On Love and Outer Space


The last time I took mushrooms the experience was so lovely that the very next day I wanted to plan when we could do them again. I’ve mentioned my love affair with hallucinogenic mushrooms before. I prefer them to any other substance. I prefer them to a glass of wine. I suppose you could say I prefer them to reality, but — at the risk of sounding like someone who’s done a lot of mushrooms — the reason I love them so much is because of how I feel they reveal the truer reality beyond the details. The forest beyond that tree I’m so focused on. The day after I take hallucinogenic mushrooms, I am my best self.

We planned to take them again on a following Saturday. In the evening. A and C as usual, and our friends T, M, and S would be joining us; A had just acquired a large bag of his own. “We tried these a couple of weeks ago on the roof deck and we had an amazing time,” C told me. “M saw a venus fly trap in the sky, it was hilarious.”

“Sweeeeeeet!” I said. “See you at 9.”

It’s always a question with mushrooms and the brain: how many mushrooms are an adequate quantity of mushrooms, but, you know, not too many mushrooms? I’d preferred the capsules I’d shared with friends before because they were consistent. A big batch ground up and then equally distributed into tiny containers, each one more or less like the last. But any given mushroom, versus another given mushroom? Nature rolls the dice.

“So how many of these things should I take, approximately?” I asked C.

“M took 5. I’d say, 4 to 5 for you,” she said. “The caps are more potent than the stems.”

I conservatively popped one cap in my mouth and followed it with three small stems, chewing them like jerky. The last stem I bit into overflowed with empyrean fuzz, an alarming jolly rancher hue of mould. I peered into its narrow cavities, chewing skeptically.

“Huh. Is it supposed to look like that?” I asked. “Because I feel like nature is sending me all of its cues to not eat that.”

Yeah, that’s the good stuff!” T laughed.

“Woof, I need to wash this down with something,” I said. “M, pour me a glass of wine while you’re over there?”

A and T set up Christmas lights over the picnic table, and I sat down across from S as he plowed through some ravioli. I asked him about his latest internship, but two sips into my wine I sloshed the glass back down onto the table. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m already having a lot of trouble focusing on what you’re saying.”

“That is totally okay,” he smiled, the picture-perfect drug wingman.

“My head . . . my head feels huge,” I said. “I mean, not my ego. Like there’s more room for my sinuses now. Like I can breathe. Like there’s air in my teeth.”

“Hell yeah!” T laughed again from his porch chair, raising his glass.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom while I still can,” I said, stumbling toward the kitchen door. I suddenly looked down at my hand. “Am I still holding this glass of wine?” I laughed. The hand had very obediently carried the glass around the deck without my knowledge, like a diligent robot maid. “Good heavens! I have no business drinking this.” I placed the glass back on the picnic table.

In the bathroom the world was making a drastic shift, like colored sand sliding in gel. I struggled to remember what the typical person did on a toilet. Afterwards I knelt down in front of my purse and texted Janaka as the room began to spin around me, and the landscapes in the framed paintings swirled and opened their gaping mouths.



I slowly thumbed out, each letter a new journey. “I love you,” I considered adding, because it felt natural and simple and true, but we hadn’t said that to each other since cautiously beginning to see each other again just a couple of months prior. I take pride in being reasonably self-aware when I’m on drugs. No sudden moves or drastic declarations; reality’s not going anywhere. I left things at that and tried to put the phone back into my bag — it fell off the chair and my possessions scattered, where I wouldn’t retrieve them for another six hours.

“Wheeeee,” I said delightedly, crawling to the kitchen.

Just a few minutes later S walked in to me on the floor leaning against the stove and staring at the marble floor, tears running down my face. “Hey hey hey,” he said. “How are you?”

“The floor is full of flowers,” I said. “How are you? Ah. You aren’t here yet. The others aren’t either I think, that’s why I’m hiding away a bit, don’t want to be weird.”

“Yeah I still feel completely normal,” he said, placing his hands on my shoulders, “but I’ll get there. The others are on their way. You should come outside.”

“I don’t want . . . I don’t want to be the only one feeling this,” I said. “I don’t want to be weird.”

“It won’t be weird,” he assured me, “we’re all here to do this.”

“I don’t . . . I can’t be around them yet if they aren’t here too,” I said. “I’m going to stay inside for just a few minutes.”

He looked into my eyes and kissed my forehead, which felt like the most lovely thing anyone’s ever done to me. I closed my eyes. “We’ll be outside when you’re ready,” he said.

Outside I heard S reporting to the others. It’s hitting Adrianne hard, maybe because she’s so small, maybe because she didn’t eat dinner. Well she should join us. I’m not feeling anything are you. No. Maybe we should have more?

