thing all the time and it terrifies me. I need to get out of this town.” I said.

“You will.” He said.

“Let’s just go now. Let’s go play percussion and make art and laugh at 2:00 AM on a Saturday. Let’s have a crazy adventure like the story you were just telling me about that random party in Philly.” I said.

“Really? Okay. Why not? I love when shit turns out like this. I’m gonna get a head start and pick up Mark first. Meet me at the shop.” He said.

I ordered two six packs and paid my tab. A good looking married man was in the middle of saying something to Hillary, but I cut him off.

“I’m leaving. Do you need a ride home?”

“Where are you going? Am I going to want to come?” She wondered.

“Nope.” I said.

“Then I’m going to stay. I don’t want to go home yet.” I left her with the attractive married man, and continued for the door as I juggled two six packs.

“I’m leaving too. Let me help you carry that to your car.” I heard someone say before grabbing the beer from my hands.

It was James. A couple months back, we were fucking, or dating, whatever. Before waiting for me to answer, he grabbed the beer out of my hands. I let him. There was no point in arguing because during the time I got to know him, I learned how important all of the skewed concepts of masculity were to his character. That was a battle I didn’t have time for, standing in a bar parking lot.

“Where are you going with all this beer?” James asked.

Reaching for the six packs, I looked up at his face, I mean really looked, for the first time that night. James is a good person. He has a big heart buried deep beneath the rest of him. Did I ever love him? Well, yes for a moment. But that’s only because I’m a bit of a poet sometimes. I tend to believe in love before the poem is even written. I’ve always believed that if the words aren’t good enough, they can be revised, and there can always be poetry. It’s taken me a long time to realize that isn’t the case. Sometimes there can’t be poetry. And when there’s no poetry, there’s no point.

“I’m going to try LSD for the first time in a music garage.” I rolled down my window and said to James before I pulled away.

***

(Journal Entry from that night)

I just took my first tab of LSD about three minutes ago. Not only my first of the night, well actually its morning now, but also the first in my life. I’ve never “tripped” on anything before. Its 2:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning- April 5, 2014. They are saying it takes an hour to kick in. We’ll see about that.

I’m in a Music Shop. A garage that serves the purpose of storing all sorts of musical instruments. Good thing I brought my tambourine.

When I invited Levon to the bar tonight, I didn’t expect to wind up here. But I did suspect our night would wind up somewhere unexpected.

If that makes any sense.

We were sitting there at the bar and we got to talking about how ordinary most people are and how unordinary life could be. And now we are here in a musical shop with another friend named Mark. He’s wearing a neon orange-purple-turquoise-gray wind breaker. And a snow cap. Not the candy… a hat.

Mark said when we are tripping, I’m going to feel like Spiderman and have super senses. We’ll see about that.

I’m not very nervous which is surprising. I’m usually always nervous. I think that life these days has just become so boring. Dangerously boring. Nothing that makes me feel like I’m living a little makes me nervous. All the things that make me feel like I’m dying though- well, that’s a different story.

It’s 2:07 now. I’m going to jam for a minute.

I’m not very good at jamming. I feel out of my element when I try to jam.

It’s 2:34. I feel the same mostly. Only I’m watching Mark sing into the microphone while playing bass and it sounds like a beautiful radio recording from the 1950's.

Levon is trying to find a speaker that will work, when meanwhile the ones around me are vibrating all the way to my inner ear drums and all the way to the pit of my soul.

This works. It SOUNDS so it works.

2:4A, I mean 8 A.M.- I feel different but really all the same. Levon and Mark are now smoking weed. I’m not sure how they are doing that right now. Smoking weed makes me paranoid.

When I was up by the microphone before, all I could keep thinking about was writing. As outgoing as I am…never mind, FUCK THAT. What’s happening around me is- well it is music. Beautiful music.

Levon is a born musician. Mark has some natural talent too but I’m not sure his heart is fully in it enough to be called a musician.

Andrea just got here and everything is so amazing. She’s telling the story of her night over the microphone while Levon and Mark play background music. It’s so beautiful.

FUCK YOU FAT RICKY.

I’m not sure LSD is all they have said it’s supposed to be. When I look up, everything looks and feels the same but when I look down at this paper right now everything is different.

3:20 The letters are dancing upon this page. Everything is normal besides the letters that have already been written on the pages.

It’s all pretty cliché the way it feels. It’s like any movie I’ve ever seen that involves acid-it feels just like that. Colors amplified and a bit of blur around the edges.

VALERIE

If this is what tripping is- Andrea just tripped harder over the rug that’s under the drum set.

