She is trapped in here, this little worker bee. There is no pollen or sweet nectar for her in this glass tomb. This Volvo Wheel loader she has inadvertently found herself in offers her no succour.
If only she knew the ways through the glass, an impenetrable barrier between her and her kin.
If this graph paper of mine can help her, this innate tool of man can help her to see what is beyond her own comprehension. If she doesn't strike a deathly blow to this paper gently approaching her panicked little body.
The sphere of beating wings that encapsulate that body purr a path through the air, she understands nothing or her true power. I am envious of her abilities.
She settles on the glass now, the paper with its dangerously sharp edges slide beneath her legs.
She panics. But does not defend the queen this time, only launching back to the paradox of the glass.
I cannot communicate my intentions, it is impossible between man and bee.
The second attempt was met with success, I had gained her trust I think.
The contrast of her tiny golden body against the expanse of the 2dimensional graph was stunning to say the least, she didn't belong here though.
But I could observe her forever if I wanted, with deep envy.
I have her close to the openness now, slowly but surely.
She can feel the breeze, her tiny wings start beating in sympathy to the moving air.
The chemical symphony awaits her, a place of sweet flowers and sunlight, and family.
She will forget this encounter, back to her work and world. But that is what she does best.
Was she really trapped at all? I don't know.




Ok.....your turn

The cat thief

A skinny, pathetic little thing she was, when she fell out of the sky and into our embrace. Deep emotional scarring beneath malnourishment. Deaf and half blind. She had been kicked, but not the playful nudge out of the way kind of kick. Her backs legs and failing hips are evidence of maliciousness and frustration from years of disappointment (her previous family).
We had known of her long before she came to us, from the howling. But we were unsure which of the three neighbouring units she was from.
I saw her through the faded sunroof, she looked down to me. Howling.
We took her off the roof one day, and she never went back.
Her purr was like no other I had ever felt or heard, deep and loving vibration.
She rubs her head against my hand with incredible force for such a small, weak creature.
I think she is remembering how to be a cat again, or is she forgetting?
All she does now is eat and sleep.

The day we knew she was special; she had gotten lost in the dark hallway again and was howling her deep, frightened howl. I switched the light on to a large wolf spider, dangling by a thread halfway up the wall. She was staring at it the whole time but broke her gaze to look at me with a; "Well? Are you going to do something about this?"

She still shits in the bathtub every now and then, but she is part of our family now so I don't mind cleaning it up.
She's sitting on my desk as I write this, purring that deep, loving purr. No longer howling.

"Welcome everyone, to the quaternary conference of household moths. I will keep this one very brief.
As you all must know by now, our brave brother Douglas has made it through.
This fantastic achievement could not have been possible without the disciplined commitment from all of you, that was faithfully displayed in the lead up.
He is safely returned to us now, on this minute. But not empty handed.
My fellow moths, the path to the closet is open!
I proclaim it Douglas way.
The great baffling is over; with its light filled allure and false promises. No longer are we stuck here in this tungsten hell, left to toil around and around in a deathly trance.
Go now, my friends. We are free."




The final leg of the great moth emigration ended with tragedy, those who didn't get stuck around the spongebob square pants night light were swallowed up by the mothballs, hiding in every pocket of every garment.

From across the street he could hear the closing statements from the question master. The quiz was being held in a bar that he had been to maybe once in his six months here. The winners announced and prizes given a low babble was beginning to stir among the patrons. A breeze through his open window disturbs the curtain. He was suppose to be writing an essay. Time was fluttering away and he had not yet even decided on the question. The karaoke, "BAAAAAAABY" it started in a dissonant fashion, was growing irksome. Tiring now of even describing the scene, he sits back and takes a deep breath. Whoever it is that has started this thread, he thought, has alluring style.

A shallow ceiling and dirty walls, the fan casts a shape from the tungsten light in its centre. It isn't spinning. That dark butterfly shadow has the inhabitants of the room transfixed, every pair of eyes except one.
The doorman, he was precisely that; exceptional hearing to say the least and a penchant for forethought and seeing around corners.
He would do as his namesake, guard the door.
He could not participate past his duty to the door, he wouldn't want to. A good doorman asks no questions beyond that which involves matters of security. But for what he is, he is as good as it gets.

"Clear." He spoke with a soft hubris that betrayed his importance to the matters at hand, the inhabitants of the room were in fact in his hands, at his mercy. A strange circumstance considering the power the group could wield.

