| Home | Community | Message Board |
|
You are not signed in. Sign In New Account | Forum Index Search Posts Trusted Vendors Highlights Galleries FAQ User List Chat Store Random Growery » |
This site includes paid links. Please support our sponsors.
|
| |||||||
|
C.L.I.T. commander Registered: 08/10/13 Posts: 855 Loc: nowhere man Last seen: 9 years, 3 months |
| ||||||
|
I was thinking about sending this into a school lit contest buttt, I think I'd rather just share it with my fellow shroomerites :] Much love
What more can be said about those Iowan fields, corned and divvied amongst black-nailed millionaires? Those men, near fossils, cementing crickets in grass stained overalls with sallow cheeks wisped like smog, always a cigarette drying between their lips, they were given nothing but the damned dank dirt, sweet congealed bistre ink reeking of a wet metallic tang, and yet they found a way! By God, they found a way! The proof boasted in jagged fractals above their waning grey waves: putrefied nickel store caps adorned with gossamer sweat stains. For certain they were men that knew their roots, zealous tenders of their lots. Builders of the triad, they were, in effective union with both the Heavens and Earth, and the whole commotion made for some exciting times. Lips were abuzz about progress. There were flying machines in the sky! These farmers were undoubtedly of my kind, empire builders. Still, they cut me out all the same. Oh, rain! Perpetually knowing, you fall to wash our faults away, linger to watch our ways, and then up and float away, impregnating the great blue eye. It’s so insane, these things we do to be caressed, to tug hair and bite lips, all these external dangers we’ve braved, to fall now to an autoimmune condition seems so concave. Why must a genuine meeting of the minds proceed only after indelible pain? I dread this wave. I incite it all the same. This is my descent, yes, and all for a girl, always and only for a girl: a heavy, harrowing breath, deliberate, then, and a torrential sadness rearranging, saving, her face, Mother Earth, now. Oh legacies, how swiftly we forget our names in the thick of it! It’s magnificent! Still, the instilled autopilot compels the ethicist in my brain to whisper, “Enough! Enough!” through antiquated lips, brittle yet admirable as a purple stained-glass fog baked with yellow sun on Christmas morning. But the gut! There’s no taming the gut, especially now as we shift, once again, into its day and age, 2013. So this one is for you, Morgan, the prettiest flimsy albino twig in a dashiki wrap skirt to ever deliberately scar your arms. It’s for the mines along your veins, aiming in vain to extract society’s insidious little shame seeds. They named you felon and then locked you up, feeding you slop so that you had not the energy with which to dream. They did the same to me. They whispered bliss, gave you a needle with a wink, and looked the other way two times out of three while you played their worldview affirmation game. You had a role to play. You became their so sad, too bad story, paid off with several slaps upon the wrist. All the while I was to become their “we’ve done good,” smile. After all, my parents had some money. So we diverged. New crops kept sprouting up just the same. We lived on employee discounts at whichever fast food chains would forgive the marks on our names. I made shift manager. They made the banks. You chased the grave. And you can bet that at this very moment they’re laughing insane through a straight face with happy feet as they flourish to the scent of perfumed upholstery and spiced lamb through those hardwood hallways which will soon warp in a wet weasel scream remonstrating our love. They’ll get a taste of us. We’ll singe their tongues. The appendages will fall off, bloated, wiggling to the ground as a dried log of black dog feces, and the women will honk like geese as the men drink until their fattened feet try to up and float away in tan slipper-shoes. A consequence of perpetual fight and flight, I’ve gnashed teeth and chased sleep through most of my nights, a knife next to my marijuana pipe, just beneath what used to be your feather pillow. I’m done running away. The Earth is being murdered. Instead of tapping their resources, society is reducing impact, locking outliers away while those within the normal parameters keep on just the same. And that is insane, doing the same thing, expecting different results. They aren’t even trying. I mean, you just can’t manifest what you can’t dream. Hope is sparse when it’s easy to imagine various scenarios in which the doomsday will occur tomorrow, but nearly impossible to conceive a sustainable pattern of life without infringing upon the realm of preposterous pipedreams. Yet maybe that’s what we need, something