Slaps of Blue, Pearls of Acid, P1.

I was somewhere between the edge of the coast and the border of the city when the paintings started to boil. We were messing it up in summer retreat up north. The prestige of the location mimicked the preferred yuppie exile in the Hamptons. In this case, this retreat was the preferred choice for organic hippies and dorm-room romantics.

There we were. A charming collective bunch of ex-cons, medium-sized names, friends, nuisances, and a dozen of groupies who wanted to be a part of the heat.

I was slowly landing from a diet of cashmere hashish followed by cocaine followed by MDMA, adequately tucked in between the ten hour or so drinking regimen. We started off with a Vodka Lemon, and moved onwards with whatever we could get a hold off at the crude home-made bar, that was mounted on the terrace. We were greedy but not picky.

An impressive fire was torched at the edge of the massive, groomed garden covered by bushes and, hopefully, a fence. The guests were enthralled by the display. Fire has a way of reminding you, that you are a caveman.

A fat guy kept roaming the house. He had convinced himself that he was an aristocrat, but for the most part, he seemed like a hobo in fancy clothing. His words didn’t go well with my head, but now and then he would say something that would ring true. In the most desperate of conversations, you cling for anything. Also, I got the coke from him. Which did wonders for his acclaim during my peaks of narcotic craves.

I went up to some blonde girl in a wool hat with generous breasts: “Where’s Leroy?”

Leroy was the brute host of the party. A raging bull in velvet trousers. You could smell his hormones and musk in every corner.

“Oh, Leroy! I just saw him outside blowing coke up his girl’s ass.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Hey, aren’t you Sam Cole?”

Nothing ever good comes out of people asking for your name.


“I’m wearing sneakers. What do you have to say to that?”

“I’d still fuck you…”

She scoffed. Mumbled something about I wasn’t her type. And never would be. She stressed that last part: “never”.

After the liberation, women stopped being interesting, they started to get comfortable. As with most oppressed people. Oppression has a way of turning people creative. Once they’re free, free to make choices, they all doze off, like a comatose patient on life-support. Put a person in a cage, hang the key just beyond grab’s length, and look at them thrive! Human nature in a fucking nutshell.

The coke was starting to wear off. Time for level 2 of the drug rocket. MDMA. Crushed and through the nose. There you have it. But, Leroy, I wanted to look for him, not knowing why. Where the fuck was Leroy?

I walked into the kitchen. Two black women were dancing. Forget what I said about women, black women are the real deal. Real temper, sharp claws. Lionesses who turn men like me into kittens.

Betty danced in a singular hypnotic motion to music that was an insult to the ears. A  beauty and a beast. She looked like a an offspring of Bitches Brew, her motion triggering your sense of reality, her frizzled hair that bursted with anger, swaying over her black eyes. She looked taller than she was. Haunting women have a way of doing that.


It was 4.02 AM before the paintings started to boil. The rain turned off the fire outside. A group of friends, a band of misfits, snuck into one of the bedrooms. I followed the herd like a disciple on narcotics. They all spoke in a very low voice. The orchestrator of the band, my friend Vincent, a crazy, intelligent fuck, peeked outside the door to make sure no-one saw us. Unfounded paranoia since most of the guests were either drugged up or fucked up, or plainly just being fucked in one of the many nooks in the house.

Vincent, who led everyone inside, voiced in excitement in his coarse voice: “Now, let’s do LSD.”

Betty was lying on the bed. Judging by the response, the eagerness, you could tell who was a acid veteran and who wasn’t. I wasn’t, I’ve never touched it, and neither did Betty. A small spirit of solidarity was formed.

We each were handed cuts of a small stamp with drops of acid applied on the back. Some where handed stronger doses, others were just strong enough. Betty’s and mine were just strong enough. We left the room and made a small pact to not stay close to one and another.

I asked Vincent: “So, how long does this shit last?”

“10 hours!” Then, he roared a heavy laugh.

Perhaps not the best idea at 4 AM. But, I didn’t have any where else to go.

We laid down on the living-room floor carpet, and waited for the acid to kick in. The floor was heated. Fancy shit.

Thirty minutes till take-off.

I stared at a bug in the ceiling. It had the shape of a locust, but its shades were brown. I couldn’t steer my sight away from it. What the hell type of bug was that?

Then, it moved. An inch. Not a fluid motion, it just moved a sharp inch to the right. A fucking, tiny bug made my mind wonder. In more ways than any woman did.

I turned to Vincent’s wife, Ria, a former dancer, skinny and beautiful: “Do you see that bug?”

Ria laughed, hysterically. She could tell my high had kicked in, and that I and myself were slowly starting to part … .

My concept of time was lost. Gone. I used my wrist-watch as a reference. Even though the markers didn’t seem to move. Time left us. We were intertwined in a distorted sense of togetherness, artificial. You see, your body starts to get heavy, a separate entity, a fucking chunk of meat, that your brain can’t master. The brains sole job are reduced to send out vague signals of how you should move, where you should go. Most of the decisions are not wise or thought through, though. But the brain was always aware. And that’s the creepy part. The exciting part.

The blood started to pull to the back of my head. The lift-off accelerated like a slow rocket. Some hours or so passed, and I decided to light a smoke. I wandered towards the kitchen sink. My boots felt heavy. My leather jacket was pulling its weight on my bare shoulders.

The music was an insult to the ears. Heavy loops wrapped in keyboard plastic. Electronica was the anthem of soft men. I decided to sneak into the bedroom, I shut the door. My body was still heavy, my hands kept getting bigger. “I have massive hands. Look at these hands!” I thought. I always wanted bigger hands. I used to admire the hands of sturdy men. Powerful hands make powerful men. Piano players aren’t powerful, they’re poor. So is the writer. Poor and destined for a life in the dark. Where he belongs … .

The madras was inviting and pale and fucking massive! The paintings on the wall started to boil. A landscape-painting of a remote Italian village was boiling, the trees in the painting were boiling. Then there were my groans; groans that signaled to the ghosts in the room that I’ve lost it. I was away on a rocket on acid fuel, and I don’t know, when I’ll be coming back.

I tucked in my earbuds and managed with the little motor skills my big hands could master, to fire off the album, “Kind of Blue”.

I’ve listened to Kind of Blue many a times. I knew every hit, every slap, every breath before the seconds on the player would come around to it. Now, I was in it. I didn’t listen to the album, I was in the album. When the eyelids covered my sight there were colors. Every note painted a column of light, with a different color. All shades of blue and purple. Some twirled, some vague, most of them SOLID.

“Freddie Freeloader” gushes through the speakers, into my ears, into my brain and touched the hairs on my arms, chest, legs down to my restless, filthy toes. Jimmy Cobb stroked the high hat, I could sense his hand stroking the brass. Paul Chambers slapped the bass. Somewhere behind me. There he was. Toppling the double bass in shapes that reached the ceiling of my brain.

Time left me. Jazz moved inside of me. And Miles Davis gushed his trumpet at my forehead like the cum of God. Music was the religion of the godless. Leave the wars to the faith-masturbators. The dickless. The swamped. Hand us acid and drugs and music and sex with hairless women, and we’re just fine. Everything will be just fine…

I was slowly starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. But I started to wonder, what force was waving the fucking  flashlight?