Ayahuasca Tourist

“Ayahuasca is a traditional indigenous sacramental tea primarily made of two plants, Ayahuasca (B. Caapi) - the “vine of the Soul/Dead” - which contains the Monoamine oxydase inhibitors (MAOIs) Harmine & Harmaline, and the admixture Chacruna (P. Viridis) which contains Dimethyltriptamine (DMT) - the first recognized endogenic (meaning naturally produced within the human body) psychoactive substance. MAOIs prevent the digestion of DMT by enzymes in the human body, thereby allowing it to become orally active. The sacrament served in ceremonies with the _______ is prepared according to traditional Amazonian methods.”

Literature is such a bad influence. I used to be a good clean kid. Then I read books.

Then I read Grant Morrison interviews. Then Robert Anton Wilson, and then RAW on Tim Leary. As discussed, I recently read on Dan Pinchbeck’s adventures in shamanism-- 2012 the Return of Quetzalcoatl. And Disinfo Press books on magic-- Generation Hex and the Book of Lies. Lately I’ve been deep in the Archaic Revival by Terence McKenna. P. K. Dick’s VALIS experience. Crowley. Icke. Countless junkie memoirs and esoteric texts through the ages.

So where is the shamanic drug scene inwhich I get to apply this knowledge? How am I to be enlightened already?

Baring occasional and infrequent psilocybin experimentation, I haven’t gone all out. Not yet.

And then I did, and it’s about time.

A few months back H_____ recommended to me a group that performs native South American ceremonies, engaging the powerful ayahuasca psychedelic. I put the information on the back burner and it took a long time to get around to it, and then I read more books and was further inspired; and so I emailed the A_____ B___ group and I committed to a ritual.

Timewave-crunching and I eagerly awaited; I followed the preparatory instructions and spent all week on a healthy lifestyle. I didn’t smoke cigarettes. I already don’t eat meat so the no pork part was easy. I even fasted the day before. I avoided coffee, which was difficult. No sex they said (simple enough for me and my track record lately!), though I also forced myself not to masturbate for five whole days and this was an exceedingly horrendous challenge, but I made it with my balls intact and a surprising amount of free time at my disposal. (All those lonely 3:00 AM’s away from internet porn . . .)

(Yet, as for the alcohol restriction . . . well the night before I found myself at a poetry reading and free wine was available, and I got a tad drunk, and I really was not supposed to do this. It completely escaped my mind. In retrospect, this explains a few things about my reaction. Well, such are life’s challenges and I dealt with it.)

I got a ride all the way to the city of T_____, CA. Through winding dangerous mountainy roads into unincorporated hippie town, and I was worried because I showed up a half-hour late, but once again I shouldn’t have worried about being late because it was still to be many hours before we began.

I made it to the strange address and walked into the house. My ride drove away. Kind smiling faces greeted me; they all wore white, as instructed. (but I don’t own white pants. I wore grey jeans. Jeans are comfortable to me anyways; I sleep in my jeans, and some find that strange). I found a spot on the floor and set up my meager sheets and pillow. Unprepared, I was given another blanket and a sweatshirt for warmth. “Here, take this shirt. It’s made out of bamboo!” “Thank you, what a selling point.”

Such nice happy white folks. With names like Elijah, Satchi, Touch-Eyes, and John. 18 in all to sit around in a circle, 10 guys and 8 girls. And a funny dog wandered about. I had no plans for a ride back home, but I figured I could ask someone later, and sure enough I met C________ and she said she’d drive me to an LA train stop the next day. I sat next to a fellow Israeli M____. D___ was there, glad I recognized a familiar face in, and I talked to her about journalism and Tarot and the coming experience.

A lesson in extreme patience. We waited for hours, in meditation and yoga stretches and taking naps on the floor to the sounds of an Australian dijiridoo. I kept my phone in my backpack in the other room, which was good or otherwise I would check the time incessantly. Here was timelessness.

F______ finally arrived and we were set to begin. Boys and girls were separated. Followed by more patience as he set up the altar and slowly explained the rules for another hour. “Be quiet. No talking. Go to the bathroom slowly and quietly. Make sure you bring a Tupperware container with a lid for your purging.” (I never did throw up, though my stomach would boil over painfully and I wished I did.) “No drinking water for the first hour. Keep your eyes shut. Sit up straight.”

