histamines like these and their polliniferous allies constitute an axis of evil, arming to threaten the peace of the rabbit

quite a mild week. dropped some snaps off at snappy snaps. slept in the office. got drunk with some work people, hung out with a friend i’ve only known on-line before.

pitching a sequel to the gene wilder willy wonka movie called “Willy” starring Walton Goggins as Willy.



Willy, destitute, haggard, leaning against a wall, checks
his cigarettes. There are none left.

He throws the empty pack on the pavement and pushes himself
up off the floor.


Willy scratches some dirt out from under his nails while
he's second in line.

			 Alright have a good one, darling.

The shopper leaves and the shopkeep turns his attention to


			 The litre of Four Roses Select and
			 a pack of Marlboro Reds.

The shopkeep grabs the items off the shelf while speaking, not
looking back.

			 That everything?


Willy grabs a Wonka bar from the point-of-sale. and throws it on
the counter...

						  WILLY (CONT'D)

The shopkeep scans the whiskey and cigarettes and Wonka bar.

			 Ahh. Wonka bars. So much better
			 since they changed the recipe.

Outside Willy lights a ciggie, takes a bite of the bar and he makes a facial expression… we can’t tell if he hates it or he’s loves it and he’s furious about it. He throws the rest of the bar away. He cracks open his bourbon.

Later there’s a scene that’s in an encampment, like one of those San Francisco homeless encampments but it’s in London. All lit dark and orange light. And it’s inhabited entirely by Oompa-Loompas who’ve been replaced by automation. They’re all pretty young (Oompa-Loompas only live until they’re about 30, and have kids around 10-12 years old) nobody recognizes Willy except for one old Oompa-Loompa who cranes around slowly “…Wonka?”

Of course, Willy doesn’t know his name. But the old Oompa-Loompa looks him in the eyes and can see he now knows what it’s like to be treated like you’re worth nothing. Sometime around here maybe you learn that Willy can’t use his surname because it’s trademark and copyright of the Wonka corporation. The old Oompa-Loompa lets him know he can stay, but he has to pull his weight. If you want to eat, you cook for others, etc. Each according to his ability, to each according to his needs kind of lesson. Anyway it’s an absolute banger of a movie if anyone knows Walt Goggins and any of the Warner Brothers and could get this in front of them.

I was meant to go and see some friends at the weekend, but instead I napped for a thousand hours and played Cyberpunk 2077 while listening to the new Blockback. I’m going to continue doing that now. Thanks.

Did a couple days work, took a holiday Wednesday for a mall trip with Dani. Dani got a great new jacket. We got some tacos. On the roof of the Stratford Centre we watched Everything Everywhere All At Once.

photo of sunset from rooftop. cinema screen in center of photo. chairs block off the lower half of the photo. the sky is pink and purple, gold and grey.

My neck started getting stiff and painful again on the way home. Tired, I ordered a cab. Driver told me it might be because of the very weird weather, weird pollen. Does the same to him. No, not right now. But he took a tablet this morning, takes it every morning, yeah.

Maybe it is the pollen. What are the similarities between those days with the incredible neck pain? Spent the whole day out. Ate poorly. Watched a movie with someone cooler than me. Could be pollen. Could be blood sugar. Could be an allergy to watching movies with somebody cooler than me. My throat’s so sore the next couple days I had to take off work. A tiny little hole, can’t swallow properly, hurt to breathe. Anyway, you don’t want to listen to me complaining.

I have a crush on Timothy Olyphant. It’s out of hand.

Started feeling better on Saturday night, late. Cleaned the apartment a bit. Couldn’t sleep. Other stuff happened this week. I’ve quite a lot of notes too. Not feeling them, though. This will have to do. With all this excitement I do feel as though I’m getting the vapours. What is a timebank?

Sweet dreams.

Exactly how bad can hayfever get? Like, can i have a swollen throat and a stiff neck or am i dying of meningitis right now?

Yes, baby, we are home.

You can skip this one, nothing really happens and I don’t have anything to say.

I’m trying to slowly put my life together. I’ve been sick, cooking chili con carne, making a little music. Very sleepy days. Just chicken and TV. I’m glad I got to use one of those old timey elevators last week. Finished Justified, then watched it all the way through again. Been bothering everyone with my Boyd Crowder voice since Gabi said she was impressed. Watched The Bear. V good. Forks is a perfect episode of television.

About 10:21am Tuesday I wake up on the floor in the centre of my apartment. It’s not uncomfortable, but it I surprising. I don’t remember going to sleep. I cough a little, sniffle some. I’m still so clogged up and gross. It’s been a fortnight now. On Slack, I set my status to sick. On Discord, Kara recommends I try a cocktail by the name of Boulevardier. I open Gopuff.

Dear grocery store, please bring:

  • Buffalo Trace
  • Campari
  • Vermouth
  • Gluten-free loaf
  • Egg
  • Ham
  • Mustard
  • Cheddar
  • Emmental

If I’m still sick after a Monte Cristo and a Boulevardier then this goo might be permanent.

“Tell me a story—anything. A story from your life.”


I’m reading that new old Lou Matthews book. The orange one. It’s good. It’s so cute that with the money from the best TV show ever (Lodge 49) the show creator set up a publishing company and used it to publish books by his mentor.

I’m a little unsettled by Saturday, a little fragile. I’ve deleted my Deliveroo account. There are no groceries in the house, so I gather myself and head to Sainsbury’s but I end up at the Railway bar Blackheath instead.

I ask to borrow a lighter from the party on the terrace, they don’t have one. I ask a member of staff who is carrying some trash, I’d hoped they’d have one on them but they drop the trash and say “hang on” and go back behind the dark-stain wooden door that separates the rooftop from the kitchen and i feel bad for interupting their work.

I find a lighter in my pocket.

Someone from the party leans over the patio stairs with an outstretched hand:

“You still need a lighter, bro?”

“I’d better not. I just asked a member of staff and I’d hate him coming back and finding me already lit.”

“Cool, bro.”

“Thanks, though.”

The trash guy comes back out tapping his pockets and tells me he couldn’t find one. That’s okay, I say, and I tell him I’ll bother the people at the gathering. I bother them. I get lit. I check with my hand if the large empty plant pot will support my weight and it’s strong and it will, so I sit down balancing on its edge and read a little and write.

3 sausages at 9am is not enough food to eat before starting drinking Bourbon. I’ve had 4 neat already today, and one Boulevardier. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I was trying to go shopping. I set across the road to ask the chippy if they have a grilled fish. They don’t, I get a sausage and two pickled eggs. Two nice dogs here, George and Wilbert, very sweet. I say goodbye to the dogs and head to the train.

Helped an Australian at the station. He was talking to two other folks. whowere sitting their with their Border Terrier. I’d stopped to say hi to the Border Terrier because I love a Border Terrier. I heard him asking about gates and beepnig in and out. I helped him. He pointed at me with his thumb and said to the couple “this fuckin guy!!!” and everyone smiled and laughed and i smiled and… i’m like wearing a dress and gay sneakers and cute makeup right now i can’t believe how much i spend on translucent powder to be “this fuckin guy”.

