Published on April 29th, 20130
WINTER IS COMING
No White Walkers but Golden Tops, during golden dawn, growing in wet air, in wet earth. In deep forest with a million brothers, some twins, some identical. Ancient eyes push through thick forest skimming the floor, over polka-dot, orange and red, which look like they want to kill you, and all the brown caps that don’t hide from my eyes the golden brown that turns blue, the magic seed, the earth’s mind.
Through the web of branches you see others walking in groups, loud and arrogant. Tourists and townies; you freeze and watch and move deeper into the thick fear, as do the other animals that see you. It is peace and calm and tranquillity, and they do not understand. You have to walk in alone to where it is most feral, where thick cobwebs attach each tree to another and to the earth so there is no break, no hole to crawl out of, only a tunnel guiding you to an oasis of sudden space and bright. In this space are one hundred Gods waiting for you to pick them.
When I was young it was a secret, then I got shown, then others, and now ten years later, too many have been told and they make busy the peace, and they crowd there after long rains. Now my land is laid waste, and they grab out for others like greedy children. I know as I walk and see the scattered refugees left behind how careless they pick. Don Juan would not be impressed.
SHROOM THE REVALATOR
Perfect now; the moment and every moment rippling out from it will be perfect.
Harmony is the supreme value; everything should be in balance. Muscles become lungs and suck the energy from the air. Your breath becomes deep and powerful, it holds in a ball of energy in front of you. Brought back into harmony, into the power of the earth so as nature’s green shines bright, and you come into understanding with all of life: every tree, plant, animal. Brought so far back that humanity in its actions and games seems inexplicable and insane.
I must remain stoked; I continually stoke my energy and enthusiasm. When tired or bored or unable – go do something else: broken rhythm, breathe change and movement. Do things completely unselfishly for something else, this guards against a shrinking world, becoming petty and small, full of narrow interests and fears. Focus on someone else gives perspective and context, it is of use and purpose and gives the eye a break from self. Dignity is being outside yourself; even the biggest tool must look calm, like a saint, like an animal, when caring for someone else, holding someone in tears, working in a field or in the sea, or focusing on any practical task.
Instead of responding and reaching into every urge, take the current of your energy, swirl it around – without an end, an absolute, a feeling, thought or action – around in a smoke and let it gently breeze over you. Always surfing, balanced but moving forward, not falling or rushing despite the speed, always aware as ready to crash as continue, anticipating it in each moments change, balanced and ready.
Some people become little kids, pure ones with total innocence, and they follow you around scared, excited and laughing. These are of the best value, the worst are those that surround you, just there, maybe a friend of a friend, staying straight and staying lost, laughing and trying to trip you out with a TV. Judge ruthlessly with your eyes.
To live in permanent exhale. The immortal giant has become ageless and 15 feet tall due to his understanding of Nirvana. He roams the earth watching, teaching; he grows and dies in a day and is reborn in the night. He sees space when he shuts his eyes, the darkness filled with stars and galaxies. In this state of power he can bring others’ minds into his own, giving them a brief truth. His energy-filled body, his flaming mind, his weapon the perception he wields with ultimate skill.
He has moved so fast as to protect a circle of the earth under him from every drop in a heavy rainstorm by deflecting every drop with the tip of his finger. He battles and flows with the essence of life, harnessing air and energy torn from the fabric of they sky, creating them in physical form.
I sit and learn peace; I am timeless, still. I am an eye, a cliff, still. Though everything moves around me, I remain. I lean against time like wind; I remain. I am constant, still in my fury. I am change, a turning earth: though I move, my surface is still; though I change, I remain, an eye, still.
Every time I have shrooms, I glimpse a fuller understanding, but like all perfect moments, it is inside the barrel of a wave and cannot last; the world breaks over you. Human cares and worries, and most powerfully the lives and perceptions of others, crush down on your new fragile view. Break like a monster wave that swallows you violently and smashes you from all sides.
I see that big fish, turning into the water, I see his scales and the drops of water in the river, and I wait, one whole month, to see the fish swim back a full moon. Winter is coming, and rain, and life. I’m going south to the forest and the ocean.
“The truth about the world, is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent…the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man’s mind can compass, that mind itself being but a fact among others.”