blue + grey

On my walk with the camera I had lost my cable release. The golden cemetery island in the air went unphotographed. At first, I was distressed not by my loss of cable per se, but of the cable as witness to one day two years ago in winter—the grey, mild, mistletoe-winter, a winter without abnormalities—when we wandered through the streets, thinking about ‘next year’ and ‘in two years’ and the ‘future’ in general and I bought it at a shop with used camera accessories, to replace a lost one. We both ran our fingers through the slack knot of cable releases, which lay in a basket, twisted into one another like half-hibernating, languid, fearless snakelets, and M. eventually pulled out this especially robust, light-grey coated one, which I took and used and now had lost. My distress over the cable falls under one of the potential curses of bereavement that I gradually became familiar with: weighting objects qua testimony. The attribution of participation in a moment past. A small piece of back-then, which should act as if it could moor the past tense onto the broken-off banks of the present. Idle lists of a forlornness that knows not what to do with itself.”

-Esther Kinsky


I speak a lot, I mean, a lot of words, and I rush, and it always comes out wrong. And why is it that I speak a lot of words and it comes out wrong? Because I don’t know how to speak. Those who know how to speak well, speak briefly. So, there you have my giftlessness—isn’t it true? But since this gift of giftlessness is natural to me, why shouldn’t I use it artificially? And so I do. True, as I was preparing to come here, I first had the thought of being silent; but to be silent is a great talent, and is therefore not fitting for me, and, second, it’s dangerous to be silent, after all; well, so I finally decided that it would be best to talk, but precisely in a giftless way, I mean, a lot, a lot, a lot, to be in a great rush to prove something, and towards the end to get tangled up in one’s own proofs, so that the listener throws up his hands, or, best of all, just spits and walks away without any end.”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky

spectral fixations

Fucked dreams lately. “She’ll commit suicide!” I saw her. Almost childish. “I have all this time, but I mean nothing to you unless I make money!” Naive, I know. I shouted. So much. Too much to process, so it comes at night. Mother. Also spectral. Like us. An amplified degree, apart from society. We never spoke about it though. Only just recently, I brought it up. After watching ‘Love on the Spectrum’ on Netflix, and seeing reflections of all of us. Irritation. Patterns. Routines. Addictions. Nuances. Little things. Looks. Eye contact at times too intense. Certain noises. Smells. Artificial fragrances. Construction dust. Not construction dust! Roll the window up! Poor AQI. Mask up. Before we were lonely together, already apart. What else? Habits and rituals. If broken, potential disaster. Easily irritable, given conditions. Hard to socialize. Anxious. Self-harming. Alcohol. Substance intake overload. In, in, in. Stuff it down. Numb it out. Sensory explosion. What else? So much else. Colors, patterns. Music helps. Piecing together a puzzle, across the ocean, my grandmother and me in the same motion. No communication. Better to shut it all out than to be overwhelmed. How can we help it? All this emotion. I get too into it. Insanely intricate homes on SIMS as a kid. And LEGO buildings. Hours and hours. Should have been an architect, a designer. Can I change now? Maybe. Move from words to images. Words fail me. So do images. Nothing will do, but I have to do the best I can. Do I? Hm. What else? Overanalyzing. Rationalizing as a form of self-soothing. Self, self, self. It consumes me. I do. So much going on inside, lost in thought, I spiral around until I fall over and into myself. Endless limits. I know which roads to take, always. Map of a mind. I know which streets have the most jasmine planted. I follow scents, certain windows, glass I like. Preferences cemented in. But recently, with psychedelics, more self-aware (is it possible? yes, I was so blind to all of this before, just in it, now I can see it and experience it too, from/within some outer awareness) and open to change. Going with the flow, sometimes. But that’s all there is. So why resist and get mad if it doesn’t feel perfect? That’s another thing. Perfection. The smallest pore. You see nothing until it all comes out. And it does. At my own expense. Energy, energy, energy. Picking at myself. Impossible to sit still. Well, not impossible. In groups, in rooms with people, I can. With peer pressure. Peer pressure! Easily disguised as shyness. As a kid, a teenager, hopeless, running in circles trying to fit in, what a piece of shit. I hated it, that, her, the result. Sometimes still. But I also see the spark underlying all of it. And her, it, I love. Learning to focus on that. What else? So much else. Tasting details. Drawing parallels. I will find a way to live with this, even if I don’t, I will live with this. And it will be beautiful. It will be my art, to find a way, to be okay. I will no matter what. It all will.

