(no subject)

My first entry. Interesting. :)

I guess I should try to set down what I mean to do here:

I'm in the midst of a religious re-examination and personal reformation. I suspect the majority of posts here will concern whatever philosophical thoughts I conjure up when pondering the metaphysical nature of the universe. I'm hoping these notes will help me when I write my articles, books, pamphlets, tracts, flyers, and anything else I may need to assemble.

Often, I'm sure I will use this as a diary. I have a pen & paper spiritual journal, but I haven't had a space for personal thoughts in a long time. I've been known to be exceptionally emotional, so that's forewarning.

Also, I might post creative writing type stuff here. I haven't displayed any of my writing in quite a while; doing so right now would signify a big step outside of my current communicative cocoon. (I've had a bit of writer's block lately.)

So, anyway, to lay it all on the line for you: I'm planning to found my own church. If you know my history, you know how absolutely bizarre and surreal that sounds. I am the epitome of the good girl/bad girl, especially sexually; at least, I had/have been up until the last couple of years--since getting into my upper 20s, that is. Despite my, um, sordid past, I hope to go forward with my present plans. The spiritual side of me is demanding its turn.

What I think I want to find out from myself is, why do I feel I want/need to make a difference? This world, especially the post-WTC world, is a dark and nervous place, full of distrust and apprehension. I don't know exactly what I could give to this world to ease its pain. The world, and the U.S. in particular, is like a dog that's been viciously kicked; I'm afraid that those of us who care too much about it will reach out in friendship, yet have our hands bitten by that canine reactionary spirit. What can I truly expect to positively contribute to the current human condition? I don't quite know. But something in the pit of me says I must try; whatever it is I need to do, I must try. This must be the same drive that exhorts oneself to join the armed forces, or do missionary work. It is a deep, unfathomable drive, one that refuses to be discouraged in the face of misery.

So, with all this, I suspect that anyone just passing by will get quite the smorgasbord of journal postings. Some will be wordy, like this; some will be unapologetically emotional; some will be lighthearted and pointless; some very personal and unequivocally pessimistic. I can't help it. I have dreams, and hurts, and problems. I don't like being so human, but there it is.

from Spiritual Journal, July 25, 2001, 5:19 p.m.

Hypothesis: gravity is the origin of the concept we call time. Without gravity, time cannot exist. Where there is excessive gravity, time flies by at a finite rate determined by the force of gravity. Without time, things have no weight as well as no movement. There is no such thing as 'aging,' for aging requires the passage/progress of time.

This is the barest beginnings of my hypothesis. Mass is inextricably inter-related with gravity.

Energy is mass multiplied by time (in an empty space, or a "frame") squared upon itself. E=mc^2.

If a person lived alone, in empty space, to him his lifetime would equal eternity. Only his own mass would mean anything; only his own 'biological clock' would record any passage of time. However, once two people--two divergent perspectives--reside in the same geographical location, time as a concept necessarily must be both shared and agreed upon. Time ceases to be infinite (which might be E=mc, or just E=m [since c is a constant, anyway, and in the case of a singular person would be 1]) and necessarily becomes finite, measurable. This forces time to become a constant *dimension*, a plane in which we must navigate in order to function in shared reality.

Still, to ourselves, our own lives are eternal, or good enough approximations, anyway. It's a matter of perspective.

(no subject)

I nearly died tonight.

In a few years, I perhaps may be able to view the circumstances in a comical light. But not tonight.

To be brutally honest, I had decided to dose tonight. Usually, dosing means taking some amount of DXM, but I had none. I didn't even have pot. The only thing I had was some two-months-old packet of AMT. (Find out about AMT at www.erowid.org .)

AMT is a research chemical, and as such has the most God-awful taste (and odor to boot). I couldn't smoke it this time, though all of the times before I had. Not this time. I am at the mercy of K, my boyfriend's mother, as I'm staying in her house by her grace and hospitality. The stench would fill the entire place. So I had to find a way to ingest it.

There are two ways to easily ingest AMT: the first is to dissolve it in a liquid with a high concentration of acidity, such as orange juice or grapefruit juice; the second is to pinch it in some bread and swallow it. I decided to go the bread route.

I went upstairs to get two slices of bread. K was in the kitchen, preparing an interesting-looking fruit dessert. I chatted with her for a little while, then went back downstairs with my slices of cheap white bread. I'd rather have had Wonder bread, as it's easy to pinch and mold, but I had to do with what I had. I took out the little packet of AMT. I could smell it through the plastic. I held it up to the light. The AMT was a dead off-white color, almost yellow. Not appetizing at all. Still, I wanted some sort of dose tonight. I was bound and determined to get something.

