NorwegianDJ's journal of personal growth


Master Don Juan
Dec 13, 2010
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Fvck Yeah!!!!
Norwegian, my man, you probably don’t remember me, but I remember that we joined this forum about the same time some 10+ years ago.

How is it going? What are your prioritize these days?Can see that you kept up the journal where I failed.

What words of wisdom do you have to share after 10Y+ on the forum?



Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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Aiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiai ai. aiiissh.

I am hurting. Not particularly much, to be honest. But I am letting go of a dream.. and it's tender. I just got a little caught up, you know? Made a little world of my own. I don't know. I had this experience. We had a meeting. This confluence of interest, affection, attention, and joyful vibration.

"It's just the festival."

And she is right. As we walk to find a spot by the water, she tells me that she is falling in love with someone she met this week. I only had 10 days to build my castle in the sky, so I didn't come crashing down hard.

It is not your dream that must die, but your sense of opportunity that must re-awaken.

A potential that never existed. A dream in the truest sense. The death of desire. The mirage of a home, taken away.

In the ruins, there is so much to appreciate.
The steadiness of friendship. Of relating with less pretenses. To be a peer. A human.
I was so ready to just jump into the pool. I added to the hands in play. Ah, you know? What if...
I hug myself. Like a sheltered dog, eyes reflecting innocent wonder.
My feet return to reality. I see the sharp edges that prevent me from melting.
I am vulnerable again.


In our ecstasy, I got to share the core of what I look for in relationship. This sacred cradle.

"Find someone that puts wind in your sails."

"Set your life on fire.
Seek those who fan your flames."

I call out to her from the top of the bunker, "Juliette, my Juliette! Come to me!"
We're on an island festival in Copenhagen. It's the fourth day, a Saturday. This tiny bunker on the hill, next to the stage.
I was so happy. I am surrounded.
All the loneliness, the infinite hours going out alone, seeking shelter, seeking harbor. By now, it's summer and I've forgotten how tough it was to get here. My life started tilting in April(?) when I met my Heartbeat in Copenhagen. Steady ground. Kind eyes. Precious, in fact..

In my Ayahuasca ceremony, I saw how my life could bloom. It requires me to be gentle and open. To tread lightly. To re-awaken.

It’s dark because you are trying too hard.
Lightly, my child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.
Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.

So throw away your baggage and go forward.
There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet,
trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.
That’s why you must walk so lightly.
Lightly my darling,
on tiptoes and no luggage,
not even a sponge bag,
completely unencumbered.”

― Aldous Huxley , Island

A distrusting Avoidant.
Distrusting the world, trusting myself. Distrusting others and keeping faith to myself.
I am becoming trusting of the world. It's people have me more entangled.

I am remembering my own magic.
I am to seek this magic and to cultivate it.
To open myself back up to the miracle.
The rest will fall into place.
And so it shall.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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You should write a book. Get it published, so you can speak to others about your experiences. To be honest, it'd be a lot more rewarding for you than spending what I can only assume is an inordinate amount of time, crafting these posts on a forum.

You could definitely reach a much bigger audience than you do here.
Coming here to write is a terrifying act.
It always starts off poorly. It has to spill across the page to even be released. Jittery and bold and discontinuous. Immature and indelicate. So it's lovely to write for an audience, it provides me with a perspective to write from and imagined persons to write for.
I like the first draft nature of my journal. It's rough, but it gets written and posted.
There is, however, an element of perfectionism that disturbs the whole process. An attachment to the words, in past and future tense.
It's important that I write. Lest all this be lost on me. Lest I be lost.

Norwegian, my man, you probably don’t remember me, but I remember that we joined this forum about the same time some 10+ years ago.

How is it going? What are your prioritize these days?Can see that you kept up the journal where I failed.

What words of wisdom do you have to share after 10Y+ on the forum?

We are approaching 12 years now, brother.
I would appreciate if you read (some of) the last two, three pages of entries. Then we could have a conversation that I would also find fulfilling. You will find the wisdom there.

I will say, to rid yourself of distractions. To purify your life. To make space for your intuition. And to look into the abyss and the pain and confusion that comes up in this unraveling.
One way or another you will keep returning to this situation.
It is the way, and if you wait, mother nature will simply return to you more sternly.
Find the vital space. The space where something deep inside you is in equanimity. A resting place. A cradle for your becoming.
Keep returning there. There is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
The real work you have to do, is your inner connection.

"Det handler om fokus."

Resistance is experienced as fear; the degree of fear equates the strength of Resistance. Therefore, the more fear we feel about a specific enterprise, the more certain we can be that that enterprise is important to us and to the growth of our soul.​

Becoming. Shedding. Choice-points.
I am terrified of stepping into some unknowns.
What if my actions do not fulfill me?
To step away from the empty forms filled with instant dopamine.
Learn to spike dopamine from effort itself.
To risk lowering my baseline inputs. To find myself in patterns and activities that slowly nourish me.
It is the way and it is Now.

To err is to wander, and wandering is the way we discover the world; and, lost in thought, it is also the way we discover ourselves. Being right might be gratifying, but in the end it is static, a mere statement. Being wrong is hard and humbling, and sometimes even dangerous, but in the end it is a journey, and a story.


Awareness, will, practice, tolerance of fear and of new experience, they are all necessary if transformation of the individual is to succeed. At a certain point the energy and direction of inner forces have changed to the point where an individual’s sense of identity has changed, too.


This willingness to look at the transitory nature of existence [is] not pessimism but absolute realism: life is to be taken at the tilt, you do not have forever, and therefore why wait? Why wait … to become a faithful and intimate companion to that initially formidable stranger you called your self?​

It's coming up on 30 degrees and it's sunny outside today in Copenhagen.
I feel that I should go outside and explore.
I also feel too fragile for that.
I have a need to move and stretch my body.
A need for company and joy and laughter.
But also a need to cry some tears that won't come out.

I was laying in my bed yesterday, thinking of who I could call.
All of the friends I could think of, were either too far away in time or there were things about them or our relation that would be too sharp for me.
I so desperately want a friend like myself.
I just so deeply wish for a loyal friend that listens the way I do. That loves the way I do. That sees and experiences deeply with me.
Someone I can relax with and relaxes with me. Someone with whom we do that for each other.

I am going to be a kindergarten teacher now.
I finished working with AI in May. Three months and now the question has settled to rest.
Play comes so naturally to me.
I want to go home after work, vitalized, not spending my day recovering.
To dig roots.

I decided to dig roots, instead of becoming more airy and vapid and philosophical and theoretical and God-faced.
To attach myself as strongly as I can to as many things as I can in the world. To expand my world.
It's all becoming, right in this instant. My life is taking hold and the flowers are starting to bloom. It's been such a wonderful process, of being completely taken care of by the great mystery.
Why me? And why is it still so hard for me to change, to be open and curious?

I feel so closed up again. Too soon, again.
I had my first Ayahuasca ceremony a month ago. These synchronicities...
It became so much easier to listen to my body.

All you have to do, is to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Before that there was a festival here in Copenhagen that unlatched the lock on my heart. It seemed that the city opened.
Then there was now another festival, on the island.
All the acquaintances I've made, all the party people, the loose relations forged in the late-night hours of truth. Where I have learned to show myself. To allow myself.
They were all there, fragments of all the groups. I got to dance between them all and solidify our connections. I asked for what I needed and I expressed my love and my joy.
And I met a girl, so I let myself believe. No one will ever know just what kind of movie I am living. I so deeply wish that someone could see this, because it is always dismissed. No one dares believe what is happening.

A thing or two to learn about full alignment and a full-body yes.

Then there was The Borderland.
Don't expect me to touch on more than a fragment of this experience. My first burn. The largest regional burn in northern Europe.
Coming home. Coming down from the previous festival. Feeling like an outsider, with my sadness.
A co-created city of desires, built by my brothers and sisters, and non-binary fellows. My family. Myself, reflected.
A magnifying glass on how I am an object to myself. Nothing makes me more shameful and uncomfortable. I find myself being meta most of the time, as a coping mechanism against the pressure of being spontaneous in the moment. A symptom of perfectionism.
To go from being a character in a world of people, to a character in a world of characters. The ego-trip falls apart. Being a rookie.
Speaking the language of boundaries and consent, and my authentic dancing, being my ticket into the warmth (you have to open to door yourself and close it behind you).
My ability to express emotion through my eyes.
When I finally opened myself up and let myself be overwhelmed, The Borderland opened up.
People were so advanced. Such defined sense of selves. They will let you know that you're fcking up. They speak the same, gentle language that I speak. Radical self-reliance, radical inclusion, participation, consent, radical self-expression.
We had mushroom, cacao, and acid ceremonies. The best thing I did all week was techno-yoga at night on Acid Friday. Incredible.
I am coming down, too soon.
I wish I was carried on a high from Ayahuasca, from these festivals. It's happening to many of my friends.
It's happening to me too, but I'm given the message to lean back and trust the turning of the wheel.

I can't end this post without at least trying to mention my lighthouse. My imagined refuge.
It was on a day-cruise, a costume party on the longest day of the year.
On the way back, I found myself outside on the upper deck. In front of me appears this girl, this radiant woman, the gentlest love, beaming out of her eyes. I lost myself and came to the surface. My face showing my devotion, my eyes, mesmerized. A victory march to the beat of the sunset. With a group of girls, she had her hands in prayer as she danced. I unraveled as we smiled back at each other. With physical distance between us, we danced together. Curved mirrors.
There was this beautiful moment when she got snatched up by a guy that felt the entitlement to occupy her.
I was slightly listening in on the conversation as I was dancing. Then came this moment of perfect harmony, as I turn halfway around to her. I say something like a tender, "hey.. We miss you. Come dance?"
My hand offers itself, we share a moment, and she accepts my hand and steps into our little dancefloor.
I bring her back into the warmth. She is seen. I am seen. On some level, we are devoted.
Another fantasy. Another possibility.
Patiently keep on burning.
Waving my white flag of love.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I just got back home from watching Everything Everywhere All At Once.


Went in expecting the best movie I've ever seen, walked out having watched the best movie I'd ever seen.
Low dose 2-cb. Both come highly recommended.
What a time and place, and for me to watch this movie. Excuse me for feeling like a main character.
I feel like the movie spoke directly to me. It explains how I see the world. It presents the world in the way my oldest brother proclaims it. The family dynamics are just the same. The whole adventure was tackled so masterfully. Every choice resounds in nothingness, in infinite space and infinite possibility. I came out so alive, so charged with love and magic. Receptive to everything and beaming. My two friends went home. I wished for nothing more than someone to find refuge in, to resonate my love and hold hands and walk out, open to the world and its adventures. I saw the deep friendship that I am longing for. It's coming and it's developing, but I miss it and I need it.

