Three trails of serenity


At high noon, we decided to venture into the deep sections of the woods. Another grand escape from the habitual lifestyle of the repetitious and self-rooted male. All the hidden trails, designed to elude the populace were, in fact, passageways that lead into utter seclusion. We slithered
past the back door in a semi altered haze of distorted reality, as not to
be seen by anyone in passing. The sun radiated down upon my neck and shoulders as we hastened to make our way toward the backyard. Below the small concrete bridge was a low walled drainage area for an inactive cesspool that divided our lawn from the oasis of trees ahead. I took nothing more than a well made pair of pruning shears and a full canteen
of water, while Peter carried with him the small flashlight and a
rather large bag of Wise potato chips.

Peter sauntered past the trellis, whereas I, paused under it to release the entangled arm of a wisteria tree. It had grown in and wound itself around a small part of the intricate latticework which highlighted the structures own network of complexities. As wonderful as it looked now, I knew the limbs would eventually fill out in time and by then the beautiful trellis would be decimated by it. As I moved forward, the calm placidity began to resemble that of a dry rain forest, and the day was now in perfect harmony with the world around it. My senses were so completely in tune with nature, I found there to be an even balance between myself and that of all things.

Catching up to Peter we entered the 1st trail, where a small pile of brown rust could be seen. This four foot wide heap of rubbish was all that remained of a Volkswagen beetle apparently stolen for parts in the late sixties. Soon it will be nothing more than marooned dust on black top
soil surrounded by thick verdurous foliage of fully grown trees. Here,
we paused to take notice of a rather large turkey vulture which had found its way down from the sky. It was milling around the grounds and going about its business awkwardly. Carefully surveying the land for a morsel
to eat perhaps or simply laying low. Roughly, one year ago I planted something in the fluffy soil. Ten paces west of the sycamore tree would reveal its location. I stopped and knelt down before plunging my hands into the dark earth which was as light as sawdust and displaced
some of the dirt.

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Amidst the layers of mulched leaves rotting and other earthen matter
was the top of a black garbage bag. I got down on both knees and
with minimal effort pulled it vertically to the surface. I then placed it
down upon the surrounding soil. As I opened the bag, we could now
see the top of a sturdy well made box. "I wonder what's in that box"
said Peter with an ever growing smile. "I guess we're going to find out!"
I lifted the hinge ever so slightly out of its tarnished loop and swung
the lid open like a freshly oiled door, whereby revealing its contents.
There, encased in the well crafted box was our reward for the day.

"Oh wow," said Peter with a face all aglow! Doctor Crow's red elixir,
I blurted out! Unearthed at last, he's just dyin' to go flyin'! Peter thought
I was speaking indirectly to him, as if I was speaking to him in the third person while not looking directly at him at all when, in fact, what I was doing was speaking directly to the bird on the bottle! I handed the bottle
to my friend, and he examined it most thoroughly. "Check out that crow
on the bottle," he exclaimed! "This is most certainly a drink to have out
here in the woods." Bottled in bond but missing the federal tax seal strip with the pink eagle on it. Whenever we bought a bottle of alcohol, I would remove my little Case knife (which Peter called thee ole' Texas toothpick) and make two incisions around the cap so that the tax seal was not marred upon opening. Sure we had a couple of quirks but who didn't back then!

"What happened here?" asked peter inquisitively. I had a couple-a-slugs one day and then went to cap the bottle but found the cap was gone!
So I'm looking around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers. Do you know that to this day that cap has not turned up? I wish we had a camera installed so I can see what the fuck happened! I know there has to be a reasonable explanation, unless a ghost took it. Honestly, how do you explain something like that? "I know man, it happens to me all the time. Then when I find what I'm looking for it's in such a weird place, that I then have to ask myself how it got there!" Since the cap was gone, I knew I had to replace it with something, so I replaced it with a sturdy wine cork. That wine cork came from one of Ramon's Argentine Malbec's. I found it floating in the trash can after a heavy storm, and so I brought it into the house, scrubbed it with soap and water and found it was an adequate replacement!

I loosened the cork before pulling it from the bottle with my teeth.
Slowly, I brought it to my nose. Bubbling over with enthusiastic excitement I proclaimed to Peter, better than soda, it's sure to burn ya!!!
I then positioned myself on one knee and put a thin Clint Eastwood cigar to my lips. I sparked a match and kept the tough looking little cigar clenched in my teeth as I spoke and puffed. Now tell me son, I said looking down, is the bottle half full or is it half empty? Peter looked at it curiously before speaking. "I'd say it looks half full." Looking up towards Peter as Clint would have in a fistful of dollars, I said in a scratchy voice while squinting, that's what I thought you'd say.