I brought my stack of twenties and paid. I paid a lot more than I reasonably should have, but I paid for the ritual as well as the chemicals. “Any student discount?” I asked. “Starving artist fund scholarship?” “No,” they answered. “Your personal sacrifice is a necessary and important aspect.” Fine, I was willing to part, but it was worth asking.

“There is a good energy here today,” he said. “This is an ancient ritual, passed down through the millennia. Keep your intentions clear.” (I intend to be a good human being),
“and one at a time I will call you up and ask you your tolerance level, and anoint you with oil, and your journey will begin.”

The lights were turned off and in the darkness, led by a candle, I sat before F______. I asked for a medium dosage of medicine as he analyzed my aura and mixed together a concoction, and I drank from the little ceramic cup. Ayahuasca is thick and bittery tea and kind of sweet. My throat burned. I chewed on ginger. My mouth grew dry but I wasn’t allowed to drink water.

I crawled back to my space and sat in a meditation posture and I awaited an effect. I had my little mantra and sat still and breathed in pranayama breath and visualized the Anahata hexagram and attempted to open my heart chakra and all that usual daily junk.

But when it kicked in, I realized, this has nothing to do with Eastern meditation. This is quite something else.

This is not about being still, finding your center, transcendental, nothink, Zazen, or any kind of chackra workout. This is shamanism, and this is a dance.

I rocked back and forth and my neck was wobbly and I opened my eyes and I looked around at all the strange black-and-white heads, and my stomach bubbled, and I listened to the annoying Spanish singing, and I started seeing things.

Everything in extreme contrasts of black and white, my neighbors in charcoal skin. And then the colors, the little Red-Green-Blue pixels like when you look at a TV screen too close, because I’m looking at the universe too close and perceiving something inbetween. Unable to look straight, no focal points, pupils flowing and my vision dripping like water, and everything was fuzzy.

I closed my eyes, and the pictures came.

I grabbed my notebook and I scribbled notes so that I would not forget.

I was confronted with my own superficiality.

The machine-elves that McKenna spoke of, the weavers of reality, they came to me as silly little 80s pop culture references.

Characters flashing before me

Because this is the mythology of my youth.

I weep for this fact.

(On some level I found a new level of letting go; never having cried openly since childhood.)

I saw Ninja Turtles toys and cutesy monsters and video game characters.

I saw the mysterious pyramids of Mario 3 and there was a secret underneath.

I realized that I am a deeply superficial person and this is all nonsense.

These are no more mysteries. I’m too well-read. I know too much. Passion escapes me, reality is intellectualized and questioned and I could interpret this a thousand ways and all that work would be missing the point.

Even if aliens came through the door I wouldn’t care; I would question it, and it would never be real.

The aliens came, and they agreed with me.

I demanded an apology from God, for giving up all the mysteries too easily.

I weeped and weeped. Then I laughed.

I wanted to sleep but F______ made me sit up, which was probably for the best.

I realized that I don’t believe in anything and I will never be passionate, because I just want to think about what I’ll write about later and never live in the moment of the experience.

I wrote this down.

I tried to throw up but I couldn’t.

Ten thousand colors and words banged through my head at once and I couldn’t keep up.

I walked to the pink bathroom and looked at myself naked before the mirror.

I cried and cried.

It was terrifying.

I don’t know why everyone says this is about peace and love and light. It’s not. It’s a horror.

I realized that my path, my contribution to the Great Work, my True Will, will never be about peace and love. I’m not like these Jesus-lookin guys and these smiling white girls. I am here to experience suffering and darkness. I’m here to be scared and confront the bullshit.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

I don’t believe in fear, I am not into that. But I do believe in terror and sometimes you got to embrace your own inner darkness in the process of getting over fear.

You can learn more from a bad trip than a pleasant one.

I listened to the sounds of breathing and gagging as they threw up around me. My stomach was in so much pain and yet I wouldn’t purge.

F______’s singing went from Spanish to English. “We are all children of light, its okay it’s all right.” In Spanish, for me, it was in the background and not entirely unpleasant. His English singing was far too distracting. Luckily, I use earplugs in my own meditations and brought some with me, and that helped.

And the buzz went down, and I had an experience and I’m still here and life goes one. I wanted a second dose. But I was too eager, the second batch was too small, and I didn’t go deep enough.

