Each day, I sit by the window and let another bottle slip from my hands to slide across the shingles, over the eavestrough and into that vast labyrinth of sidewalks and streets that form the downtown core of the metropolis of Freddie Beach. Each day, a tear rips loose from my eye and splashes soundlessly onto the glass surface of the bottle, like breaking a bottle of Champagne against a bottle of words that will sail into nowhere.
The bottles contain messages that will never be read, words that will never be bonded to vision and the cognitive process. The messages are earnest in their meanings: “Help! I’m being held prisoner for my own good!” “I’m following my doctor’s orders, for god’s sake! I’m following the orders!”
I don’t know where the bottles go but I assume there’s a pile of broken glass beneath the window and under an eave that juts out just far enough that I can’t see where the bottles land. I’ve yet to hear the shattering of glass, so maybe something beyond gravity and the things I expect is happening here.
And maybe it’s the drugs.
Have I mentioned that my body survived the 60s but my brain didn’t? It’s true. And it wasn’t just the drugs, it was the experience, the exposure to new ways of looking at old things. That, in itself was the most potent drug of the 60s. That iota of a second in which you realize that the only thing that’s making you shave today is your refusal to believe that it’s your face can you don’t have to do anything to it that you don’t want to do. For some, that’s a small decision; for others, it’s a career changer.
Seems to me that many of us spend our lives putting messages into bottles and launching them into the safety of god-knows-where.
And that pretty much sums up everything I have to say about the drugs.