THE CONTINUED DISINTEGRATION OF CIVIL LIBERTIES BY THE HAND THAT FEEDS US

I thought to write about the joys of solo travel even during a pandemic, or, my mighty love for Texas, but how incredibly self indulgent and tone deaf that would be. Who gives a fuck about bbq or tacos when decades long systemic racial and injustice issues in America are once again coming to a head? We are in a pivotal moment for our country; how do we as a nation go forward when the ones meant to serve and protect US are the ones standing on our necks? All the while, our leader holds the lit match and a gasoline can, watching our democracy burn like the fucking nihilist, racist he is. 

The obvious problem are the police. Not all police, of course, but the ones who think they are above their own laws, who target and bully and harass and murder innocent citizens of America. Imagine if Trump declared martial law tomorrow. Their gang mentality would be the first group to enforce us into Handmaid Tale’s like conditions, all under the name of justice and peace. It terrifies me, as it should you, if you love and believe in the principal foundations of our nation.

I was just pulled over in rural Texas on my way back to Colorado for speeding. As the red and blue lights flashed in my rear view mirror, I tensed up. All of the horrific stories of recent police brutality ran through my mind as I pulled out my license and registration. The officer was a young, white male who calmly explained I was doing 92 in a 75 and should only be in the left lane to pass other vehicles. He gave me a ticket, handed me my license back and told me to have a safe journey back home. It was a quick, harmless, efficient interaction. 

As I drove back onto the highway, hands shaking, all I could think of was, what if I was black woman? Or a black man? Would this interaction have gone the same way? Or would I have been asked to step out of the vehicle, and when questioning why, handcuffed, fought in a struggle and then lost my life?

I am absolutely aware of what my white privilege has afforded me in my life and this is how I know: I’m not 100% white. I am half Indian and growing up I was conscious enough to know that it was absolutely advantageous for me that I can pass off as a white woman. I literally used to pray and be thankful that I do not look Indian because I wanted to blend in and be accepted into this white world. My whiteness had more to offer America than my Indian-ness ever could. 

My ambiguous skin tone and features put me in another realm and allowed me to get out of many situations while growing up in Ft. Lauderdale that my black and brown friends could not. This continued into my adult life by getting hired for any job I applied for, traveling the world alone without much trouble, never being fucked with by cops for simply being alive. To be perceived as white is to be invisible to a very specific kind of injustice, to float through the doors the white patriarchy held wide open for me, scathed by other systemic oppression in place but spared from the horrors of police brutality. 

George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor and the countless others are no longer alive simply for being born and existing as black people. It is heartbreaking, infuriating, it makes me sick, and it needs to stop, now. I do not claim to know how to educate or turn the heart of a person who would kill another human being so casually. How to unravel the deep history of racial segregation, separation and bias created by our own hands throughout our history in this country. 

I only know I can start with myself, to first see my place and position of power, and then accept personal responsibility to speak up when I see something, sign petitions and make phone calls like I did two days ago with Shaun King’s organizing teams. I can continue to educate myself on how to be an ally to people of color and the disenfranchised in general.

And yet, even more discouraging, our corrupt government systems extend way beyond just the local level. Disgustingly, racial profiling and violence is only one part of how are governments are choosing to hurt us and not protect us. Watch the new Jeffery Epstein documentary on Netflix, for example. There are people in our fucking government agencies that participated in or turned a blind eye to international child sex trafficking, that blamed and discredited the victims to allow this monster to continue to prey on underage girls. None of his co conspirators have been held accountable and that motherfucker gets an out by committing suicide? It is heartbreaking, infuriating, it makes me sick, and it needs to stop, now. #jeffreyepsteindidntkillhimself

Or, how about Waco on Netflix? I’m obviously not condoning underage brides or sex with minors or anything else people were made to do there against their will, but for our government to resort to bombing them with highly flammable gas in turn killing everyone inside, women and children included is a absolute disgrace. It is heartbreaking, infuriating, it makes me sick, and it needs to stop, now.

