There was no such thing in our vocabulary as a bad trip.
We were country young. Innocents who strayed in fields to escape parental scrutiny. It was the season I loved the most when decay was slow and beautiful as things dried and other things in dampness grew. The morning fields were new and ancient. We made our own geodesy, a map passed by mouth of places where such tiny forests spread delicate. We walked down rutted tracks and stared eye-line over lichen drawn walls into far reaching fields where these muculent catalysts to stranger worlds pushed their pointed nipple tips. The first time was greedy slug and grit-grind taste to retch and swallow magic tales. Fresh from the fields. No analysis of deep seated fears but rather a step towards abandonment and seams unravelling. We blended into and ran through forests banshee laughing, collecting the dry to make the fire and then close-huddled, grubby fingered and caught in the moment. The flames burned stories as the wind caught in branches and filled our ears.
Everything was the most of itself as wood smoke clung-spun and our pupils grew to black-full-moons. And things came to us in the best way, whole, yet peeled and ripe in swimming mire.
Never forget that first time.
I remember walking up to a random stranger and congratulating him on his colourful shirt.
Give it a few years, and the second time can be great too. I’m told.
OE
I spent too much of my childhood in forests and fields.
But never enough.
We had the fields to which innocents (and not so) came to find magic (and they did).
[...] to Ed’s post titled ‘Entheogen, I.“There was no such thing in our vocabulary as a bad trip.”Nominated by Unreliable [...]