absurd. Perhaps the dogma of consensual reality, the constrictions of what is thought possible and what isn’t, are the protractors of our sorrows, the ol’ infected lung. I’ve conversed with the dirt, yes. I have even passed away. I’ve communed with the divine, came back, and changed my name, yet still this frequency, this watermelon pink smelling vibrancy, heavier than the amber waves of jailhouse flashbacks engrained within my brain, won’t go away. It’s so viscous and steamy, and shrill as a hyena scream. It’s déjà vu creepy, sour, and dreamy. It’s globbed in Bavarian cream; it’s love. Fucking love! It’s the kind that vomits on a stranger’s shoes and then tells the person to kindly go get fucked. It wrote the anti-obscenity laws, and in the rectory bathroom, it lets the neighbor in through the window, and then breaks them all the same. True fucking love, all gross and ug, and glittered, and fucked, and smelling of pomegranate seed therapeutic hand crèmes, and Sundays at the mall; Love! It’s a slow fall, warm and steeped in fluid excrement as a drunkard’s whiskey dream, the tremors delirious and surely soon approaching as the yellow chicken sun screams through the passenger side window. Is it morning yet? Each heartbeat is a red kidney bean simmering; I’m falling off. You’ve chosen the needle over me. Still I’m anything but meek! I mean, I’ve broken into the vaults of the sky, hijacked the book of fate, and wrote in our names, but you just nod and drool, fall straight off your stool, then bitch about how you are so over celestial dictates. Oh, yeah? Well, the kettle is black, babe. So passes another day, so greys another pain, and the general consensus is that I should smile and swagger all beautiful and frayed like it probably don’t bother none. In that respect the Earth and I are the same, playing to be so cool and strong. But there’s decrepitude amongst my limbs, anguish in the songs sung by the wind between the leaves, betwixt the forests and their ruminative fogs, and we’re really dying here, boo, we’re barely struggling along. As I speak only in failures, in forgotten metaphors, I bastardize this utter love. I dare make it yours and mine. It’s been my way to ingratiate myself with wrong, their “wrong”, and then ruin myself on wine. But I am so over predetermined fates, now, Morgan. I’m taking the reins of this awful life. The rain has come. I live for the approaching strife. ¥ It’d been raining for the greater part of eternity, y’know? About a week, if you’re into those clean cut things, linears and all that. What remained of Brad was in the kitchen mincing some grade D “meat”, and I, of course, was staring out the window again. Neighbor girl was learning to hula hoop, and my eyes were cattle prods fixed on her butt, aiming to lust. “It should come easy, without trying too much.” Platitudes from the writer’s workshop, dandelion seeds stuck in my spiderweb mind, the kind of shit that would whistle through the gap in Bradley’s teeth as he came down upon a line. A snort, a shriek, and then nod-bobbing disbelief he’d always reply, “Sure, buddy. So they say.” That was always his way, detachment which bungee jumped into manic disbelief when the chemicals ran laps around his brain. He and I were about the same, barring that I was too white-knuckled to turn the volume up. Plus, I had all of my teeth. “Eh, go fuck a ditch, Bradley.” And that heated blanket, the abominable one with its circuitry run amok, God bless it, because, lord knows, it had all of me, had left him largely untouched. “What is it this time?” He asks, without moving his lips. Typical him, always peeping in on my wavelength. Oh, love! “Jean shorts,” I reply, aloud. Entering the room for a peak, he blow-kisses a Doppler shift whistle, “Bea-u-ti-ful.” “Yeah, man. Yeah.” After a dream is executed, it’s cast into the cosmos along an intention wavelength, soon to return disguised, yet mostly the same, having undergone revision. The dream residue which isn’t sent out coagulates around the senses, influencing how we collapse our waking reality in the interim. “Do you know where your end is at, yet?” He presses, bigger than he seems. Things aren’t straightforward in the realm of dreams. They occur in symbols. It takes conscious effort to recall and decode such symbols. Therefore dream work ultimately becomes an active, collaborative process between different levels of brain activity. It’s the modern day self-contained globalism, the functioning of the whole being. “Naw man,” I lick my teeth. “I don’t care enough to know that.” And the inner journey? Simply the manifest destiny of this dawning age. “Hmm,” Brad moans, shifting wildly. His metal baseball cleats clack like spoons against the stone floor. The sound echoes and then re-echoes with a wet slap-back