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THE GRASS IS BROWN ON BOTH SIDES OF THE FENCE

TO THE MOON AND BACK

As you know, it was on the set of Ned Kelly that I had watched Neil Armstrong strut his stuff.
Now that was a Trip.
Neil well knew THE PROCESS that had led to his turn and was therefore fully prepared and ready to play his part in that, thankfully, successful trip.

THE PROCESS

First, they sent up a Satellite they could not get back.
Then they sent up a monkey that they couldn’t get back.
Then they sent up a monkey that they could get back.
Then they wanted to send up a man.
The man, unlike the monkey, wanted assurance that they could get him back.
They said they had got the monkey back hadn’t they, and that they would get the man back, because he didn’t have to do any more than the monkey did, which was to just sit in the damn rocket and go.
There was nothing for the man to do except just go.
And the man said he would go. But only on one condition.
He wanted a window.
Something the monkey hadn’t thought of.
But they didn’t want to give the man a window because it gave them all sorts of complications.
But the man was adamant. No window. No go. So they gave him a window and he went.

By the time Neil Armstrong’s turn came around conditions had improved somewhat. Not only were there windows, there were comfortable seats. Plus, for this Trip, the Space Programmers were hopeful that the installation of all the latest in cutting edge applied science would see the Space Ship safely returned to Earth.
Nothing had been overlooked, even Fingers had been Crossed.

When I went on my first TRIP.
No windows.
In my intergalactic Rocket ship I flew on the bones of my Bum.
I may have taken off feeling like Flash Gordon, but I arrived back on Earth as WINNIE THE POOH.

MY TRIP

I had arranged with another student from the Ensemble Theatre to meet at my place where we would each take a capsule that contained LSD.

I open the door.
‘Hi Warren, you got the stuff?’

Warren nods and enters. We walk down the hall and into the lounge room of my flat. As I haven’t taken LSD before I’m a bit scared. Warren has, and looks as if he has, as he is wearing a caftan, leather sandals and his hair hangs in a long plait down his back. Being nervous I try and cover it up.

The Iron Butterfly’s ‘In A Gadda Da Vida’ is on the turntable and ready to go.

Warren ‘We won’t listen to it.’

‘What do you mean we won’t listen to it? It was great on pot.’
Like Leonard Cohen I, by this time, had looked Marijuana right in the eye and survived as well.
Warren hands me my capsule.

It’s huge and looks as if it could choke a horse.
Certainly could a monkey.
I toss the pill in my mouth ‘Down the hatch.’

Warren then tells me that if I get into trouble we are to hold hands.
‘What? If I get into trouble we are to hold hands. Why Warren?’

Warren ‘Because if you get into trouble, by holding hands you will remember that you had taken something and that it would pass.’

‘Sure, Sure. No Worries. Warren.’ Is my dismissive reply.

Warren then tells me that under no circumstances am I to leave the house.

‘Ok, ok, if you say so Warren’ I scoff.
‘So what now.’

Warren ‘We wait’

‘OK … But how long before this show gets on the road? Want a beer?’

Warren looks at me in amazement ‘No way. Alcohol is definitely out.’

Then there is a knock at my door that Warren tells me not to answer.

I’m starting to get a little fed up with all this caution.
‘What do mean don’t answer it?’ I say, going down the hall against Warren’s protests.
I open the door, and it turns out to be a young man who is looking for an actor to be in a small film he hopes to make.
‘How did you get my name?’ I ask, to be told that a girl who was also a student at the Ensemble had recommended me.

‘Oh from Allison. Well we should certainly talk about it, but now is probably not the time. But rest assured that I’ll give Allison a ring and arrange a meet up.’

At that moment, the would-be director stepped back and stood on a snail. This released the most sickening sound I had ever heard. It was in slow motion and loud Dolby Stereo. The agony of the shell shattering and its slivers pushing into the snail’s flesh as it was flattened, had all the hallmarks of a missile strike. Unbelievable.

