Even Me Easter: Part Three

FIREFLIES IN OUR MUSHROOM GARDEN

My tent was on the banks of Lake Malawi. Surrounded by baobabs, palm and bamboo trees. Baboons scampered around, chased my dogs that I deduced belonged to whoever lived at the huge house just to my left. A quick investigation turned up kayaks, wind-surf boards and an annoying native tobacco farmer named Headaches (his self-declaration, not my nickname).
Headaches, already with a beer at 6 in the morning, opened a bottle for me and proceeded to tell me what was wrong with America. Once, on a flight, he had sat next to an old lady from Kentucky who had asked him if he had a pet cheetah. Of course he aided her ignorance by creating an alternate life where he lived in a tree house to escape the roaming creatures he had to hunt for food and clothing. Instead of pleading that old ladies from Kentucky are about the worst representation of America, I sacrificed my pride and faked a laugh.
So Paradise comes with a price.
Eventually people started coming out of the house and other tents. And I realized I had crashed a huge Easter bash of old friends.
Which made me smile even bigger.
After breakfast, I found myself sitting an a cliche circle and as the joint was passed from hand to hand, I had one of my out-of-body thought trains. Its where I go when i dont have a pen and paper handy. I suppose its my MemoryLand. I try to burn every word uttered, every sensation felt, to this land, to be re-called upon later once I have proper writing time.
The tagline on this thought train 'Why i dont take drugs.' Its something Ive had years to consider. Everyone goes through these circle moment of truth - smoke or pass. And back in high school, I guess it was harder because my reasons to not partake always seemed lame. I didnt want to get made fun of and I didnt want the smokers to think I was judging them.
So back then - why didnt I take drugs? Was i afraid? Of the effect? Of getting caught? Was I morally superior? Was I dedicated to athletics?
How did I 'stay above the influence'? As all those annoying advertisements encourage today's overly mediacized youth.
Ruth (who dressed like a 3rd wife to a Mormon elder) leans to my and asks, "you dont smoke?" So here is the moment. The moment I usually try a lame joke to appease the stoned masses. Something like, "nah, my lungs are feelin a bit rough today," (rough from hyperventilating trying to think of a response to your question) or "hey! no worries, more for you." (that one really works)
In college the trick was to give a firm NO but remain general with a reason. As you get older, peer pressure fades, or is it you find yourself stronger to stick to your ways.
Whatever the response, you can be sure the question will come. And it came as I looked around a huge group of South-African, English and Dutch hippies by the banks of Lake Malawi on Good Friday.
It was a relaxing day. Just spent getting to know everyone. Among the group there was: an angry white Rasta from Zimbabwe with what appeared to be a stuck-on dreded beard; Kimmo, the artist, host and girlfriend to 'A-Zor'; Dr. Fire, an eye surgeon with beady eyes and gray hair; Mr. Friendly Giant, a professional photographer with a long, blonde pony-tail; Mike, who owned a chemical company and his wife Triss who brought along their precious baby and Zambian Nanny.
Dusk gently arrived with the lighting of tiki torches and Stuck-on Dreds drummed out a beat on bongos as the group decided it was decoration time.
We set up psychedelic backdrop paintings, installed huge speakers - complete with the dj table, 6 ft tall plastic mushrooms...People changed into tye-dye, the techno music started and as the sun set the blacklights flipped on. Everyone grabbed a beer and resettled into the circle...to do...Acid!
Woah, timeout...stop the thought train.
People still do acid?
I thought that stopped when all the good guitarists died.
So now my thought train is steamrolling. I need a different answer. Lame jokes only work with weed. People get seriously offended if you reject a high quality drug.
Mike brought the plate around and people licked their fingers and savored the paper like a hershey's kiss.
And then Mike leans to me and with his seductive South African accept says, "oh come on dear, be a bit of a devil."
And thats when a fresh light bulb, free of that stupid blacklight UV shit, went off in my train. I dont want to be a devil. I dont want to reach a good feeling by being bad. But what is up with the whole good or bad reasoning anways. Since when is chasing a sensation good or bad? People attend worship services, exercise or work excessively, create music and make love -- all for what? TO feel something. Something different. Something real.
Bl'azor' or R'azor' or L'azor', whatever the name of the dude that sounded like Andre the Giant from Princess Bride, leaned to me to explain how acid affects you. How is opens all the filters of your touch, taste, smell and sight so "that your life will never be the same."
Does that sound tempting to you?
It didnt work for me.
Because my thought train had arrived at its destination.
Question: Why dont you take drugs?
Answer: I like myself.
Wow. Written down it doesnt seem like a great revelation. But all these years of trying jokes, of rationalizing some moral standards that I now find ridiculous, and I realize the real reason is me. I like me. I like my brain. And damn, its a good one. I enjoy the highs and lows because its all My Life.
Now Im not saying everyone that does drugs is chasing a happiness they cant find sober.
I think they just started before they fell in love with themselves.
Because now, drugs are a part of who they are, which is fine with me if they are happy with themselves.
I just became me without the addition of a substance.
So I replied to Mike, "sorry man, its just not me."
And like all good middle-aged hippies in the world, he nodded and said, "right on, cheers."
Without knowing it, my comment of 'me' started a conversation about the identification of the self. These were people serious about expression. THey were stuck in nationalities. Some to places they had never even visited. (cheers to British colonalism) and some would never return to the country of their birth since laws required a more natural hairstyle than dreadlocks.
Triss told a story of an infamous immigration office where the permanency of her tattoos was brought with the question of what God would think of her when they meet at the gate. Triss, fired up from the remembrance of such a ludicrous comment, declared "God is gonna dig me cuz Im an individual!"
With that another joint was lit and the techno was turned up louder. The first to start trippin rose to dance their toddler-esque pee-pee movements along the banks of the lake.
And I sank into the shadows...