I think that many people confuse or intermingle. You don’t have to like somebody to want to fuck them. And it’s not like you hate them, either. Simply, you are to any kind of relationship between the both of you but a sexual. But usual morals will hinder the normal person to acknowledge such a combination of feelings without guilt and frankly, at this moment, so do mine.
The black girl who sits across from me on the boat to Kapitari, I want to fuck her. I don’t want to really fuck anybody as I am overwhelmed with anxiety, but as much as I can desire it at this time, I do. I imagine taking her up the ass in the bushes, like little rabbits do, driving my penis into her black skin and getting dirty inside her.
In my mind, she resembles a poor man’s version of Rihanna. I’m certain she is aware of it. From her demeanor I can tell that getting attention is the most natural thing to her. She has the pride of a girl that people like to listen to even if she has nothing to tell and I have long learned that faking interest in order to put my sausage up a gal’s most cherished is nothing short of useless. The good-looking guy to her right chats with her, they find some similarities. The three loud guys from Australia generally.
The elderly guy to my left has an iPad and films. Actually, quite a few of the group are filming and taking pictures. One guy brought a video camera. I’m in a fucking reality show; I see myself in the iPad and notice that I look cool and manly. Perfect.
We pass through some reed and soon dock. The motors turn off and I conceive a silence I had long not known. It’s as if your ears had been on tension for your whole life and suddenly, they can relax. They say that this is what people experience with heroine:. For the first time in life, they feel tranquil and one with themselves. And if you haven’t known such a state for a long time, it’s as if you suddenly realize that you can be a normal person.
Welcome to the rainforest
Since meeting the leader of the group, I feel my time at boarding school. He has been doing this for years and I keep wondering how such a long time in the realm of the spirits could leave a man’s nature so fragile. And if it could, what use was it.. He is a tall, thin, somewhat nervous guy and reminds me of a wuss that I used to bully during
The jungle is full of sounds. Insects mostly, like crickets; frog’s croaks; parrots parrot. Two big ponds invite for a bath amidst walls of trees but one of them supposedly harbors alligators. Three turtles jump into the water as I pass by.
We are informed about the coming procedures and our diet. No sex. Why, asks the Australian asshole type. Loud and shameless. Love the guy. The first ceremony will be in the evening. Each of us is assigned a hut in which we will reside and be with ourselves. Mine overlooks the alligator pond. A hammock inside invites to stay.
Mapachos are jungle cigarettes. Sevenfold the nicotine of normal ones, but no tar. Great, how healthy; we feel cool standing in circles and smoking them. Smoking makes us look serious as our eyebrows converge with every puff. No, that’s no fucking sociocritical comment. We really are cool.
As the ceremony approaches, we shower ourselves with some kind of herbal water. The blonde comes along and I tell her I was there first; she says okay. I have a chat with the German and two wild dogs seem to be attracted to my presence. They are disgusting and sickly, with tumors and rashes and blisters the size of my fist. One of them has a white eye and licks my mouth. I feel sandy stuff on my lips and spit many times in revulsion.
Then we congregate in the Maloka where each of us chooses a mattress. I choose a place among the Australians and we chat a bit. They’re cool guys, fun to be around.
The Viking shows us some mediation techniques. My knee hurts from the tailor seat, I’m not used to it. Focus on your breath.
The shaman takes seat in his throne. The candle is killed. Darkness.
Sing-song: The first ceremony
One member after another walks up to the shaman. Somebody chuffs. The person walks back.
My turn. I feel the apprehension of a challenge and ward myself. Walking straight and being in control, opposing whatever may come. I’m a warrior.
The shaman says something in Spanish and the Viking asks me how much I want; he proposes one cup. I agree. The shaman pours pasty red liquid from a grimy plastic can into a small glass and chuffs two charges of Mapacho smoke over it. We have been warned that this would probably be the foulest thing we would ever taste. What do they know. I can take everything. And, as expected, the flavor is bearable; my gustatory memory recalls the taste of chili, without the sharpness. Truth be told, it’s like the one aspect I don’t like about chili without the aspects that I do.
Thanks. And back to my place.
Half an hour passes. A few people have started to vomit. The purr of the purge.
