Seizure the Day

Half a brain runs the show.  The cross-wired organ favours right-handers because the left brain hemisphere calls the shots.  This side of the skull uses language, logic and correct cutlery.  A typical school environment favours left brain thinking - facts and single answers.  What's your name?  If a neurosurgeon was to guesstimate the ego's location, they'd likely point their medical instrument within the left hemisphere.

The right half of the thinking team is rarely captain.  Its role looks after emotion, music appreciation and abstract thought, as well as sensations on the left side of the body. Messages are sent across to the control room on the left.  They are complementary halves, like yin to yang, or night to day.  This is a simplified summary of an infant science.  The cutting edge of these studies leaves big gaps filled with mystery and myth.

Split-brain patients have this bridge between hemispheres severed.  A Nobel Prize was awarded to the guy who discovered that cutting through the divide could reduce or eliminate seizures.  Experiments with these bonesaw veterans communicated with only one side at a time.  This isn't usually possible, because millisecond-speed traffic passes within. 

Varied responses from each half support the theory that we experience only the dominant stream of consciousness.  There is another stream generated in the background and its messages must cross between territories.  The re-readable "Mapping the Mind" suggests of this twin:

"...We might all be carrying around in our skulls a mute prisoner with a personality, ambition, and self-awareness quite distinct from the day-to-day entity we believe ourselves to be."

We might.

Aya strongly lights up the right hemisphere in brain scans.  Some researchers suggest this overpowers the usually in-control left.  Another concept - "hemispheric fusion" - suggests cooperation instead of revolution.  My post-puke experiences included deep analytical and intuitive parts, suggesting internal teamwork.


Right hemisphere dominance can catalyst ego death - an imposter for actual death.  The uninformed could slip into panic if left to interpret this feeling.  Our group was well-behaved in this regard.  Apparently, some people need restraint when they freak out at the temporary annihilation of their identity.


A fingertip grasp of a dream world snaps into a new day.


I woke early like sleep was a formality.  In the dining room, I wasn't the only one silently waiting.  We came for salt like weary drought victims to water.  Interpretation of "first thing in the morning" was the silent contemplation.

When Scott entered, he detoured to the kitchen for a full cup of flaky, white crystals.  For each person he first sang an icaros into the individual spoonful.  The idea was not to consume, but to absorb by swishing it around.  After spitting a mouthful of salt onto the grass I returned to the table.  On it, I had an open book face down, but instead I sat and felt energy returning to my mind and body.

Breakfast was similar foods spiced up.  While eating, a number of local ladies set up stalls outside with their handcrafted wares.  Like much of my Peru experience, the pathways to popular places were lined with similar stores.  Walking the gauntlet of colourful trinkets had held no appeal.  I saw the items laid out on the ground here in a different light.  For one thing, these stalls weren't supplemented by Coca Cola and Nestle.  But it was more than that.  It was no longer unnecessary "stuff", it was a conduit for the heart - a way to connect more with others.  I browsed, pondered, selected and purchased.  Then, thinking of other recipients, I repeated the process.  These items were later added to the "mesa" in the ceremony room.  This is a sheet laid out in the main circle with many personal items placed on it.  The shamans would grant protection via the plant-inspired ritual.

A short ride in a longboat delivered the group along a river branch.  This led to a guided jungle walk.  Darlene was the only one to go barefoot.  Scorpions, glow-in-the-dark frogs and food that grew in hiding places were all pointed out.

The boat to return us to camp had engine trouble.  A motorised canoe came to the rescue as it pulled the larger longboat side-by-side back to base.  I knew there was great symbolism here - a fitting analogy - but it didn't come to me and I didn't hunt it.  Instead of thinking of what it was like, I just let it be what it was. 

There was no regulation of the amount of quinoa, sweet potato and coconut curry I ate for lunch.  I enjoyed every mouthful.

A familiar background of dread preceded the last ceremony.  There is however, a group expectation that this one will be different.  We've ceased the main food restrictions, supposedly meaning less clearing work and therefore, an easier night.  Being off the diet also means we can use a trick where we'll eat oatmeal 30 minutes beforehand.  This seeks to negate the stomach nausea, although a purge is still likely.  The tryptophan content of oatmeal was also promoted, as these are the building blocks of serotonin and its feel-goodness.