Damn that’s pretty, isn’t it? With the sun peeking in from behind those clouds, and the bottle green door of the train on the other rail? And how that train oscillates. Faster than us then slower than us. Yeah, that’s pretty. These very big piles of powder concrete seem like a good place to hide a dead body. Where do we hide dead bodies in London?

I’ve been thinking a lot about tenses. When to use the simple present, vs present continuous, vs  present perfect continuous, simple and continuous past. I’m looking at it like this: 

  • Present continuous :: in the framing story, when I’m talking about what’s happening while I’m writing. 
  • Simple present :: when I am telling the story itself.
  • Present perfect continuous :: framing story, looking back and establishing history
  • Simple past :: story context, looking back and establishing history
  • Past continuous :: remembering something in story context

But it has me thinking about how interesting it would be to write and read a story written in the imperative. Where it’s kind of like a series of commands. 

Order a buffalo trace, half corona, and a tall glass of water — no ice.

“Ice with the buffalo?”

“No ice with the Buffalo.”

Take the Buffalo like a shot. Squeeze the lime into the half corona, down it. Place the empty corona in the empty Buffalo. Tend to the water.

It is unpleasant on the Victoria line tonight. It’s thick, the air. Air like flan. Like a flan of Lynx body spray for eggs. Some of this heat is from June. It’s so stale, so sticky, it’s been around so long.

Nobody looks happy to be here except the girl in camo green with the white ankle highs peeking out of her Super-Birkis. But I think that’s because she’s with her beau and she’d be happy to be anywhere as long as she is with her beau. 

I’m faring extremely poorly on this vehicle. I’m sweating and wriggling around. To my left the girl in the leopard jumpsuit and dark denim jacket has broke a couple times, but she regains her composure with incredible grace. Nothing more than adjusting her jacket.

The person opposite in the stripy wide neck and gold open-toes. She never moves. Her facial expression is almost unreadable, it says “my life is like this”. This is no harder than anything else she’s done today. But a little strain in it that tells us it is taking a lot from her to stay cool right now.

The 60 year old man in fleece and socks and leather sandels holding onto the handle of his suitcase like he hasn’t trusted anyone for 40 years, he isn’t hiding anything. Mouth open, breathing through it. He stares at me sometimes with a furious face. I’m not surprised. We all are furious here in the hot tunnel.

Jump off early at the Seven Sisters.

At the warehouse there is a new person. Everyone’s new now, I’ve only been gone 4 weeks, but I don’t know anyone anymore but for Damien. Yve shows me their room, it rules, bloodwine red walls, black and silver artifacts, bone dogs, poster of Gerard Way to plant a two-finger kiss on the way to work. Yve says “before you arrived I was just tattooing myself and watching Blade.” Sick.

We watch Blade on the couch while they add red fill to the strawberries on their leg. My neck gets stiff and I go to sleep. It’s painful. I wake up at about 6am just after sunrise, but keep lying there still until 11am because it hurts so much to move my neck. The lights are bothering me, I am running a fever, my neck is stiff, I have a sore throat. When I was in high school misbehaving one time they locked me in the nurse’s office because they didn’t want to deal with me. There was nothing to do for hours but read pamphelts and posters about meningitis. I wonder if should go to a doctor.

Damien wakes up and we head down to LIDL. We bump into Sergio on the way.

“I will give you £5 and you will buy me bicycle slime.”


Buy the bicycle slime, head to LIDL, head to the ATM, take out £50 in case Eve is in the mood to tattoo a triangle on me later, grab a few Pacificos and a bottle of Jim Beam. I will have a phone again tomorrow. Hope I can stay in the habit of reading and writing when I have a phone again.

Shoes hanging on telephone wires. There’s a bar around the corner sells Tayto Cheese & Onion and a good Guinness. “Eren’t nothing wrong with it” says the big Irish fella to the right of me. It’s the protestant kind of Tayto’s, made in the factory that’s the only school trip every child in Northern Ireland ever takes. You get to try a fresh, unflavoured crisp. And you ask yourself why is fresh crisps not a market regular like fresh cooked chestnuts? When I was a kid I got a little bit of chestnut in my eye and nobody believed me. That’s okay. I lied a lot as a kid. I never knew I’d stopped until Michael Mormecha’s girlfriend told me if she could sum me up in one word it would be “honest”. We were each sitting at the head of the table facing each other, with 4 people either side like the madcap’s lunch. I’d said “honest” repeating the word and tasting it, seeing how it felt in my mouth. But I’m still a liar, even now. I pursue total honesty but I’m a people-pleasing liar. I know I’m scared that if i were honest, truly honest… well I want them to have a good time and to like me. When I talk I really believe everything that I’m saying, but it’s the same as the reason I need to stop opening my mouth when someone pulls out a container of LSD… the walls of my reality are too malleable. I want to hear everything somebody has to say, so i’ll encourage them and agree with them so they feel like they can say anything to me. And they do. But I want to stop it, stop chameleoning into different possible versions of myself because of who I’m talking to. To be somebody when I’m alone. But for that I need a consistent set of beliefs, morals, a code. I don’t know how you get one of those. What do I really believe?

Kentucky Green Tea

• One bag sencha green tea
• One cup boiling water
• One amount cheap bourbon

1. Make a cup of green tea like normal
2. Put a little sweetness in it

I’m fascinated by the line between the party and just hanging out. The Party Never Dies It Just Gets Smaller is pretty true of psytrance raves. The rave ends, but somebody plugs in another soundsystem. Some hours later we leave the woods, but somebody has a portable speaker. The speakers keep getting smaller, the company gets fewer, until eventually it’s just you and Delton on the back of a bus listening to a mix on the surviving bud from a broken pair of earphones. That’s not a party any more, when did it stop being a party?

Today Damien and me were sitting drinking beers, hanging out, shooting the shit. Damien got some ice and we poured a Jim Beam. I had a sip while he was sorting stuff out. Then he came and sat down and he took a sip, and I felt it: now there’s a party. Maybe it’s just when nobody is coming and nobody is going. That’s why music is such a big part of them, because when you’re dancing it’s not about where you end up on the floor. That’s that Alan Watts bit, right? Life is not a journey, it’s a dance. Life is not a dance, it’s a party.

I’m so sick of being ugly.

I’m back in the little of village of Blackdeath, welcomed home into my warm light by my unintentional pet moth Henry. I think there’s more than one moth living here, though I only ever see one at a time. But then I kill Henry against a wall and two minutes later Henry’s flying out of the kitchen again.

I realize now that I forgot to mention last week the time when i woke up in the middle of the night and coughed sharply, my hammock spun around 180° and spat me onto the ground like a Barnacle from Half-Life 2.

On the Monday morning I wake up in a minivan outside a hostel, still a bit sick. Thinking, with how it’s sticking around, maybe I picked up a touch of the Covid. Don’t know how I could have picked up a communicable illness at a radical love-themed festival with 40,000 participants. I’d eaten well of courgettes and drank deeply of wine, though, and slept well and feel pretty good anyway.

