ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
5:45 pm
Consumed 5 gelcaps, each containing rougly 0.6 grams of dried mushrooms, and put another gel cap in my pocket for later.
6:30 pm
This forty year old guy with long hair and tattoos up and down his arm is talking to people at the bus stop. He's the sort of person that makes people feel uncomfortable just by being who he is. His appearance is threatening; he bears a striking resemblence to a television mug shot. But, he's not like that at all. He's the friendly sort; over-compensating for his appearance, by connecting with people. Proving to the world, one person at a time, that appearances are not what they seem. I have half a joint hanging out of my mouth; I light it.
Mr. Friendly doesn't over-compensate with me. He isn't desperate for my approval. The smell of weed pacifies him. He assumes, because I smoke, that I am an advocate of individualism. He starts talking to me like I'm his brother. It annoys me. I don't want to talk to him. I don't care about his identity crisis. I have other things on my mind.
6:45 pm
I pull the gel cap out of my pocket and examine it. Mr. Friendly is over-compensating again. Chatting to the bus driver. A teenager gives me a strange look. I put the gel cap in my mouth and swallow. One pill, every hour, until midnight. That's the plan. I have to stop taking psychedelics for six weeks. This is my leap day resolution.
The problem with trying to quit something is: you're going repeatedly fail at it. When you try to quit smoking cigarettes for the thirtieth time, you pretty much take it for granted that you're going to fail. The decision to quit is no longer significant, because you don't believe it.
New Years resolutions have the same effect. Everybody fails so frequently at their resolutions, that - after a while - they don't even make any effort. Failure is inevitable. New Years resolutions become meaningless.
I have fucked up so consistently that I don't care if I fuck up again. The best chance I have at quitting something is going out with a bang; hence, the leap year resolution.
By midnight, I will have consumed 6.6 grams of dried mushrooms and 600 mg of DXM. The following day will be the first time I have attempted to go cold turkey after a leap day. There is no history of failure. It is fresh; new; trippy. Also if it's succesful it gives me the excuse to only have resolutions once every four years.
One thousand four hundred and sixty one days from now, it will be leap day again.
7:00 pm
The mushrooms are well and truly kicking in. On the bus, it felt like I was half-awake/ half-dreaming. I got off a couple of stops after my house, at the pharmacy.
The pharmacist on duty recognizes me. About a year ago I got into an argument with him after asking him for a fit pack. It was late at night, and they were the only place open. Despite the fact that they had syringes in stock, he wouldn't sell me one. I ended up using a blunt dirty needle and collapsing one of the major veins in my right arm.
There are no other staff members to serve me. He catches my eye, gives me a suspicious look. I ask him for, "a bottle of Robotussin Dry Cough Forte." He knows what it's for, but he can't say; he has to give me the benefit of the doubt.
He walks me to the cash register, asking me questions. "Who is it for?" (I tell him it's for my father.) "Is he on any other medications?" (I tell him no.) "Has he had it before?" (Yes.)
I walk home.
7:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 4.2 grams total, so far.
8:00 pm
I roll five joints, each containing about a quarter of a gram of weed. I realize, while typing this, that I will be unable to smoke in four hours; which means, I need to smoke five joints before midnight... I get started on the first one. Watch District 9 while they mushroom kick in.
8:30 pm
I smoke another joint. It's better to smoke now, rather than attempting to force down a couple of joints when I'm on DXM. The mushrooms are still building up. Due to the hourly redose they will continue to build up for the next five hours, or so. It's already excruciatingly slow. This huge wave. I can see it on the horizon. Inching closer and closer towards me.
8:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 4.8 grams total, so far. I smoke another joint. There are no two remaining for the trip.
9:00 pm
Experiencing time dilation. I smoke joint number 4.
9:23 pm
I smoke joint number 5. It occurs to me that I attempt to quit drugs to give myself an excuse to get extra fucked up; my desire to quit is an elaborate tool, devised by my addiction.
Good was created by evil, for without it he cannot exist. God, created by Satan. The driving force of human consciousness is evil. Nirvana is the absence of cognitive aberrations, not the opposite. There is good and evil; which are the same thing. And then, there's neutrality. Nothingness. This is the real opponent of evil.
Good is evil's minion; to believe in good, you also believe in evil. Just like if you believe in God, you believe in Satan. Christians and Satanists are of the same broader religion, they just don't realize it. God is a puppet, created by Satan.
The opponent of religion is atheism; the opponent of evil is atheism. That does not imply that religion is evil. Evil is not evil. The opposite of nothing, is everything. Every thought the human mind has ever come up with. Every number and every word. Every painting. Every song. All of these things are temptation. The pure state of existence is a life beyond the creations of man. Language is nothing when compared to the infinite.
We spend our lives constantly communicating nothing; using words that, at best, are capable of expressing a minute fraction of our soul. These messages we're desperate to get to each other. E-mails, SMS, phone calls, video conferencing, face-to-face. Everybody always has something to say. This never-ending urge to connect to people with words. Limited to language, we will always fail to express how we really feel. It is beyond language.
Mathematicians say that mathematics are at the core of everything, that the universe is constructed by mathematics. This is absurd. The universe is beyond the languages of maths. Everything we produce is, and always will be, a fraction of the inifinite. Yet we focus on our creations more than we focus on the infinite. The creations of man, including mainstream religion, are the golden calves of the real battle. Satan is man; God is man. Both of them want you to believe in false idols; they are false idols. The dilemmas they pose, dealing with property and sex; these are worldly issues. They are worldly because they are created by people of this world. And people of this world want you to believe in them; in their accomplishments; in the pursuits of man. History is celebrated endlessly. We are so in love with ourselves and everything we have ever done. Human beings; so fascinated by human beings. That's why mathematics - an abstract human concept - is at he core of everything.
Mathematics is a way of understanding how things work. It is representational. Everything is representational. The word flower is not a flower; it is a word. The actual thing is far more magnificent than the label, yet we often give them similar levels of attention. The same goes for religion. People care more about the label God than they do about God. They pray to the label, worship the label. In that sense God is a false idol, distracting people from the God of nothingness. People are uncomfortable with nothingness; a state of just being.
We feel the need to try and understand things; we feel the need to label and categorize things; we feel the need to distance ourselves, through intellect, from the world around us. There needs to be polarity for there to be drama. God and Satan, man and nature; to realize totally that these things are all one defeats the purpose of dramatization. We distance ourselves from the world so that it feels good when we connect. Enlightenment is not simply returning to an unaberrated state of being, as if nothing happened. You return with momentum. You know what it means to be pure. You understand it. This is why God likes sinners.
