Ranother Acid Test
Saturday 5 p.m.
When I was in second year at uni, I shared a bedsit in a family flat on the corner of Grange Road and Buccleuch Street, I think it is, with my old school friend Flatnose O'Rourke. I'd been taking acid sometimes since about October/November of the previous year and Rourkey fancied a shot of it around the beginning of the summertime. I got us a tab and halved it.
The acid wasn't that strong, but very nice. The bedsit had a window from which you could see out to Arthur's Seat over the rooftops. We were on the third or fourth floor, and we sat there for a bit, looking out the window and listening to Chopin's La Sylphides (I think it was called). Very nice memory of that.
Since the acid wasn't that strong, I started trying to work with it. Rourkey had a black beard and long black hair. I stared at his face and tried to make the beard grow over it. This worked. His face became covered in black hair and with the long hair on his head, well, he smiled at one point and really did look like a werewolf. This, of course, on the acid was highly amusing. He wasn't a scary kind of werewolf. Everything else was more or less normal as far as the hallucinations were concerned.
The problem was that I couldn't get the hair to shrink from his brow and cheeks!
We had to go out to Brattisani's, the chip shop in Newington, as you always have to do, to get fags, skins, and that kind of thing. So I'm walking along Grange Road and everything is more or less under control apart from the trees which we pass, which are really quite alive. Anyway, I look around at Rourkey and he's still a werewolf. Might be a bit tricky taking a werewolf into a chip shop. Ordering the fags in there was always a problem anyway.
The great thing about joe public is the last thing they want is to admit you're completely out of your tree. But they have no idea. They'll usually pretend you're normal if you can give them the chance and will not shout and bawl and throw you out the chip shop just because you're a paranoid wreck. So you tell Rourkey to say nothing and you'll handle all the talking to straights stuff. Just keep it together and say the order. No bother. The words all seem to come out right and the lassie starts to get your stuff. Then you slowly look round at Rourkey and fung sake he's still a werewolf! Then you're pretending to be normal with this huge grin on your face. You're hoping the lassie doesn't point at your hairy pal because you don't know if he can handle it or not. But no. How polite! You escape.
When the acid wears off, it might seem that you have returned to reality... maybe nobody remembers what that was. The acid. If you haven;t done it, you can't imagine. Totally dangerous stuff. You are asking for it if ... anyway, the footie is coming on.
The window to my left looks along Comely Bank Road. A big line of leafless trees, branches intermeshing against a sky which is blue and pink and growing dark. It's about twenty past five, time to go into the lobby for a bit of a meditate!
10 p.m.
For a while at least I think I may change the nature of this blog. I'm obviously not going to get a literary agent, so I should really stop tormenting them. As a hobby it's quite good fun. And what can you say about ra bliss? Except you poor stupid basturns!
So I'll lay off the flatheids, write about my youth in this carefree bloggy manner as a break from writing the book, and meditating, and standing on the head, and .... what do you think, Jack?
When I was in second year at uni, I shared a bedsit in a family flat on the corner of Grange Road and Buccleuch Street, I think it is, with my old school friend Flatnose O'Rourke. I'd been taking acid sometimes since about October/November of the previous year and Rourkey fancied a shot of it around the beginning of the summertime. I got us a tab and halved it.
The acid wasn't that strong, but very nice. The bedsit had a window from which you could see out to Arthur's Seat over the rooftops. We were on the third or fourth floor, and we sat there for a bit, looking out the window and listening to Chopin's La Sylphides (I think it was called). Very nice memory of that.
Since the acid wasn't that strong, I started trying to work with it. Rourkey had a black beard and long black hair. I stared at his face and tried to make the beard grow over it. This worked. His face became covered in black hair and with the long hair on his head, well, he smiled at one point and really did look like a werewolf. This, of course, on the acid was highly amusing. He wasn't a scary kind of werewolf. Everything else was more or less normal as far as the hallucinations were concerned.
The problem was that I couldn't get the hair to shrink from his brow and cheeks!
We had to go out to Brattisani's, the chip shop in Newington, as you always have to do, to get fags, skins, and that kind of thing. So I'm walking along Grange Road and everything is more or less under control apart from the trees which we pass, which are really quite alive. Anyway, I look around at Rourkey and he's still a werewolf. Might be a bit tricky taking a werewolf into a chip shop. Ordering the fags in there was always a problem anyway.
The great thing about joe public is the last thing they want is to admit you're completely out of your tree. But they have no idea. They'll usually pretend you're normal if you can give them the chance and will not shout and bawl and throw you out the chip shop just because you're a paranoid wreck. So you tell Rourkey to say nothing and you'll handle all the talking to straights stuff. Just keep it together and say the order. No bother. The words all seem to come out right and the lassie starts to get your stuff. Then you slowly look round at Rourkey and fung sake he's still a werewolf! Then you're pretending to be normal with this huge grin on your face. You're hoping the lassie doesn't point at your hairy pal because you don't know if he can handle it or not. But no. How polite! You escape.
When the acid wears off, it might seem that you have returned to reality... maybe nobody remembers what that was. The acid. If you haven;t done it, you can't imagine. Totally dangerous stuff. You are asking for it if ... anyway, the footie is coming on.
The window to my left looks along Comely Bank Road. A big line of leafless trees, branches intermeshing against a sky which is blue and pink and growing dark. It's about twenty past five, time to go into the lobby for a bit of a meditate!
10 p.m.
For a while at least I think I may change the nature of this blog. I'm obviously not going to get a literary agent, so I should really stop tormenting them. As a hobby it's quite good fun. And what can you say about ra bliss? Except you poor stupid basturns!
So I'll lay off the flatheids, write about my youth in this carefree bloggy manner as a break from writing the book, and meditating, and standing on the head, and .... what do you think, Jack?
posted by Hotboy at 4:57 PM
4 Comments:
I love the story of your acid trip!
I found it quite amusing. Would love to hear of more.
I'm with Lee Ann, a series of bombed-out memoirs might even turn into a best-seller.
How is old Flatnose anyway? No offence, but why did stay looking like a werewolf after the acid wore off?
Does it say that? The only hallucination for ages was him! Hope this helps. Hotboy
Remember I remember Flatnose.
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