remember thinking that if any of the straight people from the outside world had come in at that moment, they would have thought us insane, and the next day would have filled the gray morning of millions of office slaves with the newspaper pictures of bearded and naked loonies howling at the stars. How far civilization has brought man down, to the status of a frightened cloth robot who cannot understand the joy of sheer exuberance.
The cries died down, the families began making for their rooms, and we knew that we were in. The man with the shaved head came up and invited us to his room. And then the trip began to get really strange. I had finished reading The Magus not too long before, and suddenly I saw our mysterious host as Conchis, and me as the fuddled Englishman. We entered the main house, and went up the baroque stairway. The scene became Fellini, and as we wound our way upstairs, we started to chant Gregorian hymns.
His room was done in rich rock style. Silk banners and grotesque posters and cunningly arranged lights. Half the room was a bed that stretched twenty by twenty feet. We settled down and our host began to roll hash joints as big as a ring finger. Opium appeared. Trays and tumblers of cocaine. Harry began doing imitations of hash peddlers in Morocco and then sang “Codeine.”
It is impossible to describe just how high we got. Our mysterious benefactor kept nodding and saying, “You people are fantastic. I would like to back you as a group.” And then smiling wickedly and adding, “What else can you do?”
Of course! I immediately flashed that he wanted us to perform an orgy for him. I went up to him, took him aside, and said, “Is it you, Mr. Conchis?” His eyes gleamed. “Don’t tell the others,” he said.
By this time I had relegated critical judgment to the level of obstruction. Everything was happening too high too fast for me even to begin to stop for questions. The only confusion came in, as always, when it became clear to me that the others were getting an entirely different reading from the scene. I realized that this reality, as all realities, was totally open-ended and could develop in any direction whatsoever. I thought I knew what the director had in mind, and even had his mysterious wink to use as evidence. But the others were drifting off into unknown realms. Paranoia set in.
I began to get nervous. I started opening and closing windows. I searched for clues to verify my existence. None was forthcoming. Each of us had consumed about half a pound of dope apiece, just in weight alone, not counting quality and kind. And the lines of communication had not been checked at each point along the way. Everything was going so well that I assumed that everyone was on the same trip. And now, as I felt forced to some kind of decision, there was no one to talk to. The formerly friendly faces of the others began to look sinister, and the random events of the day seemed, in retrospect, to be part of an enmeshing pattern. It reached a point of gibbering panic when, like an angel of mercy, Leah came up to me.
“Let’s split,” she said. “I can’t take these vibes any longer.” Gratefully, I led her out to the car.
The car! I realized that I had to drive over forty miles back to San Francisco, and I didn’t even know what my name was. Extreme circumstances make for heroes and fools, and a bit of both. I started back. One of the discoveries I made during that trip of two eternities was the probable reason why accidents happen so readily on highways. My body had been extremely sensitized by the drugs, and I got into the rhythm of the tires on the road. In that direction, it was all soft, all air and rubber, so much so that I forgot the steel and glass component of the car. At one point, I was dreaming along, anesthetized by the soft swaying of the machine, when I became suddenly aware that I was in an iron juggernaut, hurtling down a black ribbon of highway, with other monster machines
The cries died down, the families began making for their rooms, and we knew that we were in. The man with the shaved head came up and invited us to his room. And then the trip began to get really strange. I had finished reading The Magus not too long before, and suddenly I saw our mysterious host as Conchis, and me as the fuddled Englishman. We entered the main house, and went up the baroque stairway. The scene became Fellini, and as we wound our way upstairs, we started to chant Gregorian hymns.
His room was done in rich rock style. Silk banners and grotesque posters and cunningly arranged lights. Half the room was a bed that stretched twenty by twenty feet. We settled down and our host began to roll hash joints as big as a ring finger. Opium appeared. Trays and tumblers of cocaine. Harry began doing imitations of hash peddlers in Morocco and then sang “Codeine.”
It is impossible to describe just how high we got. Our mysterious benefactor kept nodding and saying, “You people are fantastic. I would like to back you as a group.” And then smiling wickedly and adding, “What else can you do?”
Of course! I immediately flashed that he wanted us to perform an orgy for him. I went up to him, took him aside, and said, “Is it you, Mr. Conchis?” His eyes gleamed. “Don’t tell the others,” he said.
By this time I had relegated critical judgment to the level of obstruction. Everything was happening too high too fast for me even to begin to stop for questions. The only confusion came in, as always, when it became clear to me that the others were getting an entirely different reading from the scene. I realized that this reality, as all realities, was totally open-ended and could develop in any direction whatsoever. I thought I knew what the director had in mind, and even had his mysterious wink to use as evidence. But the others were drifting off into unknown realms. Paranoia set in.
I began to get nervous. I started opening and closing windows. I searched for clues to verify my existence. None was forthcoming. Each of us had consumed about half a pound of dope apiece, just in weight alone, not counting quality and kind. And the lines of communication had not been checked at each point along the way. Everything was going so well that I assumed that everyone was on the same trip. And now, as I felt forced to some kind of decision, there was no one to talk to. The formerly friendly faces of the others began to look sinister, and the random events of the day seemed, in retrospect, to be part of an enmeshing pattern. It reached a point of gibbering panic when, like an angel of mercy, Leah came up to me.
“Let’s split,” she said. “I can’t take these vibes any longer.” Gratefully, I led her out to the car.
The car! I realized that I had to drive over forty miles back to San Francisco, and I didn’t even know what my name was. Extreme circumstances make for heroes and fools, and a bit of both. I started back. One of the discoveries I made during that trip of two eternities was the probable reason why accidents happen so readily on highways. My body had been extremely sensitized by the drugs, and I got into the rhythm of the tires on the road. In that direction, it was all soft, all air and rubber, so much so that I forgot the steel and glass component of the car. At one point, I was dreaming along, anesthetized by the soft swaying of the machine, when I became suddenly aware that I was in an iron juggernaut, hurtling down a black ribbon of highway, with other monster machines
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