Chapter 26: Let Your Madness Run With Mine

“Mushies for lunch!”

Stan cooked the mushies with garlic and butter. They tasted a lot better than Fran’s ‘Carrot Juice’ had done forty years before, but that still wasn’t good. We cleaned up and sat around in the conservatory. It was a long time since I had tripped.

“How long before it comes on?” Sarah paused in her compilation of a playlist.

“Half an hour, forty minutes. We’ll be well launched in an hour.” She turned her attention back to her phone. “Is there something you particularly like for tripping?”

“My musical tastes are pretty well stuck back in the sixties and seventies. Moody Blues, Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Wishbone Ash, Led Zep, Tangerine Dream for tripping. Steely Dan and Little Feat for hanging out or driving. At one stage we got into classical music.”

“Can do most of that. Fits with our taste too.”

Sarah Bluetoothed to the old Bose setup they had installed in the conservatory, and the three of us sprawled on the couch and a couple of bean bags. Butch lay on the floor beside me.

And nothing happened. At least nothing happened for nearly an hour. I cruised and grooved to the music, chatted inconsequentially to Sarah and Stan, and scratched Butch behind his ears and above the base of his tail.

Then I started to feel a little sick.

And freaked out. Totally!

I’ve been a psychotherapist and counsellor for damned near fifty years. I know all about how mental states affect the body, about how thoughts and imagery affect physiology, about how medical students imagine they have the early symptoms of every disease they study, and about how important it is to avoid ‘awfulizing’ while tripping.

And I still paid attention to the discomfort in my gut, and what might be a headache coming on, and a funny feeling in my face and tongue. And I still allowed myself to dwell on the fantasy that we had eaten some poisonous mushrooms. Dumb idea!

So while I wondered whether I ought to drink gallons of salt water and try to throw up or whether I had already fucked my kidneys or overloaded my liver, I paid close attention to my symptoms. Were they getting worse? They were. Surprise surprise!

As the last strains of ‘Ripple’ faded away into silence, I could hear my heart beating – faster and faster, louder and louder. Was tachycardia a symptom of mushroom poisoning?

Shit! Vicious spiral. I knew very very well that the best thing to do when freaking out was to share the fantasies and feelings and get support from the others tripping with me. And I should have done exactly that.

But what would the Vaughans think? They had already had one bad experience with someone freaking out while tripping. Would they be supportive – or would they freak too? I didn’t really know them, and they didn’t really know me. So I froze, sat still, and did and said nothing. Another dumb idea!

Butch was the first to pick up that I was very much not ok. He whined softly and began to lick my hand. Smart dog! I became fascinated by the texture of his tongue, and got lost in the feeling of its little bumps and ridges as they moved wetly over my skin. Then I fixated on his nose, and on the transition between the naked wet skin around his nostrils, and the short pale hairs on his muzzle. That brought me out of my freakout. Or at least started to.

Sarah completed the job as the opening chords of ‘Truckin’ provided a counterpoint to my heartbeat, which had slowed back to normal. Funny that!

“You okay? Didn’t look too good there for a minute or two.”

“Wasn’t. Felt a bit sick. Worried I had been poisoned by the wrong Mushies. We were all going to die a lingering and painful death.”

“Nah. Shoulda warned you. We very occasionally feel a little strange as it comes on.” She nodded over at Stan, who was paying remarkably close attention to the detail of a Balinese print, though how he could focus on it a handspan from his nose remained a mystery. “He always distracts himself by disappearing up his own arse as it comes on, and he sometimes gets stuck there. Earth to Stan!” He turned, and this time his chuckle was definitely a giggle.

“Mine at first – yours later if you’re lucky!” Sarah had the grace to blush, and I snorted.

“I feel pretty good now.” I did. My body felt amazing. The tips of my ears were tingling, and the tingles throbbed in time with the music. I imagined I could feel every molecule of air as I sucked it in and blew it out. The difference in temperature between the breath going in through my nose and the breath going out seemed enormous.

I took another look at the Balinese print that had fascinated Stan. Temple dancers with funny hats. But as I looked at it, the perspective changed and I got lost in the granular detail. and Sarah watched with what seemed an exaggerated grin.

“Gets Stan every time.” She fiddled with her phone and Grateful Dead gave way to the opening bars of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. “Show him the Cactus.”

Stan took my hand. I was amazed how rough and horny the skin of his fingers felt.

“Close your eyes”. I hoped I was about to be served a visual treat, and I obeyed and let him lead me across the conservatory and gently position my head.

“Lookit this.”

“Wow!” I was looking directly down into the crimson flower on the top of a large potted cactus. I was pleased I was still holding Stan’s Hand and could feel the warmth of the terracotta tiles on the soles of my stockinged feet as the symmetry of the flower seemed to draw me down into it.

“Tragedy in Aotearoa - Cactus flower eats man!” Sarah used her hands as a megaphone like an old fashioned carnival barker, and Stan flopped into a beanbag and giggled helplessly. Butch remained apparently indifferent.

At first, I was simply blown away with the visual experience, and how it was affecting my perception of my balance and orientation. Then the ‘man eating’ bit got to me, and I got lost in cartoon like images of giant Venus Flytraps closing around various political figures. I found myself back on the couch.

My brain stayed with the Venus Flytraps and the cartoon politicians while the Beethoven lasted, but when Pink Floyd made their aural debut, my visuals changed. I remembered the Scarfe animations from ‘The Wall’ movie, with the flower portrayed as a female sexual predator entrapping and finally engulfing the male victim. I replayed that in my head for a few minutes.

Stan stayed giggling in the beanbag, lost in his own trip. Butch remained indifferent. Perhaps Sarah became unconsciously aware of the imagery in my head, or perhaps she didn’t, but she came over and sat on the floor in front of me before removing my socks. Then she started massaging my feet and stroking my ankles and calves. That went on for a very long time and it was lovely. Sensual and delicious. Even with my eyes closed, I could distinguish the location of each of her fingers and feel the individual muscles and tendons they were pressing. Sensual but not sexual.