God doesn't want you to never be tempted. He wants you to sin. It is part of the process. Christian people who are brought up eating pages of the Bible for breakfast lunch and dinner; the sort of people who grow up to afraid to live their lives: they never go through the Biblical journey. Temptation. Sin. Redemption. This is the path to God. To understand right and wrong, you have to do something wrong; otherwise, you are just taking someone else's word for it.
A man who commits murder and repents, is a man close to God. What non-religious people don't understand about the concept of heaven, one of the most common criticisms of Christian-Judeo religious beliefs: is that eternal life is available to people regardless of sin. If you murder a million people and you repent, and connect to God, you are accepted. This is because the murder is irrelevant, in the grander scheme of things. It is a worldly event. What is important is the connection, however that comes to exist doesn't matter.
You kill someone in a rage. You're standing there in their blood. You realize what you've done. This person is never going to see their family again. Never get married. Never have kids. You have severed a long chain of events from ever occuring. A human life; impossible to fairly justify as less important than your own. You connect to God, who is really a construct of man/ Satan. This is a stepping stone towards enlightenment. Since you have experienced evil, you now have to experience good. What comes next is the opposite of good and evil, which is nothing. If you think about religion, and what it really means, it ceases to exist.
In terms of Judeo-Christian theology, it all comes down to the second commandment. It is a sin to sculpt angels. To create humanoid depictions of angels. Men with wings. This is a sin, because it is a lie. Just like a lot of bad science fiction. Beyond this world is not humanoid. Man was not created in the likeness of God. God is beyond man. Beyond likeness. Beyond physicality. The worship of men with wings or men nailed to crucifixes, is a huge distraction from God. These are not Godly images. There is no such thing as a Godly image.
9:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 5.4 grams total, so far.
9:46 pm
If there is no way to depict God in a statue, without it being a sin and a false idol, then there is no way to depict God in words either. The Bible is, according to the second commandment, a false idol. The second commandment, according to the second commandment, is a false idol.
If you think about religion, and what it really means, it ceases to exist. Along with it goes everything else. All creations of man. It's difficult to even think about following that all the way to the end. People stop their spiritual journeys at different stages. Priests work in big buildings with stain glass windows and worship statues of dead God's nailed to pieces of wood. Monks wear robes and live in stone buildings in the mountains. They are both the same, men stuck on a phase of their spiritual journeys.
They are closer than I am, perhaps. The mushrooms are getting to a toxic stage. The hallucinations are so strong that it is hard to see straight. I am experiencing localized paralysis in my limbs. Moving my fingers on the keyboard is proving to be more and more difficult. Drugs cannot be used during the last phase of enlightenment. You cannot be pure of being if you are intoxicated. It is a cheat. A shortcut. The enlightened body is not you, it is the drug; you are merely tagging along for the ride.
I've been meaning to go a month without elecricity. I have deconstructed my life down to the bare essentials. I can't stop here like the monk with his robe. It is so hard to do, though: to strip down those last layers; to disrobe.
10:30 pm
I want to smoke another joint but I don't think I'm able to roll one. The paralysis is spreading throughout the right side of my body. I have had close to half an ounce of dried mushrooms in the past three days. Something like a kilogram over the year. I manage to roll a joint.
If you take enough psychedelics, art becomes meaningless. District 9 is one of the best science fiction films ever made. It is an absolute masterpiece. Right now it seems absurd. Not absurd in an intentional way; absurd that somebody would spend that much time and money on such a pursuit; absurd that people acclaim it and ignore the masterpieces all around them. I like watching films like this, sometimes. It's interesting to experience them from this perspective considering how much stock I typically invest.
People over-analyze the shit out of art. It's embarrassing, these so called experts spending their lives trying to make art something it is not. Like monks stuck on spiritual journeys, these art lovers are stuck on their journey towards truth. Simplicity.
Fuck art that tries too hard to be clever. So hard that people have to have a degree to fully understand it. Shakespeare is not one of the best writers to ever live, assuming that you believe the man by that name actually wrote them. His plays are self-masturbatory material for achademics. Psuedo-intellectual shit for people to deconstruct and boast interpretations. It's like Toy Story. There's bits for the kids and bits for the adults; the kids being us and the adults being a miniscule percentage of the world's population capable of understanding the nuances of the language upon first hearing it. It is the sort of writing that insults the vast majority of the world by lacing itself with this top shelf shit that nobody understands.
Art isn't about intellectualism. My hands aren't working. Pinky and ring finger on right. Can hardly move. Get up and stretch. Bit of movement back now.
10:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 6.0 grams total, so far. I have seventy-five minutes to drink a bottle of cough syrup. I open up the box and pull out the little bottle. It's cold. Usually I'd pour it into a glass. Drinking from the bottle is difficult. They make it that way on purpose. The neck is really narrow so it comes out slow. Unless you have an enormous amount of experience drinking and eating stuff that you probably shouldn't it is likely to make you want to vomit.
I put the bottle to my lips. The syrup is thick, red. It coats my teeth. It rolls down my throat in clumps. The taste is horrible. That flavored medicine taste for kids that tastes worse than actual medicine. I drink for what seems like an eternity. When I'm finished, I realize I've only done half the bottle. I drink again. It's worse this time; I let it fill up my mouth before swallowing. A mouthful of sugary syrup. I swallow. Less than a quarter of a bottle left now. I do it. By the end, I am concentrating to suppress nausea. The mushrooms make the experience much more difficult than normal. I go brush my teeth to get the taste out. I can still taste it at the back of my throat. It's the first thing, aside from the mushrooms, that I've had to eat today. I think. It's hard to say for certain. Definitely haven't had a meal for at least 24 hours. I looked at the clock. It said 11:08 pm. I read it as 11:08 am. I am sitting beside a window, outside it is pitch black; and I thought it was the middle of the day. The mushrooms are getting ridiculously strong. I don't think eating the last gel cap is a good idea, but I'm going to do it anyway; because, it's either now or never. Never, meaning not for six weeks.
11:15 pm
The DXM is taking effect already. My motivation towards continuing this report is already dwindling. I want to drift off. Decide, instead, to smoke another joint and finish watching District 9.
11:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 6.6 grams total. Smoked another joint; couldn’t manage to make a roach. Smoked it, filter less. The smoke was harsh.