I wrote down the names of who I would call a friend in my year in this city. I reached a count of 80 people.
What. Clap on the shoulder. Bravo me.
Lots of good choices among all the rubble in my days spent here. That keeps me going. It's so easy to get sucked down the drain when that ratio starts to turn. When that energy gets heavier, the pull gets even stronger.
I saw the city alive tonight.
Lately it has been easier to open up in a different way.
I don't remember where I have this from, but this notion of "opening up sideways (on the dancefloor)".
To notice those about you. To find flexibility in your stance. To open up sideways, energetically. It feels good and like reclaiming another layer of safety.

I've found myself saying that these days, my happiness is directly correlated to how much I stretch.
I think it's true.
I've been exhausted since The Borderland. Even before. Allowing myself to be exhausted and flighty and ungrounded, I am finally returning. Doing a lot of active recovery.
This transcendental moment that we shared two summers ago. The movie brought it front and center for a bit. I cried some healing tears. This moment that emanated across universes. How do you possibly recover from this? Perhaps you don't. You do your best to let it live on in your eyes, in your touch, in the way you interface with the world. You let it penetrate you back into your core as you willingly reorient your being towards your new compass.
...Break my Heart until it opens.

"When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden."​

I wrote two full notebooks in that winter of 2021 and I re-discovered the first book now.

"When compulsions, which one could even consider addictions - achieving, helping, succeeding, dreaming, confronting, preserving - are constantly operative, the soul recedes and slowly falls asleep."

"What is mechanical is not free and not truly human."
There is such incredible pain in these pages.
3rd of February 2021 I fell apart in front of my parents, and my mom held me. I don't have any memories of my mom ever holding me.

"Without seeing life as something totally new, it becomes meaningless, a boredom, a routine..."

"There are years in me that have not slept..."

"You are a set of infinite forces launched from the big bang, intersecting at this precise moment."

"Enlightenment is a booby prize. It's nothing, forever."

"...If we allow this kind if material to emerge into consciousness to be fully experienced and closely examined, it loses its disturbing power that it can otherwise exert in our lives, and chronic psychological and even physical problems whose origins were previously unknown can be fully healed."

"Integrate the spirituality into your daily life and bring into it the equanimity and the joy and the awe, and the ability to look suffering in the eye, and embrace it without averting your glance."
Coming back to earth.
This coming time is about rituals and discipline. It's about making space for remembering my greater perspectives and enacting them. For the sake of all that is, all that can be, and all that may not be.

Henry Miller writes in his chapter called The Enormous Womb,

"...It is our failure to recognize the world as womb which is the cause of our misery, in large part."

"...they have accepted the world as a womb, not a tomb. ... They live in an intense state of awareness. and are yet apparently without fear. It has been said that fear, which plays such a dominant role in our lives, was once a vague, nameless thing, an echo, one might almost say, of the life instinct. It has been said that with the development of civilization this nameless fear gradually crystallized into a fear of death. And that in the highest reaches of civilization this fear of death becomes a fear of life, as exemplified by the behavior of the neurotic."

"The hero is a sort of monster who is immune to pain and suffering: he is on the side of life. The world is for him a place where things are engendered, brought to life. Life reveals itself to him as art, and not as an ordeal. He enjoys life by rearranging it according to his own needs. ... The hero is a man who says to himself - this is where things happen, not somewhere else. He acts as if he were at home in the world. This behavior, of course, brings about a terrific confusion, for as you may have noticed, people are seldom at home, always somewhere else, always "absent." Life, as it is called, is for most of us one long postponement. And the simple reason for it is: FEAR."

"We regard life as a vestibule ... It is living death which is the great nightmare. Living death means the interruption of the current of life, the forestalling of a natural death process. It is a negative ways of recognizing that the world is really nothing but a great womb, the place where everything is brought to life.
I skip a little, but I want this passage of particular note:

"All ideas of Paradise involve the conquest of fear. Paradise is always a condition that is earned or won through struggle. The elimination of struggle is the greatest struggle of all - the struggle not to struggle. For struggle, whether erroneously or not, has to do with birth. But there was a time when birth was easy. That time is now as much as then."
I leave the rest for another day.
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Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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You should write a book. Get it published, so you can speak to others about your experiences. To be honest, it'd be a lot more rewarding for you than spending what I can only assume is an inordinate amount of time, crafting these posts on a forum.

You could definitely reach a much bigger audience than you do here.

The goal of my writing is to push towards that point in the spectrum where I stop being an object upon myself. [(to(?))]
You know, I edited that sentence 20 times. It took five minutes to write. Is this kind of mental activity normal? How much do I stand out? I feel on the spot. The tension that goes into being on the spot / in the spotlight, when stretched across imagination and into the future, gives life the (a) quality of being unbearable.

I think thoughts and I think thoughts about those thoughts. It's a compartmental train that I assemble and move through in my mind. It's not a visual experience. It's not much of an experience at all. It feels like dissociation. It feels like holding my breath, in such a way that I'm not sure which came first: the watcher or the tension? Which causes which? Does my attitude towards myself cause my experience?

We assume we have it all figured out. How we work. The fundamentals. The stuff you're not questioning, because you've never considered questioning it. Cause and effect. Beginning and end. Who am I? Where do I begin and where do I end? Do I cause myself? This unified conglomerate of authority in my mind, is it a bug? Is it - "me" - causing what I do? Or is it an effect (of the gestalt of the universe)?

Who am I in relation to this voice that I think I am? Can I move beyond it? Because the experience of identifying with it feels off-center. I am an object to myself. (The experiencing self is but a stranger to me). Always on the move: judging, comparing, planning, optimizing: for pleasure & pain, needs & desires. Experiencing the world as something that is a stranger to me. An experience of isolation - of probation.

Henry Miller writes about the world as a womb, and not a tomb:
"It is failure to recognize the world as womb which is the cause of our misery, in large part. We think of the child unborn as living in a state of bliss; we think of death as an escape from life's ills: but life itself we still refuse to regard as bliss and security. And yet, in this world about is not everything being engendered and brought to life? ... that these two states of consciousness mean freedom from pain and struggle, and hence bliss. ... Wherein are their lives different? ... The difference lies in their attitude towards the world, lies in the supreme fact that they have accepted the world as a womb, and not a tomb. For they seem neither to regret what has passed nor to fear what is to come. They live in an intense state of awareness and yet are apparently without fear."
"The wisest men are those who speak of illusion: MAYA. Illusion is the antidote to fear. In harness they render life absurdly illogical."
"Real death is not a source of terror for the ordinary, intelligent, sensitive being. It is living death which is the great nightmare. Living death means the interruption of the current of life. ... It is the negative way of recognizing that the world is really nothing but a great womb, the place where everything is brought to life. ... All that we really know is becoming. ... The real fear, the real terror, lies in the idea of arrest. It is a living idea of death."
"God does not represent life, but fulfillment, which is the only legitimate form of death. ... That only in living a thing out to the full can there be an end. It is a wholly unmoral idea, a thoroughly artistic one."
"Nobody has yet found out how to save those who refuse to save themselves."

In transcribing this I noticed that I just transcribed Henry Miller in my last post. So I'm jamming in a manual transition here.

You know, women's problem with men in 2022 is that men are useless.
I look at the women in my life and by and large they make more of an impression on me than the men in my life.
The men in my life have most definitely made and accompanied me to who I am.
And there is the factor that my whole being is attracted to women.
But I feel so underdeveloped.
Parts of me.
We come out of our nuclear families, our towns, countries, and cultures, so inept at appropriately interacting with the world.
And all we know is the lens which has been given to us. Only when it gets too painful do we get jammed up enough in our rush to reconsider the interface of our world. [S l o w . d o w n]

Who is really running the show? This voice in your head, does it have your best interests? What are your best interests? Do you even know? Would it help if you knew? Who am I? What comes first? Who is really running the show?
What does this enigma look like, this unified idea that I masquerade as? Does it look out through my eyes? Is it a filter applied to my vision? We know that this filter can be tempered with. Take a psychedelic, pay attention, lose yourself, and get back to me. What I perceive (What is weighed and gets in past my filter and onto my screen), is only an image of the actual reality. See something for the first time again. Discover what it is like to take off your armored suit. Dive deep into the moment, and perhaps, by grace, forget yourself.

Remember, this is all quite earthy.
Why am I stuck in a pattern that becomes increasingly empty?
Why can't I do what's best for me?
Why is there such inertia? When moving around feels like lugging an object around.

It's like I'm half-committed. One foot out the door. Still checking out the vibes, not sure if I can settle in.
It's another symptom of the same cause (as far as there are causes): the rejection of the moment.
The imposition of my attitudes (this conglomerate) onto my experience.
A trance of unworthiness.
Do we have proof that when all ours needs our met, we will be happy?
For how long will we have our needs met? Will we get bored with the physical and emotional monotony? Will boredom fit into our box of needs?
We live from want to want, not from enjoyment to enjoyment.
When will I learn? How do I learn?

"How brave one is when one is sure of being loved."

I am more afraid of desires I won't meet, than fears I could face.
Yet this is not entirely true, is it?
My life is ruled by my desire to be loved and to love (and being given attention and mirrored etc),
yet it seems the the undercurrents of my life are steered by the emotions that I don't want to feel.
My rejection of the unknown. My clinging to the known.
My compulsion to stuff myself full: video games, food, dreams, plans, worries, thoughts, videos, content...
I dare not be hungry. Be bored. Frustrated. Ashamed. Rejected. Undesirable. Out of control. I dare not display my inner chaos. Everything that I sweep under the rug.
Where does it go? It seeps out through the sides and funnels back into and vacuums up your life.

"If you desire healing, let yourself fall ill."

We can feel the dirt in our hands when we say, "What gets measured, gets managed."
What can I no longer accept in my life? How much space can I afford to give to it? How is it affecting my life? What will my life look like if things don't change?
What do I want in my life? What do I value? In what order do I value? Truly, how do I wish to live?

How can this become a burning question inside of us? How do we align with ourselves? How do we learn to love when no one has shown us how?
Awareness. Can be trained. Your moment-to-moment gestalt experience can change in color and texture and pace.
At the same time, with dirt falling through our hands we say, "What gets measured, gets managed."
We make very real choices and we make equally real commitments to tracking our adherence to our decisions.
We slow down and give space to feel how our values align with what brings us joy.

