This illusion in which we had dwelled for so long suddenly had a hole smack in the middle of it, revealing what appeared to be another establishment of illusion on the other side. The rough hewn opening hovered before us, its edges glowing like fog caught in high beams. Totally daft. Must be the drugs, I thought. Jackie took the cigar from her mouth and spit a fleck of tobacco to the side. “What kind of Lewis Carroll horseshit is this?”
So she saw it too. Dang. Like my mama used to say, “tripping is as tripping does.” Jackie was an orphan and regarded my parental references with disdain. The reality appearing through the portal looked daunting, but I have always felt that doors were an inducement to forward motion.
I considered for a moment that if William Blake had used windows instead of doors in his famous line, then Huxley’s book would have been called The Windows of Perception, and Jim Morrison would have called his band The Windows, and Microsoft would have had to fork over a tidy sum to his estate for licensing. What a tangled web. Jackie caught my eye just then and said, “whatever you’re thinking about just forget it.” She knew me pretty well.
Grumbling, she grabbed her beat up old Telecaster and made for the opening. “Are you coming or not,” she said, cigar smoke fuming from her nostrils. Reluctantly I followed, hoping that the folks on the other side shared our fondness for dope, raves and thrash metal.