Somewhere not far from here is a place where river cruise ships hire tangerine porters with looking glass eyes. Elementary penguins stroll along the deck singing Hari Krishna. When the cruise comes back to port, newspaper taxis appear on the shore, and people climb in the back with their heads in the clouds.
Yes. I came of age in the sixties, but I never partook of the implements of psychedelia. I just loved the imagery of surrealism. (And yes, I know I mixed up the songs and words.)
I loved the band names — Strawberry Alarm Clock, Bubble Puppy, Moby Grape, Electric Prunes, Iron Butterfly, Pink Floyd — and what the heck is a Jefferson Airplane, anyway?
I loved the inventiveness of the wordplay — “I had too much to dream last night,” what a great line! And some of the imagery, surprisingly, makes perfect sense. I just learned today that semolina pilchard is actually a thing.
One of these days I might decide to write a psychedelic novel while sharing time with several species of small furry animals gathered together in a cave and grooving with a pict. It would not have to make sense, except it would have to be true to its own rules, just like a science fiction or fantasy world. That sense of unity is what makes “Revolution 9” a classic of the genre while others are just nonsense.
OK, brain, I turned off the screens and I’m going to write with pen and paper today. So here we go and … write!
What do you mean, you got nothing? You’re always racing around from topic to topic, you must have something for me — a conversation on the observation deck of a space station? the story of a little boy and girl collecting memories in the forest? a scary night when a little boy is sure he heard a monster crashing around in the backyard?
Nothing? Fine. The dog wants to take a walk anyway. Maybe Later.
LATER: My screen-free day has not been a total success, but I probably have only done half of the screen time I usually do. Not horrible for Day One, but not great either.
What did we do before screens? Maybe we sat out on the back porch in the sunshine, listened to the bird song and passing traffic, and appreciated the warmth and the deepening shades of green on the ground and the buds in the trees.
Maybe we looked over the yard and began drafting plans in our head for the coming spring and summer. We saw a few places where fresh paint could do some good, we thought about edges that needed sharpening and new tools to be purchased and old tools to be refurbished. Maybe we just marveled at how blue the sky is and how grateful we are to still be alive after all we’ve lived, and maybe we missed those we lost and we felt love for those we still have. Maybe we smiled at the young dog and fretted for the old dog, and we did all those things without reaching into our pockets for the miracle device we euphemistically still call a phone.
Maybe we regretted never learning the names of the myriad bird species that flit about wondering if we and the dogs would leave soon so they can come back to the feeder. Maybe we hoped some would realize we are harmless and dare to sweep in for some seed despite our presence.
I remember a time when we were not distracted by that little pocket device. What distracted me then? I know I still went days without writing or picking up the guitar.
What makes me write these thoughts as if I have lost another day? Just by writing these 500 words, I have won another decent blog post to transcribe for Friday. (I hear an unfamiliar bird call that sounds like a rusty gate swinging. And now, for a brief moment, a brave bird does swoop in for a nibble!)
The dogs want to come in, but I am enjoying the sun. I’ll go back in the house reluctantly, but at least I have my daily quota of filled journal pages, and I haven’t picked up my “phone” during this visit out back. But now a red-winged blackbird is shouting, “Go back inside so we can eat!” OK, girls, let’s go inside.