We aren't here to win.
It is when you're in pain that you remember yourself.
A papercut. A stomach ache. A broken heart. In reality (depending on your attachments): your attitude to your pain determines your preoccupation with it.
Do you constrict around your headache? Focus on it and feed it? Suffering through it, wishing it over? Put energy into mental narratives about your ex partner?
Energy flows where attention goes.
Show me where your attention is and I'll tell you who you are.
It is when you are happy that you forget yourself.
Soften around the pain. Expand. There is more space here. Feelings interpenetrate each other. All the other experiences are still happening. B r e a t h e.

I am learning to breathe.
My life is on the brink of despair and I need to make some very clear choices about how I spend my time, because it is getting too viscerally painful and empty.
I meditated today and it was the best thing I've done for myself all week.

Crude choices:
Create a morning routine that I stick to. For now:
- Meditate 20 minutes+
- Morning walk / commute (10 minutes +)
- Cold shower
- if not working:
-- Breakfast
-- Movement (1hr)
Things I will limit / not do (for the next week):
- 1 game of League a day
- 1 hour of Overwatch a day
- Limit screen time to 3 hours beyond productivity and the allotted two above.
Each night I will look at my following day and write down what I wish to do.
I will also check off from the day that just was.

Easy does it.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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It's late night and I am back behind the keyboard.
I sent this text when I came back home two hours ago.
Just a simple and important favor, checking in and helping out.
It's Tuesday and it's the end of her weekend. She hasn't seen the text.
It's so silly, you know? My heart, when my mind returns to the thought, is ripped out of my chest.
She won't love me, not for now. What twists the knife is that she loves and could be loving someone else.
I fall to the ground in the kitchen. I am shedding. This possessiveness. This attachment.
I find compassion for myself. It is like this for a reason. My body, it yearns for her body. When her eyes swell up with light. I adore her.
I am tied to her. What intimacy is there in her wake? She loved me. I didn't love her.
How cruel it is - how rarely love is met with love. The pain of loving unevenly across time.
What hurts the most, is that I am reaping what I sowed. I understand how we got here. It makes complete sense. And it is my doing.

In these times, the world feels so estranged. It feels as if those that won't have me, won't need me. They'll have their cake, while I am shrinking in the dark. Unknown and in despair. There is so much to overcome. How can I possibly keep upright? I want to step away. I want to throw in the towel. This world wasn't designed for me. I am too raw and too dark. Too fcking weird. Too honest. Too desperate. I hold on too tightly. Just break me open already.

"I have some love to spare"​
It's almost a year ago since I uttered those words.
You told me that I taught you how to love.
Now you are taking that love and giving it to him and ignoring me.
And the world keeps turning.
"I am testing the capacity of my heart with the most lovely guide"
You said.
That pop song in dance class today goes, "Only know your lover when you let her go..."
And bless lord Jesus Christ and his aszhole for that.
I have repented with such crushing honesty.
I wouldn't want to be without this for a second.
At the same time... I just want you back here with me.
This pain and this loneliness, in it I plant flowers, watered with my tears of you.

There's a letter I wrote for my party three weeks back that you are yet to receive.
There's this little piece in there,
"The thought of never looking into your burning, innocent eyes, of never touching you, or holding you, to be held by you, to be loved by you, is almost unbearable.
But I'm recognizing that it is the same (possibility of) loss that strikes a fire in my Heart."
Cheers to the breaker of chains.
Until next time.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I'm still grieving.
My darling, your sweet message brought me back to a moment in time that is still too tender for me to hold without breaking open.
When I told her that I was falling in love with her, and she wrapped her limbs around my body and embraced my soul with her own.
We were in heaven, you and I.
Even now when I close my eyes, our fingers touch the sky.
There is no way to undo what I now know. My forever north star.

In the image of what is no more, of what could've been, I fall in despair.
The feeling, coming from that place in you, that I unwittingly relaxed into.
I didn't know it was happening. I knew nothing back then. Still, it was you and I.
Flying across the sky, like a prayer.
I just didn't know.

I just didn't know.
Each and every action ever taken by me led me there.
In the aftermath, I felt the full impact of that truth of my responsibility.
The balance comes from the unfolding of compassion.
That everything that has happened needed to happen.
That it is pain that is my closest companion. The most reliable teacher.
And I salute - I drink - to my despair.
I am. Shattered. Piecing myself into a new constellation.

I am re-learning to live slowly. It'll come back this winter. The best thing that ever happened to me was losing it all and resting in the ruins.
"Relax into who you are"​
Everything is so difficult.
Thankfully there is always this breathing room. This little bit of space behind it all. I try to find more of myself there.
That's why I'm here now.
I was gonna go to donation-based yoga, but I couldn't. It was too difficult.
But I made it here now.
The days are passing too quickly. There is too little pressure on me.
But it is trending in the right direction, reliably.

I just moved into a new apartment.
This storyline, it's so poignant.
It's over two years now since we came into orbit.
Opening up to you, the places I touched in your absence, they interweave the story that I live today.
I come in and out of communion. Life is increasingly a cosmic play, with such marvelous humor.
I am living on perhaps the most central and hip street and in the most lush and spanking apartment in all of Copenhagen.
There's an invisible red thread connecting it all, open for anyone willing to see.
I am creating a space that serves who I hope to be.
A space that nourishes the unfolding of the enigma that will fall back into love.
And a space that can catch that magic and infuse it into everyone I bring into my home.

You may call me a dreamer, but I am not playing by your rules any more.
There is more to see, if you just put aside all the things that weigh you down.
I am here to stay, no matter how difficult.
My perpetual vow is to never ever abandon myself again.
Self-esteem is the trust we build with ourselves to again and again catch ourselves as we fall.

A reminder to myself, that "comfort murders the passion of the Soul."
It leads nowhere. It is never enough. Your baseline dopamine just increases, but it is the shifts from baseline that bring us to life.
We remain distracted. Less is required to bring us out of equilibrium. Homeostasis is harder to achieve. We become rigid and fearful. Discomfort finds us more easily and it finds us scared. We run faster and faster until we break.
Seek discomfort. Create an internal and external environment that reminds you of who you are, what's important, and what is at stake.

We can bring our fantasy to life. We can touch the sky, together.
Plant your head under your heels. As you set foot on your own head, you step above the stars.
Once you've staved in your lust, let your feet lift you up in the air. Come!
Up in the heavens, in the air, a hundred roads unfold before you.
You'll fly over the sky
every morning
like a prayer.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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You're on my kitchen floor, bent over in despair.
I've just railed a line of ketamine and I meet the intensity of this moment with equal intensity.
I've heard you scream that word before. In unmistakable despair.
The heartbreaking words of your inner child, as your mother would break your bones.
I didn't know before, but you told me this then.
We did you wrong. And the world keeps doing you wrong.
You just needed a place to sleep.
W H Y.
It's still working its way through me.

I threw another party.
I didn't write about the other one.
Magic has a way of not being captured.
The last party.. we had 150 people or so. One stage. 24 hours of DJs. Silent cinema, massive playroom, tunnel of light.

This one was my housewarming party.
About 40 friends at peak.
I had food poisoning until midnight, but I was well attended to.
I was so frustrated with taking care of everything myself. So it was comical when I was then bedridden on the day and everything had to be resolved by everyone else.
I had a conversation with my roommate's best friend on the dancefloor.
He told me that the only reason he came was because my roommate forced him to.
He was so uncomfortable around my anger.
When we talked about it on the floor, the energy of the room and a certain intensity of presence allowed for my mind to open up and I saw with such clarity, this anger that he was talking about. How it had permeated me for those previous weeks. How it had impacted those around me and where it would lead.
I don't know what I'd do without these moments.
It's part of why I feel that these ecstatic gatherings are of such importance.

I invested a year into finding my people and finally it is coming together.
I am surrounded by friends of such vitality and with open hearts.
All because I poured all my energy into unapologetically saying yes to who I am as who I am keeps resolving.

I held a cacao ceremony. I got to hold a speech and improvise the matters closest to my heart. The modern search for connection and the new world we can build together.
I had also purchased enough MDMA to supply the entire party. Soo. Hehe.
We did it, again. Found magic. Raved. Talked. Hooked up. Hurt. Healed. Walked each other home.

This is as much of a celebration of myself as it is an antithesis to the world we live in. The traditional way to party and go out.
Are you aware of the damage you cause, drinking alcohol? How yucky it is to look at from the outside?
How draining it is and then to recover. How empty it is. How ignorant it is. This ignorance is the only thing that keeps the ship from being abandoned.
We've lost touch with relaxation and ecstasy. With the erotic and the feminine. We know domination and intensity.
In the wake of alcohol being the only legal substance, we create pubs and clubs. Festivals and raves and private events are the lawless areas, but they require you to do different levels of work on your own.
We go out, and the setting is so unnatural that we have to drink and take drugs to enjoy ourselves.
It looks as if everyone is having a good time, but they're all collectively faking it and their lies inspiring the very same illusion in each other.
The last party I went to, my friend did NADA ear acupuncture and that was my highlight. I didn't fit in. The party had moved on without me.

You don't know that you're in prison.
Same goes for me, but there's levels to it.
Awareness is fused to the attentional system. That is the core mistake.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I went on a strange journey Friday night and I need to remember it.
My darling friend hosted a party in her apartment.
I am lucky to have a few people in my life where, sometimes when we touch, I lose myself and land in a cradle. Alchemy seems to happen in this space.
The space consisted of her big living room and a quiet bedroom with a big and very bouncy bed.
Every hour there was a raffle and a new DJ was selected.

I spent most of my time in the bedroom.
I'd love to write these stories in the same line that I used to back in the day. But I simply don't feel comfortable with talking in detail about other people on here at the moment.
A lot happened, but what I want to focus on is my 2-cb experience.
I had poured out some powder on the giant mirror that was going around. There were many colours and it was hard to see, but I measured out three lines. One for myself, and two for two strangers that I'd just met.
There's no scale present, I am already on a standard dose of MDMA. A South-African woman looks me directly into the eye and asks me if I could kindly make another line for her. Eyeballing the difference between 20mg and 50 mg in these conditions is not an easy task.
The red and the greens in the room are becoming extremely vivid. I am coming up both hard and fast.

