NAMASTE MUTHAFUCKA

Events, culminating.

High-and-low contrasts bend more extreme.

And its slightly fun.

On Wednesday I went to yoga class. Trying to be healthy. And a lady's cell phone kept ringing again and again from her bag. I wanted so bad to scream at her. Yoga was not successfully relaxing. Why didn't she turn it off after the third bloody ring?! And who are these people that call again and again, instead of simply leaving a message and waiting an hour?? I fantasized about starting a fight in yoga class, and that would have been funny ironic.

I was not very relaxed in th end, but I stretched, and I balanced, and at the end I harmoniously repeated "namaste" because the teacher told me to.

Lately on Thursdays my ritual has been to go to the comic store--one day late, I know. I bought Wonder Woman, Suicide Squad, Booster Gold, and Superman. Followed by the library where I returned some CDs and ordered some Irvine Welsh; and I picked up volume 6 of Akira and volume 9 of Sandman. Just for the hell of it I grabbed Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk. I don't like this novel very much. I support Palahniuk's try, and he's kind of gruesomely funny I suppose, but I don't think he's such a great storyteller. Then I went to Borders and read MW by Osamu Tezuka--which is the darkest Tezuka comic I've ever come across. As usual, I'm in awe of Tezuaka's narrative skills. Then I read The Yage Letters, William Burroughs writing to Ginsburg about his adventures searching for that elusive yage (otherwise known as ayahuasca). So refreshing after reading McKenna's glamorization of South American culture. Burroughs, one of the first white people to trip out on DMT chemicals, has a completely negative and vicious point of view, and seems to hate everything about Bogota and Columbia. That's an honest writer. That's literature.

Friday was a busy day. Firstly, for lunch, I met some new acquaintances at a restaurant in Cerritos. I guess I'm joining a literary art movement or somethin. I've joined some burgeoning movements before in the past, with mixed results, always lookin for the next big thing... the art gallery thing and the psychic astronaut thing... Honestly, I mostly went to this because of a girl. But we shall see where it goes.

Afterwards I hung out in dead Orange County at a coffee shop with my new 'literary' friends. Then I bought some mushrooms. Somehow, after all this longterm fretting and planning over my proper ayahuasca ritual last week--filled with potential and disappointment--an entirely spontaneous outing unfolded into my newest neurological breakthrough. Sadly, I had to go to a money machine to take out 40 bucks, and there weren't any US Banks so it cost me a 3 dollar fee, and I hate that. So I waited for the Asian guy to get the paper bag out of his car I and bought these things, and proceeded to ingest. McKenna says to take "heroic" doses, so I did.

The plan for the night was to go to a poetry reading. By the time I got there I was rather out of it. Everything turned into a cartoon of itself. Synchronicities piled up, and every character put on a show just for my enjoyment. I just hope I didn't embarrass myself too much.

Self-consciousness turns off. Everything is deja vu. Language fails.

I sat with the audience and there were familiar readings in the background, but I sat backwards and couldn't stop staring at art on the wall. I found it more interesting to lock myself in the bathroom and look at the sparkling water.

Bright lights- I put on sunglasses, loud noises- I wore earplugs. Heads turning into skulls. Colors shifted. The floor revealed mesoamerican hieroglyphics. People pop in and out of existence and ask me stupid questions like, "are you okay?"

I've never been so happy in my life. I've found myself thinking: Why the hell was I so depressed yesterday? Everything is so simple. It made sense at the time.

I met up with my other friend who lives downtown, and he walked me to the beach. He opened up his heart to me, his lovelife off and on, and since I could barely control what I was saying I opened up my heart by accident. Again, I hope I didn't embarass myself too harshly. It was very difficult to get cohesive words out. "Um . . ." I whispered.

Everything was a CGI exaggeration, and so many cops out on the street, and the strange tunnels inbetween the alleys, and strange hippies made love on the nighttime sand (the strange things you'd never notice sober), and I laughed at the absurdity of buildings we build and nonsense we crush, and I peed in the ocean.

This was by far the most detailed visions I have ever encountered. Usually drugs are disappointingly interesting for me, but this exceeded expectations. Did I finally encounter anything "cosmic?"

And still I wonder, where do these images come from? Is there an other side I vibrate in frequency with; or is it purely imaginative? Is it spiritual or sensatory?

Probably completely within my head. Probably nothing more than that. But that's okay.

All perception is virtual reality already, nothing wrong with shaking up the antenna-signal every once in a while.

(I'll try again with the "heroic" doses.)

Just don't let me turn into another stupid drug addict, another weird crazy muthafucka on the bus.

I must be careful.

Hopefully, after the languageless brain-fraying, I can be eloquent about it after the fact!


Strange Weekend, to be continued . . .

In which I go to the Hollywood antiwar protest, directly followed by Wizard World Comic Con an hour later, and then I'm depressed and then its St. Patrick's and I'm drunk . . .