I found an artifact from the eighties when I was visiting my mother in Oregon—a tab of LSD tacked to a cork board. It was more memorabilia than mind altering substance at this point, after weathering the decades next to a Far Side cartoon, and I’d ingested the twin to it when I was barely in my twenties. Or, perhaps I was younger—I don’t recall.
There was a period of time in my life, from the age of sixteen to twenty-three, when I dabbled in psychedelic excursions; sometimes with friends but just as often alone, trying to recover all of my memories of my first acid trip.
The first time I took acid was in the Spring of 1972 in Berkeley, California. I was seven years old.
There’s an strange quality to my story in that I can easily tell it to others in the oral tradition of telling a tale but I balk at setting it down in words on paper or digitally on a screen. I’ve tried many times—in my teens, my twenties, my thirties, my forties, and now, in my fifties—but I hit a wall, an actual writer’s block, that prevents me from continuing past the fact that I took acid at the age of seven.
And, I know it’s not shame or fear of what others might think if I put it out publicly. Even now, I’m writing around the subject, avoiding it with explanations of why I might be avoiding it and filling the page with needless words. But, maybe they aren’t needless. Maybe I need to get to the source of this block because I have no reasonable answer to the question I’ve been asked by a dozen or so people I’ve told this part of my story to: “Why haven’t you written about it?”
So, this first page of 336 words is a placeholder for that story. I intend on revisiting it every day until the tale is told in writing. That’s the plan.
This is a work in progress, a part of my history I’ve had difficulty writing about, and I’m counting on my friends and my readers to hold me accountable for finishing it.