A Day Late and a Dull Story

First, a day late but well-intentioned:


My Saturday sky, as seen from our back deck. I love our back deck, especially in the summer, when I can pick up the camera every few minutes as I am watching the barbecue.

I should have known, I suppose, that my passing reference to youthful drug use in the last post would provoke a reaction of "What??? You can't just leave that there!" I would have elaborated, except that it's not a very interesting story, really. My freshman year in college, 30 years ago, my boyfriend (not my husband, we didn't get together until my sophomore year) and his housemates decided to have an acid party and invited me. I spent about six hours sitting on the couch looking up, convinced that the ceiling was sending me messages. (So strong was the illusion that the next day, back to approximately normal, I climbed up on the couch to examine said ceiling, sure that I would find letters stamped in it. It was an ordinary waffle-textured ceiling.) The faded colors of the furniture became vivid and rippled, like an animated Yes poster. That was pretty much it: we didn't go out in public as I was a novice. For about a week afterward I felt queasy as though just getting over a stomach virus. Someone told me much later that acid is typically cut with strychnine, not enough to be dangerous or even noticeable, except once in a while. So I decided, nice, kind of cool, but not worth repeating. And, of course, I was lucky not to suffer worse consequences. Kids, do not try this at home, or anywhere else, for that matter.

See, I told you. Aren't you sorry you asked?