delay. My eyes cross. When the subconscious is agitated, it stimulates the conscious into such a level of activity that sleep is no longer possible. This is why a subject often wakes during moments of intensity during both good and bad dreams; it’s a result of stimulation, as well as a form of escapism. After all, the subconscious has no methods for coping aside from taking things square on the chin. “But isn’t,” he pushes, “that what you’re really after here, bud?” The motor of the refrigerator shifts into exhaust mode in the kitchen. His words are so many wormed lures stabbing at my brain. The walls are ambrosia, and the tap continues to run. “Why’d you leave that on?” my eyes shift sideways. But to wake from this vague house on the hill in which I still have a good friend by my side, bland food to eat, and a so-so neighbor girl that doesn’t particularly shine, into a world full of delusional demons within which your own tax dollars feed the budgets of state institutions that stunt your spiritual potential by enforcing limits on your consciousness, as well as stunt your physical potential by entering unannounced with weapons drawn, hungry to shoot your dog, already convinced that their boot is going to have its way with your nose, that isn’t escapism. No, that’s waking during wartime. Brad blinks snail-paced and then smirks. “This room is bugged, mannn!” He swats away a horsefly. That’s waking into a world full of history in which already tense patterns of social change fueled by a divergence between values amongst different generations and classes is hopelessly complicated by the rapid evolution of technology that is now accessible to both the powerful and the subverted. And it’s with this technology that the ratios of dominance fluctuate dramatically in short periods of time, as if the manifested spirit of this war itself is manic depressive. The trickledown effect of this causes hell for those individuals who were already spiritually weak part in due because of the fetters the state placed upon their consciousness. So desolation thrives. “There’s no furniture here, Brad…” What isn’t clear is where this desolation ultimately leads. Suicide for some, surely. Depression, anxiety, overeating, drug addiction, over-glorification of sex, petty crimes, violence, acts of terrorism, consumerism, deliberate reproduction, social clubs, and artistic expression for others. “Guess we aren’t planning on staying,” he mutters, licking at nasal discharge caked on his upper lip. When the behaviors generate temporary joy, it’s faux shamanism. Subjects are duped into believing that they’ve transformed negative energy into positive vibes in a meaningful way. While a change may’ve occurred, it’s hardly enough, and swiftly fades. By putting on an earnest, heart on the sleeve display, these subjects have merely texturized their personal realities. Perhaps this may lead to some positivity within the consensual sphere, but only indirectly. Often it’s just laughed away. “Or,” he continues, “we’re remodeling. Yeah, maybe.” “If all of the trees leave a forest, Brad, does Neighbor Girl still put on her jean shorts, come outside, and shake her ass?” “That, bud, is the real question.” The man in me thinks that even if she does, the hoop just won’t stay up. Not without us. We make her shake in that special way which causes Bradley and me to be brothers hell-bent to dig the other’s grave, which one of us has actually done. Remember Cain and Abel? Cain was a farmer and Abel was a shepherd. Abel’s offering to Yahweh of animal was loved more than Cain’s one of crops. A teacher of mine wondered if it was God’s way of punishing the sedentary lifestyle farming requires when the cast in Genesis had not yet arrived at the place he wanted them to settle. “Brad…” “Yeah?” “You’re a piece of fuck.” I think of felony probation, and how it froze me up. No more crossing county or state borders without permission, no chance of moving away no matter how I feel about the place. It pisses more than me off. This is how I wake, most days. ¥ “I was tripping on two hits of…anyways I found the river out in the woods and followed it all night. Must’ve thrown out my back.” Hunched up as an armadillo slug, the drifter stooped, wearing earrings made of moon. Self-conscious aberrations, both paranoid and shy, they ushered attention towards his sugar plum drop eyes, which were dark as a pair of tumblers of Burgundy wine inked with black licorice and rimmed with glistering sugar-shards fading from forest to granny apple green. I’d seen them before, the eyes, I mean. I’d seen them in a dream. The man I’d seen early the previous morning as I hop-skipped my way towards the middle class needle exchange, at which Starbuck’s will kindly give one a 12 oz. brew of their drip coffee if