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Dreamwalking you dive through the ritual smoke
Are you trying to open your eyes right now? Sparks of fire fly in orbits like glowing shooting stars of a shaman along your nocturnal cloud vault, like wild smoke swirling in an illuminated glass full of colorful death masks. The psychedelic images of the scorching swamp are lambent flickering of fire, shrill chirping as dazzling bells on trance-like dancing feet hallucinating and twitching hands handling woods with smoking resins. It doesn't matter if you're on the Mississippi, in a tent of skin, a cabin of wood, by the wide river. It doesn't matter if you open your eyes or not.
Dreamwalking you dive through the smoke, overwhelmed by the differentiation of its fragrances, its colours, its textures. Warm, spicy incense, light resinous, woody and yet slightly citric, sometimes brown-balsamic, then sandy and brittle. Then spicy cedars like mist from pine trees, cool and turquoise marble the colors of the smoke. Wood-fibrous green, the smoke of the juniper glows on a canvas of leather a pattern like batik in the bluish haze of birch tar tobacco.
Could you see a hand in front of your eyes? Did she give you spurge, the hull crust? It has the aroma of bitt'rem Campari, the taste of dark tobaccos, the smell of Gawith's. She's medicine from the neotropis and she's drug besides. In the five to six hours in which you give yourself to her, the mist will clear, the smoke dryer and brighter, you will sift fresh spicy woods more and more, the incense will condense to light brown ashes.
Memories of Ex Voto, the hippie. Does Viennese blood flow in the Mississippi?
(With thanks to Morgaina)