I sit the tailor seat. It hurts, but that’s good. My sunburn has grown in intensity, covering my head in fire; I relish the pain. The flavor of Mapacho smoke covers up Aya’s bitter-sourness. What are you most disgusted by? Aya. That suggest that what you are disgusted by most of all — is disgust. Very wise, Harry.
The shaman goes around and chuffs onto everybody’s head. After finishing the circle, back at his throne, the song begins, also termed as Ikarus.
My eyes follow the glow of a Mapacho cigarette near the shaman. The point of fire moves up, then back down. Obviously, the smoker is moving. But this fucker keeps moving. Are you kidding me?
When I imagined being on psychodelics or being crazy, I thought of the effect that alcohol has on me. Social inhibition fades, senses are clouded and, in a way, you yourself drift away from your perceptions. Ayahuasca is not like that, at least in the beginning. You are there all the time, but the perceptions are, well, very unusual.
The glow keeps moving. In weird ways and circles. These guys really want to confuse me. Eventually, it fades and blackness remains. The blackness in the shape of the shamans throne and his helpers forms a washy silhouette against the dark blue jungle backdrop. Aggression arises in me. Out to get me, shadow? Come here. Fight me. I’m ready for you. I’ll kick your teeth in.
I am annoyed by the singing. It’s distracting and doesn’t connect to me in any way; it’s inept at best. I remember reading an article by a women about people who partook in Ayahuasca ceremonies; she wrote that this ripped open their third eye, only to leave it damaged and befouled with ritualistic symbols. That is exactly what this feels like: Me inside a spiritual experience and a voice that tries to hijack my mind to make my thinking a part of this cult.
start to appear in the blackness. They are somewhat pointless. I am curious at first. Tired, I let myself fall back on the mattress. The visions appear on a plane, they are not touchable. Red foxes on a fortress smile at me without mouths. I challenge them, bring them closer. Fight me! But they don’t come closer. I merely scaled their image on the plane. They are not entities like I, therefore I cannot interact with them. The only thing we can have for each other is curiosity.
I hate the. The music rattles and chirrs and plays a melody with the animals of the jungle. My consciousness fades and comes back. The music is louder now. The mattress to my right is empty. I turn around. The shaman and his group stand right behind me.
Their song is meant for me now. I am convinced that I am the last one. I am the one who’s sickest, who gets special care. Fuck, I don’t want that. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be super spiritual. What do you want? I want to prove I’m great, I want your acceptance, but I have nothing to offer, no insights, not even a bit of vomit, not even sympathy for your song. The song still drives me crazy. I feel guilty for not being able to connect with it despite their efforts. And ashamed, because I am the only one who’s not somehow human enough to receive this gift. Yes, I am bad. And my badness is too deep for you to cure. What had I hoped for? This is pointless. I am shit.
The shaman stands above me now. He requests my head and I obey. Further chuffing, music all around me. I have no compassion, but I so much want to prove I am okay, I am as spiritual as you. I want to vomit a bit, for the shaman, but despite the nausea, it’s like my mind hasn’t quite gotten a grasp on the things that need to get out yet.
Eventually, my wish is granted. The shaman manages to massage the barf right out of my head and I puke into my bucket,. I am glad. Finally I have reached my spiritual orgasm. I’m good enough. I see that I’m not the last one now. Relief sets in. For a moment.
Well, alone is not lonely, alone is merely unique, you see? And when all others stand up, happy and jolly, hug the shaman and cry Oh my god, all my problems are so meaningless, I remain uniquely nauseous,to do the same. I stay lying on my mattress, shrugging at the inequity.
After hours, the initially amusing darkness and pointlessness of the visions is wearing me down. I don’t want to see this bullshit anymore. It’s distracting and I’ve had enough. But snakes with joints of eyes don’t listen to me. Maybe this is the lesson. Maybe the lesson is thatis amusing and relieving for the time being, but gets to nibble on your soul if you make it your ally.
To my left, some guy converses with a girl from the group. He’s so relaxed and confident; her voice rises and fades into a cheep. Of course he knows that she is his now. Does he? I am, it should be me. I remember ideals of and wish I could be happy for him, obviously just to prove me I am a good person. But I fail. I don’t even have the strength to pretend I’m a decent person anymore.
I decide to dream my nightmares.