said fiend turns in a spent bag of the company’s commercial grounds. It felt so right that he’d make his approach at this second sundown, fevered with certainties about which he could not speak. Language is such a desolate place! His sunken face flushed in agitation sketched memories of a night I once spent in a southwestern state, the teenage desert moon broken out into ugly dust pockets, and the rail thin air unbearably dry. I recall how the universe had first escorted me into the VFW, and then offered an exchange; 2 hits of Family blotter for a jack and cola. I bought the vessel two. You see, Family is… well, God works in mysterious ways. Man, was that acid great! I talked in tongues for days. I knew what it was to hurt. However, that’s a different story for a future time, for around a campfire, over a sheet lined with fates which will spin us out into stranger days. Anyways, the drifter was no doubt my kin. He smelled of distressed radio waves. My nose hairs squirmed amongst the forwardness just as one’s eye-floaters flit-flutter after a blow to the brain, and it was all very much warm in a ‘teeth turned to mashed potatoes’ sort of way. I mean, my eyelids pretty much had to droop. A man out of orbit he was, a function of a past day and age in somebody else’s suit jacket, hiccupping the, “I got the endless language-signification chain,” blues, breath stained by last year’s vermouth. Nothing was new. It’d just fallen out for a bit. Was his surprise feigned when instead of giving him, “the crummiest notebook ya got,” I provided two in near new shape? Or had he already forgot what he knew just the night before along the river, in the woods, his back bent and the thickets slick with crescent moon, a ragdoll in an intangible flow? Had he forgot that something was on its way? “What was it that you were tripping on, last night?” “Oh, just two hits of kush.” “Ah, kush,” I sighed. “I’m an acid man, myself.” “Acid? Oh, that stuffs too much for me,” he blinked, his nose twitching. “Acid, Mescaline, all of that. I ate it back in the 70’s. It was too much for me, made it feel like I had water in my mouth.” “Yeah,” my eyes shimmered as I cocked my head to the side, “that’ll happen.” He stole God’s smile as I watched the fluorescent bulbs gyrate along his teased white strands. After offering a name, a number, and a pump of his hand, he was on his way. George E. B., my comrade, a writer, a relay pulsating so rapid that he made not a sound as I watched him stoop-stumble into the folds of this precocious city, eyes to the ground as if he was just another rustic boxcar marooned, hankering for a slice of genuine pie. Your intuition is remarkable my friend, my fellow dog, familiar amongst the throes. Rabbit season is coming. Follow your nose. ¥ The name Douglas, signifying “dark river,” is Scottish in origin, and dates back to the 16th century. John, my middle name, is one of antiquity, and means “YAHWEH is gracious.” In my two birth titles alone, one can discern the interplays between darkness and light, as well as the natural and divine, that have composed my personal history thus far. By apparent happenstance, such relationships are paralleled within my given teenage pseudonym, snakefish. Reminiscent of the serpent of Eden, the snake is a pusher of a forbidden fruit which causes an expansion of consciousness within those that consume it. The fish, on the other hand, hearkens back to the Ichthys, known in modern day as the “Jesus fish.” Now a frivolous bumper sticker, the Ichthys was originally a symbol early Christians used to indicate their belonging to the counter-culture. It was a survival mechanism which was developed at the onset of the previous cycle, a period during which Christians were still being persecuted by dominant cultural forces within the Roman Empire. Could those early Christians ever have conceived that the next 2,000 years would see their institution rise the ranks to become the strongest on the Earth? I suspect so. Stories of direct communication with the divine were common amongst this starting crew. After all, faith alone doesn’t start movements, incentives do. These people knew exactly what they were getting into, how it would all play out. They’d seen the dream. It was just a matter of putting in the hours, bringing it into fruition. When I first hit the Dead tour of ‘09, I witnessed the crustiest of junkies jack a kid of 16 in the face because the child wouldn’t buy one of his “microbrews” (“Brewed right in these here lots! $8 a bottle!”). That boy, I felt I’d been, and that fist was once assigned as mine. In that moment time ceased to be linear, matter shifted from particles to waves, and I was the clown in the dunking tank, lousy as the lewd carnival air ripped away from me. Past, present, and future