Without hesitation, time being of the essence for this particular situation the machine was switched on. The 3 participants in the centre of the room were at ease with the procedure, they had run this gauntlet for as long as they could remember, with each other. A perfect trialogue was about to take place. Outside of language and time. The doorman shifted nervously.
The blades of the fan began their slow rotation, casting sympathetic shadows on the ceiling. It was connected to a machine, by an unseen mechanism. Along with the 3 of course, who were connected by a series of cables attached to pads around their bald skulls.
The purpose of the fan was for a direct frame of reference in the physical dimension, if needed; at any time during the procedure any one of the three could simply open their eyes and gauge the progress of time based on the speed at which the fan was spinning. It was crude and simple, requiring nothing but a quiet room, a fan and worthy participants.

Suddenly the door was in sight, barely visible in detail but unmistakably a door. Through the veil of darkness the resolution of it rose like a doomed ship falling into its watery grave. It is as though I were a dolphin, suspended in the moonlit waters watching the massive hull of the ship materialise from the surface toward me. Ever so slowly it bore down upon me, my stride was fast becoming a glide with curious excitement of what lie behind the door. It feels as though my body has disappeared, into the blackness with all but one of my senses. Which was rapidly fading away the closer I approached the door. What felt like solid ground underfoot a mere moment before had vanished, I was flying without resistance from the air. Did I still have a body? I wasn't sure. The door was slowly appearing into focus now, I could see paint flaking away on its surface, revealing a soft wood underneath. The handle was brass, but it was well worn. There were dark smudges around it as though thousands of hands had laid fingerprints over thousands of years on the door. I detected no light source within this space, but still the door was illuminated. I held my hands in front of my face to cut a silhouette of the door, but to my shock they had disappeared. How am I supposed to open the door, I wondered. At that exact moment the door unlocked and released a few inches backwards.

I don't mean to intrude, just wanted to thank you for all these little yet big stories. I am enjoying them!

The day I take a kind word as an intrusion, is the day I lose my humanity thanks cog I'm glad you are enjoying them.

The psychedelic experience is unbounded, and can appear in many forms on many mediums.

@UAN
Great contribution! Keep it up baby

I wish you well my friend.

He prowled the kitchen looking for the cup that he had left in his bedroom. Finally! He thought, I know where it is now. Upon his return he found that he was mistaken. Where the fuck is my cup? looking around nodding, It's definitely not in here. Though there is "A" cup, and it is mine. I'll just use that one.

When he got back to his room he had already started baking a parsnip. Oh yeah and needed a shower. "Strange breakfast" he said aloud, looking pointedly at the time. It was 07:48 AM. He had gotten up a few hours before upon remembering that, drunkenly, he had tried to cook last night. The oven was still on when he got to it, contents blackened and hollowed. There's always next time he remembered thinking and then, as you now know, put the parsnip in. That was 58 minuets ago, He was eating it currently.

16th February 1934.

The symbols upon the walls in the dim light betray nothing of the location of the red man. He is cunning, elusive.
My companions don't express much enthusiasm anymore, the thirst has broken their spirits one by one.
A diverse group of people began our journey, but now a pathetic excuse of a huddled ball of human fear, shivering quietly in the damp dark.
My eyes are tired as they scan the wall for any clue as to the whereabouts of our pursuit, I am beginning to lose faith. Had we taken a wrong turn?
I can't bear that bad news, not to them. They might just drop dead here in the cavern or worse, mutiny.
We are all equals here but, I am still their figurative captain and I cannot find the red man on my own.
I need them.
We are hungry.

Does retracing ones step count as moving forward?

I wake up with my faced pressed against the soft moss of the forest floor. I must have fallen asleep again. Am I here or there?

I look around. A green halo surrounds a red-and-white mushroom. The sky is dark but every tree glows with a faint light of life, we are all connected here. Where is here?

I sit up and search for the nearest large leaf at the appropriate height. Turning my head right I discover I'm almost touching one. It's glistening with water from the last rain, cupped to hold the sweet nectar in store for anyone who needs it. Careful not to damage the leaf I bring my lips to it and empty the rainwater into my mouth. I swallow the elixir of life and feel evermore connected to every living thing in the forest. A spider climbs onto the back of my hand. I smile at it. I love it. A fly lands on the back of my hand as well, a hasty mistake? The spider jumps it. I laugh.

I am full of love.
I am full of life.
I am full of death.
It's alright.

Everything is perfect.

This is real.

I take a step and the clouds move miles, I take another and the stars make trails in the sky, by my sixth step the sun peeks from behind the horizon, by my seventh I turn back, its light sets my eyes on fire.

