13. The Cosmic Riddle

Abstract Recap of my 27th Birthday at Envision Festival

Blog Overview: Grasshopper Medicine / Indigenous Peoples / Opening

(Cover Art: "Germinando" by Olga Saenz Carbonell)

You know what happens when your magic unlocks and the barriers and blockages self-destruct?

The chosen door opens…and Alice finds her Wonderland!

Suppose you embrace that very reality eternally….

To comment on these broad-spectrum themes, I’ll have to present a testimonial of a most grounded and sensibly non-sensical quest in Costa Rica, my-Self as guest of honor in celebration of birth, the 27th of the sorts.

On March 3, 2023 I reclaimed instilled trust, my solar center a bright sun contained in fashionable structure, with rays spread in natural bursts of magnetic miracles.

For those who know me, pretend you don’t have an image of my avatar. Remove my vocal cords from your Heart strings and attune to my quintessential exposition, a soul reincarnate immaculately adorned with a variety of prestige only an artist with no dilemma could makeshift. Those crusted wings entrusted with the task of waking up again, with a hand in the lion’s jaws, behold no ‘forgetting’ primal being in their deafeningly grey landscape with pity. And therein lies the sorceress, high, but not mighty, on her throne, bearing witness to the colorblind walking past the Almighty in search of their resurrection.

Romantics with their antics and anecdotes are forthright with their exactitude in their formidable, non-critical, and quizzical upbringings. ‘Burdened’ is no concept of luxury for the flesh spawn from dream-space. Sincere with their repatterning, they brand prayer their absolute momentum and drive.

Just so you know, I’m choosing radical self-discovery, wherein the spaced-out parts remove the complex of needing to understand.

…a constant choice.

Anyway, after a 4-month intensive, battling the self-fulfilling novellas that bewitched my mind, the child within found her pleasure. She paused after the coffin burned in the Church of Hell, her death a matter of factual autonomy. Joined with the toucan’s screech, particle turned wave into a permanent state, like Water’s incessant multiplicity in her meta-morphosis.

What had happened was, God waved her strokes above the coy and fled to the Sky when the heat’s war ripped apart a fraction of the quartet. Predictable was the absurdity of the detour that led to such a conjunction; not so much the nerves from being heard in such a spontaneous ensemble, but she…meaning I…was primed to forget the practice, those 8 years without convincing me I couldn’t.

No drool to spare to nurse the broken, cracked land? – the musicians seemed to ask.

Impossibility is defending this crooked posture. Only the meager adhere to the conductor’s wrinkled decay as a cheat code into settlement.

Instead, I, a snowflake, nestled bitter crystals between gum and lip despite every reason NOT to adapt to the most irrelevant notion of time. After all, the last one was horrific and so tempting to latch to.

The stiffness in my willing knees spoke to my doctor, my company in the suffering, the Voice of the Devil. Fourth time was the charm, I reminded myself. The surgery well past, due to the fleeting vitality of the devastation of inflammation. Another story on repeat…this one entirely defeating when cast as antagonist, the perfect victim.

Though parts wanted to hold back, deny the medicine journey, Eye rested with no imagination nor fixation. Eye opened. Eye self-realized. Eye digress.

That’s the cosmic riddle, ey?

What more?

More?

Of what?

Exactly my point.

Okay, okay, circling back….

First and foremost, before declaring myself a prophet, I pay my respects to the visionaries, they who paved the way for my unburdened feet. The theory of relativity punctured the Great Rapture’s ego, which once tethered me to undesirable suffering. Quenched soil paid no mind to the shockwaves, my inner-seer recognizing her author.

No interpretation pays homage nor justice to the absolute assurance of my practical input’s wisdom and reparational integrity. Some may call it a fairy tale, but they are the ones who forget to play, Mr. Webster the Dictionary their advocate for the bore.

Here it goes:

The story of the Grasshopper Elder moved from feeling to internal dialogue, showcasing the grandiose factions of one cult born from a consciousness’ predisposition to duality as a means of actualizing God into appearance. After all, if this were a commonality amongst the crowds, the impact would’ve been a fraction of what cometh from my 27th cycle around the steadfast friend, He who beams a smile onto Earth, penetrating his lifeforce into the Mother splayed willingly wide.

Antennas, long as a caregiver’s unique touch, spotted the misinformation and pinched tight my disquietude until the exhalation elongated into a scenic route down Qualm Alley. No thought disrupted the enchanting reality re-envisioned. I sat in lotus, my dusty bum proof of the happenstance, as Grasshopper traversed my contours. Eye softened like a cracked egg, relaxed beyond my shell, my yolky center fixated on Grasshopper’s sincerity.

"Psychedelic Grasshopper Mushroom Man" by Raggle Taggle

Caught by surprise, the Grasshopper thoroughly amused my Self, especially considering she arrived via my ocean brother who stood aside me for the last song of the night. She found us hugging a tree, praising the interconnectivity of all who radiated their most sincere vibrational assets through the spiral spread outward 15 feet. As my skin, soft, relished in the heightened awareness of those sharing their precious tenderness, yet another wish uncast was fulfilled. Those are the God-given surprises…the ones you didn’t even know to wish for. To then unite with Grasshopper in meditation as she repeatedly bit specific pressure points while supplying me with crystalline directives was all but childlike bliss.

The entirety of this sequence is accurate and precise, rather forthcoming if you ask me.