Aya #5.  Here we go one last time before leaving this home 16 thousand kilometres away from home tomorrow.  Instead of the patient, pre-ceremony silence, the void was filled with many casual conversations.  These light exchanges had a twist of gallows humour before another ego execution.  That was the price of peering into the abyss.  It was sure to respawn - the aim was for a better reincarnation.

Again I sat in a chair, this time close to Zach and Scott.  I could overhear some of their conversation in the dimly-lit room as they were making final preparations.  Zach was asked a question and he gave an unsure answer, then rephrased the query in Spanish to a maestro.  He was corrected and relayed back the information while adding "Don't listen to me, I'm talking out my arse".

"Well, in that case your pronunciation is excellent." Scott added.

My turn to drink the brew came early in the clockwise order.  I requested two thirds of a cup and it didn't seem one third easier.

On this occasion I had only a slight hint of visuals.  I could vaguely make out an ant foetus taking form and trying to grow in front of me.

But mareado wasn't using that visual channel tonight.  Instead, this encounter turned up the volume on body sensations along the pathway to destination unknown.  When we first arrived here, several double-sided A4 pages were provided.  One part read:

"Ayahuasca removes blockages in a number of ways - The most common being vomiting and diarrhea.  You may also find your body trembling or shaking which is to do with the new energy moving through your body and working through blockages and resistance."


Spew was standard so far, but now let's introduce: "trembling or shaking".  The intensity came in waves, and there wasn't much reprieve.  In the gentler gaps I had a few goes of disgorging small amounts.  Nothing to write home about.


The involuntary tremors rocked me to an inaudible, extreme metal beat.  Could I pull myself out of it if I wanted to?  I wasn't sure and didn't care.  The medicine was doing its work and I trusted it.  No control was a freedom - a blissful seizure in the darkness.

When the electric chair turned back into a rocking chair, I was able to vacate a vomit.  This version of electro convulsive therapy was free-range, organic and dolphin-friendly.  In the lab, shocks to the system stimulate cell growth in the brain.  This may lead to better functioning and improved mood.  While rewiring the brain, electrocution didn't hinder the process - it was the process.

My attention in previous sessions had focussed on my heart.  Now a greater wisdom was telling me to give my brain a rest.  It was like a flexed muscle that I didn't realise I was clenching.  When I released the skeletal squeeze, my world became lighter.

For these moments, I had broken identification with my thinking.  Consciousness was still present, but thought was the obstacle.  Like a high form of meditation - the pinnacle was to be the observer of who's thinking about thinking.  "Nothing is good or bad.  Thinking makes it so."

A sustained, personal earthquake loosened the deep-rooted grip of something unnamed.  This was a war of attrition and I was the battleground.  In these late stages of the struggle, doubt gained a voice for its well-timed attack.  Do you I really want to be here?  If looking for a reason to quit, they'd be dangling like branches to armpits in quicksand.

My intent asked a different question.  How far can I take it?  I'm committed to riding the shockwaves until the unnamed thing within fucks off.  The only way, was all the way.  Whatever is inside need exit through energy or matter.  Rattle shakes or purging splatter.  The medicine was vacating a tenant in a taser-encouraged evacuation.

There was no prestige to my role in this battle.  Ayahuasca was fighting this like an infection.  I was a mucousy dragon.  Smoke from my nose was snot.  Fire from my mouth was chunder.  Magic in my mind was the realisation of what was happening.

Before the night was over, I felt an urge to wear the serpent wristband I'd purchased for an unknown recipient.  Tonight, an anaconda had released its crushing hold.  To avoid another death-grip, my left wrist wears my green belt in Spew Fu.

It will take daily practice to keep the gift of lessons learned.

Just a Fraction of Action for Traction

I have a recent theory and a new day to test it.

Jungle Retreat Day 7. Up early, I hadn't needed much sleep.  On the bank of this tributary river I took in the morning sounds like a fruit salad through my ears.

