#lighthouse boulevard

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep26

Coitus, Coffee, Steak & Molotov Cocktails

By half past noon I’ve managed to track down some generic-brand soft panniers for the Ducati on Craigslist and by half past three I’ve got them stuffed to the point of bursting with dirty laundry and strapped to the bike. River arrives at my place about 4pm and we take a short proof-of-concept ride on the Ducati to ensure that the panniers wont fall off, aren’t going to melt on the exhaust, and most importantly aren’t going to interfere with River’s comfort. We loop the coast road around the peninsula, stop for a moment to watch the waves break, check the luggage and steal a few kisses as the late afternoon sky begins to change to the color.

We catch a glimpse of Emma climbing the stairs to Henrik’s office when we return to the parking lot behind my building, and it’s a solid two hours before they re-emerge with a knock on my door. Emma’s skin is flush and moist. She has the look of a woman who has been ravaged sexually. Henrik looks as though he needs a coffee and pulls himself a doppio espresso macchiato. “Scribbly scratch it and down the hatch it” he says before slurping it down in a single gulp, then immediately pours himself a hefty glass of red wine.

“Help yourself.”

 “I did” Henrik replies snarkily.

I can’t complain. Henrik is a single guy living in a loft, with zero other bills, and a company that is beginning to make money. So he puts far more red wine into my wine cellar than he takes out. There have been months that he’s been so generous with the Grand Cru Bordeaux and the Vin de Bourgogne that I don’t even bother to collect rent.

“C’est bon?” I ask Henrik of the wine.

“C’est parfait!” he replies.

The plan was to enjoy barbecued filet mignon with red wine on my rooftop deck, but an unseasonably cold Pacific sea breeze swept across the peninsula at sunset forcing us indoors. We pan sear the steaks in cast iron, then finish them in the oven surrounded by a harvest ratatouille. The girls take command of the ambiance while Henrik and I cook. Emma is astonished by my stereo system, and in moment of maturity that surprises all of us, chooses John Coltrane’s album “Giant Steps” and turns it down nice and low. Upon her asking, I point River toward the bag of votive candles in the junk drawer under the junk drawer and she begins lighting them as Emma switches off the lights.

The house is dark, warm and cozy, with flickering candlelight and the smell of thyme and rosemary basting in Irish butter and steak juice. Henrik tells us about hygge (pronounced hooga) the Danish art of cosiness, and how back in home during the Scandinavian winters people gather in warm dark places, wrap themselves in heavy wool sweaters, eat reindeer steaks next to a roaring fireplace, and drink warm cider, mulled wine and hot chocolate. If there is a little book of hygge, we’ve certainly torn a page from it tonight.

The filet is exquisite. I sit across the table from River so I can watch the candlelight dance in her eyes. Emma regales us with tales of growing up the only child of a hippy professor with a penchant for recreational psychopharmacology, and losing her virginity in 8th grade to the  trumpet player of the freshman high school jazz ensemble while they were both higher than sputnik on pills she found when she was hunting for loose change in her dad’s watch drawer. This explains a lot about her, including tonight’s jazzy music selection. “Jazz” she tells us “is great during dinner. Great during sex. Great for getting high. But not so great at the coffee shop. It’s the opposite of music for the masses.”

After dinner we cosy up as couples on opposing couches and enjoy red wine as Emma DJs an impressively deep playlist of hard bop jazz, all of which was recorded during the calendar year 1959. Emma may not be a political science major or economist, but she certainly has a grasp on the progressive mid-century jazz scene. It isn’t long before the exhaustion catches up to River. The wild night of sex, early morning shift at the coffee shop, and the three glasses of red wine hit River like a Molotov cocktail, and she spreads out across the couch with her head in my lap. I stroke her hair as she struggles to stay awake.

Henrik correctly assesses the situation and suggests that it’s time to leave. He gives Emma a nudge in the direction of the hifi, and she turns the music down slowly, then off. A quick round of hugs and they’re out the door. I gently raise River from the couch and guide her toward the bedroom. Standing in the middle of the bedroom with her eyes closed, she raises her arms over her head, and I carefully undress her, starting with the sweater. We disappear together under the eiderdown. The warm candlelight of the votives slowly fades away in the living room as we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep25

The People's Republic of Macchiato

Tuesday

River gently bites my lip to wake me. The only thing I see as I wake is the faintest glimmer of light in her eyes as she turns her nibble into a kiss. “I have to go to work. I’ll see you at the coffee shop when you wake up” she whispers and then disappears into the darkness of the early morning. I glance at my watch. 5:30am is says. I disappear under the duvet for another three hours, then program my autopilot toward the coffee shop.

The knock on Henrik’s door went unanswered, but I find him in the coffee shop seated at the good table near the window. He waves to get my attention while I’m standing in the queue, and tips his mug toward me to show me that it’s nearly empty and motions for me to order him another one. I nod affirmatively.

A new girl is taking drink orders this morning, so I ask for my usual quad shot whole milk latte, plus a whole milk cappuccino, then stuff my credit card into the machine. When she asks me for a name on the order I tell her “Jack Kerouac” and she makes me spell out “Kerouac.” River is watching silently and gives me a wry smile as I begin to recite “K. E. R. O. U…”

—

“Pull up a chair” Henrik tells me as I approach the table. It’s an odd suggestion since he’s sitting alone with am empty chair across from him. I haven’t even begun to mentally process his request when I hear the latch on the bathroom door unlock and Emma steps out. “Floody!” she exclaims as she wraps her arms around me. “Have you recovered from your hero dose of mushrooms?” she asks before plopping her butt down in the seat across from Henrik.

