Sometime in the Spring of 2006, I sat on some sea side cliff outside Mendocino, California and I had a truly transcendental DMT experience.
I had imbibed the charismatic chemical maybe twice before- but in a moderate amount that didn’t catapult me from my body- rather showed me the interconnected threads.
Rewind to the first time.
Eugene, Oregon- the house of a bear whose color was blue
He saw threads all the time- and when he saw me- he gave the invite
The first time I did DMT- I was slight- my sight became loose- and in between the focus of his room I saw his connections to everything coming out from him in blue and red threads-
The things he loved were connected in red
His ambivalence existed in blue
I was truly in the Matrix
His cocoon wrapped around me with both colors
I could see he loved me with all of his heart in this moment- but he wasn’t invested in me beyond what was at hand
Can you imagine it? To meet someone new with no future expectation- to just fully embrace them in the time that you have- and then send them on their way?
Nothing near sexual happened, but it was deeply intimate.
In this beginning of seeing the connection of things in a very visual and tangible way- I didn’t see my own threads. I just saw the construct of my host.
People came and went- One stayed for hours. Raven sat with me and we created art into the early morning hours.
Flashforward – I’m on this cliffside- the sun is in a vibrant set of mind. I am sitting with a frenamy- a sister- a questionable source.
I am along for the ride because of curiosity and responsibility to accompany purpose- though I am not sure what that is yet.
I take in three, strong, long hits as the sun sinks into the horizon.
I am transported beyond space and time into a place which is every color and every feeling to have ever exist in a tiny box of emotional explosion.
My physical body looses control and I am laughing and crying and gasping for air- but I only see colors until I am safely returned to my body with a singular thought;
Overall the house is rather inconspicuous. It sits on the corner. It’s weathered exterior doesn’t draw much attention. I find it significant because it is the second yellow house I have lived in- in a row.
The subdivided dwelling holds approximately 19 living beings with an extra two who dwell in the detached garage. Ten humans and nine animals in the main house. Two adults in the garage. Six Adults and four children under the age of seven along with five cats and four dogs in the main house.
Overall the house is pretty quiet during the day. One Retiree, Three worker bees and me- the artist trying to figure things out.
The loudness comes in waves. The neighbor comes home to let the dogs out- the kids come home from school. The neighbor’s live in boyfriend come home loudly on cue as if he is lugging the weight of the world soaked in anger.
There are a few personalities here that disrupt the otherwise still home.
Each one brings the anger soaked world with them. So entrenched in their own chaos they forget that we are sharing walls in this subdivision. They become ignorant that their vehement actions effect the lives around them.
Just a month ago I called the non emergency line several times. Disruption of peace, but also the fear that something sinister may be afoot with the reckless actions and words vibrating the wood fiber of our dwelling.
It is those raised voices that lend a feeling that one isn’t safe- and in my childhood I didn’t know how to react in those situations- other than to shut up and take cover. In my adulthood I have no tolerance for other adults who choose to treat those they claim to love with such vitriol. I also acknowledge that I am not an expert in de-escalation- and sometimes it is vital to seek help.
The retaliation hasn’t been that bad- but the fear it could escalate is evident. I want to think I have done the right thing- because I, myself are not threatening on the surface. Bring in the uniform- face your threat of authority ripping your life away. Sometimes we need it on the road to better things. You realize you do not want to act in a way that would make you a lighthouse in the dark with those who can change your reality.
Anyway- the house is like an instrument that changes cadence when certain people arrive or leave. And the stillness I crave tries to numb itself as these repetitive and scheduled waves activate the creaks of floors and slams of doors.
Even the new baby cries in a way that isn’t threatening- like it learned in the womb that they must not overly upset the tyrant that is their father- but I know somewhere down the road that this little boy will tower over his father- and that battle will eventually end.
Cryptic.
I’ve known since I moved in that this house is a wayward spot for the drifting – craving roots and something stable but the house will show you your worst self. And you can either work at it and get toward better and then it will spit you out, or you can reconcile your worst and stay in that zone and it will also spit you out.
It is a perfect place to reformulate what you want from yourself- because settling here isn’t for anyone but the retiree, whose son owns the house and wants a safe place for his father.
I like safety. The anger trolls compromise the feeling of safety not just for me- but for anyone who can hear their tirades. It becomes ironic when these tirades lead to having their own safety feel compromised. At this point the challenge is on the the individual to comprehend why someone may make an effort to level the playing field.
I know I am not wrong in action, but it can feel as such when retaliation comes to play.
