We came into the garage and it was full of smoke. We were already altered and so we could not stop laughing, because we thought someone had actually filled the garage with herb smoke to a density where you could not see for more than 4 feet ahead. We wondered: who has the money to purchase so much? Who has the recklessness to take in that much smoke? You would be completely dissociated for the entire night. These thoughts made us laugh even harder.
"Wh...what the fuuu...", we came in laughing, barely able to speak.
"Yeah quick get in we're hotboxing. Get in close the door."
"What the...what the...fhahaha."
"Ok just kidding. We're filling the garage with fog. Look see it's a fog machine."
They showed us the machine and pressed the small attached remote, and the machine sprayed out fog with a hiss. One of them would work the machine every 5 minutes, to assure maximum density and fillage.
We sat on the couch, and turning around, noticed that the only thing you can make out in the garage is the burning fluorescent light that glowed yellow in the distance like a fog light. We could hear the door open and close now and then. Someone coming in and out of the garage, maybe to get drinks. It was impossible to tell who had entered the garage, or if they were even coming and going, and suddenly a dark figure would come out of the fog, a face with a dash of alcohol red.
We would run back and forth in the murk, throwing things out into the void. Water bottles. Lint. Socks. Whatever we could find. Every once in a while we could hear a "Fuck you!" somewhere in the distance.
Despite the strange smell and mustiness experienced with sitting in commercial fog, it felt too surreal. Music was coming from somewhere. Couldn't be sure. Why were we doing this? Who's idea was it? Does it matter? These things came to my mind later, during a reminisce. But it seemed like a good idea and everyone agreed on it and the people who joined were unconditionally overjoyed and all minds moved through the fog without burrs or friction, and that was the point.
I thought of these things when the garage was opened to be aired, and I stood outside watching the smoke rise and plume out; standing in the darkness watching the rectangle of light, and the figures moving in front of it, once again I was alone with my thoughts, and the burrs and friction started to creep back into the head.
Yeah, so what. Presently its the crushing weight of reality, something like finances and responsibilities, those burrs and surfaces of friction.
That's life they say. But there are two exposures here. One of survivalist acceptance and one of a great remorse and despair even, and they are constantly splitting off from each other and pulling towards opposite poles. And it seems like the only thing that pulls them back together is a certain kind of carelessness.
For me anyway.