Sex and psychedelics ~ Coming in and out together

‘The Erogenous Mirror’ study observed that males tend to get more aroused touching and looking at the body of another, while on average females become more aroused having their own body touched and seen (Tsakiris et al, 2018). I think the same goes for the psychedelic experience. Males peak leaving themselves, while females peak coming into themselves. Males come outward, females inward. Let me explain.

The historically male-centric psychedelic interpretation focuses on ego-death as the pinnacle of the psychedelic experience. From Huxley (1963) to Pollan (2018), this is the recurrent highlight in the majority of psychedelic literature. Some men even seek ego-death in a competitive fashion (Nolan, 2018). Like it’s the ultimate height of the psychedelic experience, some kind of achievement to unlock.

But across interpretations of the female psychedelic experience, ego-death doesn’t seem to be the primary focal point. Kim Hewitt, professor and author of Psychedelic Feminism: A Radical Interpretation of Psychedelic Consciousness?, noted patterns of acknowledged agency and subjectivity across her conversations with women in and around ayahuasca ceremonies. “The process of engaging their own agency empowers women to make choices about themselves and re-envision their world and their place in the world” (Hewitt, 2019).

I’ve also spoken with many women in and around ayahuasca ceremonies, and strangers on Reddit in the subgroup ‘PsychedelicWomen,’ and I’m beginning to notice some themed patterns of difference between male and female psychedelic perspectives. Why might this matter? Why might this be worth researching?

Whether rooted in cultural or biological conditioning, or a reciprocal mix, understanding potential sex-related differences in the psychedelic experience and interpretation could tell us a lot about what it means to be (whether male, female, intersex, or trans). It could tell us more about the psychedelic experience itself and how to best determine diverse routes of healing. The more we know about how psychedelics impact different people differently, the better we can design psychedelic trip treatment — set and setting.


Across a variety of substances, in ceremony and alone, the peak of my psychedelic hallucinations replay a recurring theme: sex. Kaleidoscopic pornographic visions of vulvas and a coital woman. She is both me and every woman who has ever been. I don’t know why this always happens when I close my eyes, somewhere near the climax of a trip, but I’m glad it does. It’s bizarre — inexplicably divine. Like looking into a microscope and witnessing a dance celebrating the base of all human life.

I’ve also experienced ego-death a few times — a pause in the default mode network (Carhart-Harris et al, 2012), departing from my thinking self and self at all, forgetting my name, sinking in or ‘surrendering’ to some stream of connected ‘oceanic boundlessness,’ and oftentimes coming back ready to shed all that came before. While those experiences have been extremely beneficial, they do not lie as the most profound of psychedelic encounters or themes. Losing my sense of self was really just the beginning.

The most profound psychedelic experiences involve ego-death along the way, but ultimately the homecoming seems to be the pinnacle. A known connection with everything, yes, but even more so, a comforting feeling recognizing and accepting my subjectivity within it. Some comfort in agency, a self-mothering of the self. The ego may come and go from the experience, but underlying all of it, a womb-like net is woven that creates meaning by shedding and renewing everything within.


Anaïs Nin reflected that on acid she felt a “perfect connection between [her] body and everything that was happening” (Nin, 1974). Is re-establishing a connection to/within the body a critical theme of the female psychedelic experience?

It could be that sexual healing (through sexual visions and embodied epiphanies) was precisely the healing I needed personally, as someone who’s felt disconnected from my body (and my sexuality) after years of cultural conditioning, body dysmorphia, self-harm, and sexual abuse (both through lived experience and intergenerational stories/memories).