We drive out to the courthouse at Idanha-a-Nova so Annemaria can beg for forgiveness for carrying 28 grams of weed in her car through a police check. They had wanted to take the car apart because they were sure she had something more, but they never opened the refrigerator.

Sitting in a café while the person I’m with talks with the person behind the bar in Portguese, I understand every 25th word and I have no phone and no book and nothing to do but write, and I can’t believe how much I want to be lying in my own bed watching Justified when I’m in this beautiful place full of sun and cheap beer. They have Sagres and some local cider on tap. I order a Sagres. The bartender heads for the fridge. It’s strange. In England nobody would ever assume you wanted a bottle of something they have on tap. Here in Portugal it’s taken for granted that you want a bottle unless you say “pressão” (pressure).

I connect to the internet for a moment so i can download my e-mails and respond to a few incoming messages on instagram chat. I’m very happy to see my colleague Zaina has written something, and that it’s good. You should read it, it’s over here on her substack. I’ve been walking around shoeless with just my MacBook air in my hand.

Annemaria left something in Castelo Branco. I was getting hungry, so we stopped for wine and francesinhas in a nice cafe on the way. The francesinha is a layered sandwich served in bowl with alcoholic red sauce. Bread, cured ham, cured steak, flavoursome sausage and another layer of bread, all covered in melted cheese, with a fried egg on top. The sauce is very nice but also is not unlike the sauce Heinz serves its spaghetti hoops in. The name means something like little french girl. -inha in Portuguese is like -ita in Spanish.

After an espresso and a cigarette I start to feel whole again. Standing outside the cafe, leaning on the window, across the road there is an old building falling apart with white brick, peach brick and arsenic-green wood doors and shutters. The sun’s so yellow-warm. The light looks just like when they go to Mexico on American TV. Everything smells like rosemary. What do you call the black goo on your eyes when you wear too much eyeliner and it balls up in the corners? emily 🌩️ calls it darksleep.

The staff call me “sua amiga” in restaurants. That’s nice. Amiga.
“e para sua amiga?”
“sim, meu amiga quer mais vinho”.
In the hostel they said “you girls remember to start cooking earlier tomorrow night now”. That’s nice.

€0.70¢ for a double shot of 40% liquor by the name of aguardente. I’m told it means something like “water that hurts” but i guess it’s not so different from calling moonshine “firewater”.

And then she says she’ll drive me to her favourite place in this world.

We drive through sunset to a tiny town with tight winding spaghetti paths with cobbled stone floors. Mucifal, Colares. First we stopped at a cafe she knows and loves well. For beers. I’m once again confounded by ordering a beer they have on tap and being handed an open bottle. When the cafe closes and we are outside drinking they don’t ask us to leave. We’re holding their glasses, they don’t ask for them back. They just close up and go like it’s none of their business, and they trust us to leave the glasses by the door when we have finished up.

fica à vontade. the closest english equivalent seems to be “make yourself at home”. but the literal translation is quite close to “do what thou wilt”. and the essence of it is quite close to the spiritual meaning of that phrase. to do what you will-wish-want as long as what you will-wish-want does not impede the will-wish-want of another.

An old man who fought in the Angola war told us about his favourite foods. A sewn up pig full of fat and garlic cooked on a spit. A chopped up goat soaked in wine for days and cooked, then cooled, then cooked, then cooled for days and days and days. We drank gin and aguardente. He told us about the war. About other soldiers making children suck dick for food. About having to watch his friends die so he could give money to his family. About sharing food with black children.

I take a Sagres from the fridge and nod at Vasco behind the counter so he knows to add it to our receipt. I should be on the floor now, I’ve drank so much. But I’m not on the floor because everyone has drank so much and we are all here with each other. I ask her “what do you need?” and she says “a lighter” and smiles. I ask Vasco “Why in these places where it is so comfortable to sleep on the street is there nobody sleeping in the street?” and he says because we help each other here.

In Portugal they say “thank-you” more. They say “thank-you” when an Englishman would say “sorry”. They say “thank-you” when others might say “no”. They seem to have a thousand words for having a good time. If you ask them to translate “joy” they’ll give you at least 15 words.

She is holding a bottle of vinho tinto in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. We make it to a clearing in the woods where there are some cars parked. We hug her favourite tree and she cries and I hold her and I hold the tree. We make space in the back of the minivan and finish off another bottle of wine. She cracks off a chunk of mdma and throws it into the water. She crushed up a bright pink pill in her palm and throws it into the water. I swirl it around and we drink it. It’s so bitter, I nearly lose my lunch. Her back is itchy from sunburn so I massage some oil into it for a few minutes and then we opened another bottle of wine.

The couple that owned the restaurant taught us that to pick a good bottle of wine you look for one that has a deep hole in the base. The deeper the hole, the better the wine. Annemaria explained that it’s because they care more about the sommelier, who hold the bottle with their thumb in the groove of the base. So if there is no groove, then this bottle has no ambition to ever be served in a restaurant. We crawled into the minivan and wrapped ourselves up in blankets.

I woke up still snotty and disgusting and coughing and tightly embraced by this beautiful blue-eyed lunatic. She sleeps wild, flapping around. Sometimes closing around me like a clam, sometimes spinning away, or clapping one leg over.

“I found God in the garbage”. A man who calls himself Shiva has arrived. He seems to believe that he is Shiva, and the mother god, but appears to be missing the part where everybody else also is. He keeps calling himself “mama” and talking about his babies and calling me one of his babies. He seems nice, friendly, open and generous and legitimately insane. He arrived in a VW Beetle blasting psytrance and gave us ketamine and cocaine. I am quite fond of him, but he has not stopped talking for a moment in several hours. I’m very hungry and there is nothing to eat but some old sweaty cheese and a little oat milk. I eat the sweaty cheese, and drink the oat milk. Shiva first went to Boom in 1998. 20 years of booms. Shiva says this one was the best one, due to the theme: radical love. I need to find power, food, a cable, some shoes. Shiva misgenders me in a strange new way: “I can tell he is very feminine inside”.

Shiva feeds us mushrooms, sells me ketamine, gives me extra ketamine as a gift, and sprays 3 squirts of acid in my mouth. Annemaria ties up a hammock and goes to sleep, and Shiva begins to spin in circles over and over like a whirling dervish. I have 32% battery, have eaten very little, i close my laptop and lie down.

I haven’t had any shoes on my feet for days now. It’s Tuesday now. My boots disappeared on Thursday night, I last wore them on Thursday morning. I tried flip-flops on Friday, but what with all the blisters that hurt even more. I wore socks for a couple of days. I took those off when we came here to this anonymous woodland with soft, loose ground.

I dug a hole.
I stare at the hole. I’ve dug a hole.
I hear laughter, I hear voices.

Nobody can know about this.