I can't tell a linear story. I hope to catch onto the most surreal aspects, because, beside my DMT experience, I have not gone this deep on any psychedelic.
I have lost my pouch of things and I am searching for it as I am falling deeper and deeper. I know that all hope is lost of finding it and that I have at most a minute to go, as the room is suddenly filled with new bodies.
This wonderful Irish woman speaks to me in a gentle voice and uses her light to find my pouch with me. We stash it into my backpack and hide it back under the bed.
Thankfully, I did not go on this journey alone. The woman is comforting the first girl that I shared it with. The other guy, the South African woman, and I go on an inner journey that is fully blended with the outside environment. There were countless moments where we communicated to each other the shared presence of the other concurrent realities that we were taking part in.
These things have a way of staying hidden.
Communication can happen on so many levels that we are not currently aware of. It can be instantaneous, is the best I can say right now. But mutual belief is required.
When I fell to the bottom of my trip, all the words, reactions, and laughs that were happening in the room became stacks on stacks on stacks. Like the coding definition of a stack. Like scorecards that stacked up and passed. Automatic. Samsara. The human experience.

At some point I was a part of and witnessing the loop of human experience from the inside, but as a fly on the wall.
The banality of it. The dryness. Laughs and squirts and voices. Very normal people speaking in the ether. half-apologising for having their horn tooted. Their shared awareness of how dry and empty the actions and reactions were, but how they simply needed another go because they found it so funny.

There was endless synchronicity with the inside world and the outside world.
It was so up in my face that it was silly.
I was asking this question as I traveled deeper and further, "Who am I?" The observer part. I want to know already. Show me.
And I kept being shown, but I never had the insight.

I saw the infinite loop of birth and death and the meaning(lessness) of it all. Priest after priest blessing newborn babies and sending off dead bodies, their own love infusing the lived moment with vast realness.

I eventually managed to go pee.
As I peed, the whole universe coursed through my pee. A whole story that unfolded and perfectly finished as I unloaded my bladder. A very dry "meaning of it all" trip, start to finish.

I spend a lot of time, sadly, dealing with the South African woman.
She had seemed so confident, but now she was losing her marbles.
She was a philosopher and was stuck in a shame-loop about absurdity and asking philosophical questions.
It was difficult, because I am a mirror and she was a mirror.
My coping mechanism is to mirror people. To listen, because I am shameful about my own spontaneity.
When our mirrors met each other, nothing was happening. It was highly ironic. And uncomfortable, because she was pure reactivity and her reactions were not of the kind that easily yield to bouncing back and forth. It was simply pure reactivity, blocked out by the mental layer, which blocked streams of communication.
So I lost much valuable time there. But it was my responsibility.

Keeping with the same irony, this elf had found a penchant for me and was keeping me company at the same time.
He had an impressive skill for diving into other people and asking them questions that made them open up.
It was so hilarious. He was talking to these two DJs and he got them talking about this brand of music that they enjoyed so much.
I was looking up at them from below, and they looked like horses with several human mouths.
And I could see these free-spirits that were hiding in their mouths, the joy of creating this abstract and super-weird horse-music. The necessity for freedom of expression and the importance of holding our own and each other's shame.

I experienced over and over again how I had the urge to display my understanding of the weirdness that people were displaying around me, but each time I saw how the higher awareness of the people around me (or at least my perception of it) rendered my external shame response internally shameful.

I made my way to the bathroom again and stumbled face to face with the girl I had given 2-cb, now many hours ago. We locked onto each other and I was completely seduced by her micro-expressions and cat-like energy. We had spent time in the hole together and she called me the lizard king. Her and the guy had sobered up fairly much and he wanted more drugs from me. I really wanted to spend time with her and felt like I needed to get through him first, so I did.
I measured out another dose, and ended up giving another to another girl I am fond of, and ultimately some for myself.

I land back in the bed, suddenly face to face with the girl.
I couldn't make sense of her initially. She was purely playful and open, yet clearly guarded when her boundaries were touched. But her defenses were so soft.
Captivated by each other, she gradually opened up as we spoke and I listened.
In November of last year, she died.
Sometime around midnight, she had slipped, landed on her neck, broken it and her arm.
She tried to get back into the club. Adrenaline engulfing her body, she said she was fine. The ambulance was called. The ambulance found her so rude that they called the police on her. Finally her friends argued her case so strongly that they took her in.

She woke up some 6 days later. Piece by piece and in shambles. Her body needed to pee and her neck was twitching, but she could not turn around.
4 days later she has surgery and another two days later she can finally walk again.
6 more weeks of pain. The most intense pain you can imagine. Streaming up and down your neck. Every minute, each single second, of the most excruciating pain imaginable. Nothing helped.
Now she is unafraid. Jaded, but bottomless. Her eyelashes, the way her mouth curls, the knowing presence in her eyes.
She was finally happy. Moved around. Many relationships of all sorts. All kinds of jobs. Hand to mouth: self-preserved and self-made. She was living on her own and happy with herself in the world.
Then she fell and broke her neck on a midnight in November.

She told me that before then she was crippled by a fear of death.
The great irony was that when she did die, she had no memory if it. All the worrying had been for nothing.
She was a gardener and a ****tail waitress.
She wanted to go to Argentina. Now she's staying here for a while.
The only thing she now fears is love.

Looking at her face, I could look back and forth at her forever.
We are laughing and sharing stories and our conversation is perfectly flowing back and forth.
For hours. It's romantic and tender.
She had open heart surgery at the age of three.
I gently raise her chin, showing a red and bruised throat.
Her right thumb was almost twice the size of mine.
I asked her if I could take her on a date.
She quietly considered and gave her blessing. But not a date, "I don't do that romance."
A dinner.
"It's fine", she'd keep saying. Life passes through you and around you. Nothing lasts and nothing means anything, but you are a part of it and it is flowing around you. It works in mysterious ways and no one will ever understand it.
Everything that is happening around us changes meaning as we sit together. The people bouncing on the bed, conversations about kids, and the abundance of the future. I see how this cuts to her core. All the dreams that died with her that day. Now she can't even turn around and look the talking voices in the eye.
She told me how precious feelings were now. The potential freshness. How she feels fully that feeling when someone appreciates her.

She added my contacts and we shared a deep hug. I could feel it all as she passed through me. I am so sorry.
Unfortunately the irony didn't end there, as someone had mistaken their shoes for hers.
This broke the camel's back and she shut down and started crying with the few friends she had there remaining.

My roommates and the two other girls that I shared the trip with went home to mine as we fell asleep following the South African woman's philosophical lead, once again.
My dear friend gifted me a precious Terrence McKenna comic.
And that sweet girl, in her change of heart, unfollowed me.
It's fine.


Master Don Juan
Nov 6, 2022
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Brother, the journal is cool and all and much respect, but it sounds like you're getting into some pretty strong psychedelics. Just take care of yourself man


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I keep returning to this question, of how to love.
I am reminded of my ex, when I gave her a book called "How To Love". She laughed and gave it back to me.
What I find difficult, is how to show up in a relationship.
How do I remain honest about what is happening inside of me, while still being a cradle for becoming? How do I hold all of it?
How do I set my own boundaries and have my own needs, while being a safe resting place for my beloved?
Where is the love when my expectations aren't met?
My oh-so conditional love withers when I feel hurt and rejected, vulnerable and unsafe. When the other person isn't showing up for me how I'd hoped they would.
Do we stay or do we go, when the other person cannot be the key to our lock?

I am of course reminded of Khalil Gibran when he writes on Marriage. It was one of the first passages I shared on here when I returned. Let us keep it close to heart as we explore this space that is both dead and so alive.

Then Almitra spoke again and said, And
what of Marriage, master?
And he answered saying:
. . .
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance
between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond
of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between
the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from
one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat
not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each
other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain
your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow
not in each other’s shadow.​

I remember, half a lifetime ago, you told me that it was not my responsibility to love.
I was so confused and I was trying so hard. Love is just a space, and your job is simply to receive. To be a conduit.
Meanwhile, love is an action. Love is a commitment. Love is an existential bond. Love is to choose each other, again and again.
To love is to understand. To see deeply and clearly. To take off your own shoes and to truly experience the other person.

“There is hardly any activity, any enterprise, which is started with such tremendous hopes and expectations, and yet, which fails so regularly, as love.” - Erich Fromm, The Art of Loving

“To love without knowing how to love wounds the person we love,” - Thich Nhat Hanh, How To Love

Most people see the problem of love primarily as that of being loved, rather than that of loving, of one’s capacity to love. Hence the problem to them is how to be loved, how to be lovable.


People think that to love is simple, but that to find the right object to love — or to be loved by — is difficult. This attitude has several reasons rooted in the development of modern society. One reason is the great change which occurred in the twentieth century with respect to the choice of a “love object.”

If two people who have been strangers, as all of us are, suddenly let the wall between them break down, and feel close, feel one, this moment of oneness is one of the most exhilarating, most exciting experiences in life. It is all the more wonderful and miraculous for persons who have been shut off, isolated, without love. This miracle of sudden intimacy is often facilitated if it is combined with, or initiated by, sexual attraction and consummation. However, this type of love is by its very nature not lasting. The two persons become well acquainted, their intimacy loses more and more its miraculous character, until their antagonism, their disappointments, their mutual boredom kill whatever is left of the initial excitement. Yet, in the beginning they do not know all this: in fact, they take the intensity of the infatuation, this being “crazy” about each other, for proof of the intensity of their love, while it may only prove the degree of their preceding loneliness.​

Back to me and my triangle of sadness.
I was seated on the bathroom floor. I was falling to pieces. Coming apart at the seams right in front of you.
It's been a quiet time for me in terms of drug use, but this morning I had taken mdma to tag along with you, as you, in your puddle of joy, finally felt safe enough to tell me how you really felt.
I thought you were breaking up with me. I had every reason to think so. You were bored of us, you were saying. Just two weeks or so earlier you'd referred to me as your roommate. And in the present, you're angry and hurt with me, when I am the one that deserves to feel angry and hurt.

It's funny how this goes, with "loving" and expectations.
Just now on my walk I saw this sign again under the bridge, "stop loving with expectation. Love with joy"
I don't know.
You try so hard. You do so much. But I don't know. If we, you, cannot extend yourself to me with effort, solutions, and respect, then why should I keep abiding to this role, just because I know what I can expect from you?
There's a certain safety in that, but I wonder if it just makes us cocoon and further build up our dividing walls.

But if in your fear you would seek only
love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover
your nakedness and pass out of love’s
Into the seasonless world where you
shall laugh, but not all of your laughter,
and weep, but not all of your tears.​

Still, I don't want you to go.
But being with you, I'm afraid, might just hurt too much.
But I am hurting because of my expectations and my needs.
I could just feel my suffering as my expectations melt away. And I could just fill my own cup elsewhere.
There was a time becoming was easy. That time is now, just as much as it was then.