interweaved, the blanket was bloody, and the wolves were mean. The wolf was me. So I made a move. I stepped in with a great fire. Some stuff happened, y’know, mostly self-immolation, and after shit cooled the babe gushed, “Mannnn, you’re like… lot justice, man.” The wooks went wild. “Lot Justice! Lot Justice!” they’d squeak, lungs filled with rippled nitrous dreams. “Lot Justice, mannnnn,” they’d womp, slipping LSD into my lot grilled cheese. “Lot-uh uh, uhh, Justice.” They’d mumble, offering me fat gaggers of “molly” that were actually 2C-E. It took a lot of shows to fully appreciate the wisdom they were offering, those dreadlocked lab rats of the road, our modern merry pranksters. A filthy, blissed-up bunch, the wooks were masters of the microcosm, sideshow prophets teaching through misery. Every couple of days would see us posted up in a new lot, a new town, quite often a new state. With eye droppers full of hope and enough research chemicals to kick the whole wide blues away, they’d descend into debauchery, intermixing with the locals, heaps of trash piling up all the while. And much like the biblical Lot, who escaped oblivion by following direct advice from God to flee Sodom, when the shit got too thick, there was always a deadhead angel queen to bite my shoulder, drag me to heaven-a nearby motel with blankets, air conditioning, and endless buckets of ice-, and make a proper fool of me. Not once could I willingly repay those fairies through open eyes, however. Seeing Cana waste to Gomorrah in less than 48 hours hurts. It makes you try to swallow your own tongue, claw your way through clusterfucks of unkempt bangs. Shadows ink themselves around your eyes and every cool breeze that sifts through your heat wave life is achingly, blatantly finite. With a stomach full of chemistry and an all-knowing mind you age real quick, sure enough. Such are the effects of love. Truth is, I was ready to just go. And gratefully, one night I did, beside a shaman and filled with a medicinal mix. I went limp. My pulse ceased to exist, and a door opened within my mind. But like any plan of love I design, they simply wouldn’t have me for keeps, the divine. The timing wasn’t right. So I awoke naked and stoned to a tyrant’s drum, purged of all but my love. Dizzy, I rolled over onto my palms and screamed raw as a dog, my worthless back a network of birth spasms, and my intestines full of mud. Laughing somewhere within me, the shaman offered his only verbal exchange, “Blue Heeler.” It was the dawn of Fall, I recall, and I’d returned in a fragile state. The still single women on tour were getting squirrely, looking for prized acorns they could tuck away. I fell prey to a debilitating feeding frenzy. They’d sedate me and play to hate me as they forced a fire and got themselves fucked. They were my family, my daughters, twice my age, familiars to the cops, and my heart still aches for them in a phantom limb syndrome, each pang humming at a frequency which just isn’t mine. Sucked dry with sinuses pricked by knives, I’d shoot bourbon and squint my eyes tight, doing my best to weather the lows, strung out on the sad dance, ready for the next show. ¥ When one takes LSD, the thresholds of their senses widen. Instead of becoming exposed to alien environments, as is common with DMT, or mere distortions of what is usually seen, which occurs on psilocybin mushrooms, the acidhead observes more stimuli in finer detail than they do sober. Reality appears in flux, moving just as the waves on the horizon of a hot asphalt road do. Benchmarks of distinction, boundaries, become less rigid. The internal and external ebb and recede like waves upon a beach. Even more profound are the lines of interconnection which become apparent in what is usually perceived to be “empty” space. Get yourself a good batch and you will observe an astronomical number of lines moving throughout the air, connecting the distinction you deem as “your” body to each and everything else in immediate existence, and beyond. Something as simple as a wave of the finger may lead to a twitch of a squirrel half that is half of a block to the west. One condition of merely existing is that we have a great potential for influence, and it’s practiced in every minute action, every little thought, or intention, that we carry out. As string theory has matured in recent years, physicists have finally reached a place where they can contribute something meaningful to the discussion on the true nature of reality (which is a much welcomed step towards social progress. Science is the dominant discourse of western society. It’s also the smuggest and slowest. The practice doesn’t serve the role of discovery so much as it does the role of enforcement.) While string theory is an umbrella term which hosts a multitude