Thanksgiving 1978 From My Journal

Thanksgiving 1978 was spent at our Easts Village apartment; Alice, Kim, Bobbie, Andy Reese, and Grant. I ended up dropping LSD with Bill Yusk. The first hit was weak and I dropped another tab. Still nothing coming on and I drank wine with Alice and Kim.

Two hours later I was drunk and the LSD hit hard. Cooking the turkey was very spacey and the bird spoke to me several times. Bill laughed and Ann asked, "What's so funny?"

"A talking turkey."

"A talking turkey, a talking turkey, a talking turkey."

I saw everything in triplicate. Ann wasn't even high and ordered Bill and me to get more wine. We left laughing and wandered to the Bowery with the street reflecting a shimmering glow.

We passed two women sitting on the curb. Dykes. Both were dressed in black and both were gnawing on turkey legs. Bill and I laughed at them, then the short one called my name. I didn't know the big one, but the small dyke was Gilly, a waitress at Dojos. Their wild eyes emanated yellow.

It was an LSD Thanksgiving for them too.

"You want turkey?"

"Talking turkey."

Bill lost it and I tried to get him away, but he wanted to feast on turkey bones and I returned to 256 East Street. Everyone was gone, except for Kim and Alice, who asked, "Are you okay?"

"I have wine and I have you two."

Kim shook her head and asked, "Where's Bill?"

"He's chomping on a turkey bone on the Bowery with two hippie dykes." I didn't want to rat out Gilly. Alice was very jealous and Kim said, "I hate hippies."

"You hate me?" I asked Alice.

"Not you. Only hippies."

"Well, Happy Thanksgiving to them all."

"And us too."

The trip last into the evening and I came down on the couch, as Alice and Kim watched a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers movie.

It was very funny.

Especially how Ginger danced backwards.

"Talking turkey."

Acid came onto the scene in the 1960s. I was too young for it then, plus I was only into pharmaceuticals, dexies and 'ludes.

In 1971 I hitchhiked up to Montreal to visit friends from New Zealand. I bought a horse choker capsule from a midget dealer.

"Is it any good?"

Tres bonne."

I split it with Brian Alwinkle and his girlfriend, Chris Bilkensapp.

It was very strong and the universe vanished into a webbed mystery.

Forever indeed.

VERMONT WINTAH 1973

Vermont Wintah 1973

A blizzard buried Montreal
The temp was arctic.
Minus zero.
I was staying with two New Zealanders
Across the street
From the Winston Churchill Pub
Only forty feet
Going out for beer was a gamble.
Life, death or frozen limbs.

The snow was chest high.
More storms on the way
A day of sun came.
I said good-bye to my friends
To Marie-claire
A waitress at the pub
"I'll be back in the spring."
I hitchhiked south.
Boston bound.
Grey low clouds
Overhead
Snow dropped like clots of cream

A farmer took me to the border.
I was waved through the frontier.
I stood on the America side.
There were no cars
No trucks
Only snow.
And cold
And the cold wind.
It was getting dark.
I was freezing
Bones shivering
My tears were ice. No traffic and snow and cold.

Headlights
An Oldsmobile Toranado
Front end transmission
A Rocket V8
Over 4000 pounds.
It was made for the snow.
It stopped
The lock popped up
I brushed off the snow
Sat inside.
It ws warm

The driver was an old woman.

Her headlights barely pierced the snow.

"My name's Meryl. You want to drive? You can drive in this."

"I'm from Maine."

We switched seats.

I drove 20 mph.

The only vehicle on the road.

Into the night.

To Burlington.

I stayed the night

Meryl had stew slow cooking on the stove.

She started a fire in the living room.

We talked about the cold.

The snow howled around her house.

The fire burned in the fireplace.

The room smelled on New England

The North

Wintah

1973.

A Painter Painting a Picture

Hitchhiking was a good way to travel between Boston and Montreal in the early 1970s.

The 400 miles of I-89 was one of the East Coast's most scenic highway, slanting across New Hampshire and Vermont to Lake Champlain then into Quebec.

It was a great trip from start to finish.

In August of 1971 I was heading north to meet friends in Montreal.

A Karman Ghia stopped in Lebanon and the longhair said that he needed money for gas. I gave him $5. Ace drove me from Lebanon to St. Albans with Jethro Tull on the 8-track When I got out of the car, the longhair handed me a pill. The horse choker capsule was an inch long.