But this particular sexual healing has also been shown in Yalila Espinoza’s research looking into Shipibo plant medicine rituals and practices in Peru. She observed core themes of “purification and support for reproductive health, increased sensory awareness, transforming relationship with self, empowered decision-making, enhanced intimacy with others, increased cognitive awareness, connecting with subtle energies, and connecting with God” (Espinoza, 2014).

Maybe ego-loss is less profound to the female experience — its biology, psychology, cultural conditioning, and epigenetic memory. Women have historically spent more time losing themselves into roles/flows of caregiving (this is not to say compassion/caregiving are gendered/sexed traits, anyone can be anything, but this reflects the history of most women’s reproductive lives across cultures). This inherited/inherent shutting off of the ego/internal thinker to act for (or even simply be aware of) an Other is maybe less sublime for us. Acknowledging a connectedness may be more profound to the predominantly published male perspective, but for others, when life becomes an overthinking of the other, or a recovering from another, self-nurturing is profound.


The female body has historically been left out of medical research (largely because of the added vital sign/variable: the menstrual cycle)(Seervai, 2019), and it was assumed until recently that male and female health should be treated the same. But researchers are trying to bridge that gap and address differentiated needs (NIH, 2015). The approach in and around psychedelic medicine and practices should be the same. Just as certain medical advice can’t be generalized across the sexes, neither will certain psychedelic guidance (preparation, posture, guidance, integration).

What can psychedelic outcomes and interpretations (especially peak themes) tell us about our biology? How does sex (across all aspects: biological sex, sexual health/history) impact the psychedelic experience? How could that knowledge be empowering to everybody — whether or not they identify or feel connected to their own?

These insights could not only help the psychedelic community better direct care, but could also fill gaps in modern efforts for gender and sexual equality and safety. And maybe they could help us better understand what it means to be.

Maybe these kinds of insights could inform why violent acts tend to be executed by males, and why females are more often victims of violence, along with transgender and transsexual people. Writer Rebecca Solnit addresses this in her essay, The Longest War. In it she suggests “if we noticed that women are, on the whole, radically less violent, we might be able to theorize where violence comes from and what we can do about it a lot more productively” (Solnit, 2013).

As I write these words, women in Mexico are protesting in the streets against rising rates of male-on-female violence (femicide), in a country where it’s estimated that ten women are murdered a day (Sheridan, 2020). Could psychedelics be a tool to face and better address these dark realities?

Psychedelics have recently been shown to decrease the likelihood of intimate partner violence (Thiessen et al, 2018). But how? And what does that mean for people less prone to violent behavior in the first place? In Food of the Gods, Terence McKenna proposes that psychedelics act as “feminizing agents” (1992). In other words, they allow people to be more conscious of connectedness and therefore live in greater harmony.

Kathleen Harrison, ethnobotanist, artist, and bookshop owner said to a crowd at CIIS in San Francisco for the 2018 Women and Psychedelics forum that everyone has both masculine and feminine traits within them. And although I agree with this notion, I still believe exploring sex-based predispositions and outcomes of the psychedelic experience could provide a way to address current sex-based realities and violence.


The main issue I noted reading Kim Hewitt’s paper Psychedelic Feminism (2019), is that she connects third-wave feminism, including its rejection of physiological relevance, with an embodied and somatic healing practice stimulated by a biochemical reaction. For a modern ‘psychedelic feminism’ (a term coined by artist and activist Zoe Helene) to be possible, it must encompass a deeper understanding of the corporeal, the body as it relates to inner and outer influences, past and present. And perceptions of leaving it.

Hewitt emphasizes moving beyond “consciousness bounded by the physical body” (2019). And while the body is not the only reason we experience things one way or another, it is the reason we can perceive, breathe, or experience anything. It may not create the entire view, but is it not the seat? The idea that we can achieve complete freedom/detachment from the body is an illusion. Objectifying against ‘biological determinism’ is too itself, biologically dependent. Even if we haven’t quite wrapped our heads around the connections between consciousness and physicality.