11:55 pm
The movie ends five minutes before twelve. The last five minutes before the credits I see in 3D. I realize this is the last opportunity I have to smoke for the next six weeks. I sloppily roll another joint with no filter and smoke as fast as I can. I force myself to keep puffing constantly for five minutes.
12:00 am
The cough syrup has yet to kick in properly. My hands are shaking. I can’t function physically. I need to lie down. It is coming, the DXM; coming at me like a wall. I put on Mule Variations, a Tom Waits I’ve never heard, and lie down with the lights off.
12:15 am
The first song fucks my mind in the ass. Big in Japan; it is amazing, I can’t believe I’ve never heard it before. The closed eye hallucinations are truly magnificent. It looks like I’m inside an extremely complex three dimensional geometric object; with millions of faces, each with a different number of sides. They all fit together in a complex three dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Printed across all of the faces is a pattern; each face with a different pattern. As the music plays the puzzle re-arranges itself. I see his voice moving across my field of vision in a thick slab of psychedelic pattern, as if someone was using LSD as paint. I realize my eyes are open. The three dimensional geometric shape is my bedroom twisted by my mind. So hard to type, feels like my hands are prosthetics.
12:25 am
With my eyes closed I find myself subconsciously using light sources to make patterns. The light I absorb through my eyelid skin is recorded at different angles and superimposed over itself. I am tilting my head slightly, without knowing it, to record these images. I have noticed recently that I get lost in the patterns that trees make in the breeze. Because I eat so many mushrooms, my mind needs to stock up on eye candy; fuel for my hallucinations. There are patterns everywhere. Your subconscious absorbs them all day. Nature is a network of patterns, connecting together to make one massive pattern.
12:35 am
My cat is playing with something on the carpet; a disembodied tail, wriggling around and amusing my cat while the lizard makes an escape. The tail is furious. It is desperate to distract the cat. It flicks her in the nose. She jumps back. Meanwhile, the lizard is scurrying towards the door. My cat, she is seemingly oblivious. She plays her part perfectly. Just as the lizard gets to the point of no return, she launches into action. That little window in which it’s possible for the lizard to escape and possible for it to die; it’s more fun that way. My cat runs it down, tackles it, rolling over and over into a tumbleweed and landing in the corner. I pat her on the head. She doesn’t want to be patted. She’s in hunting mode. She’s fierce. She hisses at me, the lizard wriggling around in her mouth. I touch her on the nose to remind her that she can eat meat and still be a sweetheart. She gives me a look. Like, she doesn’t want to be cute. Like, I’m embarrassing her in front of her prey. She is hunched over with the lizard hanging out of her mouth breathing heavily, hissing, her eyes wild. I envy her. What comes naturally to her, what should come naturally to me, it is so difficult to achieve. Maybe that’s why I try to think of her as cute; why people tame animals: we’re jealous of how close they are to the creator and we want to take that away. Make them distant, like us; justify the distance between man and nature, by removing another species.
I am jealous of the experience she just had hunting and killing a large lizard, but that doesn’t mean I should patronize her by touching her on the nose. I would apologize to her if cats were capable of understanding English. Instead, I will treat her with more respect in the future. When I get meat I go to the supermarket and buy a shrink-wrapped package of flesh from some poor cow whose entire existence has been torturous. Cows who live on farms in good conditions have terrible lives. Slavery is slavery. Free range is a joke. Put free range into the context of the holocaust. Put yourself in their shoes. What the fuck does free range mean really? It’s not freedom. Chickens and cows that are bred in mass quantities and killed humanely are slaves made to be eaten. It is a horrible life; disgusting, really.
My cat gave the lizard a fighting chance even after she caught it. It lived a free life. It had sex with other lizards and had lizard babies. My cat caught it. It tried the whole tail routine… You think you’re going to die. Detach part of your spine to distract the predator. Leave it wriggling there, and run. She catches up with you. You think you’re going to die again. That near death trip, it doubles, the world flashing before your eyes for the second time. It’s like you’ve had two deaths for the price of one. A second chance at last minute enlightenment; that is the gift my cat gave her lizard.
1:05 am
My body feels amazing. I want to smoke another joint, but I can’t. No more weed. I don’t need it really anyway. It is a compulsion I indulge even when I have reached a satisfactory state of being. The mushrooms have reduced the “plateau” level of this DXM experience. The psilocybin keeps me alert and focused while in the midst of heavy dissociative buzz.
Running my fingers through my hair; touching my head is like touching someone else’s head while having someone touch mine. Like I’m looking at a reflection of myself touching my head and I am touching the reflections head, while the reflection touches mine.
It feels like my face is melting, on the right; like I’m made of wax, my chin dripping down onto my shoulder. My posture is worse than usual. Rather than being askew, I am mangled. My body is arranged at a series of acute angles; bones protruding in directions they should not.
I hate this fucking country. Australia. I want to move, but there’s no point. I will hate whatever country I live in. Not because I am a miserable son of a bitch; because I hate countries. Nationalism; pride; loyalty to your country, your race: these things are all racist. The only way for racism to not exist, is for there to be no races. This disconnection we have, nationality to nationality. We need to fuck it out.
This idea of Jewish people marrying Jewish people and Christian people marrying Christian people makes me sick. It’s fucking racist. A friend of mine pointed out something about Anti-Semitism recently. He said Jews have their own term for racism. Instead of calling it racism, it’s anti-Semitism. I pointed out that Judaism is not a race. He has a point, though. I’m not sure what the linguistic equivalent of racism is, in terms of theological belief. Whatever it is, it is not anti-Semitism. Calling someone anti-Semitic is like calling someone a black-racist rather than just calling them a racist. Obviously there are people who are racist against specific races; but, creating terminology that differentiates between prejudices, implying that one is greater than another, is – in itself – racist.
We are all racist, to some degree. To deny that you have any racist tendencies is to set anchor on your journey towards enlightenment like the monk with his robes. To not be racist is to not recognize race, to behave as if it doesn’t exist; and I don’t believe anyone does that absolutely.
I’m not sure if anyone has ever achieved enlightenment; the pursuit towards nothing is infinite.
1:40 am
I’ve been listening to Castle on a Cloud, on a loop. It is a ninety-six second song from Les Miserables, sung by a very young girl with a voice like an angel; the sort of purity that only exists at the beginning of human lives, before they are smothered by the weight of the modern world. The song is melancholic; a frail human voice; a little girl, escaping adversity by imagining a better life. She lives in her head; in a castle, on a cloud. It is haunting, this song. I go and lie down.