"It's LSD." The hippie flashed a peace sign. His iris wavered in size. "Very strong. Take it with friends and don't look in a mirror."

"I know better than that."

Looking at your reflection was a mistake no one wanted to repeat on a trip. I had once stared at my shimmering face for hours on Orange Sunshine.

My eyes had been a single black pool greeting a stare into eternity.

"Thanks for the gas."

A gallon was 35 cents.

$5 was good for a week's driving in the VW.

I flashed him the peace sign and stood on the interstate's shoulder.

The next ride was to the border.

Canadian immigration asked for a driver's license.

The official saluted my entrance into his country.

Two hours later I was drinking beer with my New Zealand friends at the Winston Churchill Pub. My Irish friends were playing a gig off St. Catherine. Several French girls came home to Benny's apartment on Barat Street. I showed them the LSD pill.

The night was velvet with darkness. Pink Floyd was on the Denon turntable.

A bootleg release of MEDDLE.

I divided the powdered pill into section.

1/3 for the four girls.

1/3 for my three friends.

1/3 for me.

One hour passed without any effect, then Benny put on the Jefferson Airplane AFTER BATHING AT BAXTERS, then the first flash of light warbled from the corner of our eyes. The girls danced with POO NEIL. My friends held the album cover in their handstand we chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

The LP art shrank into the sub-universe of time and space.

We were wandering in a microcosmic dream.

Each layer funnier than the last.

Dawn broke early on the St. Lawrence. Stars melted into the sky and we chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

One last time and then we returned home. I slept with a girl named Cheree. Her flesh was as soft as still air.

She spoke French, no English, but chanted with an Quebecoisse accent, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...." until the words softened to a mutter and her skin turned to feathers.

It took me a long time to come down.

Cheree was my parachute.

She provided a soft landing.

"A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

I'm glad that my mind remembered Cheree's name.

My name too.

A PAINTER PAINTING A PICTURE by Peter Nolan Smith

Hitchhiking was the only way to travel between Boston and Montreal in the early 1970s. The trip was a scenic 400 miles on I-89 slanting across New Hampshire and Vermont to Lake Champlain then north into Quebec.

On one trip in August of 1971 a longhair driving a van said that he needed money for gas.

I gave him $5.

He took me from Lebanon to St. Albans with Jethro Tull on the 8-track When I got out of the car, the longhair handed me a horse choker pill an inch long.

"It's LSD." The hippie flashed a peace sign and his iris wavered in size. "Very strong. Take it with friends and don't look in a mirror."

"I know better than that." I had once stared at my shimmering reflection for hours on Orange Sunshine.

"Thanks for the gas."

A gallon was 35 cents. $5 was good for a week's driving.

I flashed him the peace sign and stood on the interstate's shoulder. The next ride took me to the border. Canadian immigration officer asked for a driver's license. Mine was valid and the man saluted my entrance into his country.

Two hours later I was drinking beer with my New Zealand friends at Winston Churchill Pub. My Irish friends were playing a gig off St. Catherine. Afterward a night of Celtic revels several French girls came home to Benny's apartment on Barat Street. I showed them the LSD pill.

"On fait."

"Bonne idee." My French wasn't good, but the night wore a velvet darkness. A bootleg version of Pink Floyd's MEDDLE was on the Denon turntable. I divided the powdered pill into sections.

1/3 for the four girls.

1/3 for my three friends.

1/3 for me.

One hour.

Nothing.

Jefferson Airplane's AFTER BATHING AT BAXTERS.

A flash of light warbled from the corner of my eyes, as the girls danced with POO NEIL. My friends held the album cover in their hands and we chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

The LP art shrank into a microscopic sub-universe of time and space with each descending layer funnier than the last.

Dawn broke on the St. Lawrence with stars melting into the sky.

We chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...." one last time and returned home for sleep.

I slept with a girl named Cheree, whose flesh was soft as still air. Our unsleeping eyes were dilated to coal pits. She spoke French, no English, but chanted with an Irish accent, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...." until the words drifted into a mutter and her skin turned to feathers.

It took me a long time to come down.

Cheree was my parachute.

She gave me a soft landing.

No crash.

"A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

I'm glad that my mind remembered Cheree's name.

And after this many years I'm glad that I remember my name too.

That LSD was strong as shit.

Vraiment.