I sprinkled the AMT on one slice of bread, in four little piles. Then I went to sit down and watch TV while I ate my dose. Tonight Forrest Gump was playing on ABC (still is, actually), and I do like that movie, so I decided to have that on in the background while I got to business. I tore a corner of the bread, so that I had only one of the little piles on the piece. I balled up the bread. It was puffier, bigger than what it would have been if I'd had some Wonder bread, I just knew it. I smashed it over and over between my thumb and finger, but it was still fairly spongy and puffy; I'd estimate it was a little smaller than a ping pong ball.

When I put it in my mouth to swallow it, I expelled air before it even reached my throat... kind of like a pre-emptive choke. Somehow, though, it got past my uvula and into my esophagus. But it went no farther.

I swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. The bread ball wouldn't budge. The swallowing became reflexive; I couldn't stop it. I had open a can of Sam's Choice grape soda; I took a swig of that, thinking--hoping--it would help the bread ease its way down. The soda went down a ways, but instantaneously I knew it would be coming up soon enough. I couldn't swallow, and at the same time I couldn't breathe. Something, I don't know what, something inside me knew I had very limited time to make a decision.

I jumped up from the couch. All of perhaps ten seconds had elapsed since swallowing the bread ball; maybe even less time than that. By the time I had gotten on my feet and took three urgent steps, the soda was forced out of my throat by my body's attempts to breathe. The violet liquid flew from my lips; I didn't care. I stomped my way to the stairwell, up the stairs that led to the kitchen. I hammered on the wooden wall with my fist as I tried to run up the stairs. All the while, my body felt like it was in the midst of one huge hiccup, a hiccup for simple air.

"What's wrong?" K said, her voice clearly alarmed.

"Help me!" I yelled in the loudest whisper I could. I turned around, and instinctively she put her arms around my abdomen.

One, two, three hard squeezes with her entwined hands. Still, my body hiccupped.

"Is there something stuck?" I nodded. "Can you breathe?" "Only a little," my voice sounded like a whine.

Again, one, two, three lunges against my abdomen. I coughed. Four, five. I coughed so hard I felt I was about to vomit. But I could breathe.

I could breathe.

It's been almost two hours since then. Two hours ago, I could have died. My death would have been due to a big ball of bread, and all because I wanted to have some sort of pharmaceutical fun. What a way to go.

As it was, the bread ball went down my esophagus, not back out of my mouth. I kept expecting it to. The image in my mind the entire time K was doing the Heimlich maneuver was of some movie--what movie?--of a woman choking, and the obstruction flying out of her mouth after some kind gentleman performed the same maneuver on her. I kept waiting for that moment, but for me it did not come. Instead, I had about fifteen minutes of alternately feeling relieved and feeling like I could succumb again, at any time.

In the end, I finished dosing. Amazing, eh? Obsessively, I balled the remaining balls into smaller balls, dividing each up, balling them again, dividing again, balling again. I swallowed them very forcefully, though they were considerably smaller than, say, a horsepill. Since the original ball went down, I would be damned if I weren't going to get a full dose. After all that trouble, I at least wanted the reward.

It happened so fast, I didn't have time for fear. And right after it happened, when K asked me what really had happened and if I was alright, I was shaky, but not afraid. And now, two hours past that moment, I am still not stricken with fear. But for some reason, I feel very sad, very much like crying. I feel like mourning, but I don't know for what.

(no subject)

Before I take off for now and let it seem like I'm utterly crazy, I'll post something I wrote some time ago in my spiritual journal, the last time I was on AMT. AMT is a thought drug, not racing thoughts produced like when on DXM, but constant thought, most often reflective. This is why I periodically go through this agony, make my body take a two-week sabbatical from all the foods it enjoys, just to get these insights.

8/4/01, approx. 10:30 p.m.

Even self-defense involves the loss of humanity, even if that loss is miniscule in terms of concrete measurement.

This movie (Blue Velvet) and Planet of the Apes (to some degree, but perhaps only in telling the story) glorifies violence as man's saving grace.

Violence is what causes our karmic retributions.


11:33 p.m.

Acid was for me my own private optical illusion. This illusion helped me to see the constant illusion of civilized life around me. This is why I call it a sacrament: it is a tool by which I can directly perceive the mystery of life and pierce it. It is a substance by which I can know my own spirit, challenge the reality around me, and let go of my ego so that I may commune with GOD.

12:02 a.m.

The Buddha said, "When one sees that everything exists as an illusion, one can live in a higher sphere than ordinary man."

Everyone is/can become/hopefully is in the process of becoming the Buddha.

12:12 a.m.

F [my boyfriend], I think, would do well to remember words uttered by Albert Einstein, a passionate scientist:

"We should take care not to make the intellect our god; it has, of course, powerful muscles, but no personality."

Too much reason robs us of our very passion. Being dispassionate *all* the *time* is not being in balance, neither with the universe nor with oneself.