Alright... long time lurker, first time poster.
This is a copy of a thread I posted on another website. But I'd like to become a member here too, since some of what I'm interested in is the ayahuasca / DMT experience.
So this is plagiarized from my post on another website, which is plagiarized from my diary.
Who is Darci? Well, that's a question I'm still trying to answer.
8-4-2010
diary, you're a priest behind vague and dark latticework. you hear my confessions. you don't speak a word. i still hear you...
i had a dream the other night. got shrooms from jeff and was never quite asleep, or was my waking state that of a dream?
i'm not sure i'm holding on to my sanity very well. everything is intermixing. insomnia doesn't help. they toy with me, my dreams, or thoughts, or whatever. the tiny little cells mingle with mine, and tell me things. i stare at clouds that don't exist, and drift through intricate oceans, unreal.
so i thought i'd write a letter to you, going further down the road i didn't want to go in the first place...
was thinking about david. i loved him. he was the first real person who treated me like i was an adult. with respect. he showed me things. he was fascinating, and untouchable, and human in the most divine and pitiful extreme.
his record collection... i don't know where it is now. i guess i could ask my uncle. i wish i could possess it. i want to find those records and songs that i remember but don't know the names. i bet if i listened to all of them i could remember every single song we ever listened to together.
one of the records he played for me was by a group called electric light orchestra. they had several great songs. we used to smoke pot and listen to ELO together. i was 14. he was 21. he was my cousin. no man i've ever known since has compared to him. i am completely insane. my sexuality is confused with impossibilities and wrongs. i date the dead. men who remind me of him. but they can never be him. will i ever sort this out... and become sane and normal. ?
since that time i have become a great fan of something that doesn't exist anymore. neither my cousin, nor music of that age... though you can still hear their songs, and try to remember.
i have nothing much else to say, except to leave you with a few lyrics:
how are you?
have you been alright?
through all those lonely, lonely nights?
...
don't you realize the things we did, we did, we did...
were all for real, (not a dream)
i just can't believe
it all faded out of view.
a shroom replayed parts of a night we spent together. i could even smell the place. it was like a little gift of memory given to me, in perfect detail. i could literally see the entire room. i forgot a lame poster of bruce springsteen he had on the wall. i asked him why he liked such a douche. he answered "because i'm on fire."
thank you for that lost memory, little shrooms.
david, i miss you.
darci is offline
8-20-2010
i keep coming back to music. i believe it's humanity's (and god's) truest art form. what else can conjure visions? force our bodies to move? tell a story, or imprint on our soul emotional memories as powerfully as music can?
In fourth grade we had "show and tell." A boy brought a violin to class, and played a piece of music by bach on that instrument. I don't think Bach wrote very much for solo violin, but it was the first time in my life that my soul was stripped naked and i stood transfixed upon something... an idol of worship. I was mesmerized. It lasted an eternity, and only a moment. When it was over, I looked around me, and couldn't find another soul who cared. I don't know what happened, but for the first time in my life I finally understood what it was like to be under someone else's spell. I yearned for that kind of surrender again.
And I know music must be the only true and natural art of our dimension.
i'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse... to have been exposed to music outside of what my generation can properly call it's own. my bell-curve extends well into the 70's, even though i was born in 1985.
some of my fondest memories are inextricably entwined with music.
every song is a tiny little drama between an angel and a demon. like me.
vague and magical and undiscovered i am. no sailor has truly ever discovered my shores. No pirate has plundered my treasure.
who could guess when i walk by them at work that this innocuous little girl who pretends to be dull and dry and something resembling a scientist - is a scarcely restrained, longing, agonizing sphere of emotional fire and mystery?
it's definitely not my style. i mean, if i had to name just one artist who has the atmosphere which is ME it would have to be heather nova. but i was raised christian and exposure to something so wicked was not just improper, but warranted excommunication - if not from my family, then at least from the community of my church. i echo terence mckenna's statement that when he was growing up he thought street-corners were for churches, there were so many of them in the town he grew up in. i would say the same is nearly true in places like Lubbock, Texas. I never saw ecstasy in Sunday school.
Oh, these brainwashed, groupthink, narrow-minded, pitiful little bah-naahnaahs. Bad monkeys. What would any of them do if they saw the visions I see? What would any of them do if they beheld the obelisk? We are of the light as much as Lucifer. There is not one without the other. Nothing is pure. Perfection is an impossible goal for everyone. Can't anyone see that?
I long for rainy days. The climate in this part of the world is only suitable for those suffering from exile. It's dusty, hot, dirty. I am German and i think my skin was designed for moist air, cool breezes, and shades brought about by the canopy of temperate trees. Among the leaf litter and in the shade of blueberry bushes is where my mind dwells. i peek out shyly into the world as the glans from the foreskin, the clitoris from its hood, or the cap of a mushroom from above its gills, my innocuous-seeming visage belying my secret agenda to tear down the degenerate and useless, to disassemble and disembody the dead, and rearrange it newborn, enlightened, and available as energy for lifegiving structure and ideals. Never given without the commensurate gifts of pleasure and unbound ecstasy.
These ideas are not my own. I give full credit to Psilocybe cubensis.
Doesn’t it stand in blatant irony that our culture celebrates violence as entertainment… (violence, which destroys life) while at the same time, considers sex as immoral and lewd (while sex is life’s creator?)
I once read of a religion which honored suicide as the ultimate sacrament. Needless to say, this particular religion didn’t last very long…
If we are to worship something, must we not worship that which promotes the continuation of the dramatic, the divine, the living, and the mysterious?
