Hallucinating, I think

While tripping my balls off in the middle of the mojave desert, i'm not sure i could remember *my* name.

The wind was howling like a scalded hyena, and losing my bearing in the dark without a flashlight, i made it to the haven of my volvo rental car. See? they are boxy, but safe.

While riding out the mental wind storm, my back was killing me. (Note to self: if the bad trip didn't convince you to stop taking those, than the coinciding back pain should.)

Anyhow, I've had a weird Lion King mushroom fixation for a while. At Burning Man 2 years ago, I ended up tripping on a clear starry night. Out on the playa, 5000 feet up, 500 miles from civilization, the stars are resplendant. With the shrooms in my system, my brain started making its own constellations. That night, The Lion King himself kept appearing from behind the stars (defying the laws of astrophysics, but that's some other grad student's problem.) He'd make himself visible, smile and then wink at me. Then he'd disappear.

"You mean the Lion King was flirting with you?"

No, it was all reassurance. The mothering line 'Everything's going to be alright.' Words and comfort I've always needed to hear. He wasn't saying this mind you, but that, to paraphrase Sean Connery, 'was his game, that rogue.'

So, the Lion King would appear from behind the stars, wink and disappear. I'd giggle everytime he did so. Eventually, I lied down in the lilly field and just giggled until everything subsided. Fantastic.

This trip, however, was just the opposite sort of Lion King.

There were a few dogs at the camp, and I'd enjoyed playing with them during the few hours of daylight I'd been there.

So, I'm in the back of the car, immobilized by back pain, and I decide I need to get to the muscle relaxants in the trunk. (I have a prescription, so shut up.) It takes a few minutes to mobilize, but when I open the back seat's door, my fucking tiger cub goes bouncing out the door, running off into the night.

This, is not good.

It's dark, I'm tripping, I can barely make it to my trunk without getting lost, my back is killing me, and now my reality has lost all specific species consistency. So, while holding on to the door (temporarily forgetting the muscle relaxants) I scream into the night.

"SIMMMMMMMMMMMMBAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! SIMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! COME BACK! I'M SORRY!"

Mind, i've no idea what i've done, but some kind of latent Catholic guilt manifested itself in the trip.

After a non-specific period of time, someone from the main camp came walking by.

"Hey, did you lose your dog? We could go try and find it."

"No, man, it's my tiger cub. SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

"Oh," smirk, "we've never gone off looking for a tiger cub." And he walks off.

Anyway the end result was that I spent the night back in the Volvo with the light on feeling a deep sense of loss and grief. It could be that my Dad's Dachsund is dying, or that the Modest Mouse song 'Ocean breathes salty' focuses on loss and death, but those emotions were there.

In some strange way, I think this solidified the good opinion of me in the camp. Strong folks, all. I'd have liked to have spent more time with them in LA. But freelance, greed and my own bed called.

Simba/Mushrooms ": "