This very willingness to believe led me to surrender to the Grasshopper’s sagacity. Her Spirit cleared any stagnant visions in the pool of crimson flow, freeing my ancestors of their karmic debt. I was already melted by the Alpha’s reliable dance toward the sensitive counterpart of my predominate essence, captivating my Spirit, which afforded me infinite realms to explore. With my easy descension, there was but potential. Touch was a requested gift given in spontaneous form on the dance floor carved with roots and speckled with onlookers. Some appraised, others admired, and many wasted their words as Appalachians chased rubies. Porangui softened me deeper into my seat of contentment, then Alex Serra shipped my final pieces home.

If these meanderings are too muddled for your liking, google Envision Festival. Get a hit on the effervescent vibes of Pura Vida, or at least what they sell you. I’m no proponent of the commercialization nor the putrid watering holes, but they did their best to bring the beauty of life to the world we live in. And clearly, I left inspired if I’m writing an entire post about my discoveries…

Is that not the role of the artist? To inspire by means of devotional conquest…

The muse has no preference of skin, shape, or size, rather of ardent pursual and invitation, which they so clearly affirmed, though the Vision became distilled as more mindless conquistadores arrived in their obscene lavishment and false pretenses. I riffled through the facades and fawners to find my inspiration, but it was there.

Grasshopper pulled me from my deep trance and onto my feet rather abruptly. Alex, the unexpected underground headliner, was just heading off-stage after receiving praise from the audience. Grandmother Grasshopper told me she needed to communicate with him.

“But Grasshopper, I can’t just go backstage!”

“Yes, you must. Take me to Alex.”

And we argued like this as I sat at the edge of the stage in total point zero allure, awaiting my own confidence, knowing very well I would obey my Elder. I trotted backstage as soon as I decided to follow my orders, not once looking back and not sure what the hell I was doing. I walked right up to Alex and his fiancé with no fear of the sideways glances offered by the more pretentious, protective VIPs, and presented my Elder-friend with such innocent rightfulness.

“Aloha brother,” I said as I reached out my arm with Grasshopper perched like a fangirl.

(Mind you, I’m high on MDMA. My everything is supple, not a trace of exacerbated hyperactivity. Nay, the contrary: grace and greatness.)

He looks at us without expectation.

“This may sound strange, but my Grasshopper friend told me she needed to meet you.” I proceeded to explain my chance encounter with Grasshopper, the subsequent clearing she performed on me half an hour prior, and the mission she sent me on – not just the backstage break-in but also the guidance to travel to the Garden Isle when I returned to the chain of Hawaiian Islands.

We giggled at the strange ways messages present themselves. She hesitantly crossed the bridge to his coarse hair forest for a short stint then rejoined my presence. Alex and his fiancé shared birthday hugs and I left the very important people to their very important things.

Long story short, Grasshopper took her leave and I made head to the only consistently intentional space where the wristbands declared all “Artists,” paying homage to melatonin, where the sage swirled and tobacco was abundant, and where I communed with an indigenous Elder through the sacred fire.

There was no possible way of denying what was. I could hear him as clearly as this shitty pop music playing in this tea house where I’m currently typing.

Only once did I play small and insignificant. It was when I offered an opinion that was clearly in opposition of the ways of the Hierophant. I bowed in reverence, but he requested I lift my chin and face the flame without bashfulness.

“We need your fullness,” he seemed to declare.

Johanne Brunet

There was absolutely no hierarchy. The Full Moon Rabbit, his unique persona tattooed on his back, wanted to hear my opinions about the topic of “celebration.”

“The Earth is hurting when we celebrate like this,” he grieved.

“Yes, I feel her,” my eyes fixated on the flames, not a single distraction available regardless of the content everyone circled there brought as offerings to the Fire. “But we cannot celebrate with rigidity. So, what does this ‘new world’ look like when we celebrate? What and how are we celebrating?”

“We will find out together.”

He valued my insight and acknowledged my mana – my power – urging me to take ownership of my inherent leadership.

We discussed the Earth’s pain. I received a vision of a world where humans were extinct and just animals roamed. It was beautiful. I remembered the importance of circling around fires as a tribe, the Elder referencing the frequency of the space as evidence. And he spoke with me like an old friend. He seemed to know the impact he would have. I was available, after all.

Sleepy eyes swooped in and I gently took my leave, bowing to him through the Fire.

Lo and behold, the Elder (who was indeed at the Sacred Fire, though we never exchanged glances) relieved the young woman saging the people coming and going right when it was my turn to receive the smoke bath.

With immense gratitude, the kind that leaves you speechless and on the verge of tears, I humbly awaited his clearing. His piercing black gaze spoke to my deepest doubts: “Yes, we spoke. Always trust these powers. We need you to accept your gifts.”

“Me voy” (I’m going), I responded, the only words I could choke up. For some reason, I didn’t want to take more of his time.

PROJECTION ALERT!

"Sage Goddess" by Emily Balivet

Rather than shame myself as I walked off, worried I had disrespected him, I sent this Elder my absoluteness.

To those of you who have no clue what I’m sharing…neither do I.

I’m not sharing anything.

I’m watching my fingers dance on these black keys. The time seems to pass. The New Moon is here and life goes on.

The magnitude of the Grasshopper medicine and the sacred fire communion with an indigenous Elder was the best birthday gift. Totally unprecedented.

The reason my chemically induced opening afforded me a ritual with the grandiose associates and brethren from neighboring tribes is due to the expansive recognition of innate interconnectivity to the beginning.

I can convince myself that I’m making this all up.

But that would be a shame.

To those of you who have experience the utterly baffling ways of God:

Share them.

Let’s normalize the indescribable experiences and do our best to open others to their own magic. Let’s help each other remember.

Fuck Webster and the definitions. We define our realities. Mine just happens to acknowledge Chinese folklore and tribal forces, dragons and laughing bubbles, forever friends and no foes, gilled necks and hardened toes.

Happy mother fucking birthday to me!

Love,

Riddlez

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