I don’t even bother responding. Instead I commandeer an empty seat from the next table and sit down. River delivers the drinks to the table rather than suffer the indignity of shouting out “Jack Kerouac, your drinks are ready” to the entire coffee shop. As she is setting my drink on the table she brushes her fingers across the back of my neck. It is a surreptitious hello and good morning that goes completely unnoticed by the other patrons, but sends goosebumps racing down my spine.

“Settle this argument for us Floody” Emma asks. “Henrik says that the best businesses are benevolent dictatorships. I say that all organizations should be democratic.”

“What the hell prompted this conversation?”

“Emma thinks that her and her colleagues should have more of a say in how this place is run, and how the earnings are distributed” says Henrik.

“The owners are paying us minimum wage plus tips, and we’re just barely getting by on two jobs, but they just bought themselves a camper van” Emma protests.

“So, you’re saying they’re paying themselves too much, and not enough to the team?”

“Yes. If you study world history, you’ll know that America is the best country because we’re the only ones with democracy, and if democracy works for government it should work for business.” says Emma.

“And all dictatorships are bad?”

“Yes.” Emma says.

“Why?”

“Because in a dictatorship if the dictator doesn’t like you, he can just throw you in jail.”

“For no reason?”

“Yes!”

“But Emma, in a business, the owner doesn’t have any power over you. They can’t just throw you in jail or publicly execute you. You can just quit and walk away with zero consequences.”

“Yeah, okay, I see what you’re saying, but I still think we should have more of a say around here.”

“Well, there are really two ways to solve this problem Emma. You could be like Che Guevara and demand that power be transferred to the people through some sort of Marxist regime. And we all know how that turned out …”

“Yes, very well.” says Emma.

“No. Very badly. Or secondly, you and your colleagues could organize a labor union, engage in collective bargaining and threaten to walk out, forcing the owners to capitulate.”

“I would never do that. Union workers are lazy.”

“Well, I think those are your only two options Emma.”

“Well Floody, you clearly don’t know anything about business.”

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep24

Fairies & Gladiators

The golden light of afternoon dances across the kaleidoscope of rainbow colored chalk dust on the wooden floor in my apartment as I peel the motorcycle jacket off of River’s shoulders and hang it over the back of a dining table chair. Despite the chill in the air, River’s dark heather gray v-neck tee shirt is wrinkled and sweaty.

“Four hours is a long time on that little seat.” she tells me.

“Yes it is, but I have the perfect elixir for your sore muscles.”

I wiggle my way out of my own motorcycle jacket, then fish a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge. River disappears to the bedroom and returns almost immediately wearing her big fluffy sweater. She is pacing back and forth near the window. I pour two glasses of white wine, hand one to her, and offer a “clink” of cheers. River takes a sip and continues pacing back and forth.

“What am I feeling right now Floody?”

“Describe it to me.”

“My entire body is tingling, yet numb at the same time. I can’t explain it.”

“Do you feel like a shirt that just got removed from the dryer?”

“Yes! Like I’ve just been tumbled for an hour, and now I’m just hanging quietly in the closet.”

I plop down on the couch, lean back against the cushions, put my arms far out to the side in a seated Jesus Christ pose, lean my head back and close my eyes before I begin speaking.

“River, your body has just spent the past four hours being battered by wind, cold, sunlight and fear. The only way for your nervous system to cope with the overload of input signals is to shut down. What you’re feeling right now is basically a bunch of little fairies running around in your brain flipping all of the nervous system switches back to ON. The best thing you can do for yourself right now is to just sit back on the couch, have a sip of wine, close your eyes for a few minutes and let your system normalize.”

My eyes are still closed, but I hear the unmistakable sound of a wine glass being sat on a coffee table. Then I hear foot steps drawing nearer to me. I feel River’s presence, I’m certain she’s standing right in front of me. Eyes still closed, I hear River kicking off her boots and kicking them away across the floor. Then I hear another sound, but I can’t make out what it is until I feel River’s big wooly sweater landing in my lap.

I open my eyes and River is standing directly in front of me wearing only blue jeans, no shoes, no shirt, no bra. Her physique is beautiful beyond my wildest dreams. Her square shoulders and perfect posture accentuate her long neck. She has a surprising amount of hourglass in her figure for such an athletic build, especially for someone with narrow hips like hers. Her high, perky breasts are porcelain white inside of the bikini tan lines, and her nipples are surprisingly dark for a girl with such fair skin. Her belly is thin and has just enough baby fat around her navel to create elegant sweeping vertical creases along her flanks.

“No. I don’t want this feeling to end yet.” she tells me as she begins unbuttoning her jeans and then wiggling her hips from side to side until the denim reaches the floor. She kicks away the jeans. Now she’s only wearing a tiny, silky white pair of underwear. Her legs are the legs of a championship runner. Long. Muscular. Graceful.

I sit up toward her and she takes my hands into hers, and guides my arms around to her back side. She holds her hands firmly over mine against the cheeks of her buttocks. “Kiss my belly button” she tells me. I pull her toward me, then I kiss.

I kiss the bottom of her belly button, where it curves into her abdomen. Then I kiss a few inches lower on her tummy. Then I kiss right at her bikini line, feeling the silky underwear under my chin as I lick and kiss from boney hip bone to boney hip bone. Then I return back to the belly button.

She takes her hands off of mine and wraps them around the back of my head, ensuring that the kissing continues. I move my hands around to the front, dig my thumbs into the little crevices inside her hip bones, and then with one swift motion drop her panties to the floor.