Meanwhile the house is going to let us in and let us figure out what we have to learn in the comfort of walls and a roof. The house doesn’t ca re so much- it knows it’s job. The house is a house- it is our lives that give it life and make it a home- and a home can be comfortably uncomfortable.
Holy Freaking Autumn! This was hands down one of the most beautiful and warm Octobers I have ever experienced my many years in Cheyenne (I don’t know what it was like when I wasn’t here for the other years).
As a child it was almost always certain that you would have to wear a winter jacket and snow pants with your costume; unless you went to the mall in a climate control environment. The only people who really saw the full costume were family like Grandma and Grandpa- the obligatory drop by.
October was a good month for me- I was a featured artist at my favorite local pub that accepts dogs. I sold art work. I made some new acquaintances. I cross promoted my work. Yeah- I felt almost normal in the sense of remembering myself. Still there is so much to work on.
Part of my cross promotion tactic was to go to open mic, share my writing/spoken word/ collabs with Alessandro amidst my creations- It was pretty tight.
It is now Thurs Nov. 3- and I went to last nights open mic to perform- the art was different and so was the audience- of course every audience is different but the energy with the art was different. No worries- I went on and did what I arrived to do.
There was a rather loud group of older ladies at the front where I was performing – and I will just say it was a test to stay on track and keep, keeping on. Other things have unfolded as well-
The plan is to re-evaluate. But if you are interested in checking out a synopses of my October Open Mics and picking up dog poop- I will link it here.
All apologies in advance- the pod gets a little too ASMR at times while I am carrying Journey’s shit sack. No worries- tune into the other episodes you like .
I’ve got some ideas cooking that I hope to get into action, so stay tuned!
I have a great playlist. And of course I am biased, I built the playlist. Catered it to me in a way that I have NEVER spent that much time on myself. Freaking weird. I only started building it a couple of years ago, so it’s pretty new. It has some old stuff on there, but not really old stuff because that stuff doesn’t carry the vibe I want on my list.
My list isn’t about old boyfriends or things of that sort… It’s my “Make Art” playlist. A list of songs that really don’t have strong attachments to other people; songs that make me want to move my body, sing along and get to work with strong attitude.
Some of it has a strong “Fuck it” vibe, other parts are “I saw that coming and now I am dealing with it , with strength”- I don’t know it’s like equal parts, love, loss, renegade bookworm- I like it. I want more of it and I realize as I seem somewhat isolated from people who talk about fringe bands- I guess I need some new humans to help me add to the play list.
I started saying that it was my playlist- but I don’t know if I would have ventured down certain musical paths without some outside influence that now sits as a painful part of my heart. And I have had to somewhat disassociate liking a song or more from the human who first said “listen to this.”
It’s tough- and it shouldn’t be- because the world is saturated with music and yet always thirsty enough to never be flooded.
Heck- I make music- I doubt anyone is putting it on a favorite playlist- but I make music. I don’t care who likes it. I like making it. I could never play anything I recorded twice, because it isn’t the thing with associate with popular music- repetitive. It’s weird to think that someone might listen to something I have created, more than once.
I admit I am probably my own biggest fan. I have to be in order to continue creating. My creations are not about views or likes, or whatever outcome we are told to attach to as the reason to create. I create because I HAVE TO or I WILL GO CRAZY. It is an outlet of expression that gives a modicum of purpose when trying to exist in this very tiresome and convoluted reality.
So to those creators who have made it to a hyper playlist of someone who just needs a little inspiration at times- Thank you. Sometimes just a few notes and beats are what one needs to pick up the brush and paint or stretch the body into dance- or feel motivated to clean the bathroom.
Music is magic, and a potent playlist can change the trajectory of a moment, mood or day. For that I am blessed and grateful for the expanse of options I have and have yet to explore.
I’m here but I am not. I have so much and nothing. Void of much want or desire- in some existential existence hard to articulate.
If I were to die today, I’d feel that my work here is done. Perhaps some excitement of the unknown would elevate my soul to some higher height.
Knowing in my selfishness that I can not control the pain of others in loss. I have only had the experience of attempting to mitigate my own pain or sorrow while living.
I haven’t been the best at it. Far from perfect, in fact. To this day it is hard for me to emotionally navigate living. I can talk about it, write about it, paint about it, and score a personally chaotic symphony with how my synapses react- it will never be enough.
The expectations of youth- some desire for fame or notoriety. And it fades away as I acknowledge that every artist is simply a voice of Creation begging to be heard and comprehended- embraced. And anyone who doesn’t consider themselves an artist is missing a recognition that we are attached to what we attach to; and so we silently admire art and the artist because they seem closer to the voice of Creation itself. They are more willing to risk themselves by participating in what could be construed as a pointless endeavor.