At the same time, isn't it fair, what I'm feeling?
You kiss me, but you don't really kiss me. You treat me as a beloved friend, yet you want to be my girlfriend.
When I touch you, there's this wall that rises up in our midst.
A silent scream in-between us, that only my heart can hear.
Why don't you want me?

And that's where it gets interesting.
Because what does it mean to me when you don't want me?
That's where it gets difficult.
I feel like I'm back at home with my family. I am saying, "here I am! Look! Look what could be! Look what we could have! Open your eyes, to me!"
But after all their tiny deaths, they do not want to see me. They tell me that I have so many words and they return to their death.
I don't feel safe. I feel as if desire has left us barren. What is here, if not passion? Why am I alive, but to live?

All this poetry, just because the sex is bad. Just because I can't use her the way I want to, and that I am not being used the way I'd like?
Quite a dry perspective.

And now, for resolution?
I already meet her needs. I do it well.
How do I keep meeting her needs when I feel hurt and rejected and unsafe?
Not so easy.
How can she meet my needs in a way that respects her boundaries?
I've given her that responsibility.
Perhaps I should take the mantle on that one, too? She's not the best at this sort of puzzle.
But I need to know that she is willing to go a mile for me. What can I expect when I express my needs and expectations?
Yet, should we even be playing games? Should I just be honest about it and be a team, even when I feel like I am pulling for two?

Here, back again, from sunrise to sunset.
We broke up. It's free and its raw and tender.
And that's fine.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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"We have to go", you say.
"But it's too soon!", you said.
We are both coming down from the glory of the night. The sun is shining from its 9am corner; Dylantus has booked a taxi, and we are forced to untether.
I'm experiencing my greatest fear as we stand there next to each other and assess the situation.
We're facing the remnants of a rave that is very much still happening. Our bodies a third facing each other, too scared to fully commit.
A conversation is meekly taking place. Can you stay? Do you have to go? "We need more time.", you say.
Our bodies are anxious about each other's body. We've been each other's peripheral main character all night, and now it's coming to an end, and we are each showing up in our wired and worn-down shell, in our shared attempt to put a bow on our love.

I don't think I said much at all. It tends to be like this. I find all of the words that come to me to be so far below or adjacent to my truth that I do not allow them beyond thought. She fills the silence with the very same thoughts. They don't come out in any big way, but she makes me feel safe. Our tensioned exchange comes toward an end as we all start to hug goodbye.
It was so cute. You hold me and I hold you. You're not letting go. I hold you tighter. You squeal of pleasure. I come closer and hold your head, you let out sighs of joy. We declare our devotion to each other in the only language we've really managed to speak to each other in these two night we've shared together. In that moment of union there was no ambiguity; no shelter from vulnerability: we chose each other.

We come apart and I look up to Romelina's aaawing eyes. The sun is out and the dancefloor has moved to the sunny side of the grass. It's time to play.

I'm wearing a green button-down sleeveless one-suit with a small collar, I've been religiously going to yoga for the past 5 months, and I started the previous day by going bald. It's a time in the life.

The music has been booming across the garden, house, graveyard, the white cherry tree for 9 hours now. I've been surrounded by good friends all night. 300 of us have come together to create a sanctuary of free expression. We've danced and cuddled, fvcked and imbibed, made new connections and fallen into old ones.

I want you all to come with me. Become alive and hold your fears up to the light. Become yourself and find the others.

In the midst of these foggy recollections that I want to offer up to memory, your face and your body and your smile keep reappearing. The way you laugh and the way you looked at me. Your voice and your accent; how easily joy finds its way into your eyes. I could dance next to you all night.

It's just getting better and better, as I slowly assemble myself according to my values and desires.
I've never gotten so much attention as I did yesterday.
And to be in the company of such good people. By the late afternoon hours, my belongings were sprawled across the land, still, no one claimed a single one for themselves.

Johnny and I linked hands for the entire affair, coming apart often, but always bringing each other home.
At 10am I started doing some yoga and within five minutes this girl is leading a thirty minute sunshine yoga class with myself and another girl. We flirt and make connections. Repeat, repeat, and repeat. Learning what I like, what I don't like.

"It's so incredibly hot when a man owns himself and the room the way you do."
Tonight I allowed myself to stay on dancefloors that weren't really playing music that I'd typically love to dance to.
I watched the crowd and saw that there were humans there really enjoying themselves and dancing and having a lot of fun.
I allow myself to be silly and have periods of weirdness. I connect to the music and make it my own, and from there I connect to dancers around me and we come together and apart. I am cute and feminine and simply very human. I dig it up from the deep and I do my very best to wear it on my sleeve. I find that I'm still hiding, but in my movement and touch I am right there.

I gave this wonderful girl a massage. I find myself over and over, anchoring to the music and in my touch on her body. I connect to the music and I tell her to touch me back. This reciprocal tunnel feeds on itself as we, for some moments in time, allow ourselves to exist outside of the rest of our story. She looks back at me with eyes of amazement and gratitude. "I will remember this massage for the rest of my life. I think you opened something up in me, something I didn't know you could do." ... "This is how all boyfriends should be massaging their girlfriends."
Connect. What could be worse than denial of life?

You're dating someone else. You're moving to Berlin. I'm well familiar by now with futures falling down mid-flight.
There another girl that I liked quite a bit last week. We saw each other four times, but never alone. We flirt and we touch and hang onto each other for just a little too long. She's eight years older than me. A daughter. Mature, spontaneous, playful and communicative. I love the way her left eyebrow raises itself as some unconditioned challenge. It feels good, but I fall back to comparing all of them to the cradle that I was reborn into. You, who infused my life with renewed vigour. I am looking for love.
Like Alice.

At Alice's I met another lost connection.
She was with Guntalena at the rave at the planetarium about a month ago. I'd never seen her before. Radiant green eyes - or are they blue? I'm drawn to her from the moment I saw her. Lost in the night and reappeared on a sunny day in the midst of a little sanctuary of love. It felt meaningful. We talked for half an hour and it was so easy. She said she'd love to take a walk in the sun or grab brunch. I wrote her a contrived and funny message, as I do. She simply responds, "Hej du, the 3rd? For sure man"
It gets to be easy..

I spend most of my time forgetting that I'm confused.
I don't really know where the time goes, but I am too scattered to spend it effectively.
I am mastering my body. I get my morning sunlight, my cold showers, good healthy food, I go to yoga and the sauna and cold plunges. I swing my kettlebell and I call it a night. I deal with the dramas of everyday life and never-ending to-do lists, but I can't seem to make a decisive decision about where my life is headed.
Now summer is hastening upon us and life is rapidly speeding up.
I need to make some good high-level choices.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I'm sitting here with melancholy.
Yesterday was so ecstatic, and today I've just been angry.
Is it the IV-oxytocin that opened up for deeper emotions to emerge for release today?
Or is it simply that I got woken up by repeat alarms, my waffles got eaten, I'm still sick, my dopamine baseline is lowered, and I have to make and prepare for a long travel tomorrow that I didn't truly choose myself?
It's hard to say.

Anger turned into tears in the kitchen. Briefly.
There is still so much, latent. My body is so heavy lately. The house of cards falls apart without much effort.

The yoga girls came to visit me.
Their friend has opened a restaurant and we met there for dinner.
Together we shared the most wonderful dinner either of the three of us have had.
The girls are so equanimous. They're the best of friends and it is so easy to be in their company.
There is space after sentences finish. Some run off into the night, others pose questions and invitations.
Topics and scenes break off and reassemble effortlessly. There is nowhere to go and we are very happy to be here in each other's company.
Each glass of wine was the best I'd ever had. Each little dish was something delightful.
We touched and laughed and looked deeply into each other for over four hours.

We made our way home and I called over Johnny. We spent the night talking and cuddling and crashed in the king-sized bed in the living room.
Yesterday we woke up and shared a brunch and made our way to the canals.
What is it that touched me deeply? I think it was that we chose each other and didn't add anything else to it.
Our touch is reciprocal and desired. They share a close bond and Johnny and I care for each other.
It's the accepted bids and the positive orientation. Our shared beauty and peace of mind.
We couldn't keep our hands off each other.
By the waters, very much in public.
Cosying up, massaging, hugging and kissing.
A strong sense of acceptance and safety in the relation. A sense of merging our rivers and an unfolding in the mutual desire for the other.

We went to a day-party in our techno-community and really just kept dancing and kissing and caressing there for some more hours.
Silly and a little obnoxious perhaps. Yes, you can see through it, but it was so pleasant. And that was part of the beauty: the simple and unadulterated pleasure.

Today somebody has eaten my waffles and I am on a low.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I am scared of being recognized by someone I'm expected to have any sort of interaction with when i leave the house.
I can feel such a pressure to respond in a way that is appropriate and that leaves me looking good in their eyes.
I just don't want people to see the parts of me that I reject. I don't want people to see myself rejecting myself.
It's so ugly.

I walk around my apartment, clutching my penis that's hiding in my underwear.
Next easiest solution to next easiest solution, falling down my pit as I dig the hole deeper and deeper.
This is my pattern that I've had, perhaps, for as long as I can remember.
I want sunglasses where people can't see my eyes.
I also want these sunglasses to suit me aesthetically.

I am eating cheetos and chocolate and smash and dates and i have some white wine and a glass of water.
I have texts I am not responding to, a whole day that I could have lived in the entirely opposite energy, had I just caught myself early in the pattern.
I am witnessing how painful it is, rather how isolating and monotonous and uninspiring it is to just sit here and vegetate.
I am not responding to my body's needs.

I have found that listening to the body's needs is the answer to this predicament.
Yes, being mindful and present enough in your body and to have the insight to understand your triggers and your patterns, and catching yourself before your pattern gains too much momentum.
The words are just pouring out of me as I am in a League of Legends lobby.
Between games I will feel what my body needs. Movement. Going outside. Food. Bathroom. Doing tasks. Interactions. Yoga. Obligations. Meditation. Making dinner. Working out. Learning new things. Being exposed to the real world.

I feel the tug. I get up to look at the beautiful sunny day, breaking June 15th records. I feel the beautiful, fragrant air. I feel how wonderful it is to get up from the shackles of the chair and the screen and the headphones.
I start thinking of what could be ahead of me.
Dressing up and taking a walk in the sun. Experiencing the beautiful city on this wonderful day.
I start to think of all the impressions. Being in the midst of all the people. Feeling their gaze and having to look somewhere.
I couldve gone to yoga. Or had a little workout. Then tonight out of the blue - perhaps things are changing - I get invited out by two separate friends. Then I could've cleaned things up a little and gone to bed at a healthy hour.

