blaze it 420

Last night I became self-conscious that inkubo.org is very tweet-y without the intelligence or creativity of Hemingway. Every now and again I'll post something long-form but I'm disinclined, lazy, or distracted by low-effort, non-descriptive statements about events in my life just to keep regular updating the site. Reckon as long as I am writing then it's a net win.

Last week I went to the Miracle Pub, allowed myself to believe a waitress was hitting on me and wound up giving her my custom business card that I designed years ago. Today I went back and had validation, she's just hustling and that's pretty much it. Reckon it's a good thing I've learned to curb my enthusiasm and expectations in life.

Further back on the Wednesday timeline I wound up having a lively conversation with my friend Sarah that started out with her asking me about cryptocurrency. From there we devolved into ripping into the current iteration of capitalism, how things aren't inclined to change, the implementation of term limits and age limits for elected officials. Looking at the senile, Alzheimers-ridden Diane Feinstein here and Sarah made a pointed and simple argument for age limits: There are minimum age limits for people to run for office. Since we were driving we wound up trading voice memos on the topic and it was good to talk with her.
Sarah then asked if I was going to the cannabis festival in the Poconos this weekend. "Well I am now." Bought my ticket when I got into the office. It'll be good to see her and meet her fireman. Good thing I 'called out' of writing for the fortean site this weekend. My original plan was to drive up north, see my dealer in Livingston and drop off the goods I picked up for them a while back.
The 'goods' aren't anything illegal, fyi.
This event should prove to be more interesting. Sadly my dealer is going to be making money with her legitimate sideline so she won't be tagging along.

A little before lunch I was peeking at InstaGram and saw an update from the cat rescue about a ginger cat they recently rescued and the caption for the post was about going to heaven. I didn't have my glasses on and couldn't make out the emojis used alongside the text. My heart fell and I cried a bit because Bumblebee finally had a brief glimmer of hope in his life. I texted "Bumblebee :(" to Leah and she responded that he was just going to be getting neutered.
Those emoji? Peanuts.

Bumblebee is okay. He's just a few ounces lighter.

a dream from april 20th, 2015

Inside a riverboat-cum-hotel with dodgy electricity, I'm working hard to prepare ayahuasca. I have a small amount of sky-blue powder, and another powder the color of dried blood. To my surprise, I'm able to take the latter, a MAOI, wait about 10-15 minutes then dose up with the blue powder.

I'm more aware of my situation being a dream, but nothing's lucid for me. The wife of one of my friends, or should I say acquaintance, is wandering around the place and I take it upon myself to start following her since the concoction's rekindled a fire dormant since my early thirties. Nothing happens, she craps out on one of the makeshift beds under flickering fluorescent lights and the mood leaves me like Jesus giving up the ghost.

The running mental commentary haunting me throughout the dream, "The ayahuasca didn't work. I'm dreaming. Dreaming is the product of discrete amounts of DMT produced by the pineal gland." In my hand are the remaining dark capsule and knowledge of where to score more blue powder.

My bedroom was warm and I overdid the covers, waking me for the first time, coupled by a black cat pressed against my legs and inexorably pushing me off the bed. After several minutes of measured breathing I'm back asleep.

Ayahuasca is the common thread. That dark red capsule is burning a hole in my hand as I wander through dreams seeking the best place to commune with machine elves and the plant. Now and again I'm floating back to consciousness, petting the black cat, listening to my wife talk in her sleep as she dreams about work, before slipping back under those dark waters.

I'm awake, a little troubled, and wondering what I'm going to do with this rainy Monday.

another (?) dream from april 20th, 2015

I found myself on a riverboat-cum-hotel with dodgy electricity. Fluorescent lights flickering throughout the ship, deepening the shadows of corridors, alcoves, and other points unknown. The place was a mess, furniture strewn about willy-nilly, papers carpeting the damp rug, and hanging power cables from empty ceiling tiles.

My purpose in the dream is to partake of ayahuasca. It's a powerful hallucinogenic concoction making the hipster and alternative rounds, folks getting dosed up with DMT to commune with their daemon, eidolon, machine elves, the manifestation of the plant intelligence. It comes in two parts, the roots suffused with dimethyltryptamine and a monoamine oxidase inhibitor which keeps the body from breaking down the DMT, ensuring a long trip. In this case the active ingredient is a baby blue powder, and the MAOI is a pill the color of dried blood. As I've read in waking life, one takes the MAOI and chases it with the DMT about 10-15 minutes later.

Since dreams are allegedly the product of the pineal gland, suspected to be a natural producer of DMT in discrete amounts, I'm disoriented but far from tripping balls. From one of the darker corners of the ship, my friend's wife steps into the stuttering actinic light. For whatever reason, I'm following her around the ship in a bizarre obstacle course leaving me with barked shins and scraped Achilles tendons. Eventually she finds a mattress with the fewest stains, drawing a yellowed top sheet over herself before returning to the waking world.

After all, falling asleep in a dream is akin to waking up.

I fart around the wreckage some more before floating up to wakefulness. A black cat is pressed against my legs, pushing me towards the edge of the bed. My wife's talking in her sleep about her job, data entry for classes, and a troublesome instructor. After several measured breaths I return to sleep.

Back in dreamworld, I'm dead set on finding the perfect place to do ayahuasca again in hopes of truly breaking my brain. A rusty capsule is burning a hole in my hand as I search out the last place where I saw the blue dust. The urge intensifies to the point of being frantic. I slip in and out of sleep several times.

The original draft of this dream was eaten by LiveJournal (emhasis mine from 2023) because Russians can't play nice with browser plugins. I finished watching the final episodes of The Sopranos after a 7 year hiatus. Felt myself full of doubt, esp. when it comes to writing about fringey stuff like forteana and anomalistics. Some aspects of life have such a fast pace, but the world is passing me by. I have no idea what I'm doing nor where I'm going.