I leave the damned Maloka in the morning. Only people inside beside me were the German guy and the girl, asked for the time. Mh, something around 6 a.m., time to go back to my own wooden housy. Some people of the tribe sit around.
The way to my hut leads past the hut of the black chick., I want to fuck her. What will you do about it, Son? Don’t know, God, nothing?
as usual, I get one of these split-second ideas. As I walk by, I perform an acceptable version of the lower right kick I learned in . It’s kinda . Don’t look in her direction of course, she would see I did it for her, she’s up.
It’s kinda girlish, isn’t it, such a demonstration. Only girls qualify for men. Nah, nonsense. Have you seen a Suri stick fight in Ethiopia? If it weren’t for the women, there would be no point in fighting. It’s an aphrodisiac. I highly recommend you check out the whole Tribe documentary with Bruce Parry. It will give you quite a few ideas about the roots of our social behavior in various tribes around the world. Besides, how do you even know how it is supposed to be when no one ever told you? What can you possibly do but listen to your gut? Look, cat, I’ve got a dick. Want it inside you? Don’t’cha?
I respect the people here, but I currently don’t have the capacity to like them. I remember crazy laughter from last night. It must be my negative attitude. The laughter came as a response to something else.
It had been a kind of “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my fucking goooooood” with the pitch of the voice going straight up until silence. It conveyed the sense of a terrible experience that was merely expressed through voice; but while the voice failed to express the anguish beyond a certain treshold, the emotion must have grown further, vibrating at a steadily increasing frequency. We laughed, I did too. The sound was unusual and funny. That comicality made me wonder: What kind of force makes a man cry out in such a ridiculous matter? Laughing in ignorance was the only thing I cared to do. Little did I know that I would be soon experiencing nothing short of this man’s plight.
We sit together and share our stories. I think my story is boring, yet people listen. Nice.
I join two of the assholes in the pond. The top layer of the water is heated by sunlight and the swirling water creates an alternating sensation of hot and cold when I swim. The assholes are successful businessmen. I listen to their dialogue, but I lack knowledge about stock markets. I try to be a part of the cool crowd.
Walking back to my hut, I pass the black chick at the pond. She only wears a bikini and a towel. I try to walk straight and avoid stumbling. She looks at me with a blank expression that I can not quite understand. It feels arrogant and patronizing. That disgusting motherly expression of I know what is best for you. I hate it and feel ashamed. If I can not inspire anything but that in her, I am inadequate and a rightful reject.
The evening arrives and we congregate for the ceremony. One of the assholes – man, if you read this I’m really sorry for calling you that, but I need to be consistent – talks to a new girl. He’s kinda sweet to her. Aren’t assholes supposed to do something hyper aggressive?
We are told that we should surrender to the things we experience. To trust that they will pass.
I go for my Ayahuasca portion. One cup isn’t enough this time; I want to lose myand also do some crazy stuff. One and a half.
Once more, I await the onset of intolerable nausea and fractals. I’m one of the last in the spiritual circle, so I still don’t feel much as the first people begin their sacred puking. Besides of course the disgusting taste of Aya in my mouth that I try to cover with Mapacho smoke.
Chuffs in my hair and some plant extract on my forehead that immediately dries up the slowly recovering sunburn. My skin is on fire. Contrary to yesterday, I decide to not lay down. I do the tailor seat. Also, I decide not to fight the nausea, but let it pass through me. Surrender, right.
Crazy laughter. Violent vomiting around me. I’m in a lunatic’s madhouse, but somehow this is amusing.
The sensations start. Much hated nausea. Layers of fractals want to distract my sight, but I will them away. A black mist hides the face of the asshole to my right and I command it away with all the power I have. I can see his face, I want to punch him. Out of curiosity. Why shouldn’t it be possible. I raise my hand, but an invisible aura protects him, he is untouchable. What does this mean?
My stomach crunches and cold nauseae-shivers run up my spine. Do not resist.
An icicle shoots through my breast, jerks my mind around my intestines and black-white-striped wormholes mock and rape my desire to fuck an average-looking whore with a black slip and rugged top by tearing apart my feelings of inferiority like a gaping asshole and winding my desperation and regret hundredfold around it’s corner just to tie this pitiable package around my stomach and push it through the whores asshole. She shits into me and I feel the emotion of liking it as well as infinite disgust while she gets fucked by another man with a formidable figure and horns. They are twitting me and the whore and the man themselves mutate into wormholes; demons of a kind of evil that has no word. My brain pukes and my heart orgasms from the humiliation and every fiber and cell of my body is whisked together and torn apart into an undefined mass of neverending sensations of pain, lust, torture and unrecognizable pleasure without purpose, without joy. The wormholes speak without a voice: Give it up, because you want to give it up, this is what you are after. Pleasure, humiliation, denigration. You want to rape and be raped. You know this is what is life. Your own sexual lust betrays you. You want to take, but you will only be taken, taken and abused, but it won’t matter because you don’t exist, you are just a part of a mass that is us. We are neverending suffering, and you are only the cells of your body that allow no identity, no integrity, no right to live, no right to not feel this, no right to be forgiven. A wave of revulsion after another collapses over me; long enough to be unbearable, too short to develop tolerance. This world is colorful, yet bland. The colors are mixed together lovelessly, yet coherent in their lovelessness like modern art; ads, promises, politicians, porn, torture, Nietzsche and the blond beasts of prey become one multidimensional broth that is not even a world, but chaos.