For second breakfast, I purposefully limited the amount I ate.  Today's experiment began with small food portions.  This was in contrast to the hefty amounts I had been eating.  Among those who had consistently reported vivid visions during mareado, I noticed they ate very lightly.  This seemed to be due to lack of appetite, but either way there was the possibility of cause and effect.  Ayahuasca has multiple means of influence and I savoured the gaze into the incomprehensible from my first ceremony.  Again, I sought the immersive wonders that had welcomed me to the spirit realm.  Since then, the flicker of this parallel dimension has been a fading shadow at best.  The plant medicine had taken different routes of communication.  Admittedly, the insights I'd already dragged through to my conscience had been invaluable.  Nevertheless, something about the actual exposure to "illusions" made the surreal more real.

So my plan was to eat lightly today.  There weren't many factors left to tweak.  We had all consumed the same shamanic drink, preceded by days of the same exclusive foods.  Other variables were also controlled with a current halt on the use of toiletries such as toothpaste and soap.  I figured that if diet and environment had all the same qualities, then quantities were the next suspect.

Fatigued, my swim remained close to the shore.  This was a precaution after yesterday's sudden surge of tiredness.  Today was the last day of the diet which restricted salt.  I had been enjoying the meals, so I had no craving for forbidden foods, but I knew my body wanted salt.  Wars had been fought for salt and soldiers had been paid in salt.  It's the origin of the word "salary".  I could appreciate these factoids with more empathy right now, but it was a tired empathy, and after a small lunch I had a nap.

There is a general feeling of apprehension about the next two ceremonies.  I recognised it as the arrival of doubt, looking to make a scavenger's kill in the dark alley of exhaustion.  In others, I could see and hear this foreboding reflected more prominently.  Already equipped with intended life-changes, these breakthroughs were seen as possibly breakable.  Taking another plunge seemed unnecessary, greedy and most honestly, scary.  When ayahuasca guides an angle of insight, it penetrates like an endless, ethereal acupuncture needle.  Afterwards, you are unsure of what else could remain to be seen on the matter.  If this was perceived as a gamble, then the instinct was to gather all current winnings and quit now.

The sun went down and the large, looming maloca hut beckoned.

I graduated myself up to a rocking chair for this forth aya ceremony.  A couple from the group had already made this progression, whereas most preferred the mattress option.

The protective tree incense circulated like a smoky, Olympic torch.  In clockwise order, we took turns approaching the maestro who sung an icaros into the main beaker of a liquid both mysterious and foul.  He whooshed tobacco smoke over each individual cup with the best of intentions.  Just before this though, Zach asked and interpreted the amount we would like.  Ayahuasca is believed to have a reverse tolerance, which means that after an intense experience, it takes less to reach the same point next time.  It's a bit like the concept of a glass jaw in boxing, where one hard knockout can make future KO's easier.  For this reason, some people were down to a quarter cup dosage.  Desiring the full force hit in the head (and stomach unfortunately), I requested a full cup.

Speaking of reverse tolerance, that's exactly what my sense of smell and taste were doing when confronted with the now-hideous brew.  The repulsive response kept growing - as if the body knows this drink isn't going to stay down.  The mind must pull rank against the urgent insistence that this is digestive foolishness.  My intention was simply to let the plant medicine show me what it needs to show me.

Mother Ayahuasca, as "she" is known by the locals, has many faces.  The presence staring into you may be male, female, animal or divine.  I guess the important distinction here is that the general belief sees these as one being, not different entities, at least as far as I could tell.  For the part that guides the dive within, I have a fitting personification.  This is not what I saw, but it does help for the sake of analogy...

Ayahuasca is like an otherworldly customs officer - confronting, intrusive and ageless.  A veteran interrogator, uninterested in prepared explanations.  Your desire to pass this portal without delay is hindered by the custody of x-ray eyes.  Reaching into you, the search can delve deeper than any farm vetinarian's glove.  Over a lifetime you've packed your own baggage, so you can't quite be sure what's tucked away in every pocket.  Your most hidden, shadow-clad possessions are grasped by cold fingers and held forth accusingly.  No hidden compartment is safe.  This pre-mortem is as unpleasant as an autopsy.

