friday was a really tough day, and/but then it turned into such a big and broad and full one. i’ve been manic and depressed at once, too tired and vague in the day to do or think anything, too frantic at night to sleep. i tried to organize my mess of thoughts and files and systems, failed, suffered, gave up trying to make any essay plans again coz it was just too hard and the weight of it was pressing me down into a collapsed hole. so went walking in the gloom and rain, walking in the park where the cops were searching the garden beds used by the dealers to bury their stashes. they didn’t look very confident of finding anything. it wasn’t really a raid, no sirens, no theatrical arrests. just stop the van quietly, get out and start scrounging around in the bushes, movements not unlike the dealers. about twenty metres away from the police van a dealer asked me if i wanted grass. i guess they have systems in place for such eventualities. back home, overdue exercises, then graeber, blown away by graeber again, its one of those books that teaches you to read all the others, as blanchot said of paulhan, and it makes me want to find a postdoc to work on this w hegel and black radicalism and galeano and the relation between language and money, both forces of (de)realisation, in history. then off to j’s to dive into a k hole.
it was my first time. & what a strange motherfucker of a substance k is. you lose time, half-forget what and who you were in the hour prior to taking it, disbelief at the run-up, you relate to that self’s life intimately yet distantly, as though it were yr dream, and you fall fully out of this reality and into something where you just are the world, but the world is not the external world, it is like a computer interface, or art as such, or a video clip, immersive yet wholly artificial, not those things considered as representing something that you observe, but in themselves, you become the deep dark space on the surface of which they normally represent things; if they were a tv, i was in their cathode and it was full of primordial fluids. i became emacs, and became the solarized dark palette, but they were freely animating, not representing text and they were capacious spaces, worlds not flat monitors and there was no need nor possibility of a user. huge tanks full of gently floating, jittering ascii art, which was also swimming bugs. early on you totally lose yourself and lose your body, you lose track of time, fully flip out or check out of where you are and what this world is. you cannot tell if your eyes are open or closed, the visions open out in a way that resembles the feeling of slowly opening your eyes, sometimes they are visions as if you had only one eye open, so you think youre winking. visions are not directly present but are rather gradually assembling themselves in front of you, in the space that you are, and space is being laboriously constructed before you. all hues are subdued, as if taken from a cross between an autumnal swamp and a dark alien thriller tv series, a weak toxic green veil over whatever is not simple blackness, no exceptions. and whatever is not complete blackness is perceived as if fully lit. space and time warp in the extreme, are bent into expanding transparent spheres that rebuff you like slow-motion shock waves, it wd be scary if you weren’t so tranquilized, and then they are both rebuilt over and over. i was in one corner of the room and j was in the other, opposite, a few metres away, but then suddently he was a shadow right next to me, backlit, leaning over and flickering, saying things i cdn’t make out. then we had a conversation across the room which i cd not understand and cd not tell if it was real, out loud, or virtual. (we later worked out it was virtual, and that j had also had a virtual discussion with me, a kind of inverse, and that i had also visited him way over on his side of the room). if you open your eyes to work out if they are open or closed, everything is extremely moody shadows, and warped and bending, like the nausea effect in cinema used to depict the pov of someone losing touch w reality, perverse distorted perspective and everything spinning. after checking out of time and becoming one with the world and your dark spriteless visions for you know not how long, your awareness begins to throb or pulse like a large slow lung back and forth between vague consciousness of you as your normal self experiencing this experience, and the loss of all that and your return to being nothing but your sombre visions. you perceive only isolated traces of your body: the arc along one hand as it holds the other on your chest, the curve of your jaw, and the other curve of your swallowing throat, or a ball of air in your chest and then air passive over your lips, and nothing more. at one point i saw a magnificent red tapestry, but it wasn’t complete, and it was dramatically and rapidly reconstituting itself, its motifs rushing around like skin-coloured ants or detached fingers able to move like ants. and there was no world beyond its messy edges. it was assembling and reassembling and scattering; reality was trying to establish itself and expand over non-being or the void. everything was dark and everything was only glimpsed obliquely. i had another vision of a circular peephole, around which all was black, through which all i could see was a deep dark green… ur-wald of some kind. but the peephole kept shifting as my (mind’s) eye attempted to focus on it, chasing it in extremely slow stop-motion, such that i never caught it up and the view was always oblique, preventing me from seeing clearly through the hole to discern what was really there beyond it. but it was clearly an inscrutable ancientness. at other points i became a kind of very dark, very slow animation of very large sombre gentle brushstrokes gradually laying colour over colour over colour. i huddled into them, everything was a rug of swampy warmth, away from this upright world, far away like the macrocosmos, or then the microscopic vision of multiplying cells is, or the bottom of an age-old swamp in late autumn. the distance experienced throughout was similar to being underwater, everything muted and only reaching me in the form of thick, dulled echoes. and this whole experience, all of these various visions that i wasn’t beholding but simply was, and which were 3d, spatial and never flat, these were all conretisations or realizations of the music we had on, which was vibrating our bodies and minds and which seemed to be lunging around the room at will like a confused shadowy monster, and the whole of it permanently merged with my own deep space purple brown warm melancholy mood, which i only wanted to sink further into, itself a world apart. it was my mood but it was also the mood of a dramatic climax in a cheesy documentary about cosmic history and the grandeur of the universe, behold the massive breadth of it all as you float away from it, stretching it, or sink into it selfless. sometimes space was stretched out laterally, sometimes suddently cut like a mad magazine fold-in, but what was right in my face was only again shadow and colour, so this loss of distance wasn’t a threat. everything was made of shadows, shadows that i was and that i embraced, and that i only wanted to sleep warm inside of forever. ‘darm’, i thought, intestines, slow-moving, muddy and welcoming, wet autumn forest floor, rotting leafmould, fungi and moss, their time, their space, swamplands and algae, the x-files as algae and stinking swamps and both/all of that as me become non-self, wayward pale green weak torchbeams in the night.
coming out of it and back towards this reality, the simple room all this happened in, you can’t bear light of any kind. you’re a super sensitive ball of sensitivity, vulnerable as an eye without a socket. everything needs to be extremely subdued, don’t stop the music’s world-waves, careful turning your head, don’t sit up let lone stand. you can slowly chat, you have energy despite being overwhelmed, you can also just be engulfed in the lingering total affect, the gentle darkness, quarter-light of a single tealight candle far away and out of the way but bouncing off the metal chair frame and so still a bit too much. close your eyes and the dark rainbow vortexes return, covered in toxic green snakeskin nets. and your discourse tumbles over itself and your mate’s and theirs does too, unmoored, losing their starting points over and over, unravelling and deforming and straying and never capturing anything much of what just overwhelmed and digested your self and all of its pretensions, a messy flowing fray of offcuts of a fabric of chat that keeps taking you away from, and not towards, what just evented.