My kissing journey continues south, where my five o’clock shadow meets hers. I slip a foot between hers and gently nudge her stance until her feet are shoulder width apart. I rock her hips forward until I can taste the remnants of the Nepenthe orgasm. She lets out a gasp and stumbles backward, nearly tripping over the coffee table. She holds her hand out toward me as she regains her footing, keeping me at arm’s length long enough to take a big gulp of white wine, then dashes toward the bedroom.

We toss the sweat soiled sheets from last evening’s tryst to the floor and wrap ourselves in the eiderdown duvet and make love violently. “Harder Floody!” she insists “I don’t want to let the motorcycle feeling go away yet. Harder! Harder!” We clash like Roman gladiators. She claws me until I bleed, I bite her inner thigh until she yelps. We are thrashing about under the duvet like sharks in a feeding frenzy until she grabs my nipples and squeezes them so hard that I’m paralyzed with pain. We are face to face, and I am gasping in agony trying to see past the sweat and tears in my eyes when she says …

“Floody, go find the purple butt plug.”

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep21

Drawing From Serotonergic Hyperactivity

We’re all gathered around the coffee table, Henrik, Emma, River, Me and Doctor David Hoover, Department Chair, UC Berkeley College of Psychology and resident expert in the illicit distribution of psilocybin mushrooms.

“There’s some debate amongst the academic community about acquired savant syndrome and the use of psilocybin mushrooms” says Dr. Hoover. “I’d point to Serotonergic Hyperactivity as a potential factor in acquired drug-induced synesthesia.”

“What does that mean doc?”

“It means the synesthesia you experienced was chemically identical to a traumatic brain injury. Following a brain injury the dead brain cells are flooded with serotonin, which can cause the acquired savant syndrome you experienced.”

“So it’s true about drugs killing brain cells?”

“No. You see, that’s the beauty of this whole experiment. Psilocybin induces the synesthesia without the cell death by dumping serotonin into your healthy brain. It was - relatively speaking - harmless.”

“I don’t think harmless is exactly the right term” River chimes in. Dr. Hoover doesn’t know about the purple butt plug incident, therefore isn’t able to contextualize the comment so he just responds to her in a scholarly way. “You’re exactly right River, any treatment modality runs the risk of side effects or comorbidity, but these risks are statistically insignificant.”

Clearly, he nor anyone else in the group has any idea what happened physically between us last night, so River smartly just lets his comment pass and moves onto the more pressing question. What do the pictures mean?

The Drawings

#1

The front side of the first drawing features River sitting nude with legs crossed in the lotus position. Hair covers her breasts, and Dave Jr., my dead potted fern is between her legs obstructing the view of her private parts. The back side shows River, head to toe, walking toward me with a creek underfoot through a narrow, vertical-walled canyon, heavily vegetated with ferns. She’s dressed in jeans, big waffle stomper hiking boots with red laces and a cozy looking off-white sweater.

#2

The front side of the second drawing features River standing in my living room wearing one of my old red flannel shirts and no pants. The back side is, oddly, a bearded man, possibly Henrik, wearing the same old red flannel shirt and standing next to a big blue dog.

#3

The front side of the third drawing is a close up portrait of River’s face, hair parted slightly to the side. It is very flattering, in bright pastel colors and highlighting her bright blue eyes. The back side is the same portrait, but dark brown as if River was a statue carved out of wood. Her eyes are cold and lifeless. It is haunting, bordering on disturbing.

#4

The front side of the fourth drawing leaves nothing to the imagination anatomically. It is a graphic close-up sketch of River’s private parts. The back side looks like an ocean of water pouring into a hole. Like someone pouring the entire ocean into someone’s anus.

#5

The front side of the fifth drawing features River laying nude on my wood floor, surrounded by a rainbow of cartoonishly drawn flowers. Those same cartoonishly drawn flowers are still decorating my floor, there is a blank space the shape of a chalk body outline where River’s body once laid. On the back side, River is laying, once again in her big off-white sweater, in a field of perfectly drawn tulips in a rainbow of vivid colors.

#6

The final image features another close-up of River’s face, but this time hidden behind a silver camera. Henrik immediately recognizes it as a Leica M camera, but is unable to distinguish the exact model or vintage. Unlike the other images, the back side is seemingly independent from the front side, this time showing the main street of a fairytale Bavarian village.

—

“Clearly River is an allegory, emblematic of something or somewhere, I’m just not sure what that something or somewhere is. Does anyone recognize these locations?” says Henrik. The only person who recognizes a location is Dr. Hoover. “The back side of print #4, that looks like Thor’s Well. I’m certain of it. But I don’t recognize anything else, and they don’t seem to have any commonality beyond River’s presence.”

I drew the images, and even after extensive review, I can’t make sense of where, why or how these images are related to each other, nor can I discern any meaning. The drugs were supposed to eliminate my amnesia not exacerbate it. But I find myself staring at a bunch of images that aren’t bringing me any closer to solving the mystery of my disappearance. Worse is that Dr. Hoover is a annoyed that we burned through about a month’s worth of his stash in a single evening, and have really nothing to show for it.

“Guys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think I’ve been to any of these places. Thor’s Well is the screensaver on every Amazon Fire Stick and it’s the background image of 90% of those shitty Chromebooks. That Bavarian village proves it. I didn’t magically disappear for a month to Europe. These are just places I’ve seen on the internet. I doubt they’re real memories.”

I can see that Henrik is really trying to solve the puzzle. His head is tilted to the side slightly and he’s chewing on his bottom lip. Then I see his eyes light up. “Floody, where did you say your phone was?” he queries.

“It’s gone missing.”

“Is it an iPhone? Do you use iCloud?” Henrik asks.

“Yes.”

