THE CHRONICLES OF SAINT DEL
A Compilation of Stories, Journal Extracts, and Letters From My Fairly Ordinary But Minutely Observed Life
“I swear to God, it’s all true.”
1969: Age 20
Hemmingway On Acid
When I was a youth, say about 20, in 1969, there was a large empty field off Ashton Road in Northeast Philly that we called Strawberry Fields. Campagna, Struck, Snives and I would drop acid and later, having freaked out elsewhere, we would go there and sit or lay on the haunted hulks of abandoned cars in the still of the late night or early morning, talking, staring at the sky, still spaced, cold but not wanting to leave each other, trying to figure it all out. We never did. And the sun would eventually rise and reveal this magical place for what it was by day: a neglected weed choked dump for things no longer valued. No delusions, no mysteries now, we would start home, the sun hard in our eyes.
Del (Saint, of the Fields)
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