2:07 am
Listened to Mule Variations; Get Behind the Mule blows me away. Tom Waits is fucking amazing. This album is incredible. My brain is wet. I want his voice to fuck me right In the middle of my cerebral cortex. On DXM, the quality of music has a direct relationship with the quality of hallucinations. This can be said, also, though to a lesser extent, with various other substances. Good music creates good hallucinations and incredible music makes incredible hallucinations. When you listen to amazing music for the first time on DXM and mushrooms it is a real treat.
2:18 am
My body continues to compensate or my lack of physical co-ordination. The paralysis I experience; my body works around it. I find myself subconsciously using different fingers to type given the lack of sensation in my ring and pinky finger. I want to smoke a joint really badly so I decide to extend the end of the leap year from midnight to the moment that I go to sleep.
2:27 am
My cats are all overly affectionate. I feed them some kangaroo meat. They know I’m tripping. My orange cat tries to take advantage of the situation; he attempts to steal all the food. I pull a big chunk of meat out of his mouth and give it to the smallest of my cats. He hisses at me but he doesn’t strike because he knows he’s being greedy. They are all well fed; the kangaroo meat is a treat.
2:38 am
I grind up some weed, intending to make a joint. I walk off in search of rolling papers and come back with my phone. I remember dropping the papers on the floor earlier. I look on the floor. I go and search again and come back with nothing. The papers are on the desk; right beside the keyboard. My head feels weird. Like it’s not round. It feels like my head is made out of play-dough. I attempt to roll a joint.
2:51 pm
I keep going with the Tom Waits album. Cold Water is fucking incredible. It is so good that it hurts. I see a tiny pink crucifix among my hallucinations. It stands out. It is predominant. Then, it disappears. Somehow I manage to roll a decent joint. I blast Waits and put the speaker on the window sill.
3:06 am
It is the best joint I have ever smoked;
closing my eyes now I see columns
built with egg-like prisms
each containing a glowing entity
they are falling apart
as skeleton screw driver sets
struggle to re-assemble the chicken wire
I close my eyes
the pattern these words form on the page
they create an expressionless face
the face becomes the head of a worm
3:20 am
I feed my cats the last of the kangaroo meat. I dig my fingers right into the mince for some reason. I force myself to do it. I figure it’s better to touch it. It feels horrible. Matter that was once alive; it is still alive, it is providing life. But, there’s something hideous about it; hideously beautiful. I ate some raw meat the other day to experience what my cats do. It’s tough to chew, but it feels primal.
3:27 am
The paralysis is gone now. DXM is taking over from mushrooms; lovely dextromethorphan. I direct various short animated films in my head. There are no flaws in nature; my hallucinations are perfect.
I roll another joint. It scares me how easy it is to roll in this state. My cats are starting to freak me out. They’re attacking each other. They are circling me, all three of them; hunting a mouse under my desk.
4:00 am
I drink some water. I don’t understand why I am still alive. I have abused my body so much that I should be dead. Makes me think there’s no such thing as being dead. A being stuck on the mortal coil like a monk with his robe stuck on an elevator towards heaven.
4:15 am
Writing this is incredibly difficult. The screen and the keyboard exist on another plane of existence. It is painful to remain connected to the physical world when my soul wants to be free. Some maniac put a cat in box. Schrodinger was his name. This is the most important thought experiment ever. It proves that nothing exists. The act of observation; our tendency to label things: it is our downfall.
4:51 am
I am hallucinating insanely.
I lie down on the carpet; I want to merge with the house. My cat embraces me; we are one, a hybrid. I can see without opening my eyes; the light coming through my eyelids, it forms an image of the room.
6:30 am
I walk through the house to the bathroom. The paralysis is returning. When I get to the bathroom, my entire body gives way. I fall onto the tiles. I cannot move. I try to drag myself up onto my feet. I figure it's all in my head. Getting up; it's just a matter of will power. As soon as I get to my knees I fall face first into the ground. My eye hits the floor, hard. I need to piss but I can’t get to the toilet. I keep struggling, but it’s no use. I have to piss on the floor. I pull my pants down to my knees. It takes serious concentration to do this. My dick is shriveled up. I look around for something to piss into. I try to crawl to the shower, but it’s impossible. I am hallucinating so much I can hardly see. I notice the cylindrical plastic toilet paper holder. I put my dick into it but I can’t hold it up on an angle. If I piss, it will pour back onto me. I prop the container up by positioning the lid underneath it. I piss, careful not to drop the receptacle. After I’m finished I drag myself to the shower, inch by inch. I am dehydrated. I figure that’s why I can’t move. I can’t reach the sink. If I don’t drink some water I might die, so I rub by hand on the floor of the shower and drink the water from my fingers. I think of the lizard’s tail wriggling on the ground. After fifteen minutes or so I get shakily to my feet. The paralysis is gone.
7:00 am
I walk into the kitchen to get something to eat. I fall to the ground. I can’t move, again. My cat is digging through the rubbish bin. I struggle to my feet and roll a joint. This paralysis; it’s not going to stop me. I prop myself up on a chair. It takes a couple of attempts to make a joint. I smoke, lying on the floor.
7:15 am
I crawl through the house. Walking is too difficult. I am on my hands and knees. When I get to the bedroom, I notice an ear candle I was planning on using earlier; I lift myself up onto the bed and shove it into my ear canal. I light it on fire. I can see myself in the mirror; this flaming thing, sticking out of my ear. It makes a percolating sound as it drains the wax out of my ear. I can hear the wax rising, the hot smoke going into my head. I am mildly concerned that I might set my hair on fire.
Once it’s finished, I break open the candle. There is a huge chunk of wax inside. My head feels light, now. I do the other ear. It’s hard to light the candle. My hands aren’t working. I almost drop it onto the bed. Somehow, I manage. I feel hot smoke drifting into my ear; I hear that bubbling sound deep in my head. There is more in this ear. I break open the candle, to reveal a massive chunk of dry reddish-yellow wax; it is so big, I struggle to believe it came out of my ear.
7:30 am
I go to sleep.
5:00 pm
I wake up and fill in the gaps in this report. The paralysis is still going. My right hand keeps going to sleep. The only finger I can use properly is my index finger. I type letter by letter. I want to smoke a joint, but I can’t. I have to resist... Six weeks.
