Dissolved in acid / St. Demetrius
Boom boom, right between the eyes.
LSD is helping me reprogram my body; to learn what a “no” feels like; to negotiate consent with another and myself using all forms of communication. Rewriting morphic habits.
No wonder they call it “acid,” because it dissolves all those layers of Somebodyness and all the separations into oneness.
I have only felt that kind of cosmic, infinite, instant connection a couple of times. One was Eric, the day we came out of our rooms at the exact same moment in Iquitos the night before the queer ayahuasca retreat, and knew we were reunited.
This time was at ecstatic dance, as I watched others experiencing queer love and physical connection in a way I longed for, yet realized I could have simply because he was experiencing it, because we are connected through the field of resonance. His love is my love, and my grief turned to joy. I also realized that I had experienced that before, and as the plants are teaching me, you don’t need to keep consuming the thing to experience its energy. Maybe the love I already had was enough for this lifetime.
And that’s when I locked eyes with him, and all of this and more was exchanged through one long glance that penetrated everything, stopped time and shattered all illusions, and I had the craziest experience, some kind of cosmic stream poured from his forehead into my third eye, it was wet, I could feel it dripping, yet no sweat was being emitted from my body. I can’t help but say it was like some kind of cosmic giz stream, even though that cheapens one of the most gorgeous experiences of my life, but it is the kind of thing the cosmic trickster, LSD elves or aya or the little children, would do.
It was like all of the experiences of the whole human experience passed between us in that look, and I broke open, and collapsed onto the floor holding my pelvis, which had activated. Sobbing, dissolved in acid love.
I laid there with my eyes closed, liquid streaming from my eyes now, coming undone, when suddenly a hand cautiously, tenderly, appeared at my ankle, and somehow we did a dance of consent without speaking a word or even my eyes opening, enacting the whole thing: go away, come close, lean into it. Then there were two hands, and they did the dance of consent onto my thigh, my shoulder, my heart. I put my palm over this palm, and didn’t know who it was, but I knew who it was. We stayed this way all through the comedown, and when they called us back, my eyes opened, and it was him, and we held each other’s gaze and felt everything.
I told him what happened later and we reveled in reliving those precious moments. Eventually I introduced myself, but said it seemed like names were superfluous, and he agreed, but shared his anyway.
“We’ve always known each other,” he said.
His name was Demetrius, like the Greek Orthodox church I used to go to as a kid, because of course it was: the Saint who showed me in one glance that I was the Little Baklava of the Universe, cosmically beloved and deserving of love.
In the end, it’s all about perspective, whether you are hero or villain, martyr or victim, it’s all a matter of who’s telling the story, and what narrative they’re weaving. This is both trauma and healing, planetary wounding and cosmic evolution: when we take the same old pattern and form a new morphic habit, creating a third thing. It’s 1, 2, 3, queer alchemy: Holy Hermes, Mighty Herm-Aphrodite, the union of opposites, when it’s not a choice between eternal suffering or some ecstatic bliss, but something in the middle. There is always a third way.
So of course my grounding experiences came through St Demetrius TK
