I’m reminded of the time many decades ago that I was smoking a joint with a pretty hippie chick at a reggae festival in Santa Barbara. We slipped back behind the stage, just the two of us, and hid in the bushes getting high. Real high. She had a fat baggie full of skunk weed and rolled big bomber joints with long psychedelically painted nails. We were so stoned and I wondered aloud how she gotten that stash past the really obnoxious security. They’d been searching everything and everybody at the gate. She laughed. I hid it in a well concealed place she said. Oh, like in your bra? I’m not wearing a bra she said and she gave a little wiggle. She wasn’t. We traded a joint back and forth. So how did you get it in then? She smiled. Have another hit, she said.
The only reason I remember that story is that I found a scrap of writing once from 1979 describing it. I have pretty massive memory loss from those days–way too many seizures–and have no direct memory of any of it. No idea who the girl was. I don’t know if we knew each other already or not. Or if we did anything more than lie about in the bushes getting stoned. And your guess on how she got the weed past the gate is as good as mine.
It haunts me a bit, this fragment of an afternoon back in 1979. Like a solitary page of an ancient papyrus, it’s all that remains of a story long vaporized into dust. Amnesia.