Psylocibin - MUSH

MUSH

Adam was an elf. Obviously.
It had become apparent about ? hour after I'd drained the bitter
contents of the mug he'd held out to me in my kitchen.
*
My buttocks had barely started to make an impression in the sofa when
three, bright raps were drummed out on my front door.
I placed my mug of coffee upon the TV magazine on the table and rose to
answer the knocks.

"Adam," was my effusive welcome.
He stood on the path bathed in warm orange from my porch light.
He had the appearance of a scruffy Eastern European freedom fighter.
Scuffed, worn-out ex-army boots struggled to keep the world away from
his socks. Faded combat trousers covered his legs, and a green parka,
ridiculously oversized, hung on his thin shoulders. Adam's hair
resembled a burst mattress; coils of matted hair stuck out from his
head in all directions.
"I've been out picking," said Adam, and walked straight past me, down
the hall, first right and into the living room.
I followed him.
"Cup of tea?" I asked, as I walked through the living room and into the
kitchen.
"No thanks," he shouted from the sofa, "But boil the kettle
anyway."
From past experience I knew better than to ask why. So I dutifully
filled the kettle and switched it on, as per Adam's instructions.
I turned to return to the living room, and my rapidly cooling coffee,
and head-butted Adam.
"Shit, be careful man." he said, rubbing the pain away.
"Well don't creep up on me, you plum." I replied, with little
sympathy.
Adam quickly dismissed the injury, and remained where he stood,
blocking my path.
"Look," he said, and indicated what I should be looking at by waving it
two inches from my nose.
I pulled my head back, grabbed his wrist and examined the small plastic
bag pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
"Oh, so that's what you've been picking."
*
Liberty Cap, Psilocibe Semilanceata, or magic mushrooms to you and I,
were the contents of Adam's bag.
No doubt, he'd spent the afternoon scouring every square inch of a
local field and coming away with sore eyes, backache and a bag full of
hallucinogenic fungus.
Go to the right patch of greenery at the right time, and you will see
the most unkempt and disparate band of harvesters you'll ever
encounter. Like a conference of drug users, all groups are represented.
Ageing hippies hoping to find a route back to 1969, jobless
ne'er-do-wells (like Adam) reaping an evening's entertainment, even the
occasional elderly person espousing the mushroom's therapeutic value to
the student picking beside them.
Each picker will have his/her preferred receptacle (usually a paper
bag) in one hand and will be bent over 90 degrees at the waist. Their
free hand will be sweeping through the long damp grass and their eyes
will dart to and fro with uncharacteristic liveliness. Occasionally a
hand will dart into the undergrowth and grab predatorily.
The picker will hold the small, black stalk in the air to check its
authenticity and when satisfied, place it gently in his bag and resume
the hunt. The process continues until (a) your back hurts too much or
(b) your bag is full.

*
The kettle reached the boil and filled the room with pillows of white
steam.
Adam took a mug from the drainer and placed it on the table.
"Have you got a teapot?" he asked, as he removed his coat and pulled
out a chair.
Without answering, I stretched over the sink to the windowsill and
picked up a rarely used, brown teapot.
Adam took it from me and sat down.
He opened the seal at the top of his bag and, with the care of a stamp
collector, selected ten small mushrooms and dropped them into the
pot.
"Water." he said, gesturing towards the kettle.
Adam poured the boiled liquid into the pot and, when satisfied with the
volume, replaced the lid.
"Why did you come here to do those?" I asked him, assuming the single
mug was for his use.
"I'm not doing them. You are." he stated confidently, expecting no
refusal on my part.
He got none.
"Well why aren't you having some?"
"You told me you've never tried mushrooms, so I want to watch." he
replied with a mischievous inflection.
*