For fuck’s sake, this little guy grows out of one smart little spore.
I say guy because of the obvious. As they grow they can naturally be compared to the phallus. When I am tripping on shrooms I see them everywhere. They grow out of their beds. Their spores are nocturnal emissions. They have their little heads, full of carnal knowledge. They crawl all over me. I put them into my mouth.
I remember the backside of a tori amos album where there were the images of mushrooms and morels growing in what looked like cotton bolls. they conspicuously took on the form of the male genitalia, clearly as if by design. when i listened to her music i knew for sure that she had partaken of the fungus, though i cannot verify this with any hard data. interesting that one strain of Psilocybe cubensis is called "penis envy". I have never envied the penis. Breasts, I do. Mine are so small. I digress...
Back to music. An album cover tells a story.
Electric Light Orchestra – Discovery. It’s an artifact. Where was it found? What can it do? Like a Genie in a lamp, if I rub it, what wishes can it grant me?
I caress the little phallic mysteries.
Pan-spermia. The theory that life has been seeded on this planet from other planets. That there were life-forms capable of traversing the galaxy, surviving, taking root in foreign soil, and bearing fruit and spreading their knowledge.
I am foreign soil. I want to bear fruit. I long for seed.
My thoughts twisted again. Disconnected. Bound. Divine. Try to follow me through these trails…
Band: Roguestar. Title: Come Around (Dubstep Remix)
Google it. Goddamn it. Fucking listen.
It makes me move. Oh, the ecstasy. I am twisted and folded into the divine. Something about the sound.
I am near God, and tonight, he’s a black man.
oh... god. i can't hold still with this song playing. i gotta move. i dance, i swirl, i swing. i might be in a crowd a thousand miles wide while i slither through the air - and not a soul underneath the sun can see me. i am alone. just me, the music, the mushroom. we are you. you become me.
darci is offline.
8-22-2010
I have learned that there is no healing. There is merely recognition, and growing. We can never forget the painful parts of ourselves. Our fractal becomes more intricate…
Let’s study mathematics. We are as liquor. Or water.
Our life is a glass. A crystal-clear container. Within it drips experience, existence. Titrate of Life. Each drop has color. Purity is nothing. Clear. If a single drop of poison, or emotion, or prison, or pain of experience colors your container, it would be an infinite amount of liquid to dilute it back to clarity. This is impossible. We are always tainted by our memories.
And so we go on, color in our glass. Our shades make us human. Give us personality. Stir within us the muck and the mud, the rain, the effervescent and the volatile. We become both the inflammable and the flame. We are searching for a spark and at the same time the quenching of the flame…
It was in a dream. I thought it was in a dream. Perhaps I was on mushrooms. Or just reeling from coming back from the horizon, after staring over into the edge of the abyss.
I saw a painting come alive. Yes, it’s eyes moved. I saw them see me. And all the flowers and flowing of the clouds and sky told me that I was twitching in animation and motion on the canvas of something. I was part of the infinite. Brilliant, and colorful, and small, in my still-frame. But important. The artist knew how to imprint motion onto the canvas. Brilliant. How could he know this?
Did he avail himself of the mushroom?
Or was he naturally botanical.
Back to seven grams. My friend took one. I had the rest. I know others have done more, but I can’t imagine what kind of twisting through the aether that must have been like. I have to grow male gonads to be able to try anything more than two again.
Six took me somewhere I couldn’t imagine. I was in my mother’s womb. Different from her pussy. As if the cells of her endometrium were possessed by god, not my mother. I was within the fluid loving warmth of the creator.
And I was also taken to the place where I remember not existing. It wasn’t bad either. I don’t have words.
…But I don’t fear the reaper.
Darci is offline.
9-15-2010
It was back before the content of our minds were constrained by rationality.
The world was alight with mystery. I watched fairies delight in their games in the corners of my classrooms. I was distracted from reality by things more real.
“Remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too,
And every breath we drew
Was Hallelujah.”
We are always grasping. Or I am. Do I presume that we are the same? Am I similar to the rest of humanity?
I wish to forget every dose of insanity I have been fed, by Dr. Dini, by pharmacology, by anatomy and physiology, by “business” “ethics” and by technical writing. You are all a bunch of insane and jealous jesters longing for the king’s fortune.
This is why the king is king and you are but his minions. You attempt to please but you cannot inherit what can only be created by yourselves.
We work to achieve a palace, but only in poverty are found our fortunes.
“Join me.” Who are you? I don’t know your name. You live with unkempt hair, sandals, and the kiss of eternal sunshine on the shores of my beach.
What is your name?
I long for you.
“You took your coat off
Stood in the rain,
You were always crazy like that.
And I watched from my window,
Always felt I was outside
Looking in on you.
You were always the mysterious one
With dark eyes and careless hair
You were fashionably sensitive
But too cool to care.”
I am only the echoes of what I feel.
I have no words of myself that were not plagiarized.
How can I be real if I am a copy of something else?
“These words are breaking my heart.”
I love him.
“You’re always brilliant in the morning.
Your philosophies of art
Baroque moved you, you loved Mozart
And you speak of your loved ones…
Teach me of honest things
Things that were daring
Things that were clean…”
I weep. I weep. I weep.
I took four grams tonight.
Now that I can spell again, I must write
That I cry for the eternal nighttime...
You bring that nearer to me, you tiny little multinucleated extremophiles. Love you guys.
darci is offline