The branch cracks underfoot, I squeeze back through the leaves and bush onto the main road. Down the ways a little while there is a clearing, so I go down there and look around. The sand feels good underneath my feet, I let my feet sink into it until they are covered. I hear somebody saying “so far away”. It’s English. An American accent. They’re off behind the trees, behind the bushes. I’m standing at a sandy crossroads between 4 paths that each lead off into a dry woodland of leafy green trees. Wherever the laughter and chatter is coming from, they’re minutes away from eyeshot. I return to my shameful bush. I stare at the hole. I have some paper in my purse. I have the courage now, but it dawns on me that what i do not have is the mechanics. Do I squat over the hole? Or do I sit nearby and it rolls down? The LSD has made this novel experience more interesting than is necessary. I sit down. I dig a new hole under me where I sit. It’s a momentous occasion. I grab a little paper, I hear footsteps. I watch from my private bushland lair through the gaps in the branches as an old Portuguese man eyes her hammock with suspicion. I beg that he does not see me. I beg that he does not wake her. I beg that nobody tries to communicate with me at this pivotal moment. He walks by. I watch him for a while walking up the hill, he doesn’t seem to be getting any further away, though I can tell by how his body is exerting itself that he must be getting further away. I bury it. I scamper out of the bushes around the side of the van to get to the soap and water. I’ve never scrubbed my hands so clean in all my life. Trying to wash away not just the dirt, but the evidence, the shame, and the fact of it. It must be as though it never happened. Nobody can ever know.

I need to stop opening my mouth when people produce containers of LSD.

Shiva graciously gives me access to a Wi-Fi hotspot and I am able to plan my trip to Sintra with Gabi. The weather is close and secret. Annemaria takes me to the cove at sunset to see the little beach and the beautiful sky that looks like a pink heaven, I can see worlds over there and I don’t know what is real and what is not. The Comfy Guesthouse Sintra is expecting us.

It’s a nice room, and the rooms have a undecimal numbering system. Mine is room A. There are two beds in there so I invited Annemaria to come and have a shower and stay the night, and tomorrow I will see Gabi.

In the morning we go to a shopping centre where I buy some cute gay sneakers from a Van’s. It’s the first time I’ve had shoes on my feet for 6 days. We say thank-you and goodbye outside Quinta da Regaleira, and then i say hello to Gabi. It’s very nice to see Gabi. She is warm and energetic and and excited and welcoming. It’s a foggy, dull and misty day in Sintra, all the sunshine in Portugal is in Gabi’s smile.

Gabi tells me that the templars would initiate folks by sending them blindfolded into this inverted tower. They’d walk down and around the 7 flights of spiralling stairs and then find their way out through the labyrinth, feeling their way against the walls until they reach the light. I try closing my eyes for a few steps. Almost immediately i trip over a rock and fall into a wall and Gabi yelps and I give up. I have my own magic order, and Gabi and me are starting a cult. Who needs the templars?

It’s tight in here, some of the paths are only 4ft high, and not so much wider either. Single file, people behind, people in front. I seriously consider developing claustrophobia. We see the waterfall (seemed like somebody left a tap on), talk about magick, emerge into the light and head to a cafe. I haven’t eaten for a couple days other than 1 small cube of an almost inedible vegetarian chorizo that I was incredibly grateful for (and still am). After a little negotiation, they sat us at a lovely corner table where we could watch the mist clear and see the castles on the hills.

We head to the Palace Pena, which means either suffering or feathers. The ticket says 2:30, and says don’t come early and don’t come late. When you get in through the gate it tells you that you’re 30 mins away on foot and you have to buy a new ticket on a bus. We got there around 3:14. It doesn’t seem to matter if you’re late. Lovely palaces. We take a lot of nice pictures. We go to a chapel, everyone is whispers in there. Lots of tight walks. It’s easy being with Gabi, funny and fun. It could be a risk spending a day in lines and queues going up hills and being lost and busy in a humid tourist trap with someone you met for five minutes drunk at a party and haven’t seen since, but she’s good to travel with. Like an old friend, I assume. I’ve never really had old friends.

I get a little lost on the way back to my hotel, but i pass a 10FOOT tag which makes me feel safe and home.

Thursday morning. Walk to Sintra station. No plans once I get there. I want to be in Lisbon airport friday around 2pm, flight boards at 6. Until then, life’s a mystery. The directions I wrote down don’t make any sense once I’m out walking, the street signs here are strange and sparse. I stop into a vegan cafe for some soup. It smells like eggs in here. I can’t imagine why. I reflect on how I might be embarrassed about posting last week the story of an acid trip that casts such a bright light on some of my worse traits, but i think it’s good and helpful to post things that are both true and embarrassing.

It’s a beautiful clear sunny day today. I’m walking with all my belongings down the route of the 1253 bus. That’s the bus’s name, not the time. Buses should be lettered instead of numbered so their name can’t be confused with the time. Every bus stop I pass I check for the 1253, and hopefully that way i’ll always be walking towards the station. There’s a fork in the road, I have no way to choose between them so I stop at a bench and wait for a bus to pass. There are many well-placed benches here overlooking incredible vistas of hills of lush green trees and pretty flowers. Earlier, I passed a large sprawling house painted a bright golden yellow. It had a little garden with a lemon tree. Lime green grass and emerald leaves and large yellow lemons the size of my fist.

I pass a red post box, a red telephone box, and some horse-drawn carriages. A few restaurants, a palace, a museum and a wine shop. The mountain looms ahead, the sun draws down. I’m tired, i’ve been walking for hours. I should eat something, drink something, head to the station. I stop in at “the oldest hotel on the Iberian Peninsula”. Established by an Englishman in 1764. Byron wrote Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage here. I eat a club sandwich.

I drink a bloody mary that is not a bloody mary. It’s a 1 inch tall drink, half vodka and half tomato juice, with a dried orange slice in it. In the restaurant I read an interview with TIm Robinson on the computer. Every time I laugh I start coughing a harsh, flemmy cough. I felt a few times like i’d nearly die. I download a map with directions to the station even though i know that it is futile. The waitress came and asked me if i enjoyed my bloody mary. I told her i loved it. She giggled and half-courtseyed and put her hands behind her back and shined a large glowing smile an said “thank you ^__^” and i think she’s never made, and perhaps never seen, a bloody mary before.

I have to get out of the house more. To take my laptop, without headphones, to coffee shops and parks. To read books, to be away from home, to be reading and writing and not watching and listening. The process of turning lead into gold, of turning our mud soul into the holy soul, is in alchemy called the Magnum Opus. This also means the masterpiece. The great work. The art that you create that also changes you. The work that completes you as you complete it. It’s funny being lost somewhere pretty as heck when you have nowhere to go. Hiding into little man-made caves of blue tile and orange brick.

I pass a handwritten sign in brown felt-tip on green paper:

help the fire king
<animals> from
a small fire in
cascish. take this
inffedmation with a
grain of salt. I’ve
done no paashoaRh
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please donate,
by the way I
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Every time i ask someone or directions they point me a way “down this road” then i follow their instructions for 20 or 30 metres until i go around a corner and then there is a fork in the road, at which point i’m once again lost. It is very entertaining, but if i was not given to laughing at all misfortunes i might find it to be quite stressful.

