The Acid Diary by Daniel S. Fletcher

Author:Daniel S. Fletcher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-12-21T00:00:00+00:00

4: Gillette QUATTRO

After much joking and fooling – it turned out Marie, the girl, genuinely laughed in that sort-of understated Nelson-from-the-Simpsons way, to our continuing amusement – she forgave us our hilarity after we simply explained our narcotic state of being, and quite gently, maternally almost, she led us both back to the Bloke’s Bar where we found a party in full-swing.

Many of the Huxley crowd hadn’t bothered to come, with the hill navigation being a guaranteed sweath-a-thon, the boatmen charging an extortionate 200thb per-head fee for simply rounding the cliff in two-and-a-half minutes – not to mention with the impending Es Paradis party tomorrow night – and there were more yogis and Orwell folk than even Thor had yet met or felt comfortable with, but whilst Mandy’d and Shandy’d to the good, we jumped straight into the mix, spurning the bar for the beach and dancing on the pebbles to the track playing, which sat somewhere between Ibiza chillout and Balearic (Ibiza) house. Either way, I felt at home with it, but reflected that the nature of money, I was in a much better place for a similar lifestyle at one-fifteenth of the cost.

Finally, the whore’s drawers that were in my mouth made themselves known again, and on the cusp of a hacking wheeze, I went to grab us some beers. Marie came with me. We stood at the bar – my vision was fucked, and I worried about the usual MDMA strabismus due to its annoying muscle-relaxing tendency in my post-operative eye socket – but she assured me my eyes were fine, after I couldn’t contain the question any longer. Ten further minutes were spent trying to joke and banter confidently; after all, such displays of weakness did not an attractive sexual option make.

Marie was an extremely sweet person. Her plan, as it were, was to enjoy Huxley-well – or Orwell-ley? Or more likely, the beaches’ real Thai names that we didn’t use – and then go elsewhere on Ko Pha Ngan to work on an organic farm. I’d met others with his intent, en route here on the public bus from Bangkok’s Soi Khao San (that would be Cow-Sahn, Kow-San, not ‘Ko’ which means ‘island’. Though it could be argued that SKS is an island in Bangkok, metaphorically) including a young blonde from the States with dreadlocked hair who’d been dressed like Marie and juggling two fluorescent juggling balls. I’d damn near gotten off the bus with her in Surat Thani and sacked off my life in Phuket. She was great. Eyes to die for, like lapis lazuli. Marie was of the same mould; spiritual, full of zen – her sober poise in the midst of Bloke’s Bar and its hedonists beggered belief – a gentle spirit, a history of psychedelic drug use and conscious of the kind of things you’d expect from such a lass – carbon footprint, waste production, recyclable possibility, the works. She was near enough twice my age, with nearly thirty adult years to my seven, but I liked her immensely.

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