“Floody, use the Find My Phone locator from your iCloud account!”

“You can do that?”

“Yes, of course. Fetch your laptop!”

I put my laptop on the kitchen bar near the espresso machine and let Henrik drive. He opens the web browser, then navigates to iCloud, and clicks to find my devices.

“Floody, your phone is in Yachats Oregon. You were in Yachats Oregon! Do you know what else is in Yachats Oregon?”

“Why do I feel like you’re about to say Thor’s Well?”

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep20

The Deckled Edge Of Consciousness

The cap is missing and the empty pill bottle is turned upside down and placed over the top of an empty white wine bottle. It’s the type of trophy for heroism that can only be earned through recklessness, like emerging victorious from a nest of enemy soldiers unscathed after disobeying a direct order to retreat.

I’m sat on the couch when River enters. She is wrapped in my large white bathing robe, her Scandinavian strawberry blonde hair is dripping wet and neatly combed back. She carries herself with dignity, but I can see on her red blotchy cheeks that she’s been crying in the shower. Our sexual encounter wasn’t rape, but it certainly wasn’t consensual if one only factors sober consciousness into the equation. If I was Sigmund Freud, I would call it an intended hallucinogenic tryst driven by a previously unacknowledged desire. My dad would call it the net result of a series of bad decisions. But it happened and we’ll both confront it in our own ways in the coming days. River eyes the disarray in the living room.

“What happened Floody?” River asks as she walks toward me. I remove the empty pill bottle from the top of the wine bottle and show it to River.

“Oh fuck …”

“Fifty doses gone.”

“Did I?”

“Eat a lot of magic mushrooms? Presumably yes. A lot. It looks like we both did.”

“Floody, what happened in here?” she says as she glances around the room. The entire box of River’s multicolored children’s sidewalk chalk was used in a drug-induced flurry of creativity, leaving nearly everything in my house - the floor, my couch, the coffee table - covered in a rainbow of dust. It looks like the whole of India celebrated Holi in my apartment last night.

The large sheets of River’s deckle edge art paper are strewn across the floor, each sheet containing an intricately detailed portrait of River sketched on it in rainbows of colored chalk. I point them out to River.

“Holy shit Floody! These are incredible!”

River strolls around the living room, with hands stuffed in pockets, examining each portrait as it lays on the floor. The portraits follow a general theme, showcasing River’s gloriously athletic nude or semi-nude figure in soft and flattering pastels, surrounded by a variety of scenes portrayed in vivid primary colors.

“Floody, I didn’t know you’re an artist”

“River … I draw almost good enough to play hangman.”

“So who drew these?”

“The mushrooms.”

“Whoa … that’s crazy. Half a bottle of pills and some white wine and you turn into Marc Chagall?”

“Maybe mushrooms were his secret …”

“I doubt that” she chuckles.

We both take a moment to look around the room and assess the situation. River grabs her iPhone from the coffee table and photographs the scene with the fastidiousness of a forensic photographer, then she carefully collects the portraits from the floor and arranges them on the coffee table in the same order she found them.

“They’re so flattering, but sort of x-rated Floody. We need to keep these private between us. If they get leaked onto the internet, it will ruin me.”

“This will be our secret.”

We’re sitting side by side on the couch gazing at the portraits when there is a knock on the door.

“It’s Henrik. He’s the only person who can knock on my door without ringing the downstairs buzzer. Is it okay if he comes in?”

River thinks quietly for a moment then nods “yes” as the knocking continues. “It’s not like they’re photos, they’re just chalk drawings, so it’s okay if he sees them as long as he doesn’t tell anyone.”

I answer the door. Henrik peers inside and sees River sitting on the couch in the big fluffy white robe. “I guess we’re not going for coffee if the barista is sitting on your couch mate.” he says as he steps inside.

“Morning River.”

“Morning Henrik.”

“River, did everything go okay last night with Operation Rabbit Hole?”

River holds up the empty pill bottle and shakes it. “Everything went a bit sideways last night Henrik.” Henrik’s eyes get wide at the sight of the empty pill bottle. I feel like there’s a lot to discuss this morning, and I’m sure that River is feeling some trauma from waking up in my bed with a butt plug sticking out of her, so before we delve into the details of last evening I offer to make everyone coffee. Henrik is repulsed with the idea of drinking any coffee drawn by me so he just naturally takes the lead on making three gorgeous lattes. I assume the role of sous chef and line up three mugs on the bar with saucers and biscotti. With the shots pulled and the drinks assembled, we gather once again at the couch. I hand River her drink and she gives me a warm smile to tell me that she deeply appreciates the reversal in this morning’s roles.

I take just a fraction of a second extra to look at her and admire her. Without any makeup whatsoever, and with hair pulled back, I’m just basking in her natural beauty. She’s glorious and my God do I wish I could remember last night! If all I ever get to see of River in the nude is the chalky drawings, it will be a such a disappointment.

Henrik sits across from us and gets his first glance of the drawings. “My goodness, what happened with you two last night?” he says inquisitively. River sets down her coffee and leans forward to rotate each of the drawings 180 degrees so that they’re oriented toward Henrik. It’s a subtle, unspoken way of telling him that it is okay for him to look at them. Also, the portraits are quite flattering and I’m certain that, for the very limited audience who will ever see them, she wants her beauty admired. Henrik looks over the portraits, taking a moment to focus on each one individually before turning his attention to the next.

“These are you River?”

“Yes.”

“And Floody drew them last night?”

“Yes.”

“And may I draw the logical conclusion from the empty pill bottle, that neither of your remember doing this?”

“Correct.”