Efforts for equal treatment — and equal access to psychedelic expression — need not urge sameness. Elizabeth Grosz posited in Time Travels (2005) that modern strives against sex and gender-based discrimination/injustice/violence should recognize, rather than disregard, biological roots. Interweaving an evolutionary curiosity with new methods of psychedelic-informed sex(/ual) research might create fertile ground for societal progress — allowing more people to delve into ethereal musings.

Reacknowledging embeddedness not only in the cultural, but also in the physical — and the limits of studying one without the other — by seeking to understand more about the convergence of sex and psychedelics, could stimulate deeper understanding of what it means to be: how we perceive, how we act, how to address diverse needs, and how to better live together. ✿


Espinoza, Y. (2014). ‘Sexual healing with Amazonian plant teachers: a heuristic inquiry of women’s spiritual–erotic awakenings.’ Sexual and Relationship Therapy. Vol. 29, №1, pp. 109–120. https://doi.org/10.1080/14681994.2013.861060

Carhart-Harris R.L., Erritzoe D., Williams T., Stone J.M., Reed L.J., Colasanti A., Tyacke R.J., Leech R., Malizia A.L., Murphy K., Hobden P., Evans J., Feilding A., Wise R.G., Nutt D.J. (2012). ‘Neural correlates of the psychedelic state as determined by fMRI studies with psilocybin.’ Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. Vol. 109, №6, pp. 2138–43. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1119598109

Grosz, E. (2005). ‘Time Travels: Feminism, Nature, Power.’ Next Wave: New Directions in Women’s Studies. Duke University Press. Durham and London.

Hewitt, K. (2019). ‘Psychedelic Feminism: A Radical Interpretation of Psychedelic Consciousness?’ Journal for the Study of Radicalism. Vol. 13, №1, pp. 75–120. Michigan State University Press. https://doi.org/10.14321/jstudradi.13.1.0075

Huxley, A. (1963). The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell. Harper & Row. New York.

McKenna, T. (1992). Food of the Gods: The Search for the Original Tree of Knowledge: A Radical History of Plants, Drugs, and Human Evolution. Bantam Books. New York.

National Institutes of Health (NIH). (2015). ‘Consideration of Sex as a Biological Variable in NIH-funded Research.’ https://grants.nih.gov/grants/guide/notice-files/not-od-15-102.html

Nin, A. (1974). The Diary of Anaïs Nin. Edited by Gunther Stuhlmann. Volume 5: 1947–1955,. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.

Nolan, J. (2018). ‘Competitive Psychedelic Users Are Chasing ‘Ego Death’ and Losing Their Sense of Self.’ VICE. https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/j5zqwp/competitive-psychedelic-users-are-chasing-ego-death-and-losing-their-sense-of-self

Pollan, M. (2018). How to change your mind: What the new science of psychedelics teaches us about consciousness, dying, addiction, depression, and transcendence. Penguin Press. New York.

Seervai, S. (2019). ‘Closing the Medical Research Gap: Why It’s Important to Study How Disease Impacts Men and Women Differently.’ Commonwealth Fund. https://doi.org/10.26099/61m9-k921

Sheridan, M.B. (2020). ‘Tens of thousands of Mexican women protest ‘femicide,’ gender-based violence.’ The Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/the_americas/mexico-international-womens-day-march-femicide-strike/2020/03/08/1ca6167c-6153-11ea-8a8e-5c5336b32760_story.html

Solnit, R. (2014). ‘The Longest War.’ Men Explain Things To Me. Haymarket Books.

Thiessen M.S., Walsh Z., Bird B.M., Lafrance A. (2018). ‘Psychedelic use and intimate partner violence: The role of emotion regulation.’ Journal of Psychopharmacology. Vol 32, Issue 7, pp. 749–755. https://doi.org/10.1177/0269881118771782