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We laughed at the improvisation before taking a gulp of the flammable liquid. We then took a sip from the canteen to cool down the back of
our flaming gullets. Boy, said Peter, that'll put some fire in your briar!
I laughed Impetuously at the ridiculous comment, as did he. We then gazed at a small forest of trees while enjoying the lingering buzz brought on by some real down home bourbon. It's been around since 1835, I said to Peter and that's older than Jack! How 'bout another swig there ole Veets? I said, just wanting to hear myself say something completely insane. "Don't mind if I do!" After a swig and a couple of coughs, I was handed the bottle where I took a gigantic gulp, which upon swallowing would send my gag reflex into a spasm. "Oh-no," said Peter laughing
while holding his head! "Clearwater Springs!!!" That was the term we used when someone gagged on alcohol and the salivary glands opened up to produce running water. After the water had finished dripping, I spoke.
I may have burned my throat clear round, but it was stone good! I then placed the bottle back into its casket once more and reburied it the
same way I found it.

Enticed to walk, I felt degage as we ambled down the path to further dwellings. How wonderful it was indeed I thought, to have all this at no cost! We then proceeded to the 2nd trail. Letting the trail lead the way,
we followed that path till it wove around a series of white birch trees.
Some were so withered their weight could not be counted, and it appeared, they could topple over with a push of one's finger. I then
looked down at a patch of bright green moss growing on a three foot stone directly across from the dying birch. This strange rupicoline growth felt like a stiff rug to my now overly sensitive fingers. Here we tarried awhile before passing back and forth a carefully rolled doobie. As the pleasant smoke released itself into the air, Peter used his nostrils at a respectable distance to escort the sweet smelling fragrance into his nasal cavities. Exhaling with a cough and exclaiming in a choked up voice,
"I do love the smell of marijuana in the mornin'!" Then laughter from his words made me feel like I had cut out of school to enjoy the wonders
of this fine day.

Within moments the weed had begun to work on me, and everything as
far as the eye could see came into focus as being much sharper. I gazed around and saw the world in a new light. Its inherent beauty had now captivated my senses, and I thought about being free from the chore of schoolwork. How elated I became when I finally realized it was over! In school, I was admonished by authority. It towered above me like a mighty hand, but here in this magical place where serenity dwells, there are no rules or rulers. Only the gentle peace of life growing in an ever quiet stillness that is indeed its own.

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Peter then begins to remove from his wallet a flattened out roach.
Judging from its size I would have to say, without actually going back in time and measuring it, that it was about the size of a ferrule. Not any type of ferrule mind you, but the one you would normally find wrapped around a pencil that keeps the eraser from coming off! "It's gonna be hard to smoke this thing without a roach clip" Give it to me, I said. I then removed the last match from an old faded matchbook and discarded the small cardboard folder.

I can't help thinking of those kids in Junior High School! Did I ever tell ya Pete? "Tell me what?" About the kids in Junior High School? "What about the kids in Junior High School?" Did I ever tell you? "Tell me what?" About-the kids-in Junior High School. "I'm baffled; tell me." There were these three kids in my class, who everyday would chew on the back of a match, and whenever the teacher had her back turned they would throw the match up, and it would stick to the ceiling! No one ever got caught doing it, which is really amazing. "How many 'you think' were up there?" Thousands! Peter then got down on his hands and knees to claw the earth gently. He brushed the matchbook cover into the small hole and swept his hand across the dirt to make it look like nothing ever happened. I threw him a mildly sarcastic look, and he muttered in disapproval
"We can't just leave it laying there, that's fucked up."

I handed him the match and watched in amusement as he tried in vain to peel open the paper stick! After two minutes, it was getting boring so I said to him patiently but in a tone that implied supreme impatience, give it here. "Christ Almighty," said Peter as he gave me the match. Now if you had normal fingers that actually worked, you could do this. Quicker than Ed Nortin could thread a needle did I separate that match into two strands! "Well excuse me for having the hands of a layman. . . Now I have to try and figure out what I just said. You see how this shit starts?" You're high man, it's acceptable, I said laughing! Pete always had these strange looking fingers that mildly resembled a tree frog! This was mainly due to the fact that Peter liked to chew his nails. Not recreationally like most of us, but as a full time habit. Let's just say that Peter would chew his fingers,
the way most dogs would take apart a T-bone steak, thus leaving him with hands that bare a strong resemblance to a Gecko! On occasion Paul would taunt him by saying things like, "you wanna chew on something Zigfried?" While tugging adamantly at his crotch! Nothing would inflame peter more than this! "Go fuck yourself pal" was usually the response!!!