More and more information on how our government actually behaves is becoming available to us through documentaries, podcasts, and journalists still trying to do their jobs in the name of truth. If you want a real mind fuck, listen to the Joe Rogan podcast with Tom O’Neill on the CIA, LSD, JFK and mind control.

The entire world is watching us tear each other apart. Do they think they are witnessing the decline of our once colossal empire? That the most powerful nation in the world couldn’t get our shit together in time to prevent 100,00 covid deaths and then still go out into the streets and murder innocent people?

In case you haven’t noticed, we’re living in an upside down world now where Taylor Swift is standing up to the President of the United States and Kayne West is somewhere, silent with a MAGA hat on.

OH FUCK, IT'S HAPPENED AGAIN

The first time I got a massage in a building that clearly did not have any trained massage therapists present was in Phuket, Thailand. At the time, I was trying to avoid my Australian boyfriend I had travelled there with after my working holiday visa had finished; we were staying in a gaudy all inclusive type resort because he couldn’t handle the more basic guest houses or hostels I preferred. It was never going to work out. 

My favorite way to kill time and contribute to the local economy when backpacking is to get massages. In Southeast Asia, they are cheaper than a single drink while out at the bar back home and usually, are always great (ask for Tiger Balm, instead of oil, if you ever go, and you will float out of there).

I had seen that the building next us was offering massages so I decided to walk over to get some space from the guy, if only for an hour. There was a group of about eight Thai girls in skimpy outfits catcalling to people on the street to come in. First warning sign. I approached and as I said I wanted a massage, the girls started laughing at me and, as I later assumed, discussed which one would have to entertain the dumb American girl. 

The chosen one led me to the back of the building and up a flight of rusty stairs into a darkened room with the shades drawn in the middle of the day. I took my shoes off at the door and stepped further in, noticing that the mats on the floor for each person were separated by white sheets hanging from the ceiling, allowing each massage area to be private. It is typical to have a Thai massage on a padded cushion on the floor because the therapist is stretching your body in addition to the actual massage. However, the rooms are always open and you can see everyone else’s experience around you. Second warning sign. 

I’m led to the farthest section away from the door, up against the opposing wall, underneath the blocked off windows. The paint was chipping off in huge portions and the whole room smelled musty. I took my crossbody bag off and placed it on the floor, slightly outside where the curtain closes shut. “Oh no, put this here, with you. They will steal if they see,” I am told. 

You leave your clothes on for Thai massage because of the stretching so I just laid down, my bag in sight. For the next hour, this young Thai girl grazed her hands over me, pushing her fingers in places she thought she was supposed to, stretching my limbs like they were pieces of licorice. But it was when she was laying on top of me, attempting to stretch not my opposite leg across me, but the same leg, into some weird, contorted position that I thought, “Holy shit, you are so dumb Jamie, she has never done this before, you are just laying in a bed of disgusting sex tourist semen while she plays pretend!!!”

I opened my eyes and caught hers, and we shared an unspoken conversation as she was banging on my thigh with her fists, that went something like this: “I’m sorry, I know this is bad, this is not why someone is usually here. But I have to finish so let’s just get through this”. To which my silent reply was, “I’m so sorry, I should have know, I am so embarrassed”. I kept my eyes tightly shut for the duration, mortified. As she quickly walked me out, some of the curtains were drawn as soft noises escaped from behind them. I left tenser then when I had arrived. 

The second time I was unable to read my surroundings before it was too late was in Bangkok after a night of partying on Koh San Road. I was hammered off of Chang beer poured from beer towers at the Irish bar we had been at all night. I had wandered off from my group looking for this street vendor serving Tom Khai Gai out of giant steaming, porcelain pots on the side of the road a few streets off from where I was staying. As I sat in the plastic chairs on the curb, my hand swaying trying to get the soup into my mouth, I noticed a massage parlor across the street. It was also typical of me to get massages while I was absolutely shit faced. It was safer to pay someone to touch me than to drunkenly invite a random back to my room. 

