eyeswideshut

Concert was coming up so I decided to pop a few 150μg tabs and be on my merry way. Part of the thrill of acid is knowing I'm on a journey, while on a journey. It has yet to make travel boring. It was irresponsible in hindsight but my adventures made up for it. Strap in. My first stop was a Panera where it kicked in, feeling slightly miffed that all the window seats were taken as I love to people watch. Refueled with some fruit and started heading to the Modern Art Museum to kill some time. The music is pumping a rhythm into my veins and I'm flying high. As I descend into the abyss that is our public metro system I make the mistake of looking down. A thousand grimy black steps unfold before me and warp into a distant focus point. I'm gripping the handrail of the escalator as it slowly grinds its way deeper. Ok. I got this. Turn right. Let the undulating folds of water stains dance on mistreated cement. Let the ever-morphing cracks mutate while they spin their false lies. I take out my headphones for a brief moment to fully experience the subway arrival. 8,000 pounds of steel and aluminum comes screaming to a halt and everyone just acts like its normal because it is. I insert myself into the metal tube alongside my fellow sardines. I'm figuring out my connections while trying not to catch anyone's eyes. Because they know I know they know the carpet is slowly melting. It's turning into a geometric soup of patterns, delightful Atlantean madness. Shit. I missed a stop. Why does the subway map look like an orgy of multicolored eels? Is that even allowed in a subway system? Where am I going? Right, the museum. Did I get off at the wrong stop, or, more importantly: was this journey the right stop for me? FuckIcannotdothisrightnow. Switch platforms and get my life back on track. If the subway map was an eel orgy then Google maps is an all-out seafood fuckfest. I'm hyperaware that I'm squinting at my phone like a geriatric sans glasses while bass is frantically pumping into my soul. The words. The words they are assigned to streets which are assigned to destinations that most likely have meaning, but I can't for the life of me connect the dots on this 5 minute walk from metro station to museum. I make it there after much confusion and fumbling. For the uninitiated, the Modern Art Museum greets attendees with a splash of garish bravado in what can only be described as a 1992 Dodge Spirit being crushed under the weight of a 9-ton volcanic boulder with googly eyes. At the time it seemed like the world's most hilarious inside joke. A ridiculous grin spreads on my face and is just as quickly replaced with a strained, painful expression reminiscent of constipation. The security guard at the entrance checks my bag while giving me the eye. I can't help but wonder if the resigned way he rummages through my belongings is because he thinks I'm a terrorist and the bag has a bomb and oh god my face is probably flushed and my eyes are most definitely NOT hidden by a protective layer of sunglasses. Then I'm off! Free to explore the wonders of modern art. I make a beeline for an exhibit I had in mind, Rafael Lozano-Hemmer's Pulse. The artist had created what felt like a million video panels of increasing size that throw up scans of your fingerprint. A myriad collage of blurry close-ups created by scanning your heartbeat via finger. I'm immediately enveloped in darkness and harsh, artificial light filtering from these rectangular screens. Ah, yes. The main course. Time to reset and swap to a different playlist. The fingerprints fill up my vision, mementos in constant flux as other patrons scan their digits. I'm filled with childlike wonder at the spectacle. The ridges, grooves, and oblong shape of the finger itself begin to resemble fantastic planets of science fiction. Their surfaces ripple with merriment as they are transfigured by swells of music that are simultaneously ascending and descending.     Before me is an entire galaxy of sound.     I'd like to say that I sat there all afternoon and soaked it in, but I felt an impulse to move and browse the rest of the exhibit. The scanner itself was a simple operation, but I hadn't realized that it also displayed a second of your heartbeat. I insert one (1) sweatyass finger and watch the sensor jitter as it records my heart, which at the time seemed more interested in leaving my body at a supersonic speeds. "What government secrets are you hiding?" The couple behind me chuckle. I manage a weak laugh. Only on LSD. It's time to split before this nervous vibe overwhelms my entire being. Honorable mention to the last exhibit, a room filled with red blinking light bulbs that left wonderful filament-shaped tracers in the air as I hauled ass. If you couldn't tell by now, I suffer from social anxiety and ADHD. On acid I always feel an intense paranoia in public settings. I know, I know, it sounds counter intuitive to keep placing myself in these uncomfortable situations. But my inner fears get brought to the forefront of my mind to be critically examined and reevaluated, and I've learned to grit my teeth and realize that these people just do not care. Finally onward to the concert. Did I forget to mention that it's 5pm? Not important. A small detail, really. It certainly wasn't related to the veritable hoard of commuters streaming into the subway. I have no choice but to be swept up in this current of people in order to get to the small venue where a nice man would look on a list of people and admit my entry based on this insane coincidence that I remember my name on said list. But if I could make it this far, the end was within reach. As the turnstiles approach the flood stops, and begins to mill about in confusion. I stop too, as I have been assimilated into this collective blob of winter coats and impatient expressions and outstretched metro cards. There is a problem with the machines; they seem to have stopped working in perfect harmony. For a brief, insane moment, I imagine an Electro Magnetic Pulse has detonated aboveground and I have been caught it one of its aftershocks. A disruption to the orderly bottleneck that smoothly admits the river's ebb and flow must have been caused by an incredible force. But then they're fixed and I'm squeezed into a seat avoiding the accusing eyes again. The last leg of my Journey to the Concert™ was unremarkable, as I would have hoped I already established my terrible sense of direction. After about half an hour of senseless meandering within a quarter mile of the venue, I arrive. I'm exhausted. At this point it's only fair to mention I was awoken at 5:55am for an impromptu truck delivery job (thanks, Dave) and spent the rest of my time after work searching unsuccessfully for a missing wallet. The trip was at its lowest point but still managing to find time to bust my balls with body load. It's impressive, looking back, how much I needed that concert. It was destined to be at least partially disappointing, based on the expectations piled on like so many sandbags. I'm happy to report I really enjoyed myself and got blissfully lost in the beautiful music. The opening bands (Aaron Shadrow, Surfing, and Satin Sheets) each built upon the show with their unique sound and earned my respect as talented musicians. The visuals had no choice but to return with full force after being blasted with wave after wave of glorious noise. George Clanton's concert reminded me why I returned from last year. Gonna fanboy for a moment but I gotta explain his shows. Dude brings the live energy from thrash metal, the nostalgia from discarded 90's genres, and the vocal range of your favorite pop star. He's jumpin into crowds and moshin with the rest of em. It really is a different experience from any other musician that stays on stage safely removed from their rowdy fanbase. Clanton IS his rowdy fanbase. Was it was near-impossible to socialize after traumatizing myself in various social settings? Well, yeah. My trip was wild and intoxicating but also came at a cost, and I can see now it really prevented me from connecting with other people with similar interests at the concert. In addition, I put a lot of pressure on myself to navigate to where I needed to be at the correct time, when I already struggle with that while sober. That sucked. Did I get into some random guy's car thinking it was my Uber home? I mean, sure, but that one was a given. Wouldn't be a good story if I didn't jump into at least one stranger's vehicle. This was long. Thank you for reading it to the end. Be safe, take care of yourself, I love you all.