“My God, they’re stunning.” Henrik leans forward and examines each one a little more carefully. “What do they mean?”

“What do you mean what do they mean?”

“I mean, there’s a common theme. You’ve placed River in all of these different scenarios. River in some tulips. River with a fern. River with a camera. Is this all just random hallucination?”

“Or is this the dream journal?” replies River.

“Exactly. We must find the meaning in all of this.” says Henrik. “May I pick one up and examine it a little more closely?”

“Sure.”

Henrik takes a big slurp of his latte and sets down the mug. He brushes his hands twice in quick succession on the thighs of his jeans to ensure that he doesn’t leave a coffee stain, then picks up one of the drawings.

He leans back in the chair and as he’s bringing the drawing up to his face for closer inspection, I see River’s eyes light up. She gasps and points toward Henrik “Look!”

I see, as Henrik lifts the picture to his face that there is a second drawing on the back side.

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep18

Sunday

My old boss finally reached out to me regarding my termination and offered to buy me brunch. We were pretty close friends before the firing, so clearing the air between us is the right thing to do. But it also means I can’t take my first dose of psilocybin this morning as prescribed. The last thing I want to do is have a meeting with a former colleague while tripping out of my mind on hallucinogens.

Brunch goes well. It’s Sunday, so we have mimosas with our Mexican restaurant chain buffet, and I explain the mysterious bump on my head and the “traumatic retrograde amnesia” that I’m experiencing. My boss really wants me to return to work, but has to convince HR, so he rationalizes that I was unable to respond to the emails because of the brain injury, and immediately offers me my job back, assuring me that he can convince HR to rehire me.

For the time being, I decline the job offer, explaining that my first priority is to unravel the mystery regarding my month long disappearance, and after that I would reconnect with him regarding the position. I conveniently neglect to mention my magic mushroom treatment plan and lunch ends on an extremely positive note.

With more than a few bottomless mimosas in me, I catch an Uber ride home and stumble into the coffee shop just before they close for an afternoon caffeine injection. Emma and River are working as usual and Emma greets me presuming that I’ve already started my three day journey into outer space.

“How is dose number one going?” Emma asks.

“Dose number one? I thought I was going to supervise your trip?” River says somewhat angrily.

“Nahhhhh” I blurt out. “If my eyes look glazed over it’s because I had about seven mimosas over brunch.”

“So when are you going to start?” asks Emma.

“I dunno. Maybe tonight … when this buzz wears off I guess. River, do you want to come supervise this evening?”

“You know I want to” River says.

“Nothing bad is going to happen” Emma says. “It’s just a little first dose.”

“I know, but at some point, the psilocybin is going to turn into a truth serum, and I’m going to be there with pad and paper to find out every last detail inside the curious brain of Mr. David Flood” says River.

“That sounds a little creepy and voyeuristic there River.”

“Maybe so Emma, but aren’t you curious about what’s going on behind those eyes?”

“Not really” says Emma.

“Well I am, and when the faucet opens, I’m going to be there with an empty glass to catch everything that pours out” says River.

“I’m fine with that. The goal is to figure out what’s inside my head.”

“Just don’t violate your doctor/patient relationship” says Emma.

“Yeah River … don’t rape me when I’m stoned.”

“Oh don’t you worry about that! That ain’t gonna happen!” River says assuredly as she tamps the espresso down into a puck. “That’s ain’t gonna happen!”

I hand Emma a $100 bill for the coffee and give the $95 in change to River. “8pm. My place. Bring Chinese food or something for dinner. If it gets late, you can crash on the couch.”

—

Zing zing. It’s River at the door. I buzz her in and meet her at the top of the stairs. She’s holding a paper grocery bag with a fresh French baguette sticking out of the top.

“Chinese food?”

“Oh God no. Charcuterie and white wine.”

“Works for me.”

River sees herself in and goes straight to the kitchen island where she starts unpacking dinner. I pull out a nice big cutting board and start unwrapping the cheeses while she washes and slices the fruits. I put olives and figs in little bowls, and wipe down a couple of wine glasses. It only takes a couple of minutes to prepare dinner, then I move the charcuterie board to the coffee table and we sit down next to each other on the couch. The unmarked pill bottle with fifty doses of magic mushrooms is there on the coffee table. River has a large pad of art paper and a box of colored chalk. “Maybe if you’re tripping balls … you can sketch what you’re seeing” she tells me.

According to Doctor Dave, I’m not supposed to take the mushrooms with alcohol, but this is my journey, not his. So for night number one, I’m breaking the rules. The lights are down, the mood is right, I’m ready for a fantastic voyage, so I lift the glass of white wine and offer a cheerful toast to River.

“Cheers River. Thanks for keeping me safe tonight.”

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep17

Saturday

I’ve never been much for watching sports, especially American sports, but I do catch a Formula 1 or MotoGP race from time to time. Henrik is excited about all things culturally European, especially soccer. Since we live right across the hall from each other, and since his space is mostly office, and mine is mostly apartment, it’s not uncommon to find Henrik watching European football on my couch most weekend afternoons. Bundesliga is a favorite of his.

I’ve got a pretty decent home theater system, so I like to open up the windows and let the sound of the game pour out onto the street below. And because 99% of soccer is watching grown men pretend to be injured, I like to pester Henrik with lively conversation and cold beers throughout most of the game. When the game gets exciting Henrik will jump up out of his seat and yell at the TV. It only lasts for about thirty seconds per match, so when his butt leaves the seat I let him enjoy the game uninterrupted.

Today’s match is interrupted by the old fashioned zing zing of my vintage brass doorbell. I peer out the window and see - to my surprise - Emma from the coffee shop standing at my door. I buzz her in a greet her at the top of the stairs.