I got down on my hands and knees and I stared deep into the marble floor. It’s true, the floor was full of flowers, but they weren’t beautiful ones. They were dissected through the pistil, all faded colors of peach and mustard wavering in a shallow sea of formeldayhde behind glass. Specimens. But still alive. Uh oh! Going somewhere dark, I realized. Adrianne Mathiowetz. Get up and surround yourself with some people.

The door was only maybe 8 feet away, but walking was difficult. Not to mention the complete change of lighting quality and temperature between the kitchen and the deck; suddenly I felt uncertain about this whole new world I would encounter when I went through that door. Would breathing be the same? Would it be thicker? I hovered in the frame for a moment like a kid on a diving board, then grabbed the wall and stuck one foot outside experimentally. I heard laughter.

“Oh!” I cried, sliding into the divine pool of fresh air, “oh it’s so much better out here.”

“Yaaay, Adrianne’s back!” someone cried. They were lounging in chairs and slowly smoking cigarettes, discussing the sky.

Gosh walking was hard. Standing was hard. I sat down. M and I laughed together about some trivial thing, but I was struggling to move my mouth and felt a little ill. I laid down on the astroturf.

I laid down.
I laid down.

You never know how much time is passing, but usually it’s wonderful. You don’t know how much time is passing because time is meaningless. You don’t know how much time is passing because everything is taking your outmost attention; the wind in the leaves, the smell of coffee, the secret life of an orange: its juicy unfolding spine. But suddenly I was aware that I had no idea how much time was passing because I was incapable of sustaining any short-term memories. I only have blinks of images from this period.

My friends’ faces, covered in neon hexagons, swirling and orbing like a horrible sickness. The sound of their laughter was piercing and loud, satanic. No, no, no, I thought. 3 seconds. Gasp. 3 seconds. Gasp. I laid there and struggled to construct a narrative. How long had I been here? Was I okay? You’re on drugs, I reminded myself over and over, this is just a poison working its way through your body. It will take some time and then it will be over. How much time? How much longer? What if it had already been days? Janaka. Where was Janaka. 3 seconds. Gasp.

“Adrianne!” M called, from a seemingly impossible distance away. “Are you with us?”

My throat felt entombed, tightly wrapped with gauze. I struggled with how I could respond. I was terrified that if I acknowledged the separation I was feeling from my friends I would be further isolated, other-ized, an alien pariah. They were having so much fun. “I’m here!” The words heaved out of my mouth like vomit.

“You sure? You’re with us?”

“I’m with you!” I croaked. A kind of prayer as the night sky unravelled, dripped down and into my eyes, down my throat.

Then, quite suddenly, I was catapulted into space.

I clenched my eyes shut tight. No, no, no. The speed at which I was traveling dizzied me. No, no, no. I want to stay. But I traveled faster and farther away.


Later I would do the math. Three hours. Three hours I didn’t know who I was, had no concept of what anyone else was doing or where they were.

Three hours it was just darkness and stars and a taste of burning and plastic in my mouth, gravity pulling and pushing and leaving me, utterly alone, floating and falling. I pulled at my shirt. I lurched on the ground. I pulled and pulled at my hair (every now and then a flash of realization: your hair will come out if you keep pulling at it like that. How much hair do you have left. Are you pulling all of your hair out? Stop it, stop it). My hand flying to my belt buckle. It was solid and cold and metal. This, I would suddenly think, this is real — only to be pitched back into that endless black. The stars were lightbulbs hanging on wires in a cheap apartment, sparkling and popping, weaving in the ether, drooping into me. Crackle, pop. Wait, but really, who am I again? Oh god. Who am I?

One thing. One thing I had, even in the middle of bottomless space, even when I couldn’t remember my own name, was you.

Where are you.

I need you.

This would be okay if you were here. Could you come?

I gasped and lurched. I thought of you as I slammed into ancient Rome, the pillars stretching cold and infinite into the sky. There was a river, an incredibly wide river. It was turbulent, dangerous, tumbling over boulders and fallen trees. And your shadow, there, on the other side.

You were too far away and anyway I couldn’t speak. I kept opening my mouth like an empty bellows.


Have I never told him that I loved him? I thought. 3 seconds. Gasp. Have I never told him that I loved him. Have I never told him that I loved him.

Where are you.

I need you.

This would be okay if you were here.

My eyes snapped open. S was sitting near me. Me, my body, laying here, on earth. I put my hand on his knee and looked up into his face. “Help,” I pleaded, knowing it was impossible. He laid down next to me and took my hand. I held on tight and braced for the next wave, not entirely sure I’d come back next time. What if it’s always this way now, I thought.

What if I’ve broken my brain. What if days have passed.

What’s my name? What’s my name? I lurched on the ground and grasped my belt buckle, pulled my hair.

Janaka, Janaka, Janaka. No matter where I was I remembered yours.

Slowly, exhaustedly, I returned.

Another two hours.