of semi-exclusive viewpoints, most theorists within the field agree that the origin of everything which we perceive are the rapid vibrations of strings in the 11th dimension. As humans, we’re only capable of perceiving reality in 4 dimensions: length, width, height, and time. As subjects we are quantum observers, collapsing and condensing vibrations through the upper dimensions of which we can only conceive, to form the reality that we perceive. And we do it by nature! We’re born creators, each one of us. The makings of any imaginable scenario do in fact exist somewhere in the 11th dimension. Well programmed, we tend to collapse reality in accordance with the law of probability, most often creating a highly feasible next moment. For instance, it’s unlikely that one second from now that the step I’m taking in Iowa will transport me to India. It is in fact possible, however, that it will. It would seem magical to our limited senses, but would be quite logical if we were able to see the bigger picture; most likely some sort of fold (much like folding the adhesive ends of a wrist-band until they touch; what was distant before is now connected) would occur within the 5th dimension, one which connected my very point in Iowa to India, and the completion of my step would, of course, see me in India. It’s my belief that the fluidity of the visual world while experiencing an acid high is the result of vibrations coming into being (should we understand “being” as meaning, “to exist in a predictable, measurable state”) . It’s as if we’re seeing these moments rain down, the matter of which exists simultaneously as both particles and waves, an ocular paradox. They need not yet appear to make utter sense because they aren’t quite locked within the 4 dimensions. They’re still to be determined by you, and then revised by me. These surreal, forbidden glances are the very things from which arise creeds, and it’s all attainable through a substance with a recipe. Look no further for the philosopher’s stone! LSD is a powerful aid in realizing the extent of your potential as both a conscious and unconscious, decision making, reality creating being. It’s through the ecstasy of following this route that it can even be considered as a recreational drug; this celebration of exploring our capabilities. We’re just children joyously learning to walk. Should one be freed from the fetters of consensual reality while tripping, should they become fearless enough to play with the overwhelming blank slate of a child, they can make magnificent things happen. But this is hardly ever the case. Instead, people more or less keep a tight grip on the learned parameters. When they see the points of tangible interconnection between all beings, they degrade them into the classification of “visuals”, mere side-effects of a drug that don’t actually exist outside of this strange stretch of time. When they are filled with inexplicable feelings of certainty that they are capable of something great but odd, they experience anxiety, and punish themselves with negative vibes under the pretense that they are losing their mind. It’s not my intention to represent LSD as a substance devoid of potential dangers. After all, even excesses of vitamins can be harmful (an overdose of potassium, for instance, can cause sudden cardiac arrest). This being said, it’s my experience that the public conception of the potential dangers that it poses are predominantly absurd, tending to be sensationalistic. In The Active/Lethal Dose Ratio and Dependence Level Chart of Psychoactive Drugs, LSD is scored to be as physically safe as marijuana, with a much lower addiction potential. There is no evidence that taking LSD causes any physical damage to the human body, whether in normal or rather large doses. The average dose of the substance is about 100 micrograms. There are reports of a person having taken 40,000 micrograms and surviving without long term effects. The only instance of an overdose with the substance was reported when a man injected 320,000 microgram (3,200 doses), into his heart, mistaking the substance for speed. The potential psychological dangers are much harder to address. For those predisposed to serious mental afflictions, LSD is thought to act as a catalyst to the onset of symptoms. For those who aren’t, there is still the risk for an anxiety ridden “bad” trip. Most of this anxiety arises from the fact that western cultures have not yet created norms for dealing with the acid head. When a drunk person is encountered, it’s common knowledge that you give the person, if they’re being docile, a glass of water and a safe place to sober up. Because of the unwarranted stigma LSD carries, members of society are often quick to throw the acidhead to the dogs. Or even worse; they call