I walk past the red-and-white mushroom again, and it glows and it glows and it's so very large. I take it and retreat to the comfortable darkness of a cave. Thank you mother nature for your fruit, I know it has to hurt me before it can heal me,

I accept your tough love

Unconditionally.

I eat the red-capped mushroom and lie down.

I get so tired, I close my eyes.

I wake up and my stomach hurts and I purge and I purge.
I purge everything from within me that doesn't belong
And before long time stops and then it goes really really
fast and the stars leave really long trails!
And it's night again and I'm grateful. I'm safe. The bright
daylight can hurt my eyes no more. Darkness is my blanket.
I'm safe.

The cave changes and I'm there. Somewhere. Where am I?
It doesn't matter. I'm here.

Every place is the right place and when it becomes the wrong place
I journey on.
Forever journey on.

In memory of Terence McKenna - May your voice will ring through my ears until my last breath.


Here we stand today, 80 years deep into a modern undertaking of arguably immeasurable importance to the future of all Earth-based life-forms.
Out of the void of imagination and cast into the fire of industry, the collective efforts of our species planetary domination are awe-inspiring.
And yet, melancholy still persists and pervades us.
A great yearning for more.
More of what?
The answer seems obvious when you are hungry.
Less so when you are satisfied.
A direction one might focus their attention towards, and historically have, is that which concerns the spirit.
This exploration is personal and subjective; The results can be shared, the technique to bring another there can be shared, the experience cannot.
Flying in the face of modernity, and a deep human need to share everything, leaving attempts to define a flavour of the experience promptly at the door, frustratingly so.
But there is another direction to point our efforts.

Here we stand today, 80 years into the great fork in the road for humanity (and life).
The tools to catastrophically destroy our particular iteration of the experiment of life on this planet, alongside the tools that arguably lead to our inevitable prosperity.
The Nexus deals with the latter of those tools. And you, Terence. Will be proud of us.
Psychedelics.
A doorway to the imagination. The great artwork of everything. The muse.
And we, the members of the nexus, have a responsibility to our species and the planet.
We are like the librarians of old. We hold the keys to the door.
And we can learn, share and expand.
So that pure imagination can infect the brilliant minds that lay transfixed in the sticky web of the systems that we have escaped in days gone by.
So that those minds, those brilliant minds, can act according to no rules but that which applies to that of the entire planet.
Then we can satisfy our need for spirit.

Thank-you for the words kind sir.

It's been a while.

Six weeks ago I quite smoking, one week ago I started again. Life happened, it would seem. The troubles of being a human being in 2015, I won't detail the reason I picked up my packet for $28.99 at 7eleven it really doesn't matter.
But I will tell you a little story about a multi-headed dragon/octopus entity living in my head off the nicotine I've fed it everyday for the last 8 years.
A tricky and elusive beast, its primary weapons system: Social anxiety (an even trickier truth to admit to ones-self) but those of you with your own dragons know that all too well. It's funny how we forget even why we started, another trick of the dragon. Quietly whispering sweet nothings in your ear and buttering you up with promises of blissful, perfect interactions with every one you meet. As long as you light up though, let's not forget the dragon must be fed.

I'll tell you how it grows, and you will understand why I described it as an octopus too. It grows over time, each tentacle is attached to an experience: typically a pleasurable one. Each tentacle has the head of a dragon that (seemingly) stands guard over that experience. To ensure that when you go to recall the memory, the dragon can colour it with its propaganda.
And over time it grows.
You get lost in the beasts charming ways, blind to it. You stop believing the promises laid out plain as day on every packet you purchase, colourful images of death. Because the dragon convincingly assures you that it could never happen to you and that you are special. The cough starts, your body suffers at the hands of your mind, it's so desperately trying to scream at you to stop. You listen, but quickly the dragon shuts you down with whispers and stories of relatives with exceptional genetics - "Your grandfather smoked for 80 years."
And finally, the dragon convinces you in that charming way with that Cheshire Cat smile, that it was part of you all along.

Today I go into battle with a dragon I've already vanquished. 715am marks the first (and hopefully) last smoke I have on the first day of the second time I quit smoking.

RIP my love. Thank you for letting me know you.

An open window, she was at play. All rolling forms of her figure in dance. Not only a breeze, sharpening the beads of sweat, cascading, reflecting the light, but also a new sound. A singing like sunlight echoing now about and round her. A pause in motion as sudden soft shock shook subtlety yet with determined direction up through form. Base of spine out through tips of limbs held now at balance. folding back with the receding wave. Those limbs a tide.