I was on the threshold of experiencing something real, but I limited myself and couldn’t make it far enough. It was too physically painful. It was easier to think about cartoons and the sad loss of Western intellectualizations. Perhaps the remnants of alcohol in my system ruined it. My heart was never opened, just my head.

I napped until sunrise, as they sang and danced and sat. I don’t know what’s so special about ayahuasca. It was extreme, but it wasn’t that terribly different than my marginal experiences with mushrooms or even just getting real real high via pot. Drugs never seem to work on me correctly.

I think the ritual was more important than the actual chemicals. And this is what makes me uncomfortable.

Afterwards he ended the ritual with conspiracy theory talk, “sovereigns don’t have to pay taxes or follow laws according to the Constitution” (so I’ve heard but never seen proved) “America is dangerous and the dark powers taking over is just around the corner.” Again with NWO/Illuminati meme.

Apparently F______ is moving to South America tomorrow to start his own temple. Honestly, I worry that he has the makings of a cult leader. He has much wisdom, to be sure, much to be learned from and very trained in these arts. But all idealistic movements present extreme dangers when too organized.

Many a legitimate religious experience has devolved into just another control mechanism, and I do not wish to be a part of it.

Spiritualists who demand that everything be cosmic light goodness, “we are all beings of light,” and tell us to follow their rules and eat right and be good people and avoid suffering . . . they are too positive and ignore the nature of immune systematics. Bad things are good for you too. Bad things tear you down so you can be rebuilt stronger.

I must reject all idealism. Nobody should tell you how it should be. Because it already is what it is. The universe is already perfect, only our attitudes need to change.

Yet I still try, ceaselessly, to be a good person. I think I do. I usually fail. I self-sabotage. But I believe I try. Just let it be a personal quest, please, let me go up and down and figure it out for myself. Don’t make me join your movement.

And the ritual ended with the morning’s beautiful bright down. I awoke recharged, as I always do after terrifying trips. But I wish I went deeper. Perhaps another time.

They all spoke of lightness and happiness, and I kept my darkness to myself.

I exchanged a few emails and perhaps made friends, at some fruit and homemade chocolate, goodbyes, and I left with C_______. She was very nice and we had a good conversation sharing our experiences. We all have our own issues to deal with, but she seemed to be more optimistic than me. Hungry and weak I was dropped off at the Temple/2nd stop in downtown. I walked the two stops over to the 7th/Metro Center train stop, so I wouldn’t have to pay for the transfer, and I absorbed the energies of the weekend Broadway Mexican markets of the city. I walked with my pillow and sheets in hand, as if I was homeless. I forgot my sunglasses and had to bare the sun with no shielding. Perhaps this is a metaphor.

I have had time to reflect, and I am left with no proof. Aside from the occasional synchronicity, I have experienced little evidence that a spirit world exists. I am left with an atheist attitude and I only have other people’s that assures them of an other side. How do I find this for myself? How do I know anything exists outside of our own heads?

I mean, I paid all this money for an extreme traditional psychedelic trip and I still haven’t seen God. What more can I do?

That’s fine, mystical atheism can work too.

Skeptical psychedelia has its benefits.

Anyways, I prefer Discordia and Chaoism to your pseudo-religious rules.

Westerners experimenting with other cultures. So condescending. Always worth a try.

And still I weep, for there is no more mystery worth finding.

I’ll continue my journey another time.

-------------------------------

I’d like to share what I’ve been able to gather from my notebook, my scribbles in the darkness:



ALL these
sounds of breathing

Average

sit up straight

site: sharp black on whites

Don’t like eyes closed



I have drunken the bitter
and it
by ginger

thick tasty ayahuasca
burns my throat. followed

I sit. One hour as yet.

no drink. No effect

And Inner Child anointment

Be the best human you can be.

toilet rules:

sit rules : :



I weep for the
mythology of my people

NINJA TURTLES
and thats what it be



I started crying
is superficial and
I
WRITE!!!!

boo hooo you faggot whine

Anyways, Its strange

the Mario 3
pyramids.



Some enemy of my childhood!
Don’t let me forget!

Inbetween all these
sorta video game lil memories....
and Zigzagging !!!..



I want the
box on my head
like a good jew



I cry I wish
I was loved.

I’m not
I’m not very

good at being a

I’m sorry.. I wanna be a boy



I want you
to apologize God!

Because there’s no
more mystery and I’ve
overthought it.