the cops. One’s first LSD experience can be especially terrifying, particularly because there has been no outside group of people incessantly reminding you that your senses are deceiving (except for Nietzsche, but even Nietzsche doesn’t like Nietzsche). You’ve constructed your worldview on these facts that you believe to be empirical, and it’s a pretty big pill to swallow, realizing just how wrong most of what you believe has been. It takes bravery to choose to be freed from your fetters and walk out of the cave. The sun is blinding at first. Most people would rather stay where they know they are safe, and perpetuate their distorted view on reality. In addition to reinforcing our various pains, the constant support of consensual reality tanks the capabilities of the spiritual healers of our world. A shaman is only as powerful as the society which surrounds him. The staggering number of spiritually disenfranchised down-and-outs across all statuses within western culture act in ways which scream that they need a healer, but they’re structured in such a way that vehemently prevents one (hence the desperate beauty of the touring counter-culture; temporary parking lot societies with unique norms, as well as blissed out inhabitants, which offer quick boosts to the cosmic immune system). As an entity, industrialized society is an addict irrationally stuck in their patterns of self-destruction, and all signs indicate that the bottom will be the grave. So ends the human race, and with it, the Earth. In 2000, the American DEA bravely made the largest LSD bust to date, after which the worldwide availability of the substance dropped by roughly 90%. To reduce impact, MDMA, which had been primarily sold as ecstasy pills cut with adulterants until this time, became widely available in a pure powder form known as “molly”. For the most part, molly produces a more functional high than ecstasy, and is easier on the body. It’s truly the love drug which mainstream media always made ecstasy out to be, encouraging heartfelt sharing and feelings of camaraderie between the consumer and the world. Molly did what molly does on the touring scene; it produced a plethora of positive vibes upon which shamans could become energized. There’s a flip-side to MDMA, however; it’s a social substance. The way in which it exaggerates angles and lines in the visual field actually draws a person further into fixed reality, as well as their sense of self. Whereas LSD is an awakening to the other dimensions of being, MDMA is a hyper-frequency within the 4 dimensions that we can perceive, one which optimizes what we can do with what is allowed to be. MDMA bends the rules. LSD rewrites them. If we are to posit the two substances as opposite ends of an ideological spectrum, I wonder just where we’d fall, us as human beings. Are we more so trace artists or inventive beings? Do we collapse best only within conscious savvy, rationally informed parameters, or should we also factor in our unconscious intuitions and dreams? Into what are we to evolve? At one ends lies rational specialization, and the other a synergy which arises from the whole being. Imagine a shift away from the carrot and the stick, one in which we become collaborators with the higher realm of beings. Obviously we needed to spend our time imbalanced towards the rational to develop our faculties to even become aware of just how such a change could come to be. But if we’re ready to make a change, we’ll need help to transition into the next scene. It’s time to shift towards spiritual intuition. We need to restructure our cultures to mimic those of the shamanic traditions, as well as to promote the healthy, goal-based consumption of LSD. With an increase of spirituality will come an increase in awareness of the true implications of our destructive actions, as well as a deeper appreciation of the Earth. LSD can be the catalyst of such a major paradigm shift within the masses, and such a shift is necessary if we are to prevent the destruction of the Earth. ¥ Lot is also a name of antiquity, Hebrew in origin, meaning “covering, veil.” Veiled justice… perhaps this is what the “dark river,” that Douglas signifies conceals within its depths. The progression of nicknames is even significant; first came the snake in snakefish, the serpent of Eden pushing an inexplicably forbidden fruit which expands consciousness. When consumed, said fruit bestowed upon Adam and Eve a sense of right and wrong. After years of maturation these concepts finally intersect with the notion of their enforcement; justice. Many claim that attachment is the Devil’s way, one of his coy tricks to desecrate the love among us, to use it as his weapon. To remedy this situation, a common suggestion is to sever your attachment to all sentient