Excerpt from Too Much to Dream: A Psychedelic American Boyhood
Ascension by Arik Roper. Used with permission. |
I
would hate to start a rumor that there is a link between role-playing
games and drug addiction, but my compulsive search for spiritual meaning
really did begin in an essential way with some twenty-sided die, a few
sheets of graph paper, lead figurines, and the 1977 boxed set of
Dungeons & Dragons. Maybe it began there because role-playing a
half-elf ranger who could hear and interpret the voices of stone, wind,
and rippling water, who could see in the darkness of a forest in the
dead of night, who could track deer or orc or hobgoblin with equal
acuity, who was schooled in various types of magic but was no slouch
with a bow and a short sword, was immeasurably better than what I was: a
thirteen-year-old boy with a piece of wire (from his electronics
workbench) in place of one of the temples on his glasses, his hair
hanging down to his shoulders in greasy strands, his clothes from
Bradlees, and his sneakers from Caldor. But it more likely began with
D&D, because that venerable role-playing game was a perfect storm of
the various fantastical narratives that had found their way into every
aspect of my consciousness and organized my world in a meaningful way.
It was the 1970s, and for a boy filled with nameless, unspoken anxiety
and fear, all the weird and unusual pop-culture artifacts—from a
resurgent love of J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy to the black hole called Cygnus X-I on the progressive rock band Rush’s album A Farewell to Kings—reflected
and comforted my adolescent existential unease. Uncannily, Dungeons
& Dragons distilled it all into a perfect interactive chronicle of
my consciousness.
D&D
had its own repetitiveness, to be sure (enter room, check for traps,
fight monster, get treasure, repeat), but it was the eternal quest that
was so attractive, the never-ending cir cular campaign in search of that
elusive something, some hidden power, some great magic item that would
make the users like gods, give them control over demons and fair maidens
alike. Beyond the most obvious sorts of desires, there was something
else that kept compelling me toward the game. I had fellow players who
didn’t make me feel like a freak, but there was something else that had
me up every night studying the rule books, going over each statistic,
creating dungeons and maps, rolling and rolling and rolling forever
those many-sided dice. It was that the game understood, at its core,
something about the value of hidden treasures and the even greater value
of having to fight your way toward uncovering them.
I
grew up around hidden things, hidden fears, hidden wor ries. It was the
suburbs, after all, and despite their origins, which were a promise of
new beginnings and open possibili ties, mine was a familial and social
culture built on the barely hidden restlessness of the generation that
preceded mine. We had all arrived here the same way: on a highway
through history, encouraged by the end of a great war and the spiritual
fortitude that was a result of being victorious.
After
World War II, thousands of veterans were educated on the GI Bill and
the country produced the first postwar genera tion of engineers,
tradesmen, salesmen, and financial executives that would ultimately
shape the economy and the culture. One of the perks of a good job was
the once unaffordable automo bile. Making deals with the car industry
and oil companies, the government built highway after highway, making it
possible to travel easily from city to city, as well as to flee the
city where you did business and reside elsewhere. One of the most
important results of the highway was that what had once been rural
areas, accessible only by long and winding routes, were now easily tamed
by asphalt. The suburbs sprouted up like pastel flowers, and the
homogeneity of America began in earnest. All it took was a steady job
and a plot of land, and you could have a house of your own away from the
cities and their crowded apartment buildings, exposed trash, exposed
poverty, crime, and destitu tion. The suburbs offered protection from
all of this.
But
the life of the suburbs wasn’t all that it appeared to be. Schools
offered nothing more than textbook responses to the world’s ills that
the suburbs promised to be ballast against. The suburban sense of
security and prosperity was built on the sac rifices and success of
World War II. The defeat of Hitler and the Axis was one of this
country’s greatest sources of pride, but underneath the glory was
something dark and ugly. As images and testimonies of the Holocaust and
Hiroshima became more and more disclosed, the veil was pulled away, and
on the other side were human folly and human-constructed doom. Even our
greatest ally, the Soviet Union, had become not merely a threat but the
vessel into which the United States poured all its own fears. Despite
the reality Leave It to Beaver depicted,
the struggle for civil rights was a sad shadow behind a very white
window dressing. Many people asked if that great promise of the postwar
American suburbs was nothing but an illusion or, worse, a collective
self-deceit.
But
there was another highway, the symbolic highway, which represents the
American spiritual journey that brought the Beats and hippies streaming
out of the suburbs back into the cities to create the legacy I would
inherit. It was the highway that not only bridged cities but pointed the
way beyond the cities, as Jack Kerouac writes in On the Road:
“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they
recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?—it’s the
too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by. But we lean forward to the
next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
Young
men and women fled the suburbs on those same high ways that had made
possible what angered them. But they also journeyed down other roads. Be
it through jazz, abstract expres sionism, marijuana, or myriad other
avenues that led away from the confines of middle-American existence,
the broad and open plain of consciousness beckoned. Eastern religion
stood out as the visionary philosophy that would ultimately underpin
much artistic and personal expression. Allan Ginsberg’s Howl stands
as the testament of the Beat generation, but there is another Ginsberg
poem that better captures the flight from church and steeple to
monastery and mountain. In his 1955 poem “Sun flower Sutra,” Ginsberg
writes, “A perfect beauty of a sun flower! a perfect excellent lovely
sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up
alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly
breeze!”
It
was this emphasis on experience, on being in the world, on recognizing
the unassuming holiness that exists in all of existence, that led young
people away from what was perceived as static, conformist, and square.
