The nose here is multifarious and wonderfully rich, with notes of beef burgundy and chanterelles. No wait: do they make psilocybin chanterelles? I ask because I’m getting them here, and it’s all morphing in real time right before my nose. What’s that? A saxophone made out of cattails? They’re nature’s corndogs! Ooooh…Typha laxmannii: even the scientific name is funky. That note now…it’s transformed as well: it’s now Shia LaBoeuf Burgundy. I’d say it’s really aromatic, but now I’m getting nervous he’s going to become a cargo plane or a railroad car. Nope…he’s out of view now and the scene has shifted again: pinecones litter the forest floor and half of them are dipped in caramel and studded with spicy flowers. I can’t remember now if I did that or if someone did that for me. I rub my hands together amid these earthy, green smells and realize: I’m a raccoon in rut trying to get the attention of a female Bowerbird. I’m living The Ballad of Rutty Raccoon (the bi-species curious lesbian raccoon). I’d worry when I might get out of this nose, but I like it here. You should see the stack o’ sticks the Bowerbird’s put together for me. She squeegees my third eye clean and offers me a hollowed out chestnut full of liquid…
The mouth is deep and dark like a cave full of mystery..and pork belly cooked to perfection. It’s unbelievably flavorable (is that word?) and hot and spicy and savory and powerful and redolent with coup d’etat. It swells like the subsequent sexual revolution that shifts the balance of power, but leaves everyone involved deeply satisfied. …What’s that humming? Must be this mushroom thing going on. It’s still going on here on the mouth, but now it’s musty, earthy, hallucenogenic morels. Look there! Who is that woman holding that basket of loose morels? Before I can get her name, she’s gone, I’m gone, and I find myself in an all-night rave, looking for my oversized binky.
The finish flows fluidly from the mouth like the techno beats from one inane song to the next. Or is it the same, crazy long song? Or am I just pure consciousness perceiving itself, as through a gorgeous amber liquid? The mustiness manhandles me from my metaphysics and leads me to a four-star soldiers’ footlocker in the sun after a winter of neglect. Hup one! Hup two! And now we’re marching…to the General’s drum.
The Compass Box The General is Hannibal–Riding a brigade of elephants across the Alps to kick some ass? Check. Ready to take on Caesar (not the salad)? Check. Trampling edelweiss? Check. Spear a few yodelers? Check. And he managed all that without the hallucinogenic ‘shrooms.
–Our thanks to Robin Robinson and Compass Box for the sample!