Metamorphis face


Over and over that scene ruminated through my mind as I walked
along the dirt path which stretched out into the unfiltered gloom.
Unable to stop my mind from destroying me, I could do nothing
but contemplate why it happened. As we rallied on, I could not
escape my own thoughts from persecuting me! Why can't I just sit
down in a room with God and resolve this whole mess once and for
all, rather than live my entire life feeling like a descendant of the great betrayer? My conscience was provoking me, yet the only thing I
was guilty of was living. An old friend of mine who was of American Indian descent once said to me, "If you should ever become worried
or guilty about something you know is right, do not fear, it is only your heart telling you to be brave. However, should you ever feel uneasy or have second thoughts about doing something you know in your heart
is questionable, then that is something you must walk away from."
I thought about his words as I walked the dirt trail into nothingness.

When we reached the street, I noticed it was moving in a strange kind of way. The abstracted levels seemed to change the tar and pebbles in the road, which were separated by plains that shifted, before coming together again. It was a fascinating sight to see. Similar to that of watching a mirage form on a hot summer day. When the sweltering heat bakes the earth, you see the steam emanating up from the black tar road. The lake of water, off in the distance is your illusion! Trying to reach it would be like attempting to find the gold at the end of a rainbow. Unless of course, the end of your rainbow should hover ever so gracefully above a banking institution!!!

Certainly, I thought, this is more enjoyable than science class! Becoming the experiment was a lot cooler than playing with evaporators and filtration devices! If you don't become a chemist, then what the hell's the point? Shouldn't we have learned something that was going to advance us in
the future like a trade of our choice? "Maybe you're just not trying hard enough." That was the answer I'd get when I needed help with something. "Maybe you should stop listening to that stupid music and focus on your math and science class you're failing." (((Maybe))) Maybe if the dog didn't stop to take a shit, he would have caught the thief! *Maybe* Maybe, if she didn't have so much stress in the first place, she wouldn't have gotten sick, and we could have still been together! Are you sad because I never told you? You would have only used it like a blade to cut my heart out with.

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The one thing I am happy about is that I never have to see the inside of
a school again. I would enter feeling lost and confused and leave feeling suicidally depressed, but now I am free from it. Free to live life as it comes. *Satan laughed so delighted* "Ah yes" he said, "but with
no one to live for."

After my torment subsided, I began to focus all my energy on trying to fully comprehend every aspect of this mystical, and insightful drug. If
this substance has the uncanny ability to make the sane go insane, then couldn't it for all intents and purposes, make an insane person sane?
How easy was that? It was so obvious! I closed my eyes for a brief
moment and became puffed with pride. How astonishing, I heard myself
say, as I came to realize all the people I could help! All the lives I could change! Ah, the big dinner party many will attend and everything wrong
in my life would suddenly be made right. The clapping and the standing
ovation put me in the spotlight, and I was no longer the person I was
before. I was someone of importance! Satan snickered again "You will never learn, will you? How can you wallow in the glory of saving the world's people, when it is the very world itself that despises you? Wouldn't it be better to destroy them? It wasn't I, who hurt the woman you loved, but the world you love so! Pledge your allegiance unto me
and you shall have all this and so much more! What's wrong? Do you
think I'm lying? What do you say?" I say, I will have no dealings with
you! "I am sorry to hear that. In that case, I guess I have to say,
Checkmate."Then like an approaching storm, the dark clouds of reason came to wash away my happiness. Do you honestly believe you are the first person to try and find the miracle hidden within psychedelic drugs? The Indians used it for thousands of years, with guidance and have had positive results. To this day, they are still using it, but have not cured
the insane. The hippies used it with no guidance at all and look at what happened to them. A whole generation of people went raving. They burned out like comets in an astral plain! Once you lose something as precious as your own mind, you become nothing more than zero. Just think, I thought to myself, if someone was awake their whole life, unable
to communicate a language, then isn't it safe to assume they have no knowledge of anything around them? I'm sure they understand their own individual language of blatha'blatha, but what was a letter or number to them? What is a peach? (((And))) what am I saying? They would hear only blathering nonsense through the receptors of their non-conformed minds, and I am sure that by trying to convey even the least bit of logic to these poor souls would be, in the philosophy of all immanence, a precursor to disaster. And so once again, another wonderful idea of mine would become as curdled milk in the noonday sun.

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As we proceeded to walk to the train station, I noticed a long line of streetlights had all been transformed into demon faces. The amber glow from them was so relaxing, it looked like melted glass, drooping down
in a form of pulled taffy. Comparable to a pound of molten silica that
had been pulled too soon from an annealing over! Carry on, I said to
them, and John nodded in agreement. They were just hanging out, being themselves, and I had no qualm about that. Were we not doing the same thing? I thought of the brown cocoon's we see everywhere, but could not think of the name I was trying to think of! That small cocoon about the size of a wine cork, I said to John. "Those little Styrofoam balls in the weeds!" That's right, I yelled out exhilarated! I was trying to say morphing stage, but I pointed up at the streetlight and said, look at the metamorphis face! John loved it! So much, in fact, that it became synonymous with the evening! All night long we were in animated form, looking up at the street lamps and saying, metamorphis face and then clamoring with glee.
It was good, I thought, that he saw them too!

Part of the reason was due to the fact that they were 3rd generation Westinghouse OV 25's, and when standing in the world of the surreal, the hexagonal pattern in the thick plastic covering, when captured by the eye, creates a unique and pronounced face! A long line of conspicuous faces that look like they were crafted in Hell to be an assemblage of mischief makers. They are not. They are, in fact, quite harmless. This orange mescaline was cool, in the way that things were so relaxed and less distorted. Unlike the purple where everything assumes a milky, more deformed character. As the train pulled into the station, John refused to
get on. He said he would not be able to restrain himself from laughing in the conductors face, so we decided to wait for the next train. There was not a single soul at the station, and nothing much to look at on the other side. After what seemed like a good hour, another train pulled in to the station, and we were on it. I began to think of that long LSD song by
The Serpent Power, and wished I had a radio to blast it on. That great tune, "Endless tunnel." The conductor who was now prancing through adjoining cars was walking kind of awkward. This was due to the rocking motion of the train as it bumbled along its tracks. To me, it appeared to look as though he'd been drinking on the job, but of course I knew better! He enters our car, shuffles over to where we are seated, and we hand him the money. As he lumbers away, we begin laughing and cannot stop. Upon entering the third car, he walks methodically into that little room of his to say, "next stop is Eltingville!" We exited the train at Eltingville and sat
on the station's platform for a half hour.

During which time a group of young miscreants come by to do a rendering on somebody else's tag, and I wondered if they would start trouble. These kids appeared to be a year or two older than us and one of them spoke like he may have been in college. They did what they had to do, and then they left. Rembrandt's they were not, and I couldn't understand why they would bother wasting their time with such foolishness. I guess they just weren't sure where to start in life. You start by putting down the paint can and putting on the work boots, but who was I to talk. I was nineteen years old and my life was a powder keg, rolling down the steep incline toward a raging fire.

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