Mushroom musing

I’m listening to targeted individuals: liquid programming. It’s mildly interesting- just enough

to keep my neurotransmitters firing enough so I exist between sleep and wakefulness. The

car is a two-toned beast—hash and cigarette smoke. My views don’t match my peers.

Electronic music: I once adored- of this I’m now uncertain. I wonder if its creation has shifted,

or if I’ve drifted from the beat. Ignored the point. The message in the music connection.

Human. Esoteric. Being.

My views don’t quite match my peers; electronic music as an art form I once adored-now I’m

not necessarily sure if that's true, having thought creation and drum patterns; a beat that

breathes with me. It’s true your heart matches to the rhythm; keeping the blood pumping a

bit faster; as well as the various narcotic powders personal chemists have to offer.

When holding a speaker up to water you can see the vibrations; the droplets of sound waves

rippling along the pool. The temperature of this black body is cold, refreshing. It feels along

yours, droplets of rain, sound and rhythm- echoing along the small pond. Perhaps with a

bigger speaker you could cause a bigger ripple, creating waves of movement with only

sound. Would you dive in? Or would you wait for the ripples to reach your beach. Wait for the

waves to amass your safe heaven.

A small breath; wind that moves a spider's web, a fly caught: vibration moving along the

arachnids snare. A metal wire, a bell toll. Vibration moving and rippling out. A larger gust; a

louder noise, could upset the balance. Yet; the spider rebuilds, the sound starts and stops.

Eventually. A stroke of a guitar, once- twice- three times for luck. There’s a natural order to

things, but a drum beat, the beat of a heart keeping you going. If you beat a drum too hard

it’ll break, throw a brick through a glass window it’ll shatter. You either rebuild, buy a new

drum; a new window- or wither and die. Yet; nature has its way. Trees with enough sunlight

will grow around the window, a soul that likes drumming will buy a new drum and beat it into

oblivion. The waves keep going on the beaches. The ripples caressing the soft sand, the

foam, sea fret creating ever more sand. Nature’s way is infinite.

The menthol exhalation, my breath peppery, cold- calming. The cocaine keeps us coasting,

chemical aids for a scene drowning in it. I’m floating as I write- between sleep and

wakefulness; not quite listening to the rerouting, further delays to more electronic. Such

drum loops, methodical clicks, beats of six. I remember when I was told that. I thought it’d

ruined techno for me. Knowing when the beat would change. It made it boring, predictable.

Yet, the engine's gentle hum, the mixed car signals, left right ‘house set.

’ ‘Car set’

. Trance.

I’m dancing in my mind. Above, looking down. Nothing exists but us. Not altogether true but

a comforting thought surmassing our boat; on the tide of free thought. Wherever you are in

the world, the cars look the same- we’d passed two that looked identical to ours.

I was hallucinating on mushrooms a few weeks ago at a festival.

‘The teachers.

’ I was lying

on an airbed in the sun, catching its rays. Watching with intent a ladybird furl and unfurl its

wings, its beating wings, my beating heart, tech house’s beats of four. Melodic lifelines

through the pulse of existence. Time had dissipated. I was sitting in the sun’s warmth that a

shaman, claiming to be a ‘pure source’ had told me was exalting solar flares at a rate

unnatural for the human body to withstand. I might reject this as hearsay yet one thing he did

convince me of was a morrissey-esque stance on vegetarianism I’ve since absorbed.I studied this ladybird for quite some time, breathing mechanically; slowly.

My thoughts were flowing freely; I felt as though my questioning mind was speaking to a

wise owl, or an old placid man. Receiving candid, friendly advice. In this state, every

question I had was answered, calmly- either by the bug itself or some higher power; helping

me. I felt very connected, realising that everything I'd ever done had led me to that airbed.

The morning sun on my solar panelled back.

I started to deem this bug as a kind of protector. A later google search proved that they eat

mites that could hurt or hinder a plant’s progress, cementing this idea further. I breathed

outwardly, deeply- during this trip I had become keenly aware of my breath. The bug stayed

stationary yet the job I’d assigned it stayed the same. Keeping it in tune with the ecosystem

that I and all are a part of. A cog in the machine of being.

On a smaller scale, I realised that at this festival, as it went on, we’d flowed into similar

states of being. We’d developed our own commune, sharing things with each other; a 1960s

esque plant powered microcosm where the overpriced beer (a side effect of the cost of

living), manoeuvred us into further sharing; experience and substance. Drugs, alcohol and

music dissolving the walls between you and I. I and all.

Written by Emily Turnbull