‘Oh please GET OFF MY SNAILS,’ I moan as I reach out and hold onto the young man’s shoulders. Realising that my reaction must have appeared a little strange, I released my grip on him to take hold of my senses.
‘Oh my god I’m dreadfully sorry. I’ve no idea where that came from?’

The director to be was taken back, so much so that he stood on another snail. The noise that came with its demise was even worse than the first. My response?

‘Oh NO don’T stand ON another One. AHhhhhHHH…
Why did you Do That? AAAHHHHH you’ve just Stood on ANOTHER one. Get off my poor Snails PLeasEEE.’

That was enough for our would-be Director. He jumped over my front gate and fled.
‘I’m sorry I have taken something and it doesn’t seem to be agreeing with me,’ I yelled.

Years later in New York I bumped into that young man on the Staten Island Ferry. I apologised and explained why my behaviour was a little erratic on that long-ago day. He was good about it and said that as there was some bad stuff around at that particular time, he had taken a guess at what had happened.

I rushed back inside, slammed the door and looked around to see a sweating Warren standing at the other end of the hall.
‘Warren dID You saY SOmeThing earlier AbOut Holding Hands Or Something?’

Warren couldn’t move either. But he held out his hand towards me. He was all of ten yards away but it looked to me like at least a hundred miles, and was about how long it took me to reach him.

But Warren was right, when we clasped hands I remembered what he had said about having taken something and that it would pass. ‘How long Warren WiLL it TaKe To PaSS, BecauSe Youu See, I ddON’T LikE this very MucH. Oh I see TWelve Hours? TWELVE HOURS???’

Twelve hours. Twelve minutes … twelve seconds it didn’t matter because I had just lost all conception of time. I thought that some music would help so I turned on my reel-to-reel tape machine. The slack in the tape flicked against my little finger, causing the tip of it to stretch away like chewing gum, to be wound onto the tape spool. I was disappearing. Unravelling like an old woollen jumper. I tore my hand away and was propelled onto my back. The shaggy dog carpet’s synthetic tentacles took a fancy to my polyester body shirt and glued me to the floor. My nylon socks and viscose trousers also decided to change their molecular structure. I felt like I was being microwaved in glad wrap. I tore at the garments, ripping them to shreds. I then grabbed at the phone only to watch it pour through my fingers like liquid liquorice. I had no idea who or what I was. I crawled into a foetal position and fought to hold onto some sense of identity.
I knew I was somebody, how did I know that? Because I had a mother and a father. BUT WHAT THE HELL WAS A MOTHER AND A FATHER?    ZAP!
Now I was this small child walking through the family home. I know I was small because my fingertips clicked along the skirting board as I made my way down the hall. Into the kitchen I went and there was Dad cooking. Literally. He was bent over backwards with his head in the frying pan. He didn’t have a face as his head had turned into half a dozen eggs that I gather were stuck to the pan, because he was frantically trying to get an egg slide under them.
So much for dad, I‘ll see what mum has to say for herself. BUT WHAT THE HELL IS A MOTHER?
I fought to find my Mother. I tried to manifest her by spelling it. I saw a large M in my mind’s eye. What’s next? O. I saw an O that came towards me. I went inside the centre of the O to find myself in a cave full of spiders and snakes. Then I felt someone holding my hand. It was Warren and if holding hands with Warren, who now bore a striking resemblance to Attila The Hun, was a comfort station, imagine the alternatives. But in holding his hand I did remember the pact. That we had taken something and that it would pass.
Warren’s prediction of twelve hours was conservative. But things settled down and with the help of Warren’s hand I got through it. Mind you I was still talking to trees and pigeons the next day.

WHAT DID I LEARN FROM THAT TRIP?

I haven’t been able to wear anything but natural fibres on my body since that day. Don’t go believing all those - all cotton labels - if you want to road test them, lay them across my back and I’ll tell you if they are genuine.
The other undeniable truth was that I had deep-seated problems regarding my parents and that was an issue that was going to have to be dealt with.

 

 

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