As Peter handed me the dry flaking roach, I looked at it and wondered
if it had come from Woodstock! I put it inside the match and closed it
before asking my friend for a light. He handed me his Cricket lighter,
and I held it against the roach until it began to smolder. I then took a
deep toke, but upon doing so the paper must have unraveled slightly
and the burning cinder went straight into my chest cavity! I coughed
vehemently and the fiery ember came flying out. I handed him the
hollowed out shell and said, nice job on rolling that weed man.
"Sorry about that" he said in all sincerity.

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I then started to think of High School and wasn't sure if I even graduated! Did I graduate? Was I still in school or did I have to go again this year? Who cares? No one talks about it anymore, so I guess it's over. Walking around with our painted denim jackets while exercising our right to be cool. Who wore the hermit from the untitled album Zoso with neither band nor songs listed, and who wore Tarkus and Aqualung matters not. They were the embodiment of time long sheltered by a dream. A reflection of one's soul piercing the eyes of who ever bore witness to that envisage. They were us and we were them. We have now grown a year older, and if we are to lead the world then we had better put the peace pipe down. Oh fuck it, my head's in a cloud and my words are revolving around me. . .

What was that you said Pete?
"Nothing, I was just thinking out loud."

I then heard Alice Cooper's teen anthem playing in the grey region of my mind. I stopped it after the chorus to make sure it didn't get out of hand.

Looking around, I wondered if these trees would still be standing here long after I was gone and couldn't come up with a definitive answer. Even time itself didn't appear to know. We then walked from the moss stone over to the birch trail where broken sections of pure white bark proved useful in outlining paths. Paths which led into and around this area only. I'd lay them out like a border when I had nothing else better to do, thus giving something which has no purpose a new sense of order. After a month,
the bark would begin to peel away from the trunk and when it turned a putrid brown color is usually when it needed to be replaced. Those old pieces are then tossed aside into the foliage where they are left to rot.
I would then inspect the area for more suitable replacements to gather before laying them out on either side. This made the rugged path look more like a refined trail, and aside from that it made me feel majestic while walking through it stoned! The width of the path, I would say was roughly three feet in diameter and considering that there was so much of the white birch strewn about, doing this not only made the area look neater,
but cleaner as well.

It wasn't long before we reached our 2nd hangout spot. A widened area with four logs cut 18" high, and the imperfect circle of stones and ashes for the winter fires. It was here we sat for a while but said few words to each other. Together we looked out into a dense and overpopulated jungle of foreboding and inviting embodiments. All majestic! All so beautifully rich and full of life's bounty! As I began to think of "Animals" by Pink Floyd I couldn't imagine a better entrance into the 1980's than that album. When the last rays of sun had finally dwindled from the sky, the 1970's had been cast out. Like the leader of a frat house who becomes a legend in another time, but has long since been deceased, I contemplated that strange dilemma. Any teen who has not gotten high to "dogs" should seriously regroup and when standing in formation, make damn-sure his mind had (at one time) been extracted to that tune!

Eventually, we made tracks to the 3rd area. An area overflowing with life in abundance so sweet that my very eyes could not wait to see it. Here, a distinct type of fern followed the path and grew like tiny fingers branching out from beyond our realm of sight. They appeared to be soft as silk and fine as baby hair to the touch. As we walked on, a reddish type of plant with black highlights intermingled with the trees where a new and interesting species of plant life thrived. Some of which could also be found growing peacefully beside the fern in their own designated portion of the woodlands for they are indigenous to this area. Shiny green leaves sprouted from the grounds surface bearing what appeared to be slovenly drawn faces on the inside of each and every one!

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They had a faux texture, and it seemed like the artist standing above
me had just finished painting the landscape with his magic brush. Two perpendicular lines dipping downward, a spot in the middle followed by
an uneven, asperous line below it which one would assume is a mouth. Not in pretext to the situation given my state of mind, but rather anyone with eyes to see would say that this leaf did indeed have a face. In a grayish blue ink, identical to that of a tattoo fading, ecology could suggest that between evolution and theology, there is in fact a direct link. As I stare in silence pondering, it appears now that the proverbial essence of life itself had been touched by the mighty hand of God himself. Indeed,
it was pure conjecture.