I could sit up, sometimes. What I saw in front of me was — for the most part — a rooftop, some astroturf, and my friends coming and going. S at my side, still holding my hand.

“I’m thirsty,” I said to A.

“You should drink some water,” he said.

“… I don’t know how,” I said.

As soon as I could, I crawled, on tentative hands and knees, back into the kitchen. I found my possessions scattered all over the floor. My phone, my phone, where is — there. I began to cry. “I think it’s really dumb that I’m not always telling you that I love you,” I wrote. “I love you.

Then: “I want to be good to you.”

Then: “I want to be the best for you.”

Everything changed.

I saw a glimmer of my best self. I grabbed on.

When I called for a cab it was around 5 in the morning. I stumbled out of the apartment, shirt buttons askew and hair hovering around my face in fluffy chunks. The sun was just beginning to rise against the wet streets, and all of Crown Heights blushed in the oncoming spotlight.

“Where to?” the cab driver asked.

“Bushwick,” I replied, looking out the window back up to the roof.

“Bushwick?!” he laughed. “… Nah, nah. You don’t live in Bushwick.”

“No?” I said. “And where do you think I live?” I met his eyes in the rearview window in one of the more cinematic moments of my life: just those eyes, framed in light. My Maltese Falcon.

“You’re a woman who lives in Manhattan. You’re a woman who’s always lived in Manhattan.”

“And why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. Something about you. The way you carry yourself, some look in your eyes. You’re not like all these kids, spending their parents’ money in Brooklyn, selling bikes and fucking around. No, no, you’re from Manhattan, I know a woman who lives in Manhattan when I see one.”

“Well you’re wrong,” I said. “I live in Bushwick so you should probably take me there.”

“Would you like a cigarette?” he asked, popping open a silver case. “I really never smoke with passengers in the car, but. You also look like someone who might join me?”

“No, thanks,” I replied. The streets spilled out of his headlights. I looked up into the sky. My mind was deliciously blank.

Just, I love you. I love you.

Two years have passed since I wrote the first draft of this post, in the summer of 2014.

Janaka and I had first started dating in 2009. After seven years of tumultuous long distance on-again, off-again — of seeing other people, of not speaking to one another, of getting back together, of ill-timed proposals, of breaking up again, of sudden two-sentence letters in the mail — that January he proposed during a weekend trip to Portsmouth, that February I moved from New York to live with him in his apartment in Boston, and a few Saturdays ago we got married.

It’s hard to count some days, how many times I tell him that I love him.


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The Anxious Person’s Guide to First Dates

1.) Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays. These are the ideal evenings for a first date. Thursdays may also be permitted if we’ve been eyeballing each other longingly for years and are essentially already in love with each other.

Fridays and Saturdays, however, are completely unacceptable choices. No one can live up to that expectation on a first date; why even try? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be dancing.

And on the seventh day we rest. (I need groceries.)

2.) Sweatshirts. I will wear a sweatshirt on my first date with you. Don’t get me wrong: it’ll be clean, I’ll smell nice, I’ll pair it with some tiny pants and tall boots. It’s not even that I don’t mostly own fancier clothing. I could really bust out the big guns and pair a blouse with some pearl earrings and I could sit across from you at the candlelit dinner table all glowingly and hyperventilate all night!

But let’s be clear on this right away: I hate static, cold, and itchiness. Nice outfits are for job interviews; performances; Friday/Saturday nights. I own and often wear sweatshirts.

3.) Make-up. Man, I used to feel really unattractive without make-up. But now I don’t! Isn’t that great?

4.) Eating. I have never understood why first dates so often involve dinner. For one, it’s expensive, and if we’re dating you’re probably poor too. For another, eating is intimate. And not like . . . fun-intimate. It’s weird-intimate. There are all these squelchy and crunch sounds, and sometimes slurping is required. Slurping, for Christ’s sake! Sometimes said slurping splashes stuff. If there’s bread beforehand it’s all up in your chapstick and the crumbs make little dandruffy piles on your lap. Personally, I have poor motor skills and tend to miss my mouth if I’m not concentrating.

So, I propose we do anything but eat together on our first date.

5.) F-bombs. This is something I can do very little about. I will curse like a motherfucker on our first date, especially if we’re around your friends.

This hot chocolate is fucking delicious! Man I love this fucking weather, it’s abso-fucking ridiculous, let’s build the fuck out of a snowman, what do you say? (Cue: fuck yes!)

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The Way It Is Here in Limbo

The first night after we fought I stayed at the local Holiday Inn (aaafter party!), and ever since I’ve been on a futon mattress on the floor of my friend Tamar’s spare room. It’s otherwise empty, except for my piles of clothes, comb and toothbrush, and the two windows open to a large leafy tree that shifts and rustles in the night like a large sleeping bird.