I don't have to do all that, but it feels good to follow the flow of your day. I could've followed through with what my body desired, rather than remaining stuck within what my mind and habitual energies demand.
It is so empty and it just depletes me of energy. And I keep going there to look for it and the outside world gets scarier. I feel so vulnerable and fragile. I don't want to put on my mask. I don't want to hold it together perfectly in front of people.
I don't want to show up to yoga coming straight out of five hours of video games, weed, porn, and food.
Thankfully this extreme is not habitual. But I've been here at least a hundred times in my life. I'm probably undershooting it by a lot.
I know the kind of life I could have lived instead and the cumulative effects of having lived a different life.
The potential I am wasting is incomprehensible.

The journey can become beautiful.
As you celebrate your days.
I've been living such beautiful days.
I haven't partaken in them like I wished I would.
I haven't remained as engaged, invested, present, and allowing as I'd wished.
But life is blooming under my feet.
I am so blessed to be intimately sharing my life with such a pure-hearted human.
To receive her love and to walk the trials and trails together.

I saw my new best friend on Saturday.
I was on the dancefloor, dancing - getting therapized.
I think he came from behind me? From my side? I was dancing and he touched me on my back and he danced his way around me.
I don't know if I've ever had something happen this instantly, and with such intensity.
I was just looking at him. Staring him down with a wide-open mouth.
I just knew in my body instantly that this was my new best friend.
I have never seen myself reflected so clearly in the outside world. I couldn't help but love him and want to care for him, because I understood him.
I confessed my best-friend love and he has invited me out to "have a cool lsd trip".

Another hour passes and I am next to and then face to face with a woman.
I'm tripping and she is tripping. She has never seen somebody as attractive as she is finding me in that moment.
She can't stop telling me. With greater and greater intensity. She wouldn't ordinarily spark me, but she's really got my curiosity as she is getting on her knees and praising my beauty.
I lead her to the dark room and we sit down together. I can't bring myself to put any soul behind the sexual momentum, so we break off and in that instant catch each other staring with expanding openness and interest into each others' eyes.
She transforms in front of me. She is a young adolescent boy with disctinct tanned-white skin and strong brown eyes. I witness her move through several of these persons, and we greet each other, because we have met before. (That's why we can find each other?)
I imagine I can feel her having the experience of inhabiting these characters and witnessing me or the same in me.
"Where have you been my entire life!!??" She screams.
Life has not revealed itself to her in this manner yet.
When we least expect it.
We find that life is right there along with us.

I need to go to bed and to clean the house and to start my bedtime routine.
This is embarrassing. But the balance is necessary.
We trade off honesty for kindness, and it leaves us isolated.
There is so much synchronicity happening in my life.
I couldn't see this quiet maelstrom of life flowing around me before.
Now it's an intimate companion.
I say my prayers,
To find a home in myself
and to find a home in the world.
For shelter. For a homecoming.

I pray as we open our yoga class, when I'm coming from yet another day that sort of came and went somewhere.
This yoga is sculpting me in every way. It has been my sunshine for seven months.
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Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I want to tell you all about mother Ayahuasca.

She's still with me.
Breathing is a joy. My body moves with such fulfilled grace. Veils have been lifted and underneath it all, here I am.
It is so much easier to exist when so much of the heaviness has been purged.
There's a new world coming and it is a violent birth. Find yourself as a God on earth and join hands with me.
Can I find the words?
Come join me as we put our head under our feet and step above the stars.

Three weeks ago there was an opening. A cancellation. It's been a year since I saw the medicine woman and her guides. I just received some money. My calendar had opened up, and I am going to The Borderland next week and then back home to family.
It was time to revisit the mother and the grandmother.

Ayahuasca demands a strict dieta.
A massive amount of dietary restrictions for some days or several weeks, depending on how good of a boy you are.
No drugs for three weeks before, and as long as I can muster afterwards.
Purify yourself. Become a tool for your own discovery. Harness your attention. Slow down, find boredom, and go inwards.

And so I got on a plane and spent a long-weekend with 20 strangers.
It was predominantly female and I was the youngest participant. The oldest was 61.
After a night's sleep we had a slow day with a silent walk, dancing and "tantric" exercises, and breathwork.
The day was painstakingly slow to begin with. Nothing intense to look forward to. I'd done my dieta fairly well, but in terms of tending to my attention, I have some work to do. During the walk there was this anger that was brewing in me. Someone in my life has framed me in their mind as a particular static image and has shut me off from their domain. It's a particularly painful situation for me, because this is how I've spent my entire life. Being assumed and shut off. What makes that position difficult is that in order to show the other party that you are a considerate human, you must work through the anger that it evokes in you, on your own, before you can engage in a dialogue.

Those energies were still in me as we opened up for dancing.
I was sitting on the floor and I allow Conrad to sit down with me. We sit there and mirror while other's are doing their pair-dance.
It's time to switch and I pick myself up. I am brought face to face with David and I can't help but have my anger convert into joy and playfulness as we smile to each other and he takes hold of my waist. I am wearing a dress and he is allowing me into the role. I come into myself and show him what's alive in me alongside the anger.
I know David from last year's retreat. He was a participant then, perhaps his 23rd ceremony. He has been through some sh1t, and now he doesn't do bullsh1t. Like cupid's arrow he aims himself. You can sense the immense fire that he is in control of.
Now he's a guide and I am so happy to have him by my side.

A few moments later he is supporting me.
There is an energy moving through me. I realize that it is me letting go of the scaffolding of my video games.
They have served me my whole life. Been my companion in a world of insensitivity and negligence.
But it is time to let them go. They will destroy me if I don't let go. Where I am going, I can't bring them with me.
I cry and I shake a little. I am held.

We move into a constellation of an inner and outer circle. The invitation is to truly take in the other person in front of you.
There's this woman with messy hair and and aversive attitude. Suddenly I am standing before her and I see her bright blue living eyes. My face and my entire being lights up with such immediacy, as if the only way I could respond to such pure beauty was to turn on my own light. We stand before each other and mouth our loving praises, and we move on again.

We're three cups deep into the first ceremony and I can hear her screams from the toilets.
Screams of absolute terror. Screams that pierce your soul. You can feel it in your bones how this little girl was violated, but that little girl did not get to scream these screams. She was silenced. Frozen. Screams of rage and fury and bone-crushing grief over life thrown away and innocence lost. The screams blend into each other. It is obvious that the mental identity has stepped back and the body has taken over. The body knows, and we are shedding.

Each cup is it's own ordeal. I find my centre, or should I say that it recovers itself. The awful earthy taste, the toddler-like desperation I have, sucking on my tiny slice of orange. I settle myself and enter my slumber.
My first ceremony was very much a repetition of last year's.
Turns out that there are a lot of shedding to do. I see all the things that I have not attended to.
Attention is a precious resource and I am failing to use it aptly. I must book flights, attend to relationships, plan such and such, write down this and that. I am playing catch-up and I cannot progress. The energy is intense and heavy and foggy, but that could only be felt in hindsight. Ayahuasca cleared me from the inside out. Moving through my intestines. My body, heavy. My mind, unsatisfied.
I spent most of the time being joyful, yearning for depth. I had a brief visit to the DMT realm, where I was escorted backstage as all the performers were walking between the stages. I made it clear to everyone that I was just visiting, but looking back, I didn't get the same vibe from them.

I went outside and I touched the earth. I experienced the intense aliveness of the forest and the earth. It is obvious to me that the earth is a being. As obvious as the light touching my skin. Aya communicates to you. Rather so, she is inside of you and you move together. We blend.

Back inside, there's another woman in the bathrooms.
She's been married to her partner for 27 years and they got divorced last year.
The heartbreak is unmistakable. Mind you, this is not a person lamenting, it is the essence of their being. Strip away all the self-conscious parts. Unadulterated. Pure emotion; pure motion. The innocence of the movement, the symphony of their defeat.
Her destruction penetrated my dreams and I was inside of her marriage, feeling the ineffable grief of being let down on all fronts and how the whole piece fit together: oneself, partner, community, and world.

There was another man that told me stories of smuggling for a living.
I've never heard the human body puke like he did. He was carrying intense anger, wrath, and fights, lost and won, inside of himself.
The growls and whimpers. It's all coming out in the most natural way.
And the beauty of it all is the absolute smile on each of their three faces when we all land together.
The wound is where the light enters you. If you desire healing, let yourself fall ill.

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Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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After the ceremony I clear myself out. I attend to my business. I check all the boxes, clear out this head of mine.
It is so heavy to always remain self-aware and self-conscious. I am in this past moment not aware of the particular taste of this heaviness.
Armed with six cups of soup and two sets of two hours of sleep, we are ready for day two.

How can I begin to describe to you the magnitude of this day.
Because it unfolded in such utmost peace. We co-created a temple, a sanctuary for our becoming. The long, white curtains were blowing in the wind the sunlight intermingled with the clouds to cast light and darkness upon our inner feast.
In this safety and having moved through so much process and energies, the stage was set for deep work.
I want to transmit this to you, but it might take me a few takes.

I am laying there in my little kingdom, on my mattress and with my pillow and duvet.
I am shedding and shedding and shedding and shedding and shedding.
It's such a simple and surrendered process. It's not like I even had to surrender. It all just, was. It couldn't have been any other way. It was as natural and any process of nature.
I peed and I drank and peed and drank and peed and drank. It was all I did.
And I yawned and breathed and yawned and breathed like I've never done before. It was just happening and I was there for it. My body moving in a dance between yawning and breathing and peeing and drinking.
I was sitting there, and I was finally making progress on this whole enlightenment thing.

It was the most natural progression. I could feel the energy moving as I was just present, somewhere, while I was subconsciously unravelling this ball of yarn that is the problem of consciousness.
And then it just hit me. I arrived.
I look over to the medicine woman and I laugh.
She is sitting there with the blue-eyed woman, her body shaking uncontrollably. Limp, letting go of the energy that was frozen in time.

I am laughing, because I understand and am experiencing how I am a God on earth. That I really do fit in in the DMT realm, because I am one of them. I am sovereign and I am filled with magic. I have all of the powers that I attribute to the divine.
It's as this is happening that I drop out of my own head. I don't go anywhere, but I'm not limited to anywhere. And with this movement, the tension disappears from my neck. My lifeline that I am so intimately aware of, it can finally relax. Tension drops out of my jaw, and I become aware of all the tension I held there.
It is my efforts to control and in my resistance that I develop this tension. What blessings.