Tsakiris, M., Maister, L., Fotopoulou, A., & Turnbull, O. (2018). ‘The erogenous mirror: Intersubjective and multisensory maps of sexual arousal.’ PsyArXiv. https://doi.org/10.31234/osf.io/zreku

few weeks back

Quarter tab panic attack. ~~ Everything is nonsense. Only comedy makes sense. Art maybe, but less and less. Only art without a point, but isn’t that the point? Art always has a point. No, something else. Fuck. This has a point. These words are the epitome of a point. A failed attempt, at that. Nevermind. It’s not having a point that irks. It’s certain ones. Regurgitations. I’m not arguing for pointlessness, that too would be nonsense. Everything is both and simultaneously, and infinitely, pointed. Tapped, touched. Connected. Whether it wants to or not. Disregard desire. But what makes anything different? Not the ones I see more and more often. I guess that’s the problem with humans and everything: the more and more often. Maybe immoral to think these kinds of thoughts. Anti-humanist in a sense. It’s probably a good thing I’m not a bioethicist with a fancy Monash degree. Western-moralist-problem-seeking. I prefer to glance outside of us—afraid I’m inside far too much. When I drove by those two dead crows on the side of the road and looked up to see a city before me, I regret aspects of humanity. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We fucked up. What can I do other than off myself? What’s left? Pinker says the numbers say we’re getting better at being together, but at what cost? Chessmaster, tell me, should I sacrifice myself for the game? One less white pawn in the way. So much art these days is about being of a certain way, but we all are. // Too separate. Too insane. Too alone. More than ever. Blowing up his Spam folder. Confessions of love, pathetic pleas, apologies. Wanting him to see. There’s no point. Ah! No point. No point. But there always is, even if it thinks it’s not. Nothing entirely pointless. Or could it? Maybe everything’s pointed. Even from afar, touching. Dancing around some center together. Both must be, so much relies on each. To dance, that must be it, all must… no—not must—that’s a bad word. Too sure of itself. But, then again, one without the other seems unlikely, even in spontaneous eruption. Could it be? Didn’t it form elsewhere before piercing through? That’s it, as it was. Not just an explosion. A drop out a hole. That was it. What’s the point? Now my mind’s just going to strange places. Haven’t been touched for seven months. Since Sam. I’m starting to go mad. I really am. This is it. You made it! Welcome! We’re here! Madness. Everything but all of it. How embarrassing. How selfish. We are! We are! Right? Even if an Ego is writing this, yours is reading it too, isn’t it? And able enough to think itself around words, how undesirably, how much they need it. To get somewhere. Going! That’s what it is. Always going. Never content. But see, I knew this. I’ve known all of this. Or thought I did. That’s the depression seeping in. The ever inward mirror. Looking down. Picking at it. Sad. Stupid. A girl who was both loved and unloved. She craved so much until she ripped it all out. 

vanishing point

For the desert is simply that: an ecstatic critique of culture, an ecstatic form of disappearance. // Like a fibrillation of muscles, striated by the excess of heat and speed, by the excess of things seen or read, of places passed through and forgotten. The defibrillation of the body overloaded with empty signs, functional gestures, the blinding brilliance of the sky, and somnambulistic distances, is a very slow process. Things suddenly become lighter, as culture, our culture, becomes more rarefied. And this spectral form of civilization which the Americans have invented, an ephemeral form so close to vanishing point, suddenly seems the best adapted to the probability—the probability only—of the life that lies in store for us. The form that dominates the American West, and doubtless all of American culture, is a seismic form: a practical, interstitial culture, born of a rift with the Old World, a tactile, fragile, mobile, superficial culture—you have to follow its own rules to grasp how it works: seismic shifting, soft technologies. // Everything here testifies to death having found its ideal home.”

-Jean Baudrillard

little phantom trip

Someone has invented this sinister plan: a return to the archaic gaze, a going toward the expectation figured by two blue eyes in the black dust. Silence is temptation and promise. Finale of my initiation. Beginning of every end. It’s of myself I speak. It happens to be necessary to go only once to see if just once again you’ll be granted the vision. We die of fatigue here. We’d rather not move. We’re exhausted. Each bone and each limb recalls its archaic sufferings. We suffer and crawl, dance, we drag ourselves. Someone has promised. It’s of myself I speak. Someone can’t take it anymore.”

-Alejandra Pizarnik
The Galloping Hour