“Hi, Emma. I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Sheesh … I can’t believe how close you live to the coffee shop. No wonder you’re always in there. Can I come in?”

“Oh, sure. Henrik is here. We’re watching soccer.”

Emma steps inside and takes a look around. “Wow, nice place, it’s like one big loft. I love how bright it is in here. ” she says.

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s a great space.”

“Hi Henrik. Whatcha doin’?” she says.

“Just watching the game” Henrik says nonchalantly. “It’s almost over.”

That’s his polite way of saying “leave me the fuck alone for the next two minutes.” Emma gets the message, so she walks over toward the kitchen, dragging her index finger along the counter top as she survey’s the surroundings.

“Floody, you’ve got a really nice espresso machine. How come you’re always at the coffee shop?” she says.

“A little chit chat and some people watching helps break up the day.”

“I get it. But damn dude, this espresso machine is nice. Nicer than the one at the shop! And a burr grinder too.”

“Henrik pulls a mean shot Emma. He’s like a fucking coffee scientist. It’ll make your panties fall off.”

“He doesn’t need coffee to get my panties off.”

Henrik’s either not listening or doing a really good job of pretending not to listen as he focuses on last minute of stoppage time in the game. The referee blows the whistle three times signaling the end of the match. The magic spell is broken and Henrik stands and returns his focus to the real world. Henrik walks across the room to greet Emma with a handshake. She brushes his hand aside and gives him a tippy-toe hug.

“Hi Emma.” he says as they hug. “Sorry, I was focused on game.”

“What was the score?” she asks.

“Nil Nil” he replies.

“Wow, sounds exciting” she says sarcastically. “I hear you make a mean cappuccino.”

“Did Floody tell you that?” he replies.

“Yup. Would you make one for me?” she asks.

“Sure!”

Henrik is delighted. The goal of nerdism is to demonstrate your skills and share you knowledge at every opportunity. Coffee geekery and computer geekery are culturally simpatico. Good coffee, like good code, is the net result of a thousand little tiny details, each executed to perfection. Henrik immediately takes credit for my coffee hardware. “I’ve got friends who made big money in tech and dabbled in coffee. They told me which grinders go with which espresso machines. I even chose the coffee cups. It’s a real science!”

It sounds more like death by a thousand paper cuts to me …

Henrik dazzles Emma with his coffee knowledge. He presents his methodology like he’s practiced the presentation a dozen times in the mirror. First he explains his favorite roast profiles for the beans, and how fresh he likes them. Then he explains exactly how and why he chose the exact coarseness for the grind. Then he pulls the shots, and they’re perfectly frothy dark brown creme. He carefully tamps down the espresso on the counter top before carefully spooning in tiny dollops of foam, making them more of a traditional macchiato than a cappuccino. He hands one mug to Emma, and keeps one for himself. They clink mugs together. “Cheers!” she says with a smile and then takes a sip.

Her reaction looks like someone pumped a needle full of heroin into her arm. Her eyes close as she savors the flavor. She exhales like she had an orgasm. Emma, the barista, looks like she just had her first kiss. Her cheeks are rosy, lips plump and full as she realizes that there’s a whole realm of coffee perfection heretofore unbeknownst to her. If Henrik’s aim was to impress miss Emma, then he’s struck the bullseye.

“Henrik, are you good at everything you do?” Emma asks.

“I tend to do the things I’m good at …” he replies.

“He tends to nerd out on things until he reaches some level of perfection”

“Mastery is probably a more accurate term” he says.

“Do you make homemade sushi?” Emma asks?

“Why? Do you like sushi?” queries Henrik.

“Because if you make sushi like you make coffee, I’ll fuck you ‘till one of us bleeds or begs for mercy.”

I decide to interject before Emma’s panties light on fire.

“So what brings you by today Emma?”

“Oh, I thought you wanted to score some magic mushrooms.”

“Oh, you were serious about that?”

“Yeah, dead serious. My connection is just a few blocks away.”

“Oh. Uhhh. Do you want to go right now?”

“We’ll walk, but after sunset, so we’ve got a little time to kill.”

“Well … it’s only 2:30pm, do you want to hang here for a while or come back later?”

“Got any beer?”

“No.”

“White wine?”

“Yes.”

“Is it chilled?”

“Yes.”

There’s a bit of an awkward silence, then I get the hint and fetch glasses to split the bottle between us with three generous pours.

“Where do you live Henrik?” Emma asks.

“Right across the hall”

“Shut the fuck up. You two are next door neighbors?”

Henrik points to the door across the hallway. “Literally, right there.”

“Floody, why don’t you go to the ATM and get some cash while Henrik shows me his apartment?” Emma suggests.

I take a big gulp from my white wine and then grab the house keys from the tray near the door, and slip out. The sushi place a few blocks away opens at 3pm, so I decide to just walk there and get an early dinner, and grab cash from the ATM on the way home. I don’t know if Henrik has realized it yet or not, but Emma the Barista is about to spend the next two hours or so impaling herself on his Swedish meatballs.

“Better him than me” I keep telling myself as I slurp down two large Sapporos, with Spanish mackerel and hot sake.

The afternoon light passes though my loft like a golden rainbow, turning the white walls to yellow then orange before giving way to the streetlights below. I break the silence with some soft 90’s trip hop through the hifi system and watch the light from turn signals and crosswalks pulsate on the ceiling. When the latch on Henrik’s door finally opens, it’s only Emma who passes through the door. She’s standing in my living room wearing only jeans and a bra, her body and hair are drenched in sweat. I can see bite marks across her belly and ribcage as she pulls her white v-neck over her head.