The pen is moving. The writing happens. I can feel myself moving in and out of my head, but I can't tell where I'm going. I feel my hand moving and the writing happening. It is of no effort of my own; it is through surrender that I become a vessel for the divine to move through me.
You see, I found it so funny that someone would get enlightened and just meditate and leave this world behind.
And then it hit me again.
I am sovereign, but I can also listen in. I can attune and become an instrument of God. I realize my dharma.
I see all the paths before me. The infinite hands behind the scene, orchestrating and taking care of everything. I see how I am held. The infinite mirrors between myself and reality. Its composition. The futility of science. The bliss of giving in and allowing the divine to move through me.
I experience and understand how there is no reason to worry. Worrying makes no sense at all. Everything is perfect and this is perfect and each and every part of you and them is a part of it already. It's all happening in the most exquisite harmony.
Allow it and flow.
Rebirthing. Reparenting. It is all about focus.
Comfort murders the passion of the soul, and walks grinning in the funeral.

I lived some hours in my very large crib.
I was naked under the covers and I could feel myself holding my bladder as my mother's attention was split and I couldn't afford to burden her. She couldn't give me the quality of attention I needed.
But my life is it's own particular trail by fire, and I experienced the deep love that my ancestors have for me, because this very fault of attention is what sculpted me. It is the most loving gift, and now it is mine to receive, without remaining caught in the past.

I experienced and understood for the first time what it means to have a passion for your vocation, and not simply to make a living.
I saw all the arenas I am involved in and I am instructed to choose sooner than later, and to choose a path with Heart.
So I am choosing my writing. It is what is most developed in me, and it is what I am: a communicator, and a quite special one at that. I blend categories and I have my own unique take that is deeply rooted in the world.
Come follow me and support me as I bring myself and my journey to the world.
I'll show you. And I deeply hope to see some of you along there with me, because I need you.

I realized that I am dropping my muscles.
I saw how they were just another façade. And they demand a lot from my system. I can't eat like this. All the meat and dairy and supplements take a significant toll. I will lean down and treat my muscles and body with even greater care. I don't need size to fulfil my fantasies. I can be light and strong and functional. Have you ever touched and hugged someone that puts consciousness into their body and muscles? It limbers you up. I want that for myself.
It's important for me that I can communicate everything that is inside of me, as easily and quickly as possible, with as few words as possible.

I see with such clarity how there are no shortcuts, ever. You pay for everything, whether it be with money, time, blind spots, emotional energies, so forth.
I see how these artificial boundaries and the mental compartmentalizing we do creates significant blind spots and that by being aware of them we can create massive personal and societal advantage and change. I'll be writing more about this.

It may sound too simple, but the main lesson is to do less and be more.

Okay, that's it in short and that's it for now.
First draft over.
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Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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I wake up next to you.
I want to kill you.

It's early morning.
I can feel it in my body. My empty body. Shame and unworthiness come gushing in, steadily.
We're out in the jungle. We're in the same bed. Him and I.
The two of you are staying with the rest of the family in the top three floors of the house.
I am relegated to the basement.

He's sleeping in jeans.
I want to bother him. I toss my body around to wake him up.
He's annoyed. We're angry at each other.
I'm angry that he doesn't see and take ownership over the violence that he's doing to me. He's angry because I'm angry.
He picks up his phone and effortlessly strolls out of bed and into the day.
He joins a group conversation with friends. Picks up a hollow plastic crane-top to amplify the sound.
He drops it. Walks back towards me. I pick up his credit card and flick it at him. We walk past each other. I pick up the hollow plastic crane and listen to the conversation.

We walk into the ground floor jungle. There are thin trees that enclose and intertwine the space.
There's somebody eating and cooking an egg. He checks on them gently and he is at home.
My father appears and greets me with happiness. Says something about one hundred days of this.
We move to the fridge. There's eggs. I grab one, but a cup falls to the ground. I capture it perfectly with my foot and swiftly put it back in one motion.

You are on the 2nd floor. I can feel it. I have a vision of how it is like inside. The joy that is hidden there.
Between me and this joy, this sacred fun, there are locked doors. Violent boundaries. Lost love and intergenerational pain.

I am on the rooftop of a hotel. There are birds and fishes here, but it's an infertile space. The tiny ponds on the concrete can't even contain the oblong fishes that sprawl across the surface.
My friend has my phone. He's messaging the girls in the hotel for me on a dating app.

I wake up.
It's 11:22 on the last day of summer.
I've already fallen to the ground six times today.
I cry and I plead and I scream. I haven't been screaming before.
Now I can't stop screaming.

The two of you are haunting my dreams.
I lay down to sleep and you appear, and so comes my anger and my grief.
You grip me and you don't let go of me. All I can do is get lost and breathe each time I come up for air.
I just breathe all through the night.
Somehow I keep being well rested.

I fell asleep to myself, to my own magic. For so long.
This grief is but an amalgamation of all the heartbreak I've lived through up until now.
The sorrow of not being loved and the longing to love.
The increasingly unbearable pain of not loving myself. Of not living the life I am meant to live. The unbearable pain of self-denial.
The deep wounds of betrayal and loss. Of cruelty. Repetitive cuts on the very same tissue that just healed.
Keep breaking my heart until it opens.
New life is becoming.

Please refer to the following posts - (coming soon) - for context.


Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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Written 1 1/2 - 1 month ago.

The past two days, whole week, and month, has been the toughest time of my life.
Just over three years ago, love enveloped me. The following winter was a continual five thousand hours of shedding. From the moment I opened my eyes, to the moment I fell asleep there was this deep pain. It would hit me like a thunderbolt straight into my chest and would seep into my belly in the form of a heartache that would shroud my entire being. A grief so powerful that it coloured everything that I touched. There was nothing to do but to cry endless tears, read and write, and mainly: to sit. In my solitude I slowly learned what it means to expand; to soften around the pain. To grow larger and to hold myself. To find room for this process to unfold. I found immense beauty in the intensity of my suffering. I was lost in it and I was there with it. Now I am here for it again.

We sat outside the Church. It’s past midnight and we are surrounded by passing lights, chirps of blissful humans, and colourful vibrations are permeating the air. It’s another dark and cold night at The Borderland, and I am falling into every pit and crevasse of my being as our conversation unfolds over the next three hours. You’re sleeping next to me as I write this. The days I have to look over at your precious, resting body are coming to an end. The process of there to here has murdered something in me, and I am putting the pieces back together.

The Church is actually a nightclub, with stained glass windows of upside-down crosses. I’ve spent so much of our relationship building you up, holding you tight, and putting you down right. Now that it’s time for me to rediscover my own feet, I find myself in ashes and rubble, with nowhere to stand and no one to hold me. I saw with clarity the path ahead:

I am an artist. I come into contact with life and feel it in all its intensity. I am to slow down my mind enough for it to come into contact with my body. To purify my life and my attention: to watch as energy flows where attention goes. To hold curiosity in my palm as I find that I do have time, and that I do have space, and that I can create myself anew. To breathe into my body and to follow it: to step aside and let the body heal itself. To flip the mirror away from myself and out towards what is in front of me, because as anxiety, self-obsession, and worry fade away, the gifts of the spirit immediately take their place.

It’s Monday night and I have just arrived at Muumimaa. I’m settling into the dancefloor and suddenly he is right in front of me. He smiles at me and offers a hug. I am in shock and a sense of terror is rising up inside of me. I hold my hand out in front of me as if I am pushing him away. His facial expression changes dramatically to some distraught sadness in the split second before he scurries away. The terror rises and stirs in me and becomes anger as I move to the right side of the dancefloor. In this intense moment I cannot feel it as sadness, there’s only wrath that is heating up. I am staring him down and I want to destroy him. What he’s doing to me has destroyed my relationship over the past month. It has stirred up so much grief in me. His partner in crime has isolated and defined me to a moment in time and now I’m not allowed in their camp, and hence my partner’s camp. My partner has completely shut off over the past month and it has broken me down and I am barely keeping afloat. I am looking at him and I want to kill him. I am beating him to a pulp in my mind, and when I later turn this ugly situation into a beautiful flower, he tells me that he could feel it so intimately how I was bashing his skull in.

The energy gets so intense that I run into the forest. I dig my head into the ground and I scream. I am wailing and pleading and I am so destroyed by the absolute violence that is being inflicted upon me, but it is increasingly dawning on me that it is actually my own projections, my own violence that is making its way back to me.

I go back inside, but I quickly feel that this intensity is still alive in me. It has just started the process of alchemizing from anger into sadness and grief. I remember that I have a friend and his girlfriend in the couch and I beeline over to them. I bury my head in his chest and I start to cry, and then to gulp and heave, to wail and scream, and all of the desperate little noises in-between. My sensitive soul is confronted with such violence that I don’t have any other response. As I am laying on his chest and as I am with them, I am struck by how much I miss and want what they have. His energy is similar to my own, so I see myself in his shoes. They’re a team of equals, and she is healthy and happy, beautiful, and freely & generously expresses her love and passion. She reminds me of Lara. We met on a dancefloor the day after we sat on those church-steps. She was moving and dancing with such an excess of joy and passion. I couldn’t take my eyes off her beauty as we danced together. It was all reminding me of who I am and what I have been so endearingly missing in my life.

The next time I saw Lara was in the late hours of Acid Friday. I had just been at Muumimaa and had offered up changa to this woman that I had stopped time with this day last year. The whole situation got complicated and felt bad, so I chose to leave. About halfway through the forest I realize that I am walking right behind my partner. We haven’t seen each other since that Tuesday night outside the church, when she had told me that it was taking the force of every single atom in her being for her to sit there with me. It is as we began walking together and timidly start to hold hands, that Lara walks past and calls out to me. I want to follow so badly: I want to dance into my new existence, but life has other plans for me. I need to tend to my own garden, clear away the rubble, and rise from the ashes before I can dance with her again.

