Monday was freezing. I didn’t go anywhere and indexed all day. I wished Suzette had been right and that computers could do at least some of the work for me. Stupid computers. Not really—stupid humans for thinking computers were so much more advanced than they were. Occasionally, I would take a break to read Kafka on the Shore, write, or lie on the couch to listen to music. I looked online at Amsterdam-related sites now and then. Once upon a time, Amsterdam’s canals froze over and people went ice skating. I thanked the Gulf Stream for changing that, but wondered about global climate change. The temperature had dipped well below 40 degrees Fahrenheit. I couldn’t get used to Celsius. It was as foreign to me as Dutch. Daniel had once explained the formula to me, but I heard none of it because I was daydreaming about Fleur in a bikini. If languages and mathematics were translated through bikinis I would probably speak two dozen languages and figure out how to build a time machine that worked.
I walked to the Greenhouse and purchased three grams of Super Lemon Haze late in the afternoon. I returned, cooked a meal, and took the dose of Golden Teacher out of the refrigerator. The dose was three days old and I looked at the mushrooms closely to make sure there was no rotting or mold. Nada. I chewed the shrooms and washed them down with a beer. I loaded a bowl of the Lemon and had a puff before grabbing a drawing pad and some high quality pens and colored pencils. I sat on the floor and leaned back against the couch, pulling the coffee table to my chest, and sketched. I used a style I had been honing over the past five years: minute details playing with two dimensional geometric shapes that, when looked at with the right perceptual gaze, became three-dimensional. I had learned to “insert” realistic images of faces and other figures that weren’t clearly evident with a two-dimensional observation, but exploded into view when I was able to transition my view in a way that allowed three-dimensions to pop. I had learned to change my vision more reliably over time, a mindset more than skill that allowed my techniques to improve. It had been difficult to learn how to alter my visual perception to see what was not readily evident to the laziness of eyes not accustomed to conscious direction.
I thought, to a greater extent, that the challenge of shifting sight was the real art involved in the drawings. Yes, it took skill and creativity to make the drawings, but it was far more challenging to shift visual focus. Without a prompt to another person they rarely even considered making an attempt. The drawings themselves created opportunities for viewers to change their perspectives. The art, then, was the viewers’ interactions with the drawings rather than the drawings themselves. The visual artists I spoke with understood what I was doing, but not a single “lay person” understood on any fucking level. In my estimation, this was not merely a difference between individuals such as differing hair colors; no, this suggested a significant difference in sensory, conceptual, and creative capabilities.
When the shrooms began to change my perceptual reality, I took a break to simply view what I had been drawing. I saw so much more than I had seen previously in any of my drawings. I was fascinated. There were thousands of small strokes and flourishes of line and subtle shading creating endless combinations of possible configurations depending on the focus of the eyes in relation to the drawing. I zeroed on areas and followed flows. The drawing changed dramatically as I did this. I went around and around, back, sideways, every which way, and no matter which flow I took, I never saw the same thing twice. It was endless. I looked at previous sketches and they had the same qualities. Three dimensions popped out only to revert back to two dimensions; the “popping” itself changed the nature of the two-dimensional drawing from what it had been before my eyes “popped” the drawing to three dimensions and back again.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed while viewing, but I eventually rose to grab a book of drawings and paintings I had with me. There were representational, surreal, and abstract images of drawings and paintings in the book. The representational drawings and paintings were unbelievably boring, even more than they were to my eyes when not shrooming. Viewers could do nothing with realistic representational drawings. The images were cast in stone and there was simply no room for visual imagination. Conceptual imagination, yes, but not sensory imagination. The surreal art was much more stimulating. When I came to the first surreal painting I felt my whole body relax, an enormous “thank you” for removing the boring ugliness from view. Finally, something worthy of viewing.
The abstracts were mixed. I didn’t give one shit about looking at an image with different sized and colored rectangles and squares combined together. They were preferable to the representational images, but still uninteresting. The “busy” abstracts provided much more action—my sight wasn’t allowed to rest. I had to look and look and look and always there was something more to see. The drawings and paintings differed in style from my drawings, but they shared the quality of “being endless.” It wasn’t possible to be bored by them. The only persons who could be uninterested in them were people too lazy to engage with the works. Those individuals wanted representational images to view because the images did all the work for them. It took me a long time to conceptualize what I intuitively sensed as differences between representational works and (some) abstract, surreal, and experimental projects. The latter required investment from viewers whereas the former allowed the viewer to remain static and unchanged by the experience. “I saw a painting of a pretty horse” versus “I had to shed my preconceived notions of how I viewed the world, of how I thought of what I saw and felt and thought; the experience of interacting with the work gave me an opportunity to reconfigure the relationship between my senses and thought.”