Consumed 5 gelcaps, each containing rougly 0.6 grams of dried mushrooms, and put another gel cap in my pocket for later.
6:30 pm
This forty year old guy with long hair and tattoos up and down his arm is talking to people at the bus stop. He's the sort of person that makes people feel uncomfortable just by being who he is. His appearance is threatening; he bears a striking resemblence to a television mug shot. But, he's not like that at all. He's the friendly sort; over-compensating for his appearance, by connecting with people. Proving to the world, one person at a time, that appearances are not what they seem. I have half a joint hanging out of my mouth; I light it.
Mr. Friendly doesn't over-compensate with me. He isn't desperate for my approval. The smell of weed pacifies him. He assumes, because I smoke, that I am an advocate of individualism. He starts talking to me like I'm his brother. It annoys me. I don't want to talk to him. I don't care about his identity crisis. I have other things on my mind.
6:45 pm
I pull the gel cap out of my pocket and examine it. Mr. Friendly is over-compensating again. Chatting to the bus driver. A teenager gives me a strange look. I put the gel cap in my mouth and swallow. One pill, every hour, until midnight. That's the plan. I have to stop taking psychedelics for six weeks. This is my leap day resolution.
The problem with trying to quit something is: you're going repeatedly fail at it. When you try to quit smoking cigarettes for the thirtieth time, you pretty much take it for granted that you're going to fail. The decision to quit is no longer significant, because you don't believe it.
New Years resolutions have the same effect. Everybody fails so frequently at their resolutions, that - after a while - they don't even make any effort. Failure is inevitable. New Years resolutions become meaningless.
I have fucked up so consistently that I don't care if I fuck up again. The best chance I have at quitting something is going out with a bang; hence, the leap year resolution.
By midnight, I will have consumed 6.6 grams of dried mushrooms and 600 mg of DXM. The following day will be the first time I have attempted to go cold turkey after a leap day. There is no history of failure. It is fresh; new; trippy. Also if it's succesful it gives me the excuse to only have resolutions once every four years.
One thousand four hundred and sixty one days from now, it will be leap day again.
7:00 pm
The mushrooms are well and truly kicking in. On the bus, it felt like I was half-awake/ half-dreaming. I got off a couple of stops after my house, at the pharmacy.
The pharmacist on duty recognizes me. About a year ago I got into an argument with him after asking him for a fit pack. It was late at night, and they were the only place open. Despite the fact that they had syringes in stock, he wouldn't sell me one. I ended up using a blunt dirty needle and collapsing one of the major veins in my right arm.
There are no other staff members to serve me. He catches my eye, gives me a suspicious look. I ask him for, "a bottle of Robotussin Dry Cough Forte." He knows what it's for, but he can't say; he has to give me the benefit of the doubt.
He walks me to the cash register, asking me questions. "Who is it for?" (I tell him it's for my father.) "Is he on any other medications?" (I tell him no.) "Has he had it before?" (Yes.)
I walk home.
7:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 4.2 grams total, so far.
8:00 pm
I roll five joints, each containing about a quarter of a gram of weed. I realize, while typing this, that I will be unable to smoke in four hours; which means, I need to smoke five joints before midnight... I get started on the first one. Watch District 9 while they mushroom kick in.
8:30 pm
I smoke another joint. It's better to smoke now, rather than attempting to force down a couple of joints when I'm on DXM. The mushrooms are still building up. Due to the hourly redose they will continue to build up for the next five hours, or so. It's already excruciatingly slow. This huge wave. I can see it on the horizon. Inching closer and closer towards me.
8:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 4.8 grams total, so far. I smoke another joint. There are no two remaining for the trip.
9:00 pm
Experiencing time dilation. I smoke joint number 4.
9:23 pm
I smoke joint number 5. It occurs to me that I attempt to quit drugs to give myself an excuse to get extra fucked up; my desire to quit is an elaborate tool, devised by my addiction.
Good was created by evil, for without it he cannot exist. God, created by Satan. The driving force of human consciousness is evil. Nirvana is the absence of cognitive aberrations, not the opposite. There is good and evil; which are the same thing. And then, there's neutrality. Nothingness. This is the real opponent of evil.
Good is evil's minion; to believe in good, you also believe in evil. Just like if you believe in God, you believe in Satan. Christians and Satanists are of the same broader religion, they just don't realize it. God is a puppet, created by Satan.
The opponent of religion is atheism; the opponent of evil is atheism. That does not imply that religion is evil. Evil is not evil. The opposite of nothing, is everything. Every thought the human mind has ever come up with. Every number and every word. Every painting. Every song. All of these things are temptation. The pure state of existence is a life beyond the creations of man. Language is nothing when compared to the infinite.
We spend our lives constantly communicating nothing; using words that, at best, are capable of expressing a minute fraction of our soul. These messages we're desperate to get to each other. E-mails, SMS, phone calls, video conferencing, face-to-face. Everybody always has something to say. This never-ending urge to connect to people with words. Limited to language, we will always fail to express how we really feel. It is beyond language.
Mathematicians say that mathematics are at the core of everything, that the universe is constructed by mathematics. This is absurd. The universe is beyond the languages of maths. Everything we produce is, and always will be, a fraction of the inifinite. Yet we focus on our creations more than we focus on the infinite. The creations of man, including mainstream religion, are the golden calves of the real battle. Satan is man; God is man. Both of them want you to believe in false idols; they are false idols. The dilemmas they pose, dealing with property and sex; these are worldly issues. They are worldly because they are created by people of this world. And people of this world want you to believe in them; in their accomplishments; in the pursuits of man. History is celebrated endlessly. We are so in love with ourselves and everything we have ever done. Human beings; so fascinated by human beings. That's why mathematics - an abstract human concept - is at he core of everything.
Mathematics is a way of understanding how things work. It is representational. Everything is representational. The word flower is not a flower; it is a word. The actual thing is far more magnificent than the label, yet we often give them similar levels of attention. The same goes for religion. People care more about the label God than they do about God. They pray to the label, worship the label. In that sense God is a false idol, distracting people from the God of nothingness. People are uncomfortable with nothingness; a state of just being.
We feel the need to try and understand things; we feel the need to label and categorize things; we feel the need to distance ourselves, through intellect, from the world around us. There needs to be polarity for there to be drama. God and Satan, man and nature; to realize totally that these things are all one defeats the purpose of dramatization. We distance ourselves from the world so that it feels good when we connect. Enlightenment is not simply returning to an unaberrated state of being, as if nothing happened. You return with momentum. You know what it means to be pure. You understand it. This is why God likes sinners.