While not the food of the gods they would be for the hippies, drugs
played no small role for the Beats as a way to elicit the kind of
illumination that revealed the truth behind the veil. As early as 1959
Ginsberg was writing poetry about LSD and “the billion-eyed monster, the
Nameless, the Answerless, the Hidden-from-me, the endless being . .
.”—an image of God that put up a middle finger to the long-bearded daddy
in the sky that haunted traditional Judaism and Christianity. Within
this tension between the elusive promise of suburban homesteading and
the growing agitation that would take flight in the sixties was where I
grew up.
***
Over
the next few years my fretfulness started to become a sense of
impending doom. I wasn’t worried about anything specific, but on
occasion it seemed as though the world was a haunted place. The comforts
of television and Doritos only made this perception more sharp and
exaggerated when it came upon me, but it was filtered through Star Trek reruns and Dr. Who episodes.
Over time the abstract strangeness of the world became more specific,
such as in the form of kidnappings, illness, and all the things that
could go wrong with the body. One could fall from high places, get
kicked in the groin by girls or punched in the stomach by boys. Or you
could end up in a plastic bubble like John Travolta, without any
immunity to the invisible hordes of germs. (Once, for no reason, I
thought I couldn’t swallow and spent the evening in my bed, forcing
myself to gulp air into my throat to make sure I could.) You could end
up abducted. You could be run over. You could find yourself in a tall
building suddenly on fire, or in an earthquake. You could be possessed
by the Devil. Or, worse, you could die from drugs.
In an episode of the TV series Police Story,
David Cassidy played an undercover narcotics agent in a high school. In
one scene someone put angel dust into a boy’s hamburger. Later that
day, the boy went onto the roof of the school, calling out, “I can fly! I
can fly!” before flinging himself to the ground. Drugs somehow had a
life of their own. People could trick you into doing them; they could be
in something you might drink. (In the film Food of the Gods,
a strange organic “food” causes rats and worms to grow into terrible
giant monsters. At the end of the movie, after the threat has been
eradicated, the camera shows a herd of cows grazing in a pasture
containing the food. The scene shifts to omi nously show a group of
schoolchildren drinking from their milk cartons. During dinner the night
after watching it, I couldn’t eat a bite, worried that our meal was
somehow tainted as well.)
I
began to read about drugs in encyclopedias and became an expert on all
the various categories and subcategories of drugs and their various
effects. I was haunted by all the pos sibilities, and while I vowed
never to take them, I couldn’t help imagining how drugs might explain
something about the various people around me whom I both avoided and was
attracted to. There were the girls with their denim jackets and lip
gloss who smelled of cigarettes and some other burnt vegetable, whose
eyes glazed over in class but who were not shy about their bodies and
didn’t try to hide their newly budding breasts and ever-curving curves.
Then there was the music that came out of my broth er’s eight-track
player, songs that alluded to something I knew could be understood only
under the influence of one of the many drugs mentioned in the pamphlets I
collected and whose cartoon panels warned about the horrors and the
dangers. So I wrote an essay about drugs for a class project—an
objective, fair-minded account until the final sentence, which read:
“And for your sake and God’s, don’t do drugs.”
***
We
went to the abandoned lot behind my house with a six-pack, two thick
joints, and no bottle opener. My companion pulled the cap off his beer
with the edge of a stone. My attempt cracked the neck, and so I poured
the beer into my mouth from above my head, hoping that no bits of glass
had fallen into the bottle. I swallowed barely a few mouthfuls, the rest
spilling onto the ground as I leapt away so none would get on my shirt.
After we clumsily drank the beer, we lit up the joints and I was told
to hold each lungful of smoke in as long as I could. The air was clean
and cool, and each toke tasted like autumn leaves.
I
had heard people didn’t get high the first time they smoked pot, but
whether or not this was true for most, I got massively stoned that
night. After we smoked the second joint, we got on our bikes and rode
through the suburban streets, yelling and laughing and feeling, at
fifteen, for the first moment, free. The stars were out in a multitude,
and their light flew off like sparks. Everything was aglow; even the
houses winked and smiled at me. Sometime later that night I went quietly
into my house, my parents watching television in their room upstairs,
and went down into the basement that had been converted into my bed
room. The sound of my coming home was all they needed to hear. I was
trusted, the kid who never got into trouble, and my comings and goings
rarely had to be accounted for, as long as I kept to a fairly consistent
schedule.
The
heat in the house made my ears buzz, and I sat on the couch and just
grooved without having to reach for anything to keep me satisfied. The
moment was my own. I looked around at my comic books and games and
models and computer, and they were inconsequential. They would no longer
distract me. I had glimpsed the sun behind the moon in the middle of
the night and its rays had filled me with hope.
The
weed had chipped away those fissures in my inner mind that were ready
to crumble. There were hidden passages on the other side that I had
already glimpsed briefly in occult discourses, Tolkien’s imagined world,
and even Rush lyrics. Small auditory hallucinations matched perfectly
the movement of my hands if I waved them in front of me. New ideas and
inspirations burst forth like Roman candles. Everything, everything, was
filled to overflowing with significance.
I
got into bed and pressed my fingers to my nose, inhaling the sweet
smell of resin as I fell asleep for the first time without having to
wait for it, my restless mind coming to a dead stop.
Copyright
© 2011 by Peter Bebergal from Much to Dream: A Psychedelic American Boyhood.
Reprinted by permission of Counterpoint.
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