I don’t know what happens next. Everything has been thrown into the air, scattered, dissected daily. When do I move back in? Or when do I leave entirely? Do we talk today, or take the evening off, think of other things, regroup during the hurricane of some other name? But one thing I can say, is that I sleep through the nights here, and I haven’t been anxious.

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After The Fight

The afternoon after we fought, I thought I wouldn’t be able to do anything but watch stupid television. It’s a crappy coping technique I picked up recently, and we’ve even talked about it, how it doesn’t actually fix anything, or bode particularly well. But what else is there for the housebound, the mindstuck? I curl up with my heart palpitations and inner lightening bolts and I say “what’s on next.” And “Don’t touch my stomach, I feel sick.”

So when I got out of the car that afternoon and slammed the door, and realized it would take me an hour by subway to get home, and by then you would all be in Worcester, then Putnam, and that meant I would have . . . at least eight hours to kill — the only solution I could think of, beyond sleeping pills or hallucinatory drugs, was television. True Blood. Cartoons. Madmen. Netflix instant streaming, Made of Honor or some other ridiculous thing.

I opened the door to our apartment.

I tried to elicit sympathy from the cats.

I put down my things, and I sat down on the bed, and I opened my laptop and like a drug fiend got everything meticulously in order, the software installed and the piles of tissues and the plaid pajama pants, and then I thought “no” — and I changed into shorts, filled my water bottle, and strapped on my helmet.

Nearly every time I get on a bicycle, it is with you.

We decide where we want to go today, who will lead, the signals for needing to stop and rest. We pack food and water, or lock up outside grocery stores, movie theaters; we throw our bicycles onto the grass and spread a blanket. The last time we went adventuring, you wanted to reach the Arlington Great Meadows. “We need to stop,” I’d said after forty-five minutes in the July heat. “I’m tired. I want to save some energy for the ride back.” You found us a clearing off the trail, and we spread out our blanket that day and watched a little league game, wondering what the Great Meadows would be like — if we would ever make it there, or if it would just get added to the list of Things We Wished We’d Done When We Lived Here.

I am to girlfriend as terrier is to dog: that is to say, you lead, I follow. Dopily, unquestioningly, because you always know the way, and I like to think of other things. Like the smell of wet grass, or how that man hole looks like an upset monster. You would say later that this is one of the things that bothers you, that you are always the one holding me up and guiding me around, but frankly this is just how I live regardless. Dopily, unquestioningly. I exit trains and follow the masses, I drive and forget to read the signs. I’ll just keep going until I hit a T or leave the state. I’d never pay rent if you didn’t remind me every day, for three days, at the end of every month. The day after we fought, it occurred to me that I didn’t even really know how to get to the bike trail off Mass Ave — and once I was on the bike trail, I had no idea how far away the Great Meadows were, or how I would know once I got there — and I could find all of these answers on Google Maps, in two seconds. Nah. Fuck it.

This is how I live, and it used to feel like a choice I was making, but lately it’s felt like a trap, a neuron path beaten smooth and flawless as new pavement. What is the fastest way to Mass Ave?

I go the first direction my head turns, which is up the hill.

Pedals churn, I switch gears, a cool breeze shifts up cotton short edges, down collar bones. The nice thing about biking is that the scenery is always changing. What is that you say, you have problems? You’re anxious lately and you don’t know why, you’ve felt insulted, misunderstood? Signal left. Keep going, it’s bound to be out there somewhere.

I take Mass Ave all the way into Arlington, and then I finally see the entrance onto the woods of the Minuteman.

I pass the pond with the ducks and swans. Girls with wicker baskets and high schoolers waddling in oversized jerseys. Everyone is walking their little white terrier and no one thinks he needs a leash. A kid rings his bell at me and I ring back (but he doesn’t smile, because kids never act the way they do in movies, especially in Boston). I pass the little league field, the place I took our pictures. I keep going. There is no one on the path any more. The trail leads under stone bridges, their underbellies littered with crushed plastic cups, gashes of graffiti.

Then, plumes of unfamiliar white flowers explode on either side, and suddenly the woods open up, and the horizon melts into an endless sea of green and purple — blue violets swaying in the wind, some ancient house on the top of a hill, slowly peeling white paint. I put on my breaks abruptly, turn around to pull my bike off the trail. I lean against a block of wood only to realize it read “Great Meadows.”

So here it is. Where we didn’t go. The air is clean and good, mosquitos nip at my ankles. There is a sign posted here, nature hikes every third Saturday. Fire pits scar a grassy hill, leaves rustle overhead. And beyond, the endless blue violets. I stand there for a moment and look over it all like some lonely king.

Then I get back on my bicycle and ride and ride and ride until it is dark, I am home.

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Anxious Emails

I’m feeling anxious for the pleasure of anxiety, maybe. Sometimes I think these problems come about when life is too easy, and adrenaline just builds up unused.

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