After I'd drunk Adam's infusion he suggested that a walk was in order.
He'd assumed the role of 'guide' and was taking to it
enthusiastically.
I approved, and went to the living room to retrieve my coat from its
home on the floor.
After the customary check for money, cigarettes and keys, Adam and I
left the house to itself and joined the evening.
About fifteen minutes had elapsed since I'd consumed the sour tea and,
as yet, no effects were forthcoming.
"You alright?" Adam asked, "You've said nothing for ages."
"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine." I answered.
I'd been so engrossed in mentally analysing the progress of my trip
that I'd lapsed into silence, and only Adam's question reminded me that
I wasn't actually alone.
"Feel anything yet?" he said.
"Er..no..don't think so."
But then I did.
A small fizzing bomb was forming at the base of my spine. It started to
climb.
Like a lift filled with laughing children, I knew there'd be fun when
the doors opened.
Ding. Top floor.
The bomb burst in my head. My eardrums seemed to expand in opposite
directions as a noise that I can only describe as 'Pizzzewwwww' blew
out from the middle of my brain.
"Whoa, shit." I exclaimed, and Adam laughed.
I tried to describe what had just happened in my head, but all that
came was a tangled mess of adjectives mixed with laughter.
Adam nodded the nod of experience.
The euphoria was instant and all encompassing. The world took a deep
breath and held it. Trees swayed in greeting. The sky showed me its
true face, which would never be grey again.
"Did I ever tell you that I was an elf?" asked Adam
And he was, so obviously, an elf. How had I ever missed it? With his
strange clothes and stranger hair, how could he have been anything
else? I didn't need to answer. He knew that I knew.
Adam started walking and I followed.

*
We walked for five minutes, which could have been five hours, and then
stopped on a bridge. Adam offered me a cigarette from the crushed
packet in his hand. I took it, lit it, and awaited further
instructions.
"Come here and listen," were Adam's requirements of me.
I walked to Adam's side. He was peering over the bridge into the inky
blackness.
The darkness was innately organic and seethed below us, a throng of
twisted plant life. Life was thick and dirty down there.
"What am I listening for?" I asked him.
Adam put his forefinger to his lips, indicating that I should shut
up.
Then I heard it.
Things growing.
With a sound like a worm whispering, the moss on the stone bridge was
expanding and contracting, pulsing as it grew. A tree to our right
creaked tiredly. Grass poked heads up through the stones and reached
for my nose, hissing all the way.
And all I could smell was earth. It filled my head. Damp, dirty, musty,
cloying smells. Wet leaves, broken twigs, soil. Nature.
*
An hour later, Adam and I sat on a wooden picnic bench outside a pub.
The pub's name was achingly appropriate to me; The Unicorn. I was
resident in a magical world of dazzling colours, audible plants and an
endless supply of heady fragrance.
"Do you want a beer?" asked Adam after watching me watch the coloured
bulbs that decorated the roof gable.
"No thanks." I answered succinctly. So he left to get one for
himself.
Speech had become fairly redundant to me during the last three hours.
My sensory experiences were too complex and abundant to translate into
words. Adam understood, and just led me from one interesting tableau to
another, needing no encouragement from me. My reactions alone signified
approval. He was a true elf guide, and loved his work.
At one point we stood atop a small hill and just looked at our
surroundings for, what Adam later told me, was nearly two hours. My
perception of time had long since vanished.
Adam returned from the bar with a glass of foaming golden liquid, and
retook his seat next to me.
"Wow, let me see that." I said, and took the glass from his hand.
The coldness spread from my palm, up my arm, and extended throughout my
whole upper body. I shivered.
I peered into the beer and was instantly hypnotised. I tried to track
individual bubbles on their journey from the glasses bottom to the
surface, but every time I focused on one, it was lost. So I picked
another. I continued this until Adam's thirst got the better of him,
and he prised the glass from my fingers.
Not concerned, I concentrated on the wood that made the bench upon
which we sat. For the duration of Adam's pint, I ruminated on the
relationship between this wood and the tree's I'd heard growing
earlier. I was about to decide whether or not I was happy for the bench
when Adam jumped to the floor, wiped a sleeve across his mouth and
said,
"Time to get you home."
I agreed.
*

I lay in bed that night and the last traces of my trip faded. I felt
that I'd been given a glimpse of something very special. The world had
revealed a small part of its wonder to me, and I was extremely
grateful. It was as near to religious epiphany as I would ever get.
From thenceforward I vowed to treat all things green with a lot more
respect than I'd previously granted them.
Because when you've heard grass grow, you're sure that litter
hurts.

?2001