Mushrooms and Clouds

Mushrooms and Clouds by Jack Beanstalker. Back in those days to watch a jet stream cross from one side of the sky to the other was the best reckoning of time I could count on. It was an immersion in a moment that kept growing and paying dividends. You lost track of anything that lacked texture and nuance. The clouds figured much in the equation, too. If you dig cloud-watching, go to Colorado. Some people collect butterflies, others folk songs in archives of history, some listen in damp forests for the chance to hear a thought-to-be extinct warbler- me, I like clouds. Clouds capture the sky’s elasticity as it shapes your thoughts in pure drifting blue.

[Editor’s Note: Feral Trek does not advocate the use of drugs as they dull the senses and we wish them sharp and honed keen. On the other hand, as Hunter Thompson said,  “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”   That said, we asked Jack Beanstalker for a blog and he told us that he was too busy making notes on the different kinds of cactus thriving in the Mojave Desert.  (He’s been tramping out there for two months, now). But he said, “I’ll send you a remembrance I hold dear”). We took a vote on his “remembrance” and decided to publish it because the writing is so darn poetic and vintage Jack].

Back in those days magic mushrooms were an aperitif and staple.  They were electric ladies of the night who never failed to change the channel or the local frequency. Mushrooms are all about the body and a peculiar rhythm.  They are curious fungi, perhaps seed-pods from outer space, exploring you as much as you are them. But there’s certain predictability about them, unlike acid whose dose can only be speculated. Mushrooms come on like slow waves at low-tide, shaking their brilliance and shinning amour like some Homeric goddess. Breaking on the beach, they send their regards to the surf with the calculated assurance of a saucy tart.  I’ve never had a bad trip on mushrooms, but they do have a tendency to fuck with time.

 You know it is coming on, a slow radical revolution of the body- the body always knows. It comes on like a faraway roar.  At first, you imagine the symptoms: the slight alteration in sight, the fuzzy glow around an object that soon becomes a fetish, the wide-sky periphery that’s gets filled with your unsolicited secret dream; corners of the mind assemble stray thoughts and build an attic for a company of ghosts and your coordination gets a jazzy Blues Robert Johnson crossroads rhythm, and you begin speaking in tongues. Suddenly, you find yourself in the Mojave Desert, a holy-roller dancing with a sidewinder in each hand like Moses in the wilderness. Then it becomes quite plain you’re surfing a different wave. The concept of “time” is the first to go. The mushrooms are kicking in and you’re back in grammar school, nose stuck upside a red brick wall because you were “maladjusted,” or you’re playing doctor with the black girl, slim and sweet as licorice, or, get this, your mom wakes you from nightmares of Dracula, Lon Chaney, and the Shadow. She sings “Strawberry Fields” forever and you slip into comfortable sleep.

Yes, Mushrooms have a tendency to fuck with time.

Tonight there’s a full moon and a crazy squad of amateurs on the move, working out the logistics of death-defying larks. Guys in cars trying to make up the next lie and girls willing to believe them. They were amateurs and we avoided them. It’s Saturday night and you can feel the hot, horny energy of America rev up. That America Whitman and Kerouac kept trying different word combinations to make us believe in …that promise just this side of the horizon at your fingertips, touchable in a way that you knew it would be once you got there

But only if you believed it 

My lover and I were loitering in the moment, the movement of being together- each other’s scent and juices getting us off.  “We‘ll make it up as we go,” we said.  Down a rural road, we rambled in an old Ford truck, once blue, faded, weather-struck, and illegal, but altogether able; it told stories as it crooned with each jolt and creak along a dry river bed. We drove thru the night with equal parts giggle and doom- and when the beer was pissed out, we stopped. It was a warm summer night, perfect constellations, a moon shadow. The first time I touched her it was electricity and her whole body hummed, purring like a black cat angel in the perfect night.  I spread out my Navajo blanket, and we made slow furious love in the only grassy spot we could find. It was a moment that you hide away and return to twenty years later, to steal some measure of whatever it is that keeps you going.

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