As I continued to contemplate, I became lost in a maze of curiosity.
Not watching what I was doing, I tripped over a half rotted log before stumbling and running over my own two feet! I fell to the ground the same way I would have dove into a pool while narrowly missing a collision, face first into a tree. "You all right, man?" asked Pete from a distance. Yeah
I said, brushing myself off and feeling like a damn fool. In my mind, I saw my face hitting that tree and breaking open with bone and nerves all exposed and my nose bleeding heavily into my mouth. It hadn't even happened and I was bummed out. They come from out of nowhere to destroy me, these awful thoughts. The weed had not only dampened my spirits, but it had seeped down into the layers of my soul. It always made me feel so useless, like I was the biggest failure on the face of the earth, and I was going to Hell. No matter how kind I was as a person or how good I was to others, it always boiled down to me being burned in Hell
and feeling paranoid and miserable like this for all eternity. I can't stand
it anymore!!! God, why can't I just stop smoking? While I was now in complete denial of anything being even remotely wrong inside, I was,
in fact, becoming more and more disassociated with everything that was
currently going on around me. It was almost as though I couldn't care
less if the whole place burned down, and I never saw it again. Right
about here, I truly felt like I was trapped inside a black hole with no way
of ever escaping. Then I started to get those 'really bad thoughts' and
wondered why I even got out of bed this morning.

Thoughts of being drawn and quartered in 16th century England,
or spending my last days in Italy on a Judas Cradle. The worst thought
which entered my head was living in Europe during the time of Saw
Torture. It would take a really sick mind to think of something more
barbaric than sawing a man from ass to sternum while he screams out
in agonizing pain. Then, I thought of those poor souls having to undergo
the torment of being fitted to a skull crusher. As the crank is turned the
victims teeth shatter through the gum until the jawbone is forced past the
nasal cavity. That thought caused my stomach to convulse.

Why is man so evil?
Why is he so easily led into the fire of his own damnation?
Maybe I should have just stayed inside today.

Ever get the feeling your whole life is a mistake?
That you should never have been born?
How perfect would everything be right now,
if we were still in that place of nothing;
but oh how terrible indeed I thought, to be nothing now.

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Normal people. Most of them have great jobs because they followed
their heart. Others were pushed into going to college and now have
found it is paying off, cause they are making the big bucks. Some
merely finished high school but have carved their own little niche in
life by learning an individual skill that they are proud to display. Some
are married. Some are dating. Some are soon to have children, so the
family tree lives on. They all have all of these things, but none of them,
and I repeat none of them has what I lost. I know where the problem
lies. What went wrong, but there is nothing I can do about it.

Can you bring back something that is lost in time?
Can you fix something that has been broken beyond repair?
Can you separate the dreamer from the dream?
Sometimes the only thing we can do is cry inside.

Up until the writing of this book, I was actually doing quite fine. I was
able to lay the past to rest and get on with my life. Quitting drugs was
the first step I took. Going to work and doing my job was the second.

Sometimes you just shouldn't dig where the ground too shallow. . . Sometimes, you get more than you bargain for.

(I will admit that all I wanted to do in these years was get high and document. In a despairing way, it felt like that was all I was living for.)
As I stood there with the eyes of the world upon me, I was being taunted. If God could stand before me, I wonder what he would say. Sometimes things go bad for no reason, I know. However, I think in my own opinion the very worst of all has to be when we voluntarily acquiesce to it. Then we have no one to blame but ourselves. I knew happiness and sadness were emotions that could be manipulated with, and I thought of ways
of doing it. I also knew that somehow they were being transmitted on the same wire. Instead of feeling sad, why couldn't we just feel happy? I then decided to try using psychology on myself. What the hell did I have to lose, I was depressed now anyway. Rather than focus on negative energy that was already there and one that I was presently feeding off of, I omitted all thoughts relating to death, disease, pain, suffering, everything! If it was bad then it was wrong, and if it was wrong then it had to be destroyed and so I made it disappear until there was nothing bad nor
evil in all of existence. I thought of the lyrics to "The Fireside Song" by Genesis and sang them aloud in my head. "Once upon a time there was confusion. Disappointment, fear and disillusion. Now there's hope reborn with every morning. See the future clearly at its dawning." I must admit
in all honesty, the first Bee Gee's album cannot hold a candle to the first Genesis album! Eventually, everything was wonderful again in a place where peace had been faithfully restored.