When I walked back to the coffee table and viewed my drawings again I gasped. “Oh my god!” Even the best works in the book didn’t allow for this much of a mind-fuck. At first glance the drawing was chaos, but as I focused more and more intently with greater intensity, allowing myself to fall into it, I saw brilliant complexity. I cried. It was so amazing, such a gift to see something that allowed me to see so much. “I could look at this forever and never get bored. It would just keep changing as I allowed it to change me through my engagement with it.”
I finally put the sketch book down and closed it. The level of intensity I was feeling was almost too great; the joy was overwhelming. I sat back against the couch and sighed a thousand sighs of satisfaction. Being satisfied was being at peace and being at peace was being free of wants and desires. Real freedom emerged in such moments, possibilities of choice arose. The choices were wonderful when not a single option felt necessary or wanted. Giddiness erupted within me and I pulled a cigarette from my pack. I cranked open the window and lit up. As I looked out at the street, I felt the warmth of being fulfilled radiating throughout my body. I saw walkers pass in slow motion and bikers gracefully glide by. I didn’t think anything of them one way or the other. I was internally pleased and what was external was simply external, neither an extension of me nor an internalization of what existed beyond me. I was too internally full from viewing my drawings.
What affected me, pleasantly, was the feel of the cold, moving air and the higher volume and diversity of sounds. The sounds had no distinct rhythm; they were random and they changed pace, intensity, pitch, tone, vibration, and volume each moment. As I listened, I thought of the soundscape as a street version of my paintings. It required my full attention to follow it. I couldn’t get to a point where it became something more, something else; it didn’t alter the way I heard the world but I did heighten my hearing senses through the process. I wondered if not being able to put together the sounds in different ways moment to moment was more a failing within me rather than the diversity of sounds. I realized my hearing was less refined than my sight. True of many, I supposed, but I understood that talented musicians would likely consider me the way I considered non-visual artists: incapable or unwilling to hear what they were able and willing to hear. I realized, though, that it was likely less a matter of capability than willingness, focus, and practice.
There was also the feel of the air, the way the breeze brushed against the exposed skin of my face, head, and hands. The sensations of cold differed from parts of my body that felt warmth and I focused my attention to try to feel all of the sensations at once. What occurred instead was what occurred when I viewed my drawings: I felt sensations in my legs then arms then face then ear then lips then index finger then big toe and on and on and each time I cycled back to a body part I had felt previously the feeling was different. My eyes were closed during this process and my intensity and focus became nearly as great as they had been while viewing my drawings.
When I opened my eyes I felt the same rush of satisfaction and joy I had felt after viewing my drawing. There were differences, but I couldn’t place the differences because the satisfaction was just as full. I began noticing that it was the nature of the joy, the exhilaration. The experiences were relatively were equal in fulfillment, but they differed in quality. Not better or worse, but the joy was felt in different ways. I marveled at this. I didn’t need to figure it out all at once; new realizations would come if I continued this practice.
It was clear to me that my sense of touch and sight were similarly well-developed, but that my hearing was not. Part of the reason for that may have been chronic ear troubles including some hearing loss in both ears. But I also thought that it was because I didn't focus conscious awareness of sound as I did with sight and touch. I didn't know if these were natural proclivities or simply the fact that I hadn't decided to focus the same degree of attention on the nuances of sound over the course of my life.
I knew without making any attempts that my taste was as refined as my touch and sight. I had tried so many varieties of ethnic foods over the previous ten years while traveling, from high-end restaurants to food carts on the street, from French cuisine to Ethiopian, from meat-heavy Argentinian to the delights of vegan. I noticed the differences and appreciated the flavors; I loved trying different foods.
The best dining experience I ever had was at a restaurant named Champs du Mars in the rue Cler arrondissement of Paris. It was the first seven-course meal I had ever eaten. The experience lasted about four hours and each course transitioned seamlessly into the next. The courses built on one another. After finishing each course my taste buds became more and more alive. Every time I was about to think “I’m ready for the next course” it would appear and every time it appeared the flavors of the dish were exactly what my palate desired--without my conscious awareness that I even wanted those flavors! The building of sensations, the diversity of flavors from each course, created a growing ecstasy that was tempered only by a greater and greater feeling of fulfillment.
