psyche/delic

breaking open my head circa 2019

hat tip to Daniel Pinchbeck's book Breaking Open the Head

Fragment of a Wynwood Wall. Miami, Florida. January 2019

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What do I need? I asked her.

You don't need anything, she said.

A blanket? I asked.

Maybe a blanket, she said.

I'm going to need a blanket, I thought. I always need a blanket.

Should I take off my ears, I wondered, before I went downstairs. I was wearing a pair of clip-in fox ears that day, just around the house, just because. And a t-shirt given to me by the man I got pregnant by, and little running shorts. I don't talk to him these days. Shall I change? Nah.

I went downstairs.

Do you smoke anything at all? she asked.

No, I said, nothing. I almost said, I sing. But so does she. I almost said, I don't like smoke in my throat. Which is true, but, I don't need to explain it. The relevant information was: I don't smoke anything, no.

Oh, she said. Oh dear, I thought. Okay, we're gonna practice, she said. She sat in front of me ceremoniously as I perched on the edge of the circle mattress on the floor, with a huge blanket draped over my lap, and another, smaller blanket (with snaps!) draped over my shoulders (and snapped!) like a cape.

I love that blanket. I got it years ago. Bought one for myself and one for my lover at the time. I'd never seen anything like it. It's about a third of the size of a beach towel. Mine is a warm yellow with vaguely Southwestern patterns in reds, burgundies, greys, and blues; his was a lumberjack red plaid. He was a slender visual artist. He got cold a lot in the studio. It was winter. "A BLANKET with SNAPS?!" he exclaimed, and kissed me. I love that blanket. I usually fold it up as a cushion for the seat of my desk chair. I sit at my little wooden desk that folds up from the wall, on my little wooden folding chair, at the window overlooking the train, and work on the podcast.

It's a comforting blanket.

Tara sat in front of me in the studio space and coached me to empty my lungs completely. She did it, then I did it, more slowly, yoga-style. Then she guided me to take in a long, slow breath, fill my lungs, stretch my arms out wide and hold my breath, then swallow. Swallow while holding my breath. It felt bad somehow. But I reminded myself that I decided to do this now, with her, because I trust her. I looked into her blue eyes and copied her. I swallowed my empty breath.

And then, she said, while your arms are stretched out, you can lean back slowly and lie down.

He knelt in front of me and packed the pipe.

What do I need to know? I asked. He seemed very experienced.

Let go, he said. Let go let go let go. If you're called to take this medicine at this time, trust that your body will get what it needs. Don't try to rationalize it. Let go let go let go.

Let go.

Trust.

My body will get what it needs.

Don't try to rationalize it. Let go.

I took a big breath in and a big sigh out. Let go, huh? I will try.

And, he said: Don't worry. You will come back. You will come back.

When he lights it, she said, exhale more quickly. Turn your head to the side and exhale. Empty your lungs. Then a slow inhale. But you'll tell me when? I asked, nervous about the timing, concerned I wouldn't do it right.

Yes, I'll tell you, she said.

Okay.

You ready?

I'm ready.

Inhale slowly, she said, and raise your arms. Hold your breath. Hold it in. Swallow. Then you can lie back. 

Okay, I said.

He lit the pipe. I turned my head to the right and exhaled and much as I could, faster than before, as she said. He put the glass pipe to my lips and I started to inhale. Too fast, they said! Slow down! It was acrid. It burned a little. It felt bad to have smoke in my throat. But also, kind of familiar. It tasted familiar. I almost recognized it. But before I could place it: Slow down, they said.

Oh no, I’m not doing it right! I tried to slow down. I may have slowed down marginally. But then I couldn't, couldn't inhale anymore. I started to cough. Hold it! They said. I held it. I tried to swallow. Oh no, I thought, I probably didn't get enough. I stretched out my arms, and leaned back. Nope! I think I got plenty!

I was overcome.

Let go, echoed his instruction inside my mind.

Vzzzz. Whoosh. Vzzzzz. Sound was moving, streaking across my awareness from both sides in a thick comet shower of vzzzz. I lay back.

My last thoughts while I still had thoughts to think: I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know if I can handle— 

before a whisper of his instruction came to me: trust and let go. In my mind’s eye I stretched my arms wider and softer and released underneath my skin.

A teacher of mine used to say “Surrender is an act of will.”

I willed myself to let go.  And so I let go.

It was indescribable, and so I will try.

There was a soundscape that was woven with no sounds I’d ever heard before. This wasn’t them, but the closest I can approximate: WHOOSH v v v v vzzzzzz shwwwwwww sjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

The only thing I saw were white dots, not quite like stars or planets, but like something in the neighborhood. A few of them formed a somewhat circular pattern on the upper left side, but the circle wasn’t uniform. It was circular-esque, but maybe like the top of a volcano drawn by the most abstract artist, like the little prince’s hat that is really a boa constrictor inside an elephant. I saw mostly black, with these white dots. They weren’t glowing, but they weren’t flat either. The weren’t down here, they were up there. Everything was up there. I am not sure if I was up there. I think I was wide out, at first. Or not at all.

Then I became not at all.

I didn’t have a body anymore. Vzzzzz. Swoosh. Vvvvvv. Sjjjjjj. I wasn’t an “I” anymore. That’s what Matthew had told me. He said that we can’t conceive of what it’s like to not conceive of anything; to not have a body.  To not have a mind making meaning. To not have an “I” maker.

He felt liberated.

For me, everything went black. But not like the night. Not an absence of light. It wasn’t dark exactly. It didn’t feel heavy. But it was black. Formless. I had no idea what was happening. I had no ideas anymore, because I wasn’t making any.

Then I didn’t even have an awareness of the black.

The idea factory was shut, and I was non-being for I don’t know how long.

Blackout.