By the time I get to Lisbon I’m somehow pretty drunk, I didn’t really notice it happening. I hang out in the station. I eat some chicken. Some of the many thousands of catholic teenagers there are here to see the pope come over to ask me if I’m okay and if i need anything. I appreciate this kindness, of course, and the generosity with which it was offered… but there were some visibly homeless people in the same vicinity and i’d be lying if i did not admit that it struck me strange and heart-breaking that nobody was extending this same generosity to them.

When i want to use the womens bathroom i always have to check my hair and make-up first. I’ve lost my rimmel kohl eyeliner, and my sephora stick broke in half and i can’t find a sharpner in my bags. so i have to use the mens. but they are being worked on by servicemen. i have to wait longer. they start explaining their work to me in portuguese. i nod because i understand enough from their gestures. It will be a few minutes. I wait outside and wish i was a cis girl. Bathrooms. Bane of my life. I fucking hate having to pee. Choosing between feeling like i don’t belong, or feeling like i don’t belong. That sounds like the same thing twice, but they are opposites. Works better aloud than as the written word.

When I order aguardiente in a bar the reaction seems like they’re not sure if i’m sure what i’m asking for. “you… want?” It’s a great liquor. Cheap, tastes like vines. You ever gnawed the bark off a tree and liked it? idk, i liked eating leafs as a kid.

Out of nowhere she gets so stressed out by my bags. She stops the car, turns round in her seat “the bags! the bags!” i’m like “what do you need?” but she doesn’t speak enlgish “necisistas?” but she only speaks un pocito espanol too. She gets out of the car and opens the passenger side door. The wine bottle falls down and the cork pops out and spills on her floor “see?????” i don’t. i had everything balanced safelly. I tell her “eu entendo” but i’m thinking “darling you precipitated this eventuality when you opened the door and pulled at my bags, and now there is wine on the floor of the car and an open bottle. She’s gesturing towards the airport shouting “police”, I don’t understand, but I tell her “eu entendo.” I pour the remaining wine into my water bottle. Things didn’t have to turn out this way.

The hostel I’ve booked doesn’t appear to exist. I arrive at the front door and there is a sign “THIS IS NOT A HOSTEL”. I ask a stranger. He’s funny, he’s angry “i don’t have much time”. He tells me to shut up any time i try to explain anything or thank him. He tells me the hostel is here, and leaves. I elicit the help of a passing group of catholic teenagers. One of them tries the door. We ride up on the elevator. It’s one of those old kinds of elevators that used to have an operator. You have to shimmy open one door, then an inner door. On the 5th floor there’s one door labeled “LISBON AIRPORT HOSTEL” and another labeled “THIS IS NOT A HOSTEL” with 2 phone numbers. i borrow the girl’s phone to call one of the numbers on the door. The voice on the other end says I can’t get in because I didn’t check-in before 10pm. I point out that I didn’t book until 10:04pm, he doesn’t consider this pertinent. I thank the teenagers for their assistance and they leave.

I lie outside for a while against a telephone routing box, and listen to an electronically broadcast voice that sounds like Seoul City Sue. I don’t know where it’s coming from, it sounds like it’s 8 floors above me.

The walk back to the airport takes 30 or 40 minutes. There’s a bridge near Lisbon International with a staircase that leads nowhere. it brings you to the top of the underside of the bridge and then it ends. And if you sit on that staircase and look out on the road there is a billboard with no billboard in it. Just an empty frame. A rectangle around the bottle green plants with cotton candy flowers that grow behind it and around it.

Until my flight I spend most of my time with a friendly Brazilian lady with cute hi-tops called Thainá. She’s wearing a GREMLINS t-shirt. Very cool. She’s an insurgent cartographer. Incredibly cool. Tells me about the Brazilian religion Umbanda. Tells me about her cats Louise and Augusta. I have it on pretty good authority that they are perfect. The sunrise was so pretty. We play a game of 21 with money on the line. It’s a tense game. 1-0, 1-1, 1-2, 2-2, 2-3. Thainá wins the entire euro. I half-promise to go to Brazil for carnival in 2024.

At security I get misgendered in an exciting new way. I go through the x-ray and it beep-beeps. The woman of the pair of security people takes me aside, and i say “it might be my necklace?”. When she hears my voice she laughs heartily at her mistake and calls the man over, and they both laugh about it, and he immediately pats me down.

In the pharmacy i ask for esomeprazole, they give me omeprazole. i say “ah, but i’m looking for esomeprazole” and she says “this is the same as esomeprazole except for the molecule”.

i hate taking the little bus to the plane, i like the big tunnel.

-*〜☆ ◬ ☆〜*-

I look out the window of the plane, nearly home. The city looks like wet crystals. At 939pm my plane feet touch London. I lay outside on the ground beside the water feature smoking cigarettes. Time to go home. I buy a Heathrow Express ticket and it comes out completely blank. They are going to phone ahead and tell Paddington to expect a chee rabbits with a blank ticket.

-*〜☆ ◬ ☆〜*-

Saturday, I spend the whole day in bed eating snacks and watching Justified. I love Boyd Crowder. It’s my ambition to one day be as intimidating, camp and horny at all times as Boyd Crowder is at all times. Maybe it’s the Dr. Pepper, maybe it’s the fried chicken. I’ll try eating some fried chicken and savouring all the words that come out my mouth like i can taste them.

WordPress’s gutenberg editor hates when I write posts this long. I’m gonna have to find a better way to author. Or write less. I guess the next few weeks at least will be mild. Just chicken and TV.

— sorry this is so late, I had no internet until now —

The Lavamais self-service laundry room is a peaceful public space. I’m alone here right now, with nothing but the sound of machine #1 gently spinning. I’m washing a few dresses, a skirt and a t-shirt so that I might have clean clothes for a few more days of Portugal. Yesterday there was a gentleman here who’d had his bag stolen. The bag contained his ID, his wallet, and his car keys. He’s trapped in Castelo Branco until his car company can send him a new set of keys. Two days after Boom everyone in Castelo Branco town centre is a victim of something, suffering some inconvenience or another. They’re all smiling, they’re all helping each other.

A ver.

On Monday I remember dancing on Funky Beach with Ciara and my steward 🌩️ . Ciara’d been like “there’s no dance floor?” And then they started dancing and then there was a dance floor. They were happy and I went to the lake and got wet. I was in a daze drying off in the sun and a nice stranger came up and gave me a very loving hug. The beach looks like the ocean at Funky Beach.

To the left of us: a rocky, sharp, hostile forest. To the right of us: a sharp, rocky, harsh woodland. Behind us: a sandy, rock-filled hill of hostile ground and tents and trees (and a bar). To our front: 10 meters of steep silver sand before a bright blue lake. The sun baring down on us, but gentler than the day before. The light had a yellow-white quality.

Spent a lovely time by a bush near Central Plaza later, sharing sparkly moments with Polly. Sometimes it feels that there are real dimensional boundaries here because I only meet certain people alone, and others only when I’m with people I’ve met them with before. Maybe it has something to do with all those archways they have scattered around.

Sometimes there will be a ripple of whoops and cheers that will make its way all around the lake. It ripples out in all directions from a single point like dropping a pebble in the water. I hoped I’d see the start of one, but I was even luckier, I got to be part of the start of one. We held hands in a circle and honked like geese. That was joyous, we were glittering, the sun was bright and the sand was soft and the air was clean. 