I know where I am. I have been here before, this is hell.
This is where I started and I remember it. I had managed with infinite effort to escape this place, to cling to a vessel of the material world – a spermium – fighting myself into existence, transferring my infinite pain into a finite world of structure and meaning.
Focus on your breath. I focus on my breath and my body is real again. Was this a week or a second? My body turns erect. White lines shoot towards the horizon and form a grid. In my tailor seat I am a meditating Neo looking at the polygons of the Matrix.
The worms come back. I let them pass and I am Neo again. My body wants to lie down and I almost allow it, just to be taken by some unknown inner force and jerked back up again. You must live. If there is one direction to go: Away! Away from this place! A composition of suffering awaits me, painted with the blood, sperm and souls of those who had arrogantly conceded that heaven didn’t exist. Souls incapable of receiving compassion, rotten and decomposed into a state of unimaginable horror for the only joy they know: The destruction and desecration of other souls at the borderline of reality and the alleviation of their suffering by seeing one that is worse than theirs.
Above the horror hovers ridiculousness, the only defense that these lost souls have against this pain is amusement. The cycle repeats a few times. Neo. Worms. I force myself to focus on your breath. I command away shadows that cloud my vision.
Oh my fucking god
I look to my right again, need a sense of reality. The asshole is still there, but this time I can’t chase away the clouds that hide his face.
He grasps my attention. He sits on a chair that doesn’t exist. He is a cripple, a monstrum conceived by a mind that has no sense of beauty. A black humanoid silhouette without a definite border. His back is hunched and as he continues to sit on air, mockingly ignoring the law of gravity, he rhythmically creaks with a piece of wood and exudes the hypnotizing chant of an androgynous witch, luring me into sleeplike visions and terrorizing my every last sense of taste to the point that I can’t take the sight and sound of the abhorrent perversion anymore and turn away to cower in bitter regret. What is this? This is not a part of the world I had known for … time doesn’t exist … why is this so familiar?
Of course he would have posed as a healer. A shaman. As a seducer who comes with the promise of liberation. A witcher promising magic where work is due. A mystic who doesn’t even care or need to disguise his betrayal of rationality.
I think of fighting.
He is not made to be fought. He is made to terrorize and destroy.
Grasp for reality
My perception is not distorted. What I see is not a dream. His realness makes reality into a dream. He doesn’t look at me, he hasn’t yet noticed that I know, that I am more awake than I should be. The mere sight of him bursts my eyes wide open and throws a hundred wrinkles of terror to my forehead. My body shakes uncontrollably, then cools down. Goosebumps. This cannot be real. What does real mean?
I must convince myself that this is a trick. I look in his direction once more and I am the mocked one. The air wavers around him and I smell burned earth and flesh. Repulsed, I lower my head and look down again. I am a sheep on it’s way to the slaughterhouse. He has tricked me. He got me to drink from free will a toxic mixture that will destroy my brain and make me incapable of defending myself or summon willpower.
I have no one to blame but me.
Vomiting and insane laughter surround me. This is no madhouse, this is a recruiting camp for lost souls, one of many on the world. A vortex to catch those without hope with the promise of hope. This is a place that attracts people who want to drink foul liquids, vomit and cry and shout in exchange for magic that will fix their lives.
The cacophony would drive me insane if I had any coherent thought left.
I look around. This place, it is obvious. The foul drinks, the painful rituals, the masochistic processes, the oblivious prospecting for spiritual pain. The insects, the words, Maloka, the screams, the cries, the vomiting, the meager and nervous instructor, the sad faces, the unfulfilled desires. The place drips of it. How could I not see it? This is one of a dozen funnels that connect the surface of the earth with the hot blackness underneath. I remember having been warned about this. I remember being told a thousand times, by the gatekeepers of life: Do not let him fool you, he has his places in the jungle, in the green between the leaves they hide. I said I wouldn’t. Yet here I am, easily distracted from the truth by desires for women and power, primitive tools for veiling the apparent. Here I am, a hero whose soul once saw clear and hope; to be.
I look at him again. And again. Something older than the universe forces my head to turn back, to lower my sight, to stay undetected. But I must fight! You have long lost this battle. Play along.