live early emoji era: pre-seahorse. 0 arrependimentos ✨ dhaka is picasso today. every night, i see her groove, to a russian lullaby, lullaby, lullaby
agree with rosemarie jeopardy a perfect game. exhibition between amodio, schneider, roach just a little slice of heaven. "you might have missed your chance to write for conan, but the simpsons and jeopardy are going to run until the heat death of the universe" -ken jennings 2022 11 25
drew other shit 🖕 phones are brain leashes kinda. for you and me, and a russian lullaby, lullaby, lullaby. my first noticed overlap btw ella and jerry
medusa hair extensions
√49 views of mt fuji and friends
read the electric kool-aid acid test by tom wolfe [kairos]. sgt pepper's acid rock beatles' best music, tho all the lonely people most important song
custer died for your sins
he was in jail down in santa cruz trying to fight a marijuana charge on the grounds that marijuana was a religious sacrament for him. i didn't figure out exactly why she was up here in the san mateo jail waiting room instead except that it was like a stage door, as i said, with kesey as the star who was still inside
as if somebody had given hieronymous bosch fifty buckets of day-glo paint and a 1939 international harvester school bus and told him to go to it. on the floor by the bus is a 15-foot banner reading acid test graduation
the credit card elite are tanking up and stretching their legs and tweezing their undershorts out of the aging waxy folds of their scrota, and i am out there carrying a shell oil can in both hands like a bladder totem, around the corner, to the toilet
occasionally somebody would suggest an orgy or a three-day wine binge, but the model was always that old zorba the greek romanticism of sandals and simplicity and back to first principles
some experiments the veterans hospital in menlo park was running with "psychomimetic" drugs, drugs that brought on temporary states resembling psychoses. they were paying volunteers $75 a day. kesey volunteered. it was all nicely calcimined and clinical. they would put him on a bed in a white room and give him a series of capsules without saying what they were. one would be nothing, a placebo. one would be ditran, which always brought on a terrible experience. kesey could always tell that one coming on, because the hairs on the blanket he was under would suddenly look like a field of hideously diseased thorns and he would put his finger down his throat and retch. but one of them - the first thing he knew about it was a squirrel dropped an acorn from a tree outside, only it was tremendously loud and sounded like it was not outside but right in the room with him and not actually a sound, either, but a great suffusing presence, visual, almost tactile, a great impacting of . . . blue
aldous huxley, who had taken mescaline and written about it in the doors of perception. he compared the brain to a "reducing valve." in ordinary perception, the senses send an overwhelming flood of information to the brain, which the brain then filters down to a trickle it can manage for the purpose of survival in a highly competitive world. man has become so rational, so utilitarian, that the trickle becomes most pale and thin. it is efficient, for mere survival, but it screens out the most wondrous part of man's potential experience without his even knowing it. we're shut off from our own world. primitive man once experienced the rich and sparkling flood of the senses fully. children experience it for a few months - until "normal" training, conditioning, close the doors on this world, usually for good. somehow, huxley had said, the drugs opened these ancient doors. and through them modern man may at last go, and rediscover his divine birthright
the local beats - that term was still used - a bunch of kids from a pad called the chateau, a wild-haired kid named jerry garcia and the cadaverous cowboy, page browning. everybody was attracted by the strange high times they had heard about . . . the lane's fabled venison chili, a kesey dish made of venison stew laced with lsd, which you could consume and then go sprawl on the mattress in the fork of the great oak in the middle of the lane at night and play pinball with the light show in the sky . . . perry lane
you wouldn't believe a girl with electric eel tits, would you, king?
everybody on the bus had taken acid and they were zonked. the acid was in some orange juice in the refrigerator and you drank a paper cup full of it and you were zonked. cassady was driving and barreling through the burning woods wrenching the steering wheel this way and that way to his innerwired beat, with a siren wailing and sailing through the rhythm
in the contagion of the moment..slipped to the refrigerator and taken some acid, now she is outside the bus on the desert sand wearing a black snakeskin blouse and a black mantle, with her long black hair coming down over it like in a pre-raphaelite painting and a cosmic grin
boise brought in a sculpture of a hanged man, so they ran it up a tree limb with a hangman's noose. he also built a great thunderbird, a great thor-and-wotan beaked monster with an amber dome on its back and you could get inside of it. inside were some mighty wire strings, which you could pull, which they did, and the thunderbird twanged out across the gorge like the mightiest vibrating bass beast in the history of the world. then he brought in a kama sutra sculpture, a huge sheetmetal man with his face in the sheetmetal groin of a big sheetmetal babe. she had her left leg sticking up in the air. it was hollow and babbs ran a hose up it and turned the water on and it spurted out, so they left it running, eternally spurting. it looked like she was having an eternal orgasm out of her left foot
straight people were always trying to figure out what is wrong here - never having had this feeling themselves. straight people called them beatniks. i suppose the beautiful people identified with the beat generation excitement of the late 1950s, but in fact there was a whole new motif in their particular bohemian status sphere: namely, psychedelic drugs
mothproof your brain
a trip more vital than all the kantian prattle in the world
art is not eternal, friends
whereupon he reaches into his great glowing day-glow coat and produces a harmonica and starts playing it right into the microphone, home, home on the range, hawonking away on the goddamn thing - home . . . home . . . on the ra-a-a-a-ange hawonkawonk . . .
the rolling stones, england's second hottest pop group
"if society wants me to be an outlaw," said kesey, "then i'll be an outlaw, and a damned good one. that's something people need. people at all times need outlaws"
he took the pictures in strobe, and this would make cassady look like he had multi-arms, like the great god shiva
if you were watching all this on a movie screen you know what your reaction would be through a mouthful of popcorn from the third row: "what more do you need, you dolt! scram outta there . . ."
bunch of kids with the jesuschrist hair, the temple bells and donkey beads, serape vests, mandalas
nietzsche is up in heaven now
a girl named jeannie got bit by a scorpion one night. everybody woke up, and what to do. they pondered awhile and decided to go with the flow and they all went back to sleep. she survived
cassady comes across the road, flipping his sledge hammer, singles, doubles, triples, way up in the air looping it, catching it behind his back, and so on, but not looking at them for a second
honesty's the best disguise
an apartment with india-print spreads lining the walls and couches on the floor and handmade indian teapots and cups and three small crystals suspended from the ceiling by almost invisible threads and picking up lights like jewels in the air, a place devoid of all the shit and gadgetry of the modern american plasic life, for, as leary has said, a home should be a place of purity that the gautama buddha himself could walk into from 485 b.c. and feel at home
they all have these shiny black shoes on. then one of them goes back to the sedan and comes back with a flare gun and stands over him with that. hassler wonders if he intends to shoot him with a flare. a very day-glo death
all us reporters are scribbling away
the heads don't know whether kesey is selling them out or shoving a big roman candle up the universal arse
kesey is off to one side in a flag people coverall, looking around, not saying much, listening to a big angel from oakland who has on a polka-dot shirt and a polka-dot tie under his angels' jacket - "i wore a shirt and tie, ken, on account of it's halloween"
in february, neal cassady's body was found beside a railroad track outside the town of san miguel de allende, in mexico. some local americans said he had been going at top speed for two weeks and had headed off down the railroad track one night and his heart just gave out