After a large spoon of ketamine, I walked out into the water and summoned Babalon. I dipped my head under the water and got some in my left ear and was asymmetrical for a day.

At the dance temple Katya felt uncertain. “I don’t know what to do, there are so many options. Do I go with them? Do I go with you?” At this very moment a large white parasol took her by the face and dragged her backwards 3 or 4 steps. A message from god to go with the flow and let herself be carried away. In reality the umbrella was in the hand of a toned hippy, but in my memory it is like a cartoon and the thing flies over and carries her away into the sky on the wind.

I’ve just moved my clothes to the dry cycle here in this laundromat. It’ll be another 14 mins then I’ll pack back up and limp shoeless to the bus station where I’ll hope to find they have a bus to Lisbon on a Sunday. But if they don’t, I will be OK. There’s another customer here cleaning up the laundromat with a brush and pan just because otherwise how will it stay clean. I love it here. Maybe I don’t want there to be a bus. 

Thanks for being with me, talking with me, spending all that time with me. It was so much fun, I even enjoyed the hard parts, and I wouldn’t have survived the festival without you. Sorry if I made it harder than it should be sometimes, I’m still learning too.

On the last day of the festival, on the final night, during the final show at the main stage I saw that old out-of-time hippy again. Bright white hair, looking like a merry prankster. I asked him “oh, do you have any of that acid to sell?” he said “fuck selling!” And then gestured at me to open my mouth. I opened my mouth. He took out his dropper. I was expecting a droplet.

—You see, I’d met him a week ago, first day of the festival. He’d told me “if any of your friends want to buy acid, tell them about me and let them know I have the good stuff” before dropping a little droplet on my hand so I could lick it off. “I’m very sensitive to psychedelics” I’d told him. “Well, this is the good stuff,” he’d said— 

I opened my mouth. He took out his dropper. I was expecting another droplet. He squeezes that dropper like he’s drying out a cloth. There is liquid acid pouring down my lips. Rolling around my mouth. Even if I’d spat it out it would still be more acid than I’ve ever taken. Or, I think, that anyone has ever taken since 1967 at a Grateful Dead concert. I promptly sunk into the sand. The colors, the chromatic aberrations, the light, the triangles, the most beautiful sunset, the love, the company of people I have come to love and trust so quickly… then it became impossible to move my limbs, I stepped dimension by dimension away further and further away until I was completely disconnected from my body, my mind. We ran, holding hands, dancing through the festival. I don’t know how much of it happened. The spinning, the lagoon, then I fell into the sand and could not move. Everyone wanted to move on to the next place, but I couldn’t operate my limbs or form a sentence. I desperately did not want to be a burden, to hold them back from the things they wanted, so I worked so hard to find any words that could help. I chose “I’m happy” because I thought that would let them be free and I would not be holding them back anymore. “I’m happy” “I’m happy” “I’m happy” that was all I said, and I smiled like “:)”. And they left me in the sand, and I was happy. And I delved into it, into the into of it. I travelled through space and time, mostly time. I was the beginning of the universe. I was a ball of light, I was a rectangular infinite form and then shapeless infinite formless. I was god. A monument, a mountain, a massive triangular physical formation grew out from underneath me. I found that I could choose any life I wanted, because I was telling this story of my life to somebody else. In my mind I am always telling a story, but to whom? I asked aloud “but who am I telling this?”. There was silence, and then there was cheering. I became christ-like, someone truly pure, I grasped the meaning of life, I was an essential creature who needed for nothing. Everyone was chanting and wooing and “who am I telling this”. I had the chance to live any life I chose. They span by me, the possibilities, like a Kodak carousel. I could choose any life I wanted. One of them had me as a kind of beautiful empress universally loved by all my people, I skipped past it at first looking for somewhere where everyone on earth was happy and had everything they needed, but then I did a double-take and I went back to that world where I was being worshipped. I thought, “this is acid, it’s temporary, why not feel the unconditional and complete adoration of an entire society for a while? Just to know what that kind of love feels like?” And I sat there in that world and I enjoyed it for a moment. Then reality pulled back a level. Everyone could see I’d wanted that. People and gods could see me wanting that. I was a laughingstock. I was nude, crawling around on the festival ground crying and naked and disgusting and everyone wanted me to leave. I heard the voice of one of my friends saying “I can’t believe she still thinks she has friends”. They were all laughing and looking over their shoulder at me. There was a spotlight. Everyone kept cheering when I decided I was going to leave the festival. It was horrifying, sad. The only solution to my problem seemed to be to literally cease to exist, and everyone was encouraging me to do it. I knew that I would be completely alone forever. They kind of pitied me for being such a sad mess that had made such a fool of herself in front of everyone and on social media. They all had their phones out taking videos and I’d made such a fool of myself and the only person I had to blame was me. It was elaborate. I tried to pop, to disappear. I said aloud “I can’t stop existing”. Everyone wanted me to leave, the whole festival. The entire vibe of the last night was ruined because I continued to exist. I’d received enlightenment, though, so I was happy enough except that I’d ruined Boom due to my relentless existence and my life was ruined. I knew “I need nothing forever” then I’d remember, “what about when I need food or water” and I’d remember again that I do need something. It’s other people, it’s community. I need to learn to want. Someone gave me water. They put me in a little van and took me across the festival. I was Kosmicare patient #386. I no longer had boots, AirPods or a phone. (They were stolen, I’ve watched them travel across Portugal). The regret faded away once it became clear that most of my shame was associated with things that were literally, physically, materially impossible. I went back out into the world. Death and rebirth. I’d been God. I’d received the message: I need to learn to need in public without shame. 

Delivered into nothing, everything, reality from first principals, egodeath, death and rebirth, reformed, deformed, formless and formed. Reached across the dimension diagonal to ours and held hands with myself. The walls split open and I saw the weird dog gods who watch us performing for them like a show, they were happy that I saw them and they were like “hehehe” because they knew I’d stop seeing them soon when the blinds closed back over.

The day after the festival I was awoken by a group of people banging on my hammock. “BOOM IS OVER. YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MINUTES.” Ruxi and Christian and me took a bus to Castelo Branco where I got a lovely hotel room in the Boutique Hotel Esplanada for a couple of nights. It can be hard to make it around without a telephone.

A thousand black birds flew out loud and in formation above my hotel balcony. My first instinct was to capture it, but when my phone did not exist I was forced to enjoy life to the fullest. A man on a motorbike sped down the centre of the road like death does not exist. The sunset was teal and silver and orange. Anyway, all that aside… I love my friends… and I’m looking forward to being comfortable calling them my friends. There’s nothing like it, nothing like knowing you’re one of your favourite people’s favourite people.

