the jungle at night
nina simone & acai juice: good times on a wednesday afternoon.
i had a bizarre dream last night. i was in myanmar traveling with ethnobotanists, documenting the rare psychedelics of the native peoples. i can recall excavating some sort of hard wood instruments, carved & mystical in shape and purpose, with one of them in a tent. prostrate on the ground, sifting with my hands, my long legs extended beyond the tent's limit & i was chastised: "the tent is sacred to these people, the silken fabric from which the panels are made establish a cella of sorts. to extend oneself beyond them, even if they are flowing in the wind, is to insult the shaman."
of course, i was slightly embarrassed. in my eagerness to learn and observe, i had made a transgression. i left for the ramshackle of a snack truck just off site. this rv was run by a group of british teens who had lived in myanmar since birth. they laughed at me & asked if i was exhausted from the heat and filth. they offered me a dixie cup shot of some dark, sludge of a liquid. it was bitter like espresso. i woke in the jungles deep, covered in intricate patterns traced in ochre or dirt. completely disoriented, dehydrated, & alone, i followed fresh water rivulets, myriad like fingers, until they spread becoming individual paths, decisions.
my mouth is still tin from that bitter drink.
i had a bizarre dream last night. i was in myanmar traveling with ethnobotanists, documenting the rare psychedelics of the native peoples. i can recall excavating some sort of hard wood instruments, carved & mystical in shape and purpose, with one of them in a tent. prostrate on the ground, sifting with my hands, my long legs extended beyond the tent's limit & i was chastised: "the tent is sacred to these people, the silken fabric from which the panels are made establish a cella of sorts. to extend oneself beyond them, even if they are flowing in the wind, is to insult the shaman."
of course, i was slightly embarrassed. in my eagerness to learn and observe, i had made a transgression. i left for the ramshackle of a snack truck just off site. this rv was run by a group of british teens who had lived in myanmar since birth. they laughed at me & asked if i was exhausted from the heat and filth. they offered me a dixie cup shot of some dark, sludge of a liquid. it was bitter like espresso. i woke in the jungles deep, covered in intricate patterns traced in ochre or dirt. completely disoriented, dehydrated, & alone, i followed fresh water rivulets, myriad like fingers, until they spread becoming individual paths, decisions.
my mouth is still tin from that bitter drink.