The irony is that the chilled fingers give no clue to the warm, waiting embrace behind it.  These arms, or perhaps wings, envelope one back into the fold of something long disconnected.  The medicine wants to heal and its first aid kit contains an emergency blanket spun the fabric of the universe.  It's an unexpected case of good cop, bad cop.

Tonight the visions returned.  An intensifying frequency signalled the approach.  Static noise became increasingly active while tuning into a different radio station of reality.  At this point the head is very still, trying to distinguish a distant pattern.  Once recognised it gains volume in attention and begins to take form.  Normality became diluted and flooded with pulsing waves of distortion.  From far, far away it vibrates through a dimension door to reveal itself as near as air molecules.

Maybe this revisit to DMT Disneyland was due to my minimal food theory, or maybe that was just a coincidence.  Either way, the distinction wasn't given much thought as fractal infinity captivated in every direction.  The spectacles of the abyss seemed random, and then a profound structure appeared in an unveiled mechanism of existence.  It could only be beheld there and then.  The conscious hard-drive doesn't have enough memory to make a takeaway copy.  Also, my frame of reference is small and flimsy.  It's like trying to explain a zigzag without using your hands.  Or depicting the language of a Kalahari bushman without making that click or tock sound.  Perhaps, like after a crazy dream, the brain forgets as a protective measure.  To pull too much of it back into the everyday-world would be madness.  Entertaining another reality could split the mind apart, like trying to hold onto two moving vehicles.

On this occasion, my approach was to not label anything.  Too much assumed knowledge on a topic can deprive pleasure - Chewing gum is flavoured spit.  Milk is filtered cow's blood.  Much like my speed reading breakthrough yesterday, the key was to clear my thoughts and guard the doorway.  To play the role of noun-police is strange and difficult, but it worked.  I wasn't fumbling with hypothetical camera settings of how to record my experience.  Instead, I became the experience - spellbound by indescribable things.

With the bucket lifted to my lap, it caught the spew that followed - a black oil, deeply mined, yet smoothly removed from the body.  Once again, my second ceremony is the benchmark for how bad the casting out process could be, and this was easy in comparison.  The sensation was as if a mutant squid's tentacle reached down through the centre of my body.  The giant appendage became an elephant-like trunk or sponge as it extracted watery darkness up and out of me.

The next wave of mareado crashed in the form of emotion-based understandings.  These contained thoughts of my mum and brother.  My family is down to us 3 and I can't recall the last time I told them I loved them.  That fact was as sick as what lay in the obscured bucket before me.  The tears came again and they reinforced previous lessons with nine inch nails.  Life, death, time and attention - these dynamics applied dramatic context to simple actions.  For example, I can make a huge, positive influence to a situation with a well-timed hug.  I've had many chances in the past and I've missed them.  I can't go back, but I can make a resolution now for how I move forward.  It's likely there will be some slips along this learning curve, but anything worth doing well is worth doing poorly in the beginning.

Resolution is not enough though - that was tonight's lesson.  One evening's fire of determination can be snuffed by morning.  Intention needs same-day action if it's going to get traction.  I wasn't given a new way of being or shown a personal prophecy.  Instead, the gift was high definition clarity in identifying the next handholds and footholds on this climb.  The future can remain uncertain -  I just need to take care of this part right now.

Later, when I recounted part of my night to Zach just before his venteada, he suggested that tears of joy could be rubbed into the third eye.  By that stage they had been smeared into toilet paper, but I made a mental note.  Uncharacteristically, I didn't question why, either verbally or within.  Such tears have been rare enough that even a symbolic act could reinforce how much they need to be treasured.

Finding a saw dust toilet, I then did a pasty shit.  Too much info maybe, but it makes the mention of crying easier to include - as if bodily functions require fair and balanced reporting.

When I returned to my room, I wrote busily, including a list of specific next-actions for when I return home.  I also turned on my mobile and drafted a text to my mum.  I wouldn't be able to send it until back in phone coverage range, but doing this step now was a safeguard against the leeching power of delay.