God doesn't want you to never be tempted. He wants you to sin. It is part of the process. Christian people who are brought up eating pages of the Bible for breakfast lunch and dinner; the sort of people who grow up to afraid to live their lives: they never go through the Biblical journey. Temptation. Sin. Redemption. This is the path to God. To understand right and wrong, you have to do something wrong; otherwise, you are just taking someone else's word for it.
A man who commits murder and repents, is a man close to God. What non-religious people don't understand about the concept of heaven, one of the most common criticisms of Christian-Judeo religious beliefs: is that eternal life is available to people regardless of sin. If you murder a million people and you repent, and connect to God, you are accepted. This is because the murder is irrelevant, in the grander scheme of things. It is a worldly event. What is important is the connection, however that comes to exist doesn't matter.
You kill someone in a rage. You're standing there in their blood. You realize what you've done. This person is never going to see their family again. Never get married. Never have kids. You have severed a long chain of events from ever occuring. A human life; impossible to fairly justify as less important than your own. You connect to God, who is really a construct of man/ Satan. This is a stepping stone towards enlightenment. Since you have experienced evil, you now have to experience good. What comes next is the opposite of good and evil, which is nothing. If you think about religion, and what it really means, it ceases to exist.
In terms of Judeo-Christian theology, it all comes down to the second commandment. It is a sin to sculpt angels. To create humanoid depictions of angels. Men with wings. This is a sin, because it is a lie. Just like a lot of bad science fiction. Beyond this world is not humanoid. Man was not created in the likeness of God. God is beyond man. Beyond likeness. Beyond physicality. The worship of men with wings or men nailed to crucifixes, is a huge distraction from God. These are not Godly images. There is no such thing as a Godly image.
9:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 5.4 grams total, so far.
9:46 pm
If there is no way to depict God in a statue, without it being a sin and a false idol, then there is no way to depict God in words either. The Bible is, according to the second commandment, a false idol. The second commandment, according to the second commandment, is a false idol.
If you think about religion, and what it really means, it ceases to exist. Along with it goes everything else. All creations of man. It's difficult to even think about following that all the way to the end. People stop their spiritual journeys at different stages. Priests work in big buildings with stain glass windows and worship statues of dead God's nailed to pieces of wood. Monks wear robes and live in stone buildings in the mountains. They are both the same, men stuck on a phase of their spiritual journeys.
They are closer than I am, perhaps. The mushrooms are getting to a toxic stage. The hallucinations are so strong that it is hard to see straight. I am experiencing localized paralysis in my limbs. Moving my fingers on the keyboard is proving to be more and more difficult. Drugs cannot be used during the last phase of enlightenment. You cannot be pure of being if you are intoxicated. It is a cheat. A shortcut. The enlightened body is not you, it is the drug; you are merely tagging along for the ride.
I've been meaning to go a month without elecricity. I have deconstructed my life down to the bare essentials. I can't stop here like the monk with his robe. It is so hard to do, though: to strip down those last layers; to disrobe.
10:30 pm
I want to smoke another joint but I don't think I'm able to roll one. The paralysis is spreading throughout the right side of my body. I have had close to half an ounce of dried mushrooms in the past three days. Something like a kilogram over the year. I manage to roll a joint.
If you take enough psychedelics, art becomes meaningless. District 9 is one of the best science fiction films ever made. It is an absolute masterpiece. Right now it seems absurd. Not absurd in an intentional way; absurd that somebody would spend that much time and money on such a pursuit; absurd that people acclaim it and ignore the masterpieces all around them. I like watching films like this, sometimes. It's interesting to experience them from this perspective considering how much stock I typically invest.
People over-analyze the shit out of art. It's embarrassing, these so called experts spending their lives trying to make art something it is not. Like monks stuck on spiritual journeys, these art lovers are stuck on their journey towards truth. Simplicity.
Fuck art that tries too hard to be clever. So hard that people have to have a degree to fully understand it. Shakespeare is not one of the best writers to ever live, assuming that you believe the man by that name actually wrote them. His plays are self-masturbatory material for achademics. Psuedo-intellectual shit for people to deconstruct and boast interpretations. It's like Toy Story. There's bits for the kids and bits for the adults; the kids being us and the adults being a miniscule percentage of the world's population capable of understanding the nuances of the language upon first hearing it. It is the sort of writing that insults the vast majority of the world by lacing itself with this top shelf shit that nobody understands.
Art isn't about intellectualism. My hands aren't working. Pinky and ring finger on right. Can hardly move. Get up and stretch. Bit of movement back now.
10:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 6.0 grams total, so far. I have seventy-five minutes to drink a bottle of cough syrup. I open up the box and pull out the little bottle. It's cold. Usually I'd pour it into a glass. Drinking from the bottle is difficult. They make it that way on purpose. The neck is really narrow so it comes out slow. Unless you have an enormous amount of experience drinking and eating stuff that you probably shouldn't it is likely to make you want to vomit.
I put the bottle to my lips. The syrup is thick, red. It coats my teeth. It rolls down my throat in clumps. The taste is horrible. That flavored medicine taste for kids that tastes worse than actual medicine. I drink for what seems like an eternity. When I'm finished, I realize I've only done half the bottle. I drink again. It's worse this time; I let it fill up my mouth before swallowing. A mouthful of sugary syrup. I swallow. Less than a quarter of a bottle left now. I do it. By the end, I am concentrating to suppress nausea. The mushrooms make the experience much more difficult than normal. I go brush my teeth to get the taste out. I can still taste it at the back of my throat. It's the first thing, aside from the mushrooms, that I've had to eat today. I think. It's hard to say for certain. Definitely haven't had a meal for at least 24 hours. I looked at the clock. It said 11:08 pm. I read it as 11:08 am. I am sitting beside a window, outside it is pitch black; and I thought it was the middle of the day. The mushrooms are getting ridiculously strong. I don't think eating the last gel cap is a good idea, but I'm going to do it anyway; because, it's either now or never. Never, meaning not for six weeks.
11:15 pm
The DXM is taking effect already. My motivation towards continuing this report is already dwindling. I want to drift off. Decide, instead, to smoke another joint and finish watching District 9.
11:45 pm
Consumed another gel cap; 6.6 grams total. Smoked another joint; couldn’t manage to make a roach. Smoked it, filter less. The smoke was harsh.