You’re first to say the fateful words, “We should end it”. I still want to see it through, to fight for it. I am blinded by my idea of love, and I bleed willingly and joyfully. We make our way through the Wild Sacred fire and into the Coleur cafe. I set up a pillow fort with some blankets and put some music on the speaker, and we start talking. “When you look at me in the morning, what do you feel?” The way her few words combine with how everything is unfolding, it pierces my fantasy projections. I know how I feel when I look over at her in the morning. You’re still here, next to me. It’s 3pm and I’ve been out of the house for two hours, eaten two meals, and worked with my own emotions. I love you, and I am doing my very best to give you all the softness I can find deep within me. I hate you. I hate what you do to me. What I hate is not all the ways that you cannot and choose not to love me, it is that I desire and expect you to. When you are cruel to me, the cruelty is the difference between your very best, and my hopes and dreams. I hate what I have done to myself. Your joy and creativity highlight my seriousness and rigidity. I feel lost without you, because I have witnessed how vast the path is between here and there. How much is required of me to carve myself out of this stale ground that I am sinking into. I hate myself for allowing myself to end up in this place without the support that I need around me to hold me up and guide me towards the light. I must do it, largely, on my own. Again. Because I put so much of my energy into keeping you afloat. Into tending to your light and decorating your soul. I love you so much and I am so happy to see you land in the most perfect arms and into the most belonging life. I hate you, because you are leaving my arms and walking directly into his arms, and his arms can do things I can only dream of most of the time. I am so envious over your shared joyful ease. I am absolutely fuming with desperation and grief and anger. How dare you, how does the whole world dare: I see exactly how I did this to myself.

I have prayed this prayer many a times: break my heart until it opens. How violently my heart has been broken open in this past week, in these past two days. It has been tended to so brutally and tenderly that at this moment there is just stillness. I was so out of it. After the Ayahuasca the week before, I am so in touch with my emotions: they can flow right through me. When we were sitting on the steps of the church, you sat with me for three hours as you came up on your MDMA and I on my mushrooms. Never in my life have I reached so deeply into what is alive in me and offered it up so freely and compassionately. I cried like a baby, like an 8 year-old, a 15 year-old, my twenty year-old self, and also in my present despair. I felt like I was being treated with such cruelty, with such insensitivity: layer upon layer of insensitivity quickly turns into brutality and violence. You expected me to take care of you: you called me an hour earlier and wanted me to help you with your bags. Your bags, which I had taken out of our friend’s car and housed in my camp, given specific instructions on when you’d arrive and how you could communicate with me and retrieve them. I wanted to explore The Borderland, discover myself, and find belonging, and instead I’m leaving my friends and waiting for you on the church steps.

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Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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You arrive and we walk together. You give me nothing. Only a few days earlier you were yelling at me for the first time, because you chose to go out with your friends and take drugs and not sleep for three days. I just wanted you not to sneeze everywhere and get me sick. Now you exist in a monotonous vacuum. You look at me through your coloured glasses. You know that I know that you know there’s a wall here. A wall that you’re not willing to address nor massage down. I hate you for this. I hate you, because I am afraid of being alone. I hate you for being ok with such painful disconnection; for knowing how terribly sensitively I feel this vast ocean between us. I hate myself for repeatedly rowing the boat over to you, thinking that someday you’d row over to me.

You say I make you feel uninspired. That I’m too serious and that you can’t communicate with me and love me the way that I need. Why’d you say this now, and not a month ago when your touch was tender and your eyes wide? I hate you for giving up on me and on us and yourself. I love you, for recognising so purely and for so long, just exactly what you are and where you are, and with whom you belong. Early on Friday you found me at my camp, delivering some essentials, a couple of days too late. I’m sitting with a girl, now a dear little friend, and I feel so uprooted by your sudden presence. You ask me for some ketamine. I ****ing hate you. You use me and you throw me away. You don’t even ask in a nice way or even try to bridge our mile-wide gap with any semblance of care or connection. ****. You. For what seems like the first time, I tell you no. I am leaving for an adventure with the girl, and you think you’re coming with. I tell you no, I don’t want you to come with us. It hurt so much to say, and it came out so brutally and instantly that I couldn’t add any addendums to it. You told me later how proud of me you were for saying that. I told you that I am never letting myself get close to someone like you ever again.

I love you and I want to forever recreate our bond of trust and love. We sat there in our pillow fort and made amends; said all the things that we managed to bring to the surface. It was a soft and tender, but also a disconnected and difficult space. I told you that I wanted to part ways in a way that honours the both of us and sets us up to continue strengthening our connection and love. That’s what disturbs me about break-ups: doing violence to something that is so precious to each other, and to lose one of your most dearly beloveds, possibly forever. I thought we’d have more time. If I had just seen with greater clarity how stuck my creative energy was, and if I had managed to channel more positive energy towards myself, perhaps I would’ve been more joyful to be around at home? We never do things together, you say. And whenever we do, we don’t even seem to like each other’s company. It’s half true. There is no effort from your end. My life is so uprooted that I can’t seem to channel much energy into one particular vector. My love for you is conditional and it moves in phases that correspond to how poorly you’re tending to yourself and thus how poorly you’re treating me. So then I don’t want to take you out, because when you tell me a story, I am faced with the predicament that I also hate you.

You take such pleasure in my emotions. You look at me with giant, endearing eyes as I laugh and cry as we watch Queer Eye. Your joy is so abundant. When we’re happy your joy seems so pure, but when we’re disconnected, I experience it like a stillborn baby. It’s dead at the core and I can’t even tell if you’re aware of how much sadness it evokes in me when you shove it in my face without any attempt to come together and tend to the relationship. I can’t tell if you’re traumatized or if you’re infinitely wiser than myself. I conjure realities and you live in your truth. You moved back to Copenhagen for me. You told the world that I taught you how to love. You were the one that wanted to be in a relationship, that wanted to break up, to be together again, to break up, and to be together again. I delight in the fleeting moments when you show me real depth of emotion and I really just thought that we’d make our way there, together.

I don’t have words for the intensity of emotion that I experienced on that Tuesday night and the following 30 hours on Acid Friday. It was such a glorious day. At camp I asked Gaia for a blessing and she took me into her ceremony tent and bestowed me her favour. I drew Birgitte, for inspiration. A few tears and a drop of acid later, I found myself at a soulful writing workshop. Led by a life-worn and giddy Swede. I wasn’t prepared for the journey we’d go on together. I had so many tears fall from my eyes as we all came together, shouted and shrieked, touched butts and welcomed all of each other. In this chaotic story we wove together exactly what it is that we yearned for, what was standing in our way, and who it is that we are. It was precisely the grounding that I needed. I wrote a letter to myself and to you and went on my way.

I went back to my camp and prepared us all dinner. The sun loosened its grip, Sammy showed up, you appeared and asked for the ketamine, and Sammy and I went on our way to explore the mysteries of the Borderland. At the temple she dosed me with another four drops. At the Foxhole I got a red stamp under my eye, saying “at your service”. Walking out, I shared with Sammy that the discordant space between us was really the upheaval of emotionality that your presence at our camp stirred up in me. She offers that we take a right turn into the forest and gives me her full attention. Again I am bursting at the seams the moment we are alone. Wretched and grief-stricken tears and cries and screams are convulsing out of my body.

“I think we’re gonna break up”, I stammer.

I gulp and heave and spit out my gum in a frenzy. I am shocked at the brutality of our meeting. How can I describe this energy in you that blocks me out completely? How unsafe I feel when you hover around me without acknowledging all of our moments that brought us here? I can’t bear to look much at you, because all I can see is the glaze in your eyes and your insentient smile. I want my baby back. Where are you hiding her? What have we done to her?



Master Don Juan
Apr 8, 2010
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My motivation to piece the entire story together fades under the weight of my withering feelings towards you. I don’t want you to disappear. You have been the canvas upon which I have painted my love. You are my guide and my teacher, my student and my mother, my lover and my beloved. I am grieving the loss of my closest confidant, and my sweetest companion. How long will it be until I can feel your loving arms around me again? I’m falling apart feeling the void that is left in your absence. How long will it be until I can clutch you tight in unconflicted tenderness? I’m gonna miss you so dearly, my innocent little girl. What will I do without your light? Why does love have to be so treacherous? Defeat, my defeat; It is only when the two of us are reunited that I can see clearly.

I remember in a past life, a previous lover told my subdued and fragmented self that it’s not my responsibility to love. This movement from doing to being, it is relentless and it is softening me. When we are able to connect with what is alive in us and share it authentically, love flows easily. What I am calling my love for you, is really a desire and a grief over the qualities in you that I am denying in myself. We had work to do with each other and we couldn’t have done any better. I am so proud of us. I want to love you (and me) in such a way that we can be free. I want to honour the light in you and let go of you until I can love you effortlessly. And perhaps your arms can again wrap around my body like it is the most natural thing in the world.

At the same time, what it would mean to love, would be to love myself. To learn what it means to take back my own power and to come to trust myself fully. To re-awaken my sense of opportunity, and to let the soft animal of my body love what it loves. What I am really trying to say, is that I am having powerful feelings that I have to establish boundaries around myself. I have become so adept at interacting with other people’s boundaries at all levels, but when it comes to my own I am just a wide-open receiver. In my search for connection and belonging, I have been so indiscriminate in who I seek shelter with and who I allow to get close to me. I ignore the brief discordant moments. The glitches that are telling me that this situation is not right and that I’d rather be somewhere else. I have been so reckless with my heart, thinking that I could hold everything. It’s a beautiful path and I have expanded and softened so much, but now my being is contracting and I need to create a cradle of my own becoming.

Sammy and I make our way back to the Borderland. We stumble upon a tavern and we rejoice in the most incredible homestyle natural fries fresh out of the fryer. We consume our treasure in great company and make our way to the carnival on top of the hill. What unravels in front of us is the most ecstatic spectacle of free souls that I’ve ever encountered. It knocked me off my feet for a bit and I am standing at the edge of the carnival, weighing up my future on the scales. I feel as if what I need is to make a real good human connection. Just as I have that thought, Lara shows up. She drags me to front of the dancefloor and introduces all her friends to me. It’s beautiful, but I can’t keep up. My heart is somewhere else, so I plop into the tent and sit myself in front of a bald man accompanied by a two small drums. He greets me and starts to play and sing. I try to harmonise with his singing, but my throat is blocked. The notes are coming out of my mouth like the screeches of a baby bird. It’s really quite awful and painful and frustrating, but he encourages me and we stay in it. You see, to be a safe space you need to be without an agenda. And to be without an agenda, you need to feel whole. Part of feeling whole is to find and surrender to your own rhythm. I am slapping my leather pants with increasing ferocity as our energy grows and expands. A guide sits down next to us, putting his hands on our shoulders and shaking his egg. Our energy grows more and more ecstatic and louder and louder. We are emanating vast amounts of powerful energy and I can feel it as a sphere forming around us. This whole time I am following his rhythm and copying him. He signals to me to use the drums and take charge with my voice. I am so powerful and free, but the moment my hands touch the drums, I shrink and cower and lose myself completely as shame and concerns enter my body. I don’t have a feeling or understanding of how my hands *should* meet the drums, and these poor people, I am ruining their peace by producing these pubescent noises. They hold space for me for a good while, but I am to this writing moment still questioning the beat of my drum.