I woke up sugar-sick, limping with my fucked up foot that got torn to shreds walking on the sticks and stones and hot pebbles of Boom without boots, and I started to make my way to the bus station. I stopped off at the laundromat on my way. Turns out that that girl who was brushing up in the laundromat also went to Boom. Her name is Anne-Maria. We spent the rest of the day together. We did our laundry, we went for a beer, we went for another, we drank 2 bottles of wine, we sat in the courtyard of a closed bar that eventually opened just for us. A beautiful, beautiful couple opened the restaurant and served us grapes and melon and chicken and took a picture with us. And we were loved, and thoroughly, and “fica à vontade”. They sat with us after. We drove from the laundromat to Anne-Maria’s hostel. I got into the car and wondered if this would be the place that I died. I didn’t mind a lot. She put on some cumbia and drove happy through the wide roads and pretty colorful buildings like death does not exist. And I felt that death does not exist. She’s from Luxembourg. She went into her hostel searching for wine and water. We drank another bottle and a half of wine and we ate courgette with tomato, peanut butter and garlic.

Tomorrow we’re going back to Idanha-a-nova for Anne-Maria’s court date then all the way to Sintra on a road trip to see her favourite beach. In her hostel, I stepped on the pedal bin in the kitchen and it contained nothing but garlic skins. It came up 3 or 5 inches, nothing but garlic skins. I dumped my garlic skins in and moved on.

I have eaten so much fucking baking powder this week.

Fizzy, fizzy, fizzy.

In toilets; in a field; in an airport; in the disused stairwell of a defunct railway station. How they rip you off in Lisbon is not the way they rip you off in London. They aren’t comfortable stealing from you. They need you to agree to it. They’ll ask you if you want ketamine, take you down an alley and give you a bump of something that’s 10% speed, 20% novocaine, mostly baking powder. Even in reputable businesses they’ll give you a shot of tequila and then charge you 10 euros and say “it’s a special tequila.”. They’re happy to walk away if you don’t want it. It’s a city of grifters. They need you to agree to to it. They won’t steal from you. They won’t rip you off unless you prove you are a sucker, a mark. Do not give a sucker an even break.

It’s kind of shaken my constitution, though. My faith in myself, and my ability to judge a nice and honest person. One dude at the airport added me on Facebook and then tried to sell me baking powder for 80 euros claiming it was Ket. I’m looking at pictures of him eating hot dogs with his kids and he’s trying to sell me baking soda. My only conclusion is that they don’t take drugs, and so they don’t understand how one white powder is different from another, and that they therefore are able to rationalize that they’re doing you a favour.

DISCLAIMER: Apologies to fans of brevity, this is going to be a long one. The article, I mean. It’s long. A lot has happened. I’m leaving so much out, trying to stick only to the parts that advance the story. But the story is my whole life, so I don’t know what details have narrative importance yet. Anyway

See, ketamine is very specific. It has crystalline tree-like structures. It looks like that. It sparkles. Mixed with aloe vera you can use it as facial glitter. It’s a very specific thing. A bump of it does not bring you up, it brings you through. There is nothing on this world that feels like it. Rit-it-it-it-it-it. Nothing. The geometry, the sacred temple, it’s very peculiar, very unique, the other side of the room.

After getting off the plane nothing particularly interesting happened. I have several paragraphs of nots here from those first few days but honestly they are so dark and ridiculous there is no point sharing them. Sometimes when you haven’t slept properly or eaten at all your nerves are shattered and everything comes through past some filter of doom and desperation. Right now I’m sitting on this ark, ark beach. Completely navy. All the lights off the festival are off to the right, it’s far, it’s near. The people around me are gentle, but wild, but happy. I’m so far away from the anxiety that riddled me in the unslept of the airport and the city.

That first night I ended up sleeping in the airport because people kept staring at me and it creeped me out. Felt like I shouldn’t walk around at night alone. The next day I stayed in this adorable hotel, have a crush on everyone there, great day. Sat on a lawn, napped on a lawn, drank tequila and Super Bock (Super Bock is the only beer that exists in Lisbon, except for knock-off Super Bock), and when I got into my room and I touched the bed I slept for 10 hours before I noticed.

There’s nothing really of note in Lisbon except I spent 80 euros on make-up and I stopped in the stairwell beyond the main mall, there were some men with some instruments. I was trying to understand their sound without hearing it. An electric guitar through pedals, a pixiephone, an acoustic guitar, a drumming cube, and a flute. One of the men told me he sings. Then it started to come together. I asked if I could play their guitar. I played a few songs, sang in the stairwell. The melodica man played along. We played good together. Is there a word for the nostalgia of the life unled?

Got super drunk on tequila in my next hotel room, raided the minibar. Talked to a couple bartenders who told me “if you want to move to Lisbon: learn English”, which I did not take personally. Dudes kept half-sprinting across the squares in Lisbon to ask me if I wanted drugs. I was all “¿why me?” until I started seeing people arrive with neon hair and spiral tattoos and clocked that it’s just super easy to spot when someone’s going to boom lol. Did a magic(k)al ritual overlooking all the buildings from up on high.

Next night, stayed up all night. I got the boom bus. I stressed Polly out a lot by being a mess and dropping everything i owned over and over. If you’re the kind of person that naturally wants to take care of people i can be hard to be around because I don’t care if live or die, I don’t mind if I lose all my stuff and then my life. Especially when i’m drunk i’m so cuckoo.  I slept most of the bus while needing to pee. The heat when we got out to get our tickets was a solid object.

I arrive at Boom festival. So dehydrated, so confused. So lucky Ciara came. Saved my life. And she put up my hammock for me too. Fuckin’ love her. Stunning. Would be dead on the side of a hill right now without her i think, because i lay down there a long while slowly drying before she called me over.

— I had to jump off the navy-dark beach then. Emily needed to move. We both needed to move. And it’s time to go to The Gardens to meet Becky Avery.

OK. Listen, I’m sitting outside The Gardens right now against the tree I met Nick at typing while Emily and Becky and Beth dance together inside to some zap. I might rush a little. Sorry.

First morning of Boom I had a cherished beach morning with Polly. We had a lovely chat about what we want from Boom. I don’t know what I want. She has an idea. She goes in the water and I try moving her hopes forward with a little ritual.

I head for some food. Ruxi and Christian arrive at the campsite. They ask me to wait by the area they are putting their tent up. I improvise a little barrier ritual. Works well enough. They get set up. We go and meet Ciara in the central plaza by the charger. Christian and Ruxi draw on each other with my white marker. Everything is staccato, but it’s exciting, eventually there will so much. We go to The Gardens to watch Kaya Project. Had a little ket off Fenn. “Well, well, well… this is not baking powder”.

When everyone goes to bed I go to the cocktail bar and meeting Kevin who tells me he once took some of Jefferson Airplane’s personal stash of frozen acid. He dropped a little acid on my hand (not Jefferson Airplane’s) and I licked it off. Mathilda and I went through The Door of Light together and peed in the lake separately. I lost them dating in The Gardens, went back to ma hammock.

can’t tell if the person in the tent next to me is having sex or being repeatedly scratched by a harsh linen. very unusual sex noises, like it’s fairly, but not severely, cumbersome for her.

oh! the man just came and he also makes a sound like he’s been mildly inconvenienced, they are perfect for each other. 

i am going to go to the lake and drown myself if i have to listen to one more minute of this incredibly boring sex. she keeps coughing. i’ve been sitting in a hammock listening to a straight man fail to bring any earthly pleasure to a woman who loves him for what’s felt like decades.

then I was buying arancini, Virginia (arancini girl) told me “i have to take a picture of you”. she took my disposable camera and said “you look so cute”, took the pic and put the camera back on the counter. i picked the camera up and i told her that I have to take a picture too, and that she looks so cute too, and she did, and sheN got cute for the camera too. i hope those pictures come out

Next day I got up about 9am. Still tripping. Got some food (arancini). On my way back to my hammock, just I was starting to feel normal again i walked past 6 dudes dressed in business suits with cowbells around their necks being herded by an old farmer with a stick. They broke out into a synchronized briefcase exchange dance.