I’m ready to give it all away. Set all the paint and canvas on the corner with a free sign. Maybe burn it in a massive fire. I am done.
I feel it in every part of my beingness- I am done. I don’t know what I have left to give.
This isn’t a death threat. Though it is acknowledgement that something in me has died. I no longer know who I am because I have become one with the Void. I’ve spun with the spider for a long time. I once built a beautiful bonfire but the light went away and the embers slowly cooled.
I want nothing but the totality of everything to be better in this world and beyond. I want a break from the spiritual battle- the terrestrial plight.
I want to float, free form, unrestrained by the labels and boxes. I want to shrug off this subpar body and exchange it for the unseen consummations of light. I no longer want to fit in, or conform uncomfortably when I know how lovely it is to unfurl, unfold and expand outward… I do not know this by life alone.
Rise above! Rise like smoke. Rise like steam, or mist- lighter than air alone. Rise with the tide, Rise with the Sun, rise with laughter.
When I rise, nothing will be left to pull me down.
Okay, perhaps I am remiss here, and jumping the gun in some way- because in my world the year starts in September. It’s the month I was born and things seem to get shifty around that time. That being said- it is only the second day of May.
It is nine months and one day since my Gma passed. I think these things get me in some nine month cycle- it is ingrained in my biology as a woman.
I remember going to massage therapy school and having to start the nine month program over a second time because of life issues. It was brutal joining a new class. I didn’t finish the program.
The funny thing was, I was able to see things I didn’t perceive the first time around. I noticed the disorganization of the administration running the institute. I got caught in the cross hairs of this misadministration. I gave up because I realized I was dealing wholly with massive parasitic energy from the top of the structure, down to the apprentice clinic.
Not much has changed with that battle- the thing I would like to draw attention to, is how this would solidify something with nine month cycles and the way I would look at my past failure.
To finish a nine month program- successfully. Through the lens of failure I would look back and say to my self “you could have finished that program four times by now.”
You could be certified.
You could have a career, a job, a productive part in society.
I kept thinking that way until a condom broke in 2007. By then I could have completed 9.333333333333, nine month massage therapy courses.
I didn’t want to get pregnant. It was a foolish one night stand sort of thing. Then nine months became pivotal in another way. I was rushing to escape the deadline again. Not mature enough to find a finish line without compromise.
When I made that termination, something reset at the back of my mind, and that is the twelve month time line.
This year I would have a fourteen year old. I would probably have a bunch of other perceived failures, but every year would bring something new- maybe to look forward to, in hopes of not regressing into that mindset that nothing changes. Or that I myself am a failure.
I chose to walk another path. I don’t see it as good or bad, in my desire to be neutral.
In retrospect I keep making it another nine months. And if I look back far enough I can see those cycles from beginning to end like the ouroboros. My life is different but very much the same these days. I wonder if the conscious movement to not procreate children is a way that the snake can eat itself. To not bring more into the world than it can digest.
But then on the other hand there has been no time like the present of the Andy Warhol catch phrase “Everyone will have their fifteen minutes of fame.” All eyes/I’s are on US- the United System. So many stories to tell, so many faces to see.
So I basically joined Tiktok, then deleted it. Started a “business” with a friend and joined back up.
I disavowed Facebook and all social media with the exception of Twitter where I do not engage with people in my town.
I know this sounds like- “Where are you going with this?”
I think there is a community of emotionally starved people- and it represents something bigger. I do some dumb content on Tiktok because I get just enough positivity from it to keep going back.
I save my deeper thoughts that I feel like sharing for this blog.
I keep the deepest stuff in my physical journals that I populate with ink.
People are embracing their weirdness and I am very supportive of that- but I feel the same way that I did when I was 20 years old living in the Bay Area- “I am just not weird enough.” Which would be summed down to “I’m just not good enough.”
We all have an audience- I know that to be true, but it doesn’t stop my internal conflict of how much is too much to share of myself. It doesn’t stop the comparison or the desire to just give up because it’s easy to get lost in adoration.
Adoration can be a motivator and a motivation killer. When I see something that I resonate with I am caught in a battle of self that says “you can do that” but will it be better or worse? I often times capitalize on my worst physical attributes and yet in writing, face unseen- I go a different direction of honesty.
I am reading some of my dog stories on there- talking about other things, dressing up and wearing wigs. It should be a good time and I would like to see you there.
Madge Midgely 