The dessert nearly killed me; I tasted the tears of angels. When I thought I might explode from orgasmic pleasure, a digestif was delivered and it settled everything within me, quietly and serenely, into a state of perfect equilibrium. I looked up at the server, who happened to be the wife of the chef and co-owner of the restaurant. I was unable to speak. I don’t how my eyes appeared to her but when she looked at me her facial expression changed. She had love in her eyes, proud and supremely pleased with my profound appreciation of the food, the ambience, and her. She looked disdainfully at my ex, S. She ate the same courses I did, but she had nothing like the experience I had. She seemed nervous, self-conscious, and uncomfortable. I agreed with our hostess, but I somehow managed not to look at S. with contempt. The sour nature of her presence impeded my enjoyment of the food. The experience, had she been open to it, could have brought us to the same heights together and led to a night of extraordinarily sensuous love-making. As it was, I wanted nothing to do with her. I merely tolerated her presence and tried not to let it diminish my own enjoyment even as she complained at what she perceived of the rudeness of the co-owner throughout the meal. I thought to myself, "If you hadn't so rudely displayed no enjoyment or appreciation then that wouldn't have happened. It was you, S., that put a damper on everyone else's enjoyment." I couldn’t fathom how she could be negatively affected by the gastronomic symphony.
My sense of smell, meanwhile, was probably as poorly developed as my hearing. I had chronic sinus problems and a surgery to repair a deviated septum suffered from a football injury when I was younger. I could detect strong odors and even subtle odors, but I didn’t delight in smells in the way many others did. Well, I delighted in some smells, but I could see on the faces of others when occasionally cooking with them that they became enraptured. At least I noticed the difference and respected that those individuals had greater gifts and talents when it came to smell. That was what disturbed me about many others, including S., though; they didn’t seem to recognize or acknowledge that some individuals could experience sensations in a way that made their experiences more profound in particular ways. I didn’t dismiss anyone who had a better ear or nose than I had; instead, I admired them and was happy that they were able to reach heights I couldn’t. I wasn’t jealous because I had gifts and talents of my own that differed from theirs. I knew, without a doubt, that I was able to experience and appreciate tastes, touches, and sights in ways many others hadn't and perhaps couldn't. Why anyone would feel threatened by that or dismiss it as inconsequential was beyond my comprehension. I tried to view those responses as psychological issues and that allowed me to become more compassionate and sympathetic.
All of this fascinated me. Well after I finished my cigarette and put it out in the ashtray, I wondered if I could focus on more than one sense at a time or even all senses at once. How might a practice like that transform me as a being? If I became capable of seeing as I did when focusing on my drawing and feeling as I did when I focused on the sensation throughout my body, what would that experience be like? I felt my spine tingling, a sense of awe and wonder, and I knew, I knew the experience would be mind-blowing and a regular practice of focusing my attention in such ways would transform me. The process necessarily would expand my consciousness, my awareness. In a way, it would transcend all Westernized notions of conscious and sensory development.
I laughed. Who gives a shit? I let the thoughts go as they were distracting me from my sensory enjoyment. They briefly removed me from my body and dumped me into the swamp of speculation. I wanted to remain embedded within my body because it was so fucking satisfying. It was now and those thoughts were past and future.
I grabbed my pipe and took a hit of Super Lemon. The peak of the shrooms had passed, but I was still tripping. I hadn’t yet drawn while shrooming so I sat down and opened my sketchbook to a blank page. I picked up a pen and began working. Whenever I drew, I had no preconceived notions of what I would draw. The drawing unfolded without my knowledge of what would happen next. This practice was enhanced by the shrooms. I was using strokes and styles I hadn’t tried previously in combination with techniques I had used tens of thousands of times. I started from the center and gradually spiraled outward. I had done this in other drawings, but there were subtle differences.
I stopped after a time to take a comprehensive look at what I had drawn. Strange. I was intrigued, but I didn’t know what to make of it. It was similar to other drawings I had made and yet radically different. How could that be? I stared at the image for a long time and then I turned it upside down. Wow! Oh, yeah, there it was. That was the view that shouted “Look at me!”
The shrooms continued to dwindle so I took another puff from the pipe. I turned the page because I didn’t want to fuck up what I had drawn. I started again, losing myself—as I often did—while drawing. I continued in this manner, smoking pot in between stretches of drawing and observing, late into the night. I eventually ran out of steam and went to bed feeling fulfilled.
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