I can smell colors.

Walking on sunshine.

Hello, my friends and dear readers. Happy Mother’s Day! Since I know you're busy celebrating with your loved ones, I'll keep this brief. This week, I've created one of the most challenging videos of my life, which I'll share at the bottom of this newsletter. It's around 12 minutes long, and I would be incredibly grateful if you could spare some time to watch it.

I wonder if the designers who create shoe soles or seek out new materials for shoes have ever experimented with LSD. If so, it seems like someone would have invented a shoe with buoyancy akin to a marshmallow. That's precisely how it felt walking down Anapamu Street. My feet seemed disconnected from the ground, as if I had little control over them. Perhaps, for a day, the city decided to test out the flat escalators typically found in airports, and I was one of the lucky guinea pigs.

Stone Pines on Anapamu Street

The sunlight streamed through the beautiful stone pine trees that lined the street, casting a golden glow. It felt like I was gliding. Maybe they tapped into my experience to create the virtual insanity music video.

My final destination was State Street, a vibrant strip adorned with bookstores, cafes, and record shops. My mission: to nourish my melting brain with magazines and music. The typical walk from the high school to State Street usually takes about 15-20 minutes, but on this reality-shifting adventure, time seemed to lose its grip. Time is but an illusion, a constraint imposed upon us by the powers that be, man.

Along the way, there was a house on the street with a massive dog. The moment it heard the clacking of our skateboard wheels or the innocent footsteps of a passerby, it would charge out of its resting spot in the shade, unleashing ear-shattering growls to let us know we had disturbed its slumber. However, as I approached, the dog seemed to look up at me, sensing that I was on another plane of existence. It simply flapped its ears disapprovingly and returned to its slumber.

The mundane rules and regulations of everyday life no longer held sway over me, or perhaps I couldn't quite recall them in the moment. At the first stoplight I encountered, I found myself waiting for it to cycle through its colors — green, yellow, and red — an astonishing three to twenty times. My attention was captivated by the sight of a magnificent Spanish church that seemed to have erupted from the ground, its steeple reaching toward the heavens where angels fluttered around, their laughter echoing through the air.

Gathering my senses, or perhaps spurred on by the curious stares of people in passing cars as I gazed into the sky instead of walking with the green light, I pressed onward toward my goal: State Street. My first stop was the café I often frequented. However, I barely made it past the outdoor seating area. It was evident to everyone that I was under the influence of drugs. Well I thought everyone knew, I am a bit paranoid. The disapproving looks and the unspoken thoughts broadcasting to me signaled that this was not a safe place for me to be. With a quick about-face, I retreated.

Continuing down State Street, I found myself captivated by the sun, the swaying palm trees, and the radiant faces of the people strolling by. The homeless men seated on the benches seemed to be transmitting to me, as if they had tuned into my frequency and recognized that I was operating on a different wavelength from the other passersby lost in their consumerism. Their presence made me uneasy, and I longed for a place of comfort.

Seeking refuge, I slipped into the local record store. Ah, safety. Music filled the air, emanating from the speakers, while rows upon rows of vinyl albums, cassette tapes and CDs beckoned to me. Here, I found the nourishment I had been seeking. With my head down, I entered the store with a singular mission in mind — to avoid disturbance and prevent anyone from tuning into my frequency and bombarding me with unwanted chatter or thoughts.

I'm not entirely sure how long it took me to walk from the high school to the record store, nor how long I lingered there, but it felt like hours had passed as I became utterly engrossed in the artwork adorning the album covers, flipping through each one with a sense of wonder and fascination.

I found myself drawn initially to the genres that offered a sense of calm and familiarity, seeking solace in the memories and experiences they evoked. I immersed myself in the Raymond Pettibon artwork gracing the Black Flag albums, studying his intricate line work with a sense of reverence. From there, I transitioned to the metal section, where the wild and intricate detail of Pushead's creations mesmerized me.

As I delved deeper, my journey through the store took me to the realm of weird European metal album artwork, where I became utterly lost in the fantastical imagery. It was evident to the guy working there that something was amiss. I was operating on another plane altogether, completely lost in the labyrinth of my own mind. Or at least I thought. But I was far from the first, nor would I be the last, tripped-out teenager to while away the hours, entranced by the captivating worlds depicted in album artwork.

I still hold a deep love for vinyl for precisely that reason—the artwork, the liner notes, the chance to immerse oneself in the credits and details of who contributed to the album. It's a tactile piece of art, something you can hold in your hands, proudly display on your wall, and perhaps playfully use to assert your superior musical taste when guests come over. Joke. Or is it?

As the trip began to wear off, I felt myself gradually disentangling from the vortex of my own mind. The world around me expanded, opening new portals and neural pathways that had once lain dormant but were now pulsating with newfound energy, ready to traverse the streets of reality once more. Glancing at the clock in the shop, I realized I had to meet my father. Back in the days before cell phones, arranging a meeting involved a designated time and place. I was supposed to meet my father at 5:30 by the bus station, just a couple of minutes away. Though I arrived a few minutes late, my father, as always, pulled up in his construction truck right on time (which usually meant he was about 10 to 15 minutes late).

We decided to grab dinner at Red Robin. Throughout the meal, I remained relatively quiet, keeping to myself. This was the first real human contact I'd had since leaving my PE soccer class earlier that day. After the waitress took our order and walked away, my father turned to me and asked what was going on. He jokingly asked if I was stoned. I assured him I wasn't, then proceeded to tell him about how a kid at school had given me some acid, and I had spent the day tripping out before eventually finding myself at the record store. His response was a chuckle, followed by a piece of fatherly advice: "Next time, don't do it at school. Wait for the weekend."

That first adventure was just the beginning of many more to come, each one leading me deeper into the psychedelic realms and teaching me the importance of exploring both the outer and inner landscapes of existence.

I'm going to call my step-mother for Mother’s Day and ask her if my father ever shared that story about our Red Robin dinner conversation regarding drugs and my first experience.

Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this. I truly appreciate each and every one of you.

Love and Light, MM

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EYE HOLES: I would be honored if you watched this video.

EAR HOLES: I was listening to this album while writing this.

MOUTH HOLE: I've found immense pleasure in my newfound hobby of tobacco pipe smoking. It's more than just lighting up; it's a ritual, a sacred space that you carve out for yourself. It's a time when you disconnect from the digital world, putting your phone aside, and simply reflect on the day that has passed. How was it? What went well, and what could have been better? It's a moment of introspection, a chance to ponder how you can make the next day even brighter, should you be fortunate enough to see it..