Kept bumping into Becky Avery and Beth. Always a delight. Absolute pair of dreams those two. Nothing more to say right now. Huge fan.

I was sitting in central plaza about to cry again. Emily⛈️ stomped up shouting “CHEE rrrRA-BBITS“. I am a huge Emily⛈️ fan, don’t know if you know that about me. Very fun, very excited, very split-focus. When there is something on her todo list there is nothing else in the world. 

People betray their deepest thoughts with meaningful pauses between words. Picking up on those, and guessing what they mean, that makes people feel like you understand them deeply, Even if it’s only a shallow understanding of them and a general knowledge of character. 

Emily⛈️ is really nice to be around. Empathetic, thoughtful, patient, excited and vibrant with the promise of life. Also sometimes when she yawns she spits like a snake. Tss tss. Right out the mouth in two sharp streams.

We’re getting fucked up on Red Bulls together in the drug-testing line. We waited there for hours, four hours, waiting to hear the number 313 (the drug testing system works like a deli counter) so we could find out if this €40 bag of €60 ketamine was ketamine. I tasted a little of it, and it was definitely drugs, but it didn’t taste like ketamine, it didn’t look like ketamine. It was crystals, but not shiny or crystalline, no tree formations. but it didn’t clump like baking soda, and it was definitely not just numbing agent. But it did numb my tongue, and my whole mouth. Nothing really does that that i know except cocaine and the stuff they use to stamp on cocaine. 

We had a lovely, funny, chill time. Good conversation. We made a little promise to ourselves and each other that we wouldn’t take MDMA this festival. We kept checking in with each other to know if the other wanted to do something else other than sit there talking. We never did.

The only sure thing was Hilight Tribe at Dance Temple at six. That was the only sure thing for a lot of people. It was the only sure thing for Ciara, Ruxandra, Christian, becky Avery, Beth, Emily⛈️, chee, and a other people who I met who had one sure thing.

I was doing a sober day. Tired, confused, sticky, messy, lonely, got stones in my boots, and feeling a lot like i woke up tripping after four hours of very light sleep. This is another festival where i find myself walking away from everyone to accept i’ll always be alone, that i’m a loner, that i will always be alone. i don’t know if it’s true, but i do keep accepting it which might be meaningful in someway… i guess.

Emily⛈️ went to get changed, i looked after The Number. I went to get changed, emily⛈️ passed the maybemine to kosmicare and read some of my blog and when I got back she complimented my writing and this is my writing right now and she’s actually reading it right now after it was written tomorrow and is it still good writing am I wriiting good now emily⛈️?

Kosmicare needs 3 hours after our deli ticket to test the drug and tell us if it’s baking powder, rat poison or Ketamine.

come out to the coast. meet some entities, get fucked up. interface directly with the universal console, touch the face of god and get smashed.

Headed to the dance temple to see Hilite Tribe. It was incredible. Turns out at this point it’s everyone’s one sure thing. The whole festival there. Super-duper thick throng. I understand for some there is a thrill to the throng but for me the throng just feels wrong. Saw Ruxi briefly as she disappeared into the depths of it. Too much for me; I couldn’t follow her. But, I loved it from the peripheries with Em⛈️. Met up with Fenn from last night. Found Ciara. Had a chat. Got some of the rocks out of my shoes. Had a little panic when the throng started closing in on me and emily⛈️ took me somewhere safe. Sat with Fenn and Em⛈️ by the big face that emerges from the ground between the temple and the beach. Bought two tacos. Gave emily⛈️ a taco. Got the ketamine results back from Kosmicare. Went through an archway. Took emily⛈️ through the same bright light doorway i’d passed through last night with Kevin and Mathilda, now i’d passed through the arch both ways and she’d passed through once and i’d passed through the light door we were finally on the same side. we sat down on the rocks at the darkest part of the beach and talked for another hour. we spent so much time walking around together her iPhone warned her thet my Airpods were traveling with her.

The “ketamine”, by the way, turned out not to be ketamine. It also wasn’t baking soda. It wasn’t rat poison. This is how Emily⛈️ delivered the info, just like that:

“So…. it isn’t ketamine…. it also isn’t baking soda… it also isn’t rat poison…”. What was it? That’s right, 90% pure MDMA. ??? what ??? ¿¿¿I don’t idk???

Emily⛈️ went to bed. I went to the gardens to meet ruxi and ciara and christian but couldn’t find anyone. i’d made it through my sober day. I felt so isolated. I guess I felt excited too.

Saturday i didn’t get up until like 11. that’s like 10 hours sleep. Sobriety is exhausting. Never again. Somebody called me a niche fuck. I felt amazing. Had gazpacho for breakfast. You gotta let it sit against those back parts of your tongue on the left and right to let your body know it’s coming and get ready to make full use of it. That’s what the tongue is for, I think? To get the body ready to use the nyoots.

Back to hammock. Ems had no data. Ruxi and Christian suddenly beside me. Walked with them, no shoes, to the beach, to the lake, we got wet together, we ate ketamine. I abandoned the workshop at the last minute to go to the cocktail bar. Ruxi started journalling :).

How to walk barefoot on hostile earth:

  1. To misquote the 1962 British biographical epic Lawrence Of Arabia, “the trick, my dear, is not minding that it hurts’
  2. Develop a huge crush on Mother Earth so when she stabs and burns you you can be like “oh my! madam! we have company!” an blush instead of being in pain
  3. Sing a karmic chant like that one off the OB-4 demo

I learned that I treat naked people different. I don’t know in what way I do… but, I guess I do. Tell you how I found out: sometimes in the lake you meet people, have a full length chat with them and then later when you leave the lake you learn they were stark naked. It can be a surprise. a strange kind, where it’s in no way an issue. you’re just surprised that you… were chatting to like them like they were wearing clothes, but they weren’t. you’ll learn you talk to naked people differently, and that’s the surprise. an internal surprise, not an external surprise. 

^— note to editor: please kill this entire paragraph?

Saturday night was something I don’t have permission or skill to explain. I’ll likely not understand it until much later in my life. Maybe several years after I’ve died. But there were French girls. And if the morning me and Emily hung out and saw Astral Projection live and the we hung out some more and got drunk and that’s basically it. She’s dancing with Beth and becky avery right now in The Garden and I’m not because I’m writing this fucking blog. I’m going to stop writing it now so I can go where I belong, a k-hole at the chill-out stage.