solip #2

today’s journal entry~~~

 

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Cardboard boxes. Mattress pads of the street, but upright at my door. Before slicing the tape. Everyday. Sometimes even Saturday. And Sunday. I forgot that nothing stops here on Sundays. Okay, some businesses, but most, operating. Always. I’ve been shopping too much on Amazon in quarantine. I know it’s not good. The workers are treated like shit, barely offered benefits, barely paid, let alone time off. Endless delivery. I know those boxes are a total waste. Sure, recyclable, but all that energy. All that mass. Must be accumulating in landfills too. Soaked or spoilt. Bent too many ways. They’re everywhere. Especially here. We take too much. This is where our imbalance stems. Too much in, not enough out, the curl is collapsing in on itself. It’s too heavy. Too much to hold. Too poisonous. It gets inside, and infects like a virus, and at some point you’re believing the truths of the told and the told might not always tell the truth. They only serve a narrow specificity, always incomplete. We’re all blind in infinite ways and so much more than we portray. So much more than we can speak, than we can write, than we can read. Miranda July said on April 20th, 2020, online from her home in Los Angeles, for her City Arts and Lectures interview, that she would fail in attempt to use words to describe this moment, while we’re in the depth of it. COVID-19. Quarantine. Everything has changed, some things likely permanently (maybe later: thankfully). She said to try to describe this current reality would be like trying to describe falling mid-air. Afterward, grounded with more perspective and information to gather. Our little mind machines. But she said, words are her job, and alas, she would try. She’s shocked by our ability to adapt. Experiencing a bit of Stockholm Syndrome herself (a reaction unlikely in Stockholm right now). How could the end of this be near and how will she go back into the world and how will she start seeing other people? There’s really never and always a good time to use words to explore lines and connections across hypercubes. Which point is the best? Hard to say, from any given event, it will always change. We can never see with the clearest accuracy ahead or behind in a hallway that perpetually turns. I don’t know how many used books or records I’ve bought since lockdown. Other things too. Some clothes. Things I hope to wear once I can get out of here. I mean, I do get out, for walks and sometimes for coffee, but I haven’t been to a grocery store in weeks. Just small shops. The Fort Mason farmers’ market on Sundays. For the first time I ordered toothpaste online, something I said I’d never do. Bath salts, bedding, a laminator, a label maker. What else? Too much. Too much in, not enough out. Yet another addiction born of privileged position to get a handle on. It’s stress buying, I guess. But it gives me hope sticking little notes around the city. It gives me hope to see mounds of stories to read, the possibilities. One book leads me to another, and so on, Fibonacci. Still self-serving. Is it a hopeless condition? Manic over-consumption? Even the herbs and weed. To-go cups of coffee. Suppose this state of increased uncertainty, and widespread panic, is making things worse than actuality. So it’s easy to spin into neurosis from time to time during this time, if not its entirety. So people are stockpiling. A transactional means of avoiding feeling something. The anxiety. Well, that’s what seems is happening. (The American dream?) I don’t know. I have to say, my perspective is purely observational and experiential. With a skewed social lens. Been inside most days for over a year, most of my time living in Melbourne. Reading. Puzzling. Avoiding. Hiding. It’s just that now people also avoid me as much as I avoid them walking down the street to get a bite to eat. Really, quite pathetic—the stewing, the sadness, the long showers, the uneasiness, the madness, the heartbreak, and the neediness to mask it—but also, strangely beautiful and metamorphic to spend so much time circling a cube. Unwrapping a box. I haven’t emerged out the other side of this nearly year-long inward trip. (Do we ever?) Hard to say from inside it, but aren’t we always filtering through limits of body? Its relation, its settings. I could say nothing. Yes, silence is an option. But it seems, without thinking about it too much, soothing settles into its favorite pattern. Tea water boils, letters join, and ends stack.

Question

Can psychedelic use alter the expression of our DNA? Is there an epigenetic alteration passed onto future generations? If meditation practice, regular exercise, stress, diet, adequate nurture, and other ways/behaviors may alter genetic expression, then why wouldn’t psychedelic use? Aren’t psychological states in constant interaction with genetic expression? Have any researchers looked into the epigenetic impact of psychedelic use?

Psychologists should learn about psychedelics

Published in Human Parts

01-3-IMG_1333OCOLLO-2S
The Ghost in the Machine by Amy Hiley

Fluorescent lights. Plastic cups with pointed bottoms dangle from the water machine. A Top 40 hit blasts, the kind that could never be background music. It demands your full attention, consumes all senses, and shuffles all thought. There’s a flat-screen TV on the wall, but thankfully it’s off. Magazines stacked between me and other patients. Psychology Today. Frankie. LivingNow. Better Homes and Gardens. Tightly woven grey carpet. Neon flyers that read “On relationships,” “Let’s talk about drinking,” “Anger management,” and “Building emotional resistance.” A hand sanitizer pump next to the scented tissues. The soft sound of fingers on a keyboard underneath the still-blaring tune. All of it contributing to a heavy static in the air.

I’m at Melbourne Psychology to get a full mental health assessment. Continue reading “Psychologists should learn about psychedelics”

Question

Could the examination of psychedelic interpretations across women and men aid understanding of biological/developmental/cultural sex differences? Could it empower both sexes to know more about this?

line

 

A story about my maternal line ~~~ This is my great grandmother Martha Gayer. My mother’s mother’s mother. She died in 2008 at the age of 99, but I didn’t know she was alive at the time or when she died. I was never introduced to her. She lived alone in a psych ward in Iowa, estranged from most of the family. My grandmother hasn’t said much about her or anything to me. All I was told is that she was mad. /// Martha’s mother, Alvina Tanck, migrated alone from Dägeling to Iowa in 1907 in her 20s. Alvina was born from the rape of her mother—the rapist: her mother’s brother-in-law, one of my grandfathers— and deemed ‘illegitimate’ from birth. The farm in Iowa was her fresh start. She had nine children, including Martha. /// I wish I met her. But I can kinda see her smirk on my face.

Question

Will off-label psychedelic prescription use be the new recreational or will it mostly be sought for self-directed therapy or therapy with the help of alternative facilitators? Will people—with or without diagnosable mental conditions—prefer off-label use so they can direct/choose the therapeutic style?*

In response to this recent article in Scientific American.