“He’s asleep” she says as she pulls her shoes on. “Did you get cash?”

“I got cash.”

“Let’s just walk there. It’s only a few locks away.”

“You want to walk to a drug deal? What if we get busted? Are we just going to run home?”

“Well, it’s better than having your or my license plate sitting in front of his house. We’ll walk. Go in through the alley, and nobody will be the wiser. Come on … trust me, I do it all the time.”

I change my shirt to a nondescript long sleeve black tee, and put on running shoes with my jeans just in case. “You look like Steve Jobs” Emma snarkily tells me as we slip out the back door. We walk briskly with our hands in our pockets for a couple of blocks.

“Anything special I should know about your dealer before we get there?”

“It’s not like that” she says. “He’s just a regular guy.”

She’s not kidding. When the back door of the little bungalow opens, standing there is the most ordinary looking forty-something male I’ve ever seen. He’s got shaggy reddish brown hair to match his tidy reddish brown beard, and corduroy pants with brown top-sider boat shoes. He looks like a dad from an 80’s sitcom. “Emma!” he says with a hug. He turns his attention to me.

“Hi, I’m Dave” he says.

“Dave?” I say with a chuckle.

“His name is Dave too” says Emma gleefully. “But everyone calls him Floody.”

Great … now the magic mushroom dealer knows my first and last name. It shouldn’t be a problem, unless we get caught. But then … if we get caught, him knowing my name will be the least of my problems. I was expecting a burnt out hippie, or a gun toting gangster. This guy is as tame as a kitten by contrast. He’s a Volvo driver for sure. He shows us into the living room and we plop down on the couch

“Can I get you a drink?” he says as he points the remote control toward the TV. An episode of Bill Nye the Science Guy is on, and he lets it continue to play, but hits the mute button.

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

“I’ll get myself some water” says Emma as she steps into the kitchen.

“So, Emma tells me you’re experiencing traumatic retrograde amnesia. Can you tell me what happened?”

The big words catch me off guard. I was expecting a drug deal, not a therapy session. I rub the bump on my forehead as I think of a response.

“I walked into the coffee shop Sunday morning with a lump on my forehead and a month of my life missing.”

“You mind if I take a look at the wound?”

“Forgive me for asking, but are you a doctor or something?”

“Emma didn’t tell you who I am?”

“Her drug dealer presumably.”

“Haha, no. I’m David Hoover, Department Chair, UC Berkeley College of Psychology. I specialize in the study of psychotropic drugs, specifically entheogenic hallucinogens such as psilocybin, and their effects on the brain.”

“So you’re not her drug dealer? Wait … so is this legal?”

“The study of psychotropic drugs is legal, but the substances are strictly controlled. We cultivate our own spores in the lab at Berkeley, so … I just cultivated a little extra here at home for those just-in-case moments.”

“Do you have many just-in-case moments?”

“Are you a fan of contemporary literature Mr. Floody?”

“Sure.”

“Are you familiar with the Beat Generation?”

“You mean like Jack Kerouac and William Burrows? Yes of course.”

“When I began college I became captivated by the work of Timothy Leary and his work in the field of consciousness.”

“Isn’t he the LSD guy?”

“Exactly. You see … I’d love to be the Timothy Leary of the 21st Century. An astronaut of the mind. But the world just doesn’t work like that anymore. Everything is bogged down in paperwork, and official transfers of controlled substances. Placebos and audit trails. It’s almost impossible to get anything done …”

“Unless a willing research participant walks through the back door of your kitchen.”

“Bingo. Like a monkey in a space capsule.”

“So you’re willing to put me into orbit. What do you want in return?”

“I’ll get you on a brief dosing regiment and interview you on a regular basis to see if it brings back any memories. If it works, I’ll use the data to formula the basis of a clinical study, knowing privately of course that my therapy has already been proven effective … at least with a sample size of one.”

“So in an official capacity … ?”

“This never happened.’

“The clandestine space monkey. Sign me up.”

“Great. Now let me take a look at that bump on your head.”

Doctor Dave pulls his iPhone out of his pocket and turns on the flash light and looks into my eyes. “Your pupils are dilated.”

“It’s night time.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Sake … and beer.”

“Okay, so during the initial round of dosing, I need you to just take the psilocybin, no other drugs or alcohol.

“Is coffee okay?”

“Coffee is fine. Now listen carefully. The psilocybin is delivered in the form of a capsule. The contents are 100% organic. They’re just dried mushrooms. But I can more accurately dose you with capsules versus making tea. Plus, the tea tastes awful. Take one capsule tomorrow morning, then another tomorrow night. Then the following day, I want you to skip the morning capsule and take two at night. The following night, three. Got it?”

“Got it. Can I overdose on them?”

“Even three pills is only going to give you a mild buzz. Don’t expect to see a yellow submarine or a white rabbit. Just focus on regaining the memories. Take lots of notes, and reconnect with me in four days and I’ll adjust your dosing schedule. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Doctor Dave produces a large, unmarked bottle of about fifty pills from the bookshelf and hands them to me. Separately he hands me his business card. At just that moment Emma returns from the kitchen with a glass of ice water.

“Good night daddy” she says with a hug and a kiss.

“Good night sweetheart” he replies. “I think your friend is going to work out perfectly for my study. Thank you pumpkin.”

“Sounds great, so happy for you daddy. Nighty night Floody.”

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep16

Friday

When you’re jobless, three day weekends are pretty meaningless. Nonetheless, I decide to embrace my unemployment situation and spend the day riding the Ducati south, through Big Sur. It’s about 200 miles round trip to San Simeon and back, and nearly every inch of the ride is on the tight, twisty cliffside Pacific Coast Highway. I skip my morning gym and coffee routine and depart southbound right after waking up.