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I then gazed down upon the landscape of a florally sound sylvan. Leaves that seemed to grow underground were now funneling upward from the earth's surface in strange conical shapes while some were opening to reveal their unique designs. The root fibre of this strange and exotic organism could be seen when its leaflets were parted ever so slightly.
They ranged from minuscule to microscopic and expanded across
the grounds surface, as if they were gently crawling.

Pete decided we should open the bag of chips, and so he did and we began eating. As I got to the sixth or seventh chip, I found it difficult to keep putting my hand inside the foil bag. To me, it felt like there was some weird kind of temperature change going on in there. Almost like I was putting my hand inside a chest cavity during surgery! So uncomfortable was this feeling, I had to shake the chips out. How disturbing were these thoughts of mine, this brain! "Don't let those thoughts get you," said Peter sounding most concerned. "Beat them away with a stick if you have to but don't let them in." I think it's a little too late for that now, I said feeling guilty for being alive. "I don't even want to imagine how depressing that must be, especially on this stuff." It's beyond madness, I said feeling worse than I did when it started. By the tenth chip, it felt like I was chewing on glass and wondered how much damage I had already done to the roof of my mouth that was now on fire from the salt. As I unwillingly envisioned my tongue all torn and ripped up from the razor sharp shards of these over salted potato chips, I thought to myself they're baaaack!

I knew there was really no damage.
I also knew it was a mixed reaction brought on by confusion and worry.
I was just upset that I couldn't control my own mind.
I wanted to think what I wanted to think,
not what Satan wanted me to think!!!
It was like trying to restrict a bear from attacking a blood soaked doe!

Since I couldn't swallow the remaining chips which felt like a mouthful
of glassy sawdust, I had no other choice than to spit that yellow glob
into my eager hand and dispose of it inconspicuously. You know
you're not bleeding, and you know there's no damage and yet still
you fall victim to the delusion and it takes hold of you.

Like being slowly escorted into a Turkish prison,
you find there is no hope in anything anymore.

As we approached the gentle area, I could see a thousand yellow, brown and black mushrooms. *Some were red as if dipped in blood* I walked over to a coin sized mound of pure white mushrooms as thin as a hair
growing three inches high. There were big brown ones with dark yellow
leopard spots, and jet black sticky ones that were so grossly deformed
they would strike one as being vile. As if just touching them might
bring death!

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Only a disturbed individual would plunder this patch and bring grievance unto the harmonious spectacle of life, growth and prosperity that begins without waking. For one to ravage such forms of natural beauty and leave it in turmoil goes without saying, for this is truly God's own land and we as a people should treat it with the utmost of respect. Because of this, we did not deviate from the path but instead took refuge under a shady tree where we sat for awhile and rested. In the center of all this nature and insects moving about to make better their lives, were the remains of
an old tree fort built in the early thirties by the MacAlister boys.

As I looked up at it, I could almost see with my own two eyes, that distinctive time line that separated matter. It was an invisible shadow that bordered on the ponderance of time and motion, but not relevant in theory to the actual progression of this movement. The movement that had passed was no longer in the past, but the present! That is why we can never go back, only speculate. (God made sure of that) If the time was now 12:10 and the year 1934, would there be any life altering significance? No. Outside in the street and cities, surely, but in the woods, desert, ocean and frozen plains, I truly doubt it. A dog, however, might take a couple of short sniffs and notice a mild change in the atmosphere. It's possible, but they won't let you in on their little secret. That's privileged information from one hound to another!

I loved thinking about things that were beyond my own brain's comprehension. Things like going back in time and gathering what I need for that long journey ahead of me. Not to go back and buy baseball cards and comic books to make a fortune with at a later date. Hell, I can do that now if I wanted to with the same results. No, it isn't money I long for, it's fixing the shattered mess I left behind that plagues me daily. If I could only go back! If I could do but this one thing oh Lord, then I would gladly die for you this second. Putting my affairs in perfect order so we would not have to move and relishing every single day, as though there might never be another, but the sad truth is I can never go back. To correct this world's mistake. This is my destiny, my curse. To struggle onward. To endure but never overcome. To continue moving in one direction, but to get absolutely nowhere but further behind.

As I gazed up at a weather-beaten tree fort that was so badly damaged
it appeared to be melting out of all sides of the tree that had long since outgrew it, I pondered the fate of those MacAlister boys.

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