Tom is my local guide. We are in some sort of arcade or flea-market. He gives me three small marshmallow cubes and after I woof them down – they taste... funny – he tells me I've ingested some new psychotropic drug. “Like acid but worse / different,” he says, laughing. But it's a friendly laugh, not sinister.
I start tripping – vividly! – as he leads me through rapidly-mutating, marshmallow-coloured streets. It's a crazy (half-hour in dream-minutes) vibrant trip: people's faces take on muted pastel colours and soft donut / dough-mixture-like textures with clown and policeman features stuck on like, I dunno, fruit cocktail face-furniture: everyone we pass in the street a psychedelic Mister Potatohead, but with Eighties colourschemes.
It soon becomes evident that the nameless drug – in a cliched Flow My Tears type PDK inversion – is changing Reality, rather than just my own perceptions. I worry – and here comes the dreams anxiety-component – that my own inner neuroses will be imprinted on the outside world; that I'll never get the 'old' world back; that I won't be able to play the gig if I'm this fried.
Tom reassures me. He's a friendly, humorous, benign guide. "Nothing lasts forever", "embrace the change", "it'll be okay in the end" seem to be the closed-triad of messages / feelings that flow in as the 'trip' starts to recede.
He takes me to a(nother) flea-market: there's a table full of weird, colourful and extremely interesting pamphlets for sell at incredibly reasonable prices. The exchange rate is currently VERY favourable. A pamphlet-book catches my eye. Everything is written in some sort of made-up Pseudo-Finnish language. I forget what the booklet was or seemed to be about, but someone had written the words “Ken Kesey” in pencil, but they were faint, barely readable, a message from what now seemed so long ago.