Even under ideal conditions, the road is treacherous at best. This morning the highway is under a blanket of thick fog, meaning that, between wiping away the mist from the helmet visor, you can only see about half way through the corner. I’m hurling myself into the gray abyss trying to keep my tires somewhere between the yellow dashes and the cliffside. Obstacles appear on the horizon at the last millisecond. Rocks. Sand. Stopped cars. If something decides to kill me today, it will happen in the blink of an eye.

My Ducati Monster is a few years old and was fitted with deep-throated racing exhaust a couple of years before the commie bastards who run the California Air Resources Board made it impossible for mechanics to modify motorcycle exhaust systems. The sound of a Ducati is unmistakable. Accelerations rumble off of the cliff walls. The engine gurgles like a drowning dog under heavy braking, and snorts with every downshift. Aurally, it’s so delightful and satisfying that you nearly forget how unbelievably dangerous this is.

Heading south through the twisties, I’m throwing the bike from side to side, carefully picking my lines through the corners so I don’t end up as a smudge in the pavement when I begin to hear something peculiar coming from my exhaust. It’s a wheezy sound swinging from side to side behind me like I’m being pursued by a swarm of honeybees. I can’t look back. The road is continuously twisting from left to right. A single lapse in concentration, however brief, will result in instant death, so I continue to push on a quickly as I can.

I should add that I take great pride in both my skills and bravery on a motorcycle. I ride with grande vitesse, and treat all other motorcyclists with disdain as I pass them deftly and with impunity on the most challenging roads. So it comes as a great surprise when the swarm of bees turns out to be a teenage kid on a scooter, short sleeve Hawaiian shirt flapping in the breeze, who passes me on the outside of a corner like I’m standing still. Scooter boy gives me a casual nod as he flies past into the lead and proceeds to disappear into the fog ahead of me. This isn’t possible! Is this kid a professional motorcycle racer on his day off? Before this kid disappears completely into the fog ahead, I whack the throttle wide open and try to, at least, keep his taillight in view.

The chase is on. The little red tail light is bouncing from side to side in the mist. There is no horizon, no up, no down, no cliff and no sky. I just see a gray void and a little red dot leaping left to right and right to left. As long as I follow the taillight, and the taillight doesn’t drive off of a cliff, I should be safe. But, if I’m honest, this is pure insanity. I’m determined to stay connected to this lunatic, but the fog increases and the taillight disappears. I immediately back off. With no taillight, there’s no visual reference and I just can’t go this fast hurling myself into the void. It’s certain death. It’s time to turn around and reassess my place in the universe.

During the ride back I focus on smoothness. I think about motorcycle racing world champion Jorge Lorenzo and his ethos of “mantequilla” … operating the throttle with your wrist like spreading butter on toast. Smooth like butter, and before I know it I’m pulling safely onto Lighthouse Avenue. Even though I’m only a two minute walk from my house to the coffee shop, I decide to ride right to the shop. I blip the throttle a couple of times to rattle the windows before I shut the bike down and head inside with my helmet on. It’s later in the day so the place is pretty empty when I walk in. I pull my helmet off and surprise the girls. They’ve never seen me in my ninja warrior motorcycle leathers. They’re standing together near the cash register and the look on their faces are priceless when they realize it’s me.

“Floody!”

“Ladies …”

“We were just talking about you.”

“Oh?”

“Have you made any progress with your dream journal?” says River.

“Nope. Same dream … flying through space.”

“Emma thinks you should do psychedelic mushrooms.”

“Emma looks like she’s already on psychedelic mushrooms.”

“Oh shut up Floody” Emma says jokingly with a wink. “I’m serious. There have been a ton of clinical studies lately on micro-dosing psilocybin.”

“Psilo-what-in?

“Psilocybin. It’s the magic in magic mushrooms. The government has been allowing clinical trials with psilocybin, and studying the effects of micro-dosing on anxiety, memory loss, alzheimers, depression, all kinds of shit.” says Emma.

“River, do you believe in this shit?”

“I wouldn’t put it in my body, but you’re Dangerous Dave. You’ll try anything. Who knows, maybe it’ll work?” says River.

“Have you smoked weed?” asks Emma.

“Weed? Yes. Hash too, in Holland. And I did ayahuasca with a shaman while watching the sunrise over Machu Picchu.”

“That is so fucking sick Floody. I fucking love Molly. Have you ever done Molly?” Emma continues.

“Who is Molly?” ask River.

“I did Molly”

“You’re rad Floody.” Emma says with impressed exasperation.

“No seriously, who is Molly?” asks River one more time.

“MDMA. Methylenedioxy-Methamphetamine.”

“Molly is Ecstasy.” Emma tells River.

“Ohhhh. Okay, I get it now.”

“So dude … you’re like … a professional. You should fucking man up and do some mushrooms. I’ll bet we find all kinds of shit lurking around in that brain of yours.” says Emma.

“River, what says you? You seem to be interested finding what’s inside of my head all of the sudden. Should I do some shrooms?”

River thinks about it for a minute then responds.

“Doing psychedelics by yourself seems like a bad idea. I think someone should supervise, just in case you decide can fly and jump off your roof.”

“I can supervise.” says Emma.

“That seems like an even worse idea.” says River. “You two will both end up with Alice down the rabbit hole. If you want to do it, I’ll supervise. So, how do you do this? Do you have to sign up for a clinical trial and wait six months or something like that?”

“I’ve got a fiver that says Emma knows a guy.”

“I know a guy …”