Amsterdam



What was it that made me wake up sweaty, alarmed, and with a painful erection? Oh yes, that message from my last shamanic journey: Enjoy the pleasures this puppet theater has to offer; enjoy it while you are still here. It will soon be over. You are on to a new journey.

Was I dreaming?
I put my clothes in a plastic bag and check the bag with the half-naked guy at the garde-robe in exchange for a plastic token. We cannot talk because the music is too loud, but he gives me that smile. I keep the token inside my runners and we both laugh, but not really.
I am inside a cubicle at Club Church's toilet, trying to get hold of the last half of ecstasy that is crushed inside a small plastic bag hidden in my runners. I fiddle with the laces, the plastic bag, and the plastic token. Too many things simultaneously. And my jaw aches. In what seems to be slow motion, a portion of the half “e” falls from the plastic bag to the toilet seat. The seat is wet, totally wet, as are the walls and damp yellow light bulbs. Someone is vigorously knocking at the door of my cubicle. I have to make a quick decision: I lick. I lick the rim of the toilet seat, attempting to make the minimum possible contact with the seat but at the same time enough contact to catch the entire fraction of “e.” This being my last half pill, the event is significant enough for my brain to factor the risks and benefits involved and decide to lick the toilet seat in order to retrieve the magical substance.
I come out of the cubicle drenched with sweat and feeling as if I have achieved a most trying somersault. Enjoy the pleasures. It will soon be over. Nobody notices my victory, but my face is radiant and my heart is ever expanding. My eyelashes have turned into a rudimentary shamanic eye curtain, those fringes of beads that shamans in Siberia use to separate themselves from the ordinary world. With my eyes almost closed, I ask the glowing demigod behind the bar for a Spa Blauw. I grab a five-Euro note from my runners and hand it to him, making a hand gesture for him to keep the change. He smiles and flexes. Transpersonal clubbing collective consciousness: there is no need to talk.
My eyelashes are still almost down when I dive into the 130 beats per minute of progressive house. While you are still here. The melody is standing alone, and the song does not start building up until what seems much later. As the beats become velvety and bitter, I begin grinding my teeth. I welcome the much-awaited midsong climax with orgasmic joy. Daft Punk’s “Alive” is exploding inside my skull. I can distinctly feel my pituitary gland oozing serotonin. I can push my pituitary gland with my tongue, exactly in the same way that I can push my prostate with a finger up my butt to make it ooze precum. It itches, and it makes me happy. I scratch my scalp with one hand and grab my balls with the other one. Enjoy the pleasures while you are still here. We hug and kiss and jump and have the weirdest empathic visions. Alive.
From "Shaman Express" Beretta Rousseau, 2015. Chap. 1 "Alive"
Ph: jetsettimes.com

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