|portrait in watercolour, done while on "magic" mushrooms.|
Public service announcement: This is your brain, on your brain, tripping on your own brain while tripping. Girl, you're literally tripping on your trip. Is this even the shrooms anymore? Get off your own dick Ellen, you're riding it way too hard. Tell the shrooms, 'excuse Me Mr. Universal, this ain't so impressive' - then the shrooms get really intense and you backtrack, 'yep! Impressive enough! I'm good with the fractals & spirals behind my eyes, there's no need for us to get deeper here.' There's some fucking Carl Jung/Freudian shit going on here. Also, why is there so much Phallic imagery in my bedroom right now? A skull appears, it's the arm of a jacket hanging from my clothes rack …
At about two-thirty in the morning the other night I decided to eat ten ''magic' mushrooms while hanging out in my bedroom, painting and listening to meditation music.
The trip started out how it always does; Shroom-piphanies and euphoria:
You get a little lost in the bedroom mirror, because the glass surface looks deeper than usual, your reflection is blurred and you can’t stop laughing while blowing air out through your lips. The ticklish vibrations are enough to make you happy, like a baby that’s just started blowing bubbles.
‘And also my camer_, my eyes focus in on colours like auto white-balance’ - Here I think I was looking down at a painting I was working on, the longer I looked at it the brighter the colours became, the more weird shit popped out of the splashes of colour. My eyes felt mechanical, like I could control parts of my vision in the ways one controls a camera - change the aperture, white-balance, zoom in. Everything is hyper-real.
‘To enforce a reality to be congruent, rather than be dragged along by fantasy.’ is written on a page alongside, ‘explore the internet while tripping! Great idea!’ After this I watched a film of floating bubbles on Calm.com turning into what looked like mini solar eclipses.
Then I started googling Van Gogh, cried over the beauty of the universe and wrote this weird poem about the artist, while attempting to get inside his mind as I was staring at one of his later self-portraits:
‘The skull in the room is pretence’
‘But the gods are having fun’
- And I wasn’t even peaking yet.
‘I think social media could be considered an artform. A very organic artform. It is a recording after all, of the human psyche.
- And isn’t that all art has ever been?’ (clearly was spending this part of the trip soaking in my own idolatry)
…And then I went full Bryan Lewis Saunders and connected with my Eudaemonic spirit-head or some crazy shit:
‘Did I just meta?’
Did I just trip on my trip? Was I just inspected by the gods, found unworthy and completely okay with it? The thing above my head was dancing, shaking jelly-like with laughter and my brain was spewed out in front of my eyes with all of its various traps and delusions laid out, clear for the eye to see. Those fungi are some honest bastards. They do not let you front even if you want to. The strength of a Freudian/Jungian obsession was strong in this trip, I started giggling over my eyeball-laden thumb thinking, ‘well that thumb is clearly a phallic symbol so it must represent the ID’ - get it? The ‘eye’ ‘d’. The d guys. This is not Hunter S Thompson’s bat country but Freud's fields of phallus and not a single cigar was just a cigar. I was literally tripping dicks, and what did I learn?
Never ask mushrooms to impress you, because they fucking will.