beings. Such a prospect doesn’t sit right with the things that I’ve seen, however. Even more important, though, is that it doesn’t feel right to me. The night of my demise, as I unfurled into the lazy grey clouds of the autumn night sky, feeling the very beads of my existence waver on the verge of ceasing to be, there was still her, and because so, there was still me. She was the first thing that I’d seen when I was birthed from the dirt, the condition of my being, my soul mate, the total rectification of past and future pains. Also, the elders of my lineage with which I reconvened, those that now train me for the battles which lie ahead in my nightly dreams, they were most definitely attached. The divine were attached. And we all knew pain, and continued to know it all the same. Adam and Eve chose to be born from the fruit of that tree. Into what were they born? They were born as human beings, the lowest on the totem pole of angels. Evolution is possible however, and it’s both an individual and collective journey. Heaven is the day in which we all become saints. I’ll proudly permeate this world tethered, forever. Until the rubbing of a feather wears away the entirety of a stainless steel globe, I’ll chose to wander, before I give this attachment up, and simply leave my soul mate for dogs. It’s true love, and that may not be everyone’s path, but it’s part of the plan, us. Somehow, someway, she will take my hand, and the people of this world will become our children, bursting with potential in their own beautiful ways, and you best believe that I will rain like fire on any demons which block their ways. By God, through her, through us, and because of them, the Earth will not die. Strange memories tonight as I sit shirtless in the passenger seat, staring west and sipping on a cup of cold coffee, black. Goosebumps dance across the Steadman piece on my saturated chest. With the right set of eyes I can see that very same high watermark Mr. Thompson, or rather, Raoul Duke, relates seeing in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It’s the mark where the wave of the hippie zeitgeist of the late 60’s broke, rolling back upon itself. It’s the place where cosmic will and the will of a promising counter-culture diverged. The counter-culture disintegrated, and with it died any true morality intertwined within the concept of the American Dream. Most anybody worth a damn renounced their citizenship and hit the road with the Dead. The rest became the machine. “Where do you want to eat?” my father asks. “Cheddar’s or Chili’s?” It had been a blistering summer day, and despite the undeniable dark of night, the heat refuses to die. My family is packed into a four door Ford without window tints, and I’m laughing mad through the sweat while the satellite radio brings us a concert from the Dead tour of ‘73. “That’s on you and Ma. Hey,” I nod, “there’s my homeless buddy.” At a four way intersection ahead, George is humping his way across the street. “He’s homeless?!” “Yeah, but he has nice clothes. He keeps them in a suitcase down by the river, I think. That’s probably where he’s heading now.” My father laughs. “That guy probably has a mansion on the other side of the hill.” He probably does. In fact, I visited once, in a dream.
| |||||||
|
Manifesting Minds Registered: 02/27/08 Posts: 4,144 Last seen: 6 months, 1 day |
| ||||||
|
Let me say i read about 100 first lines and its beautiful, you are very good!!
![]() You were jumping between earth, probably about a girl and a friend?! How that about LSD?^^ The like fourty lines you write with much more rhymes like a sonet later its more of a story. Anyway i would like to read it all sometime late:-) -------------------- ![]()
| |||||||
| |||||||
|
| Similar Threads | Poster | Views | Replies | Last post | ||
![]() |
rough draft of a song | 713 | 5 | 09/19/04 06:15 PM by adamj | ||
![]() |
Tat: The rough, rough draft | 897 | 8 | 08/10/04 06:39 PM by NewfoundFreedom | ||
![]() |
LSD Or Mush during Music Preformance ¿? | 317 | 4 | 03/16/18 11:51 PM by Blipstir | ||
![]() |
Musicians...Shrooms or LSD? ( |
7,987 | 26 | 07/16/10 11:49 AM by Sunny | ||
![]() |
Short Story: Dimitri | 798 | 3 | 03/30/05 06:53 AM by JacquesCousteau | ||
![]() |
First Draft of self portrait | 1,255 | 10 | 12/13/04 08:57 PM by vampirism | ||
![]() |
Critique my short story | 689 | 2 | 05/20/04 01:22 PM by manna_man | ||
![]() |
Another Gangster Story (more short fiction) | 806 | 2 | 02/15/05 04:39 PM by TinTree |
| Extra information | ||
| You cannot start new topics / You cannot reply to topics HTML is disabled / BBCode is enabled Moderator: Middleman, automan, DividedQuantum 560 topic views. 0 members, 3 guests and 0 web crawlers are browsing this forum. [ Show Images Only | Sort by Score | Print Topic ] | ||