11:55 pm
The movie ends five minutes before twelve. The last five minutes before the credits I see in 3D. I realize this is the last opportunity I have to smoke for the next six weeks. I sloppily roll another joint with no filter and smoke as fast as I can. I force myself to keep puffing constantly for five minutes.
12:00 am
The cough syrup has yet to kick in properly. My hands are shaking. I can’t function physically. I need to lie down. It is coming, the DXM; coming at me like a wall. I put on Mule Variations, a Tom Waits I’ve never heard, and lie down with the lights off.
12:15 am
The first song fucks my mind in the ass. Big in Japan; it is amazing, I can’t believe I’ve never heard it before. The closed eye hallucinations are truly magnificent. It looks like I’m inside an extremely complex three dimensional geometric object; with millions of faces, each with a different number of sides. They all fit together in a complex three dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Printed across all of the faces is a pattern; each face with a different pattern. As the music plays the puzzle re-arranges itself. I see his voice moving across my field of vision in a thick slab of psychedelic pattern, as if someone was using LSD as paint. I realize my eyes are open. The three dimensional geometric shape is my bedroom twisted by my mind. So hard to type, feels like my hands are prosthetics.
12:25 am
With my eyes closed I find myself subconsciously using light sources to make patterns. The light I absorb through my eyelid skin is recorded at different angles and superimposed over itself. I am tilting my head slightly, without knowing it, to record these images. I have noticed recently that I get lost in the patterns that trees make in the breeze. Because I eat so many mushrooms, my mind needs to stock up on eye candy; fuel for my hallucinations. There are patterns everywhere. Your subconscious absorbs them all day. Nature is a network of patterns, connecting together to make one massive pattern.
12:35 am
My cat is playing with something on the carpet; a disembodied tail, wriggling around and amusing my cat while the lizard makes an escape. The tail is furious. It is desperate to distract the cat. It flicks her in the nose. She jumps back. Meanwhile, the lizard is scurrying towards the door. My cat, she is seemingly oblivious. She plays her part perfectly. Just as the lizard gets to the point of no return, she launches into action. That little window in which it’s possible for the lizard to escape and possible for it to die; it’s more fun that way. My cat runs it down, tackles it, rolling over and over into a tumbleweed and landing in the corner. I pat her on the head. She doesn’t want to be patted. She’s in hunting mode. She’s fierce. She hisses at me, the lizard wriggling around in her mouth. I touch her on the nose to remind her that she can eat meat and still be a sweetheart. She gives me a look. Like, she doesn’t want to be cute. Like, I’m embarrassing her in front of her prey. She is hunched over with the lizard hanging out of her mouth breathing heavily, hissing, her eyes wild. I envy her. What comes naturally to her, what should come naturally to me, it is so difficult to achieve. Maybe that’s why I try to think of her as cute; why people tame animals: we’re jealous of how close they are to the creator and we want to take that away. Make them distant, like us; justify the distance between man and nature, by removing another species.
I am jealous of the experience she just had hunting and killing a large lizard, but that doesn’t mean I should patronize her by touching her on the nose. I would apologize to her if cats were capable of understanding English. Instead, I will treat her with more respect in the future. When I get meat I go to the supermarket and buy a shrink-wrapped package of flesh from some poor cow whose entire existence has been torturous. Cows who live on farms in good conditions have terrible lives. Slavery is slavery. Free range is a joke. Put free range into the context of the holocaust. Put yourself in their shoes. What the fuck does free range mean really? It’s not freedom. Chickens and cows that are bred in mass quantities and killed humanely are slaves made to be eaten. It is a horrible life; disgusting, really.
My cat gave the lizard a fighting chance even after she caught it. It lived a free life. It had sex with other lizards and had lizard babies. My cat caught it. It tried the whole tail routine… You think you’re going to die. Detach part of your spine to distract the predator. Leave it wriggling there, and run. She catches up with you. You think you’re going to die again. That near death trip, it doubles, the world flashing before your eyes for the second time. It’s like you’ve had two deaths for the price of one. A second chance at last minute enlightenment; that is the gift my cat gave her lizard.
1:05 am
My body feels amazing. I want to smoke another joint, but I can’t. No more weed. I don’t need it really anyway. It is a compulsion I indulge even when I have reached a satisfactory state of being. The mushrooms have reduced the “plateau” level of this DXM experience. The psilocybin keeps me alert and focused while in the midst of heavy dissociative buzz.
Running my fingers through my hair; touching my head is like touching someone else’s head while having someone touch mine. Like I’m looking at a reflection of myself touching my head and I am touching the reflections head, while the reflection touches mine.
It feels like my face is melting, on the right; like I’m made of wax, my chin dripping down onto my shoulder. My posture is worse than usual. Rather than being askew, I am mangled. My body is arranged at a series of acute angles; bones protruding in directions they should not.
I hate this fucking country. Australia. I want to move, but there’s no point. I will hate whatever country I live in. Not because I am a miserable son of a bitch; because I hate countries. Nationalism; pride; loyalty to your country, your race: these things are all racist. The only way for racism to not exist, is for there to be no races. This disconnection we have, nationality to nationality. We need to fuck it out.
This idea of Jewish people marrying Jewish people and Christian people marrying Christian people makes me sick. It’s fucking racist. A friend of mine pointed out something about Anti-Semitism recently. He said Jews have their own term for racism. Instead of calling it racism, it’s anti-Semitism. I pointed out that Judaism is not a race. He has a point, though. I’m not sure what the linguistic equivalent of racism is, in terms of theological belief. Whatever it is, it is not anti-Semitism. Calling someone anti-Semitic is like calling someone a black-racist rather than just calling them a racist. Obviously there are people who are racist against specific races; but, creating terminology that differentiates between prejudices, implying that one is greater than another, is – in itself – racist.
We are all racist, to some degree. To deny that you have any racist tendencies is to set anchor on your journey towards enlightenment like the monk with his robes. To not be racist is to not recognize race, to behave as if it doesn’t exist; and I don’t believe anyone does that absolutely.
I’m not sure if anyone has ever achieved enlightenment; the pursuit towards nothing is infinite.
1:40 am
I’ve been listening to Castle on a Cloud, on a loop. It is a ninety-six second song from Les Miserables, sung by a very young girl with a voice like an angel; the sort of purity that only exists at the beginning of human lives, before they are smothered by the weight of the modern world. The song is melancholic; a frail human voice; a little girl, escaping adversity by imagining a better life. She lives in her head; in a castle, on a cloud. It is haunting, this song. I go and lie down.