Andrea is trying to hear the lyrics blaring from the half broken speaker- she doesn’t know that her lyrics are better. They will always be better.

I may or may not have left Hillary to the will of a married man tonight just to try LSD. Acid. Whatever.

3:37- I do not feel like Spiderman. I feel like a really flamboyant gay version of King Kong.

4:25 and the words have slowed their dance. It’s like anything really, it happens then it’s gone. And even now, it’s the same as it has always been. A few colors splattered across my vision here and there do not make it any different. I want it to be different just as much as any person would. Despite the colors, it’s all the same. Music is the same for me. Maybe it wouldn’t be if that’s where my mind was at always- it’s not. I wish it was sometimes. I wish there was nothing but music.

I’ve been staring at this penny that’s on the ground every so often the whole time we’ve been here- even before the LSD kicked in. It’s been lying there turned on “tales” all night. I even thought maybe its bad luck that there is a penny lying there on tales of all fucking things.

I’m cold. The penny was colder until I picked it up because it’s been lying there on tales for years. Even if it hasn’t been there for years, nothing should be left to lay there in the cold for that long.

I need to separate.

Find a median between introvert and extrovert.

An artist needs to know when to stop recording and just start living- stop reproducing all that’s worth questioning, stop reproducing all that’s good. That’s impossible. That’s why art is impossible.

My insides feel the same but the floor keeps trying to speak.

BRENDA AND EDDIE WERE STILL GOING STEADY THE SUMMER OF ’75. is blaring from the speakers.

We’re all just as fucked as Brenda and Eddie!

Oh shit…We’re all just as fucked as Brenda and Eddie.

I should drink some water. I’m going to reach for it- the water.

I got the water now I’m drinking the rest of Andrea’s beer before she notices. I feel like Mark and I are in similar sort of feelings right now. He just tripped on my chair- I knew it.

I’m cold. It’s cold in here.

An artist needs to know when to stop recording and reproducing and to start living.

The words are still slowly dancing on the paper and the floor keeps trying to prove me wrong about the LSD. The floor is mimicking the sky on a clear summer night. The floor is a wave pool of all the summer night stars. All that glitter, all those shining specks, they aren’t fooling me.

In the bathroom before, when the room was breathing to the beat of the music and the wooden door was trying to remember life as a tree while it swayed to the rhythm, I was thinking… it’s all the same. I was watching everything move, and I was sitting there thinking… it’s all the same. Even watching the dead door dance and pulsate with more life than I’ve ever felt… I thought it’s all the same.

I’m going to try to play drums right now- I can’t.

Mars Hills North Carolina. Aaron from The Waffle House. I’ve never met a seventeen year old with so much life inside. I’ve never met a seventeen year old with that sort of light he had glowing around him. The kind that makes you happy to be alive. I felt happy to be alone at a Waffle House six hundred miles away from my hometown, in the middle of November. I need to remember to write more about Aaron later.

I’m not sure any of us are good at music anymore- that’s a lie. Levon still is. But that’s because he always was.

Honestly, I’m wondering when I will be able to drive home. I want to now- just because I can’t stay in one place for too long. That’s how I’ve always been.

I’m scared- because all of this- all of the colors and whatever else people crave out of LSD is making me feel- the same.

Fantasia without music and bright colors is the same as all the other stories.

***

I cautiously tapped the gas pedal and turned right on a familiar road. The sun was almost up, but the world was still gray with traces of the night before. It was a silver sort of gray that illuminated the sky with purposeful iridescence. A silvery reminder that a new day was about to break, but the previous night was not yet forgotten. And it didn’t have to be.

I passed the Reservoir and watched the trees pulsate and breathe, stretching in attempt to be free of their roots. I remembered a time I made love on the bridge of the Reservoir and I pictured it clearly. I remembered it happening; our half naked bodies right there in the middle, but I couldn’t recall the way it made me feel. That part was lost.

I turned the volume dial up on the radio, a nervous habit. Silence is hard to endure for a person that is constantly thinking.

“Brenda and Eddie were still going steady the summer of ‘75” echoed through the speakers.

I began laughing out loud and listened to these song lyrics for the second time that morning. I laughed while I listened and watched the world glow in silver.

Obeying the 40 MPH speed limit, I continued to tap at the gas pedal and drive. Every minute or so, I glanced up nervously at the rearview mirror.

I worried about what I would say if I were to get pulled over.

Or rather, I worried about HOW I would break the news to the officer.

That we’re all just as fucked as Brenda and Eddie.

***