THEN I was still all bounce and bliss about drugs -
this back in the golden days when drugs were recreational and only ever fun, when synthetics didn’t exist and meth hadn’t made New Zealand and the line was drawn at X and trips and the quality was good and the price was high and we sermonized the five R's:
the right type in the right amount at the right time in the right place with the right people (nothing other than weed smoked, nothing EVER injected) - back when you planned their use out weeks in advance to take a good party and make it great,
when you knew your dealer, they did you a favour, and morality and legality were answered, simply, by comparing a club full of drunks to a club full of ravers; drugs were never an addiction for us.
Sam knew I’d only have one answer.
Back into the brightening day I went and back to sleep my tent-mate slipped, safe in the knowledge I wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. Where to - what to - a period of goofed vacillation. The House Tent. Of course.
And I set out, fizzing again now and gambolling along. It being such a fine morning, all the Gatherers I passed such fine people. I was D-Man and I was striding down from on high, from on the mountain and these were my people, and ours was a powerful connection, the same shared divinity, unique expressions, but we were the same,
and maybe I would grow into a crusader, a soul saver, start wearing a cape, under bridges nurse the homeless, tenderly, coach an impoverished team, win the big game, come from behind, adopt stray kittens, penguins, do physical therapy with sufferers of Diphtheria -
Piercing eyes, molten smile. Curves. Future wife, wifey! And we would come together, drawn, magnetic, maybe at the zone, in the mud, the secret dawn, link hands because our genomes knew, and she would travel to Australia and I would travel to New Zealand and our children would be magazine quality and they would serve in the soup kitchen and they would help feed the penguins, and, and -
The House Tent.
Such a forlorn scene given the hundreds of happy people it’d succoured only an hour before. I swayed in the rasp of the early morning air and looked to the Trance Zone where a scattered core of hardened, mired ravers cheered in the day.
I pursed my lips and weighed my options. And this swaying and weighing might have gone on for a while had I not at that moment spotted Cassy picking her way across the olive liquefaction . . .
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