READ PART ONE first to set the scene..
So now to confront all of my ‘stuff’. You know, just all the things that keep me embodied as an I in this ego-centric matrix. Thankfully, a voice in my head was all ‘Just let it go man…’ and like that every fear and attachment I had carefully constructed was dumped. Ditched. Made irrelevant by merely saying so. Is coping with life really as simple as saying “No thanks?” Well in this space it was, what with a finely tuned fungal BS detector in my psyche. The realm of ‘my shit’ was quick and cruisy. The system was this: if it stressed me out, and couldn’t prove it was moment apropos, I just threw it into the black void that I was slowly fermenting in. See, gone. Next concern? Turns out most of what I fear has little relevance to now. Funny that future-projection anxiety trying to fuck with ma zen.
So now it seems I am surely decaying into a black wormhole, and without fears and hopes to attach to, my Ego grows squeamish with identify issues. Beyond my stuff, is something way scarier, THE UNKNOWN. I kind of want my stuff back! There was no thing to bounce off to prove I was a thing, and I got to be a thing. My brewing in this dark womb was coming close to a birthing. But into what?
Mushrooms eat wormholes, and the worms that dare to tunnel them.
“Holy fucking shit, Holy fucking shit,” said my brain.. Seems to be my I’m-tripping-really-hard plant medicine mantra that slightly dissipates an impending existential breakdown. “Por favour Abuelita, mas solar, mucho solar.” I became desperate for light. Let me bounce off something. Give my sweet duality. Felicity would listen to my concerns, she would hear my suffering, and not give me light. She refused to enable my clinging. I would ask again, every few moments. My sentences growing weaker, realising how futile it was. My hope was my suffering. Better to give up. “Por favour Abuelita, mas aqua, esta necesito agua.” Finally Felicity lit a candle and it was instant relief. Something, a thing, in a sea of nothing. She motioned to the water and blew out the candle before I could move. To my woes, Felicity would merely say “Cantar, Cantar! En ingles esta bien.” And I would reply “…Cantar…” She was asking me to sing, and I would just speak the word ‘sing’. [ Later in the night I understood things beyond language, and sung my little heart out. ] In that brief moment I was able to glance over at the Brugmansia watching me from the alter, and became convinced I was actually tripping on her. Somehow the notion that I actually ate the Brugmansia helped me to toughen up. “You knew this day was coming, when the trumpet would seduce you. Now don’t let her swindle you with her nonsensical charm.” I remembered Gabon, and surviving my initiation ceremony. But that induced a shaking fit that almost became possession trance, so I quickly forgot about that. I don’t know if Felicity would be up for holding space for that.
I need some grounding here, please send me a root herb as a plant teacher right now. Enter Eboka man. Within moments the room took on the momentum of an Iboga plant medicine journey. A disassociated intensity. As I died in my own suffering, Iboga was cracking jokes. In that moment, it saved me from going insane. And so my reality became this surreal cosmic joke, and Murphy’s law made it that everything that could go wrong, would. But what else was to be expected when you eat tropanes, even if you only dreamed of that? Insanity was kind of funny!