2:07 am
Listened to Mule Variations; Get Behind the Mule blows me away. Tom Waits is fucking amazing. This album is incredible. My brain is wet. I want his voice to fuck me right In the middle of my cerebral cortex. On DXM, the quality of music has a direct relationship with the quality of hallucinations. This can be said, also, though to a lesser extent, with various other substances. Good music creates good hallucinations and incredible music makes incredible hallucinations. When you listen to amazing music for the first time on DXM and mushrooms it is a real treat.
2:18 am
My body continues to compensate or my lack of physical co-ordination. The paralysis I experience; my body works around it. I find myself subconsciously using different fingers to type given the lack of sensation in my ring and pinky finger. I want to smoke a joint really badly so I decide to extend the end of the leap year from midnight to the moment that I go to sleep.
2:27 am
My cats are all overly affectionate. I feed them some kangaroo meat. They know I’m tripping. My orange cat tries to take advantage of the situation; he attempts to steal all the food. I pull a big chunk of meat out of his mouth and give it to the smallest of my cats. He hisses at me but he doesn’t strike because he knows he’s being greedy. They are all well fed; the kangaroo meat is a treat.
2:38 am
I grind up some weed, intending to make a joint. I walk off in search of rolling papers and come back with my phone. I remember dropping the papers on the floor earlier. I look on the floor. I go and search again and come back with nothing. The papers are on the desk; right beside the keyboard. My head feels weird. Like it’s not round. It feels like my head is made out of play-dough. I attempt to roll a joint.
2:51 pm
I keep going with the Tom Waits album. Cold Water is fucking incredible. It is so good that it hurts. I see a tiny pink crucifix among my hallucinations. It stands out. It is predominant. Then, it disappears. Somehow I manage to roll a decent joint. I blast Waits and put the speaker on the window sill.
3:06 am
It is the best joint I have ever smoked;
closing my eyes now I see columns
built with egg-like prisms
each containing a glowing entity
they are falling apart
as skeleton screw driver sets
struggle to re-assemble the chicken wire
I close my eyes
the pattern these words form on the page
they create an expressionless face
the face becomes the head of a worm
3:20 am
I feed my cats the last of the kangaroo meat. I dig my fingers right into the mince for some reason. I force myself to do it. I figure it’s better to touch it. It feels horrible. Matter that was once alive; it is still alive, it is providing life. But, there’s something hideous about it; hideously beautiful. I ate some raw meat the other day to experience what my cats do. It’s tough to chew, but it feels primal.
3:27 am
The paralysis is gone now. DXM is taking over from mushrooms; lovely dextromethorphan. I direct various short animated films in my head. There are no flaws in nature; my hallucinations are perfect.
I roll another joint. It scares me how easy it is to roll in this state. My cats are starting to freak me out. They’re attacking each other. They are circling me, all three of them; hunting a mouse under my desk.
4:00 am
I drink some water. I don’t understand why I am still alive. I have abused my body so much that I should be dead. Makes me think there’s no such thing as being dead. A being stuck on the mortal coil like a monk with his robe stuck on an elevator towards heaven.
4:15 am
Writing this is incredibly difficult. The screen and the keyboard exist on another plane of existence. It is painful to remain connected to the physical world when my soul wants to be free. Some maniac put a cat in box. Schrodinger was his name. This is the most important thought experiment ever. It proves that nothing exists. The act of observation; our tendency to label things: it is our downfall.
4:51 am
I am hallucinating insanely.
I lie down on the carpet; I want to merge with the house. My cat embraces me; we are one, a hybrid. I can see without opening my eyes; the light coming through my eyelids, it forms an image of the room.
6:30 am
I walk through the house to the bathroom. The paralysis is returning. When I get to the bathroom, my entire body gives way. I fall onto the tiles. I cannot move. I try to drag myself up onto my feet. I figure it's all in my head. Getting up; it's just a matter of will power. As soon as I get to my knees I fall face first into the ground. My eye hits the floor, hard. I need to piss but I can’t get to the toilet. I keep struggling, but it’s no use. I have to piss on the floor. I pull my pants down to my knees. It takes serious concentration to do this. My dick is shriveled up. I look around for something to piss into. I try to crawl to the shower, but it’s impossible. I am hallucinating so much I can hardly see. I notice the cylindrical plastic toilet paper holder. I put my dick into it but I can’t hold it up on an angle. If I piss, it will pour back onto me. I prop the container up by positioning the lid underneath it. I piss, careful not to drop the receptacle. After I’m finished I drag myself to the shower, inch by inch. I am dehydrated. I figure that’s why I can’t move. I can’t reach the sink. If I don’t drink some water I might die, so I rub by hand on the floor of the shower and drink the water from my fingers. I think of the lizard’s tail wriggling on the ground. After fifteen minutes or so I get shakily to my feet. The paralysis is gone.
7:00 am
I walk into the kitchen to get something to eat. I fall to the ground. I can’t move, again. My cat is digging through the rubbish bin. I struggle to my feet and roll a joint. This paralysis; it’s not going to stop me. I prop myself up on a chair. It takes a couple of attempts to make a joint. I smoke, lying on the floor.
7:15 am
I crawl through the house. Walking is too difficult. I am on my hands and knees. When I get to the bedroom, I notice an ear candle I was planning on using earlier; I lift myself up onto the bed and shove it into my ear canal. I light it on fire. I can see myself in the mirror; this flaming thing, sticking out of my ear. It makes a percolating sound as it drains the wax out of my ear. I can hear the wax rising, the hot smoke going into my head. I am mildly concerned that I might set my hair on fire.
Once it’s finished, I break open the candle. There is a huge chunk of wax inside. My head feels light, now. I do the other ear. It’s hard to light the candle. My hands aren’t working. I almost drop it onto the bed. Somehow, I manage. I feel hot smoke drifting into my ear; I hear that bubbling sound deep in my head. There is more in this ear. I break open the candle, to reveal a massive chunk of dry reddish-yellow wax; it is so big, I struggle to believe it came out of my ear.
7:30 am
I go to sleep.
5:00 pm
I wake up and fill in the gaps in this report. The paralysis is still going. My right hand keeps going to sleep. The only finger I can use properly is my index finger. I type letter by letter. I want to smoke a joint, but I can’t. I have to resist... Six weeks.
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