Coming off of LSD is exactly like waking up from sleep, except it takes longer to fully wake up, and the dream you’re waking up from is more persistent. It’s like if it took you four hours to wake up, and you could remember your dreams, clearly, for the whole next day.
But like waking up from sleep, there’s a process of remembering—of being reminded—of your life. Of your waking life. All the details, all the things you see, the sensations that you start to pay attention to again—like touch, like temperature, like the body that you’ve neglected on your trip inside the mind—all those details remind you of who you are. Or, technically: of who you were.
Early in your trip you might have forgotten that water doesn’t taste salty, or you might have forgotten that it’s cold. You might have forgotten that pictures don’t talk to you, and paintings don’t move like holograms—that they don’t show different images when viewed at different angles. You might have forgotten to ignore some of the texture information that your eyes record—and that your brain is thinking of (parts of it)—all the time. You might have forgotten things like anger, or lateness—things that your boss will not have forgotten about as his happy hour wears off around ten the next morning.
Coming off of LSD you’ll start to remember things like: it’s a good idea to wear socks, or: I don’t need to be wearing three sweaters. One is enough. Maybe one and a hat.
You start to remember things like: Panera opens at eleven. Panera has good bread. You can get a peanut butter and jelly at Panera, or an everything bagel. Everything bagels have poppy seeds in them.
I like sesame seeds better. You start to remember things like that.
You remember how to pee. It’s a strange acquaintance, your body after tripping, like a friend you haven’t see in forever. Hi. How are you. Oh yeah, we used to do this together. This is part of how we interact. I stand here, and urine comes out. You remember the sensation, in that new way that only happens when it’s been eons since you last felt it. You feel your urethra. You notice it.
You notice things about your friends.
Like how much you like them. Their peculiarities, even. The normally-annoying way that Ash is taking care of everybody: no longer annoying. In fact: we need taking care of.
"Do you want an ecstasy?"
"I’m fine."
You notice the way an Ashley looks patronizingly at you when you ask such a thing, and how comparative and judgmental and knowing her word choice is, even in two little words. You see how much she looks down on you and respects you at the same time, how knee-jerk a response it is for her to be afraid of what is different—not in you..but—in herself. You see how different you are. How as much as you try to relate to her, you’re never going to be able to reach..across a certain chasm.
"Do you want a ride to work?"
"No."
Both standing on opposite edges. Each having extended your arm a foot.
Dawn. The House of Transformation. Brooklyn traces her way up the front lawn, piece of a bird feeder in her hand. There’s mist on the grass. She’s shoeless. Soren and Christina’s Jetta is gone. I’m seeing the orange come above the houses..some blue..some red..and the lightening sky above.
"Does she look skinny to you?"
Ash looks at Brooklyn. "She’s on a starvation-calorie diet. She’s eating like six-hundred calories a day."
"I don’t think that’s healthy," I say. "I think you’re supposed to eat at least..like..fourteen hundred calories a day."
"You’re sure you don’t want me to take you to work?"
"Ash. It’s Saturday."
"I know." She’s waiting for me to register. "The release?"
"Oh."
"We have a release today."
"That’s right. Well.."
"Are you coming?"
"No, I don’t think I am," I say. "I don’t think they really need me for it..do you?"
"I’m sure Gao can handle it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I mean it’s just your team that’s doing the release." She skwunches her face. "I don’t think they need you. What should I tell em?"
I’m thinking.
"Should I tell em you’re doing tai chi?"
"Who told you about tai chi? That was earlier—"
"You’ve been doing tai chi this whole time. Look at your pose."
I take my arm down from over my head. "Ash. Tell em anything you want. They won’t believe it, even if you tell em the truth."
"You’re right," she says.
"They’ll just think I’m sick, no matter what you tell them."
"You’re right," she says, "They’ll just think you’re sick."