The experience is hazy, clouded by the unregulated beer, but the whole building was practically pitch black as I was thrown into a private room. This time, the noises from the other customers were anything but soft, and I listened to them semi-turned on, semi-disgusted, as I myself was being caressed: from outside the walls came deep, throaty mooooans, high pitched squeaaaaals, ooohh and ahhhhhhs and a cacophony of other sounds I chose not to make out.

The quality of the massage must have been good enough for me to fall asleep because the next thing I know, I’m woken up being shaken and yelled at by the masseuse to pay and get the fuck out. “At least I didn’t have to look anybody in the eye,” I thought as I stumbled back to my guest house. 

The third and final time happened years later, on a different continent, in a different country, this time in Spain. I had thought my days of sex ring massages were a thing of the past, that I’d smartened up and was now a savvy world traveler. 

I was walking back to my hostel after tanning and drinking sangria all day on Barceloneta Beach (drinking and walking around cities is another favored backpacking pastime of mine). I had passed a massage parlor on the way to the beach advertising twenty Euro massages near Casa Batllo, which was three blocks from my hostel.

My touch-me-while-drunk radar was on, and sure enough, I found it and walked in. There was a thin Spanish man sitting at a plain, plastic desk in the front. Florescent lightening and bare white walls made my eyes squint after coming in from the sunny streets. It didn’t reflect the tranquility of a massage studio in any sense but my thought process was, “I’m in the middle of a European city, Barcelona, this is not Asia, this will be legit. It will probably be shitty, but it’s twenty Euro, who cares”. 

The therapist came out and led me to the room, which at least had an older model massage table. Yet instead of towels or blankets laid down on top, the entire table was covered in thin, one ply toilet paper. What in the actual fuck? What are you cleaning up that you don’t even bother to put down towels??? I know, I should have just turned around and walked out, but I’m always down to see how things play out. I just have to know, even when it’s to my detriment, which, it always is.

I start laying face down, my head squeezed through the circular attachment, staring at the unswept floor. The “oh fuck, this is happening again” moment came immediately when I could feel the therapist’s nails. And I don’t mean somewhat long natural nails, but thick, acrylic fashion nails that she was digging into my back, very uncomfortably, for both of us.

The nail in the coffin came when it was time for her to walk to the other side of the table to get the other side of my back. Had I not been drinking, I probably would’ve noticed that the massage table was pushed against the wall so that only one side was open and accessible to walk around. So, the only thing to do to continue this charade was to push and pull the table from against the wall while I was laying on it…the scraping sounds from the friction of the floor were as loud as the voice in my head screaming, “bahahahhaha, you are such a fucking idiot, there has never been a massage in this room, EVER!”

The only comfort I find in my poor decision making is that for at least an hour, these three women were not subjected to whatever else they would’ve been forced to do. Though each experience left me extremely on edge from witnessing real life, miserable looking sex workers, I graciously handed my money to them for the worst massages I’d ever received, prayed they actually got to keep it, and hoped that they too preferred our time spent together over the alternative. 

🍄 MUSHROOMS AND MUSES 🍄

Two nights ago I ate a decent amount of psilocybin with a friend at her house. It wasn’t planned or expected, which is almost always the best way to ingest psychedelic mushrooms. We laid on the worn carpeted floor next to the burning fireplace, our heads comfortably sinking into faux fur pillows. The snoring of the dog under the chair behind us provided a rhythmic, soft soundtrack to our conversation. If you want to have a genuine, honest, deep discussion with someone, or yourself, magic mushrooms perfectly hold that space for those interactions to take place. There is no room for the ego, for the stories we carry that we’ve created about ourselves. There’s just raw connection and pure truth. 

One of my favorite effects while under the influence, and there are many, are the epiphanies or drops of knowledge that graciously float into my consciousness like willows in the spring. I experienced this same intuitive knowing while drinking ayahuasca. While many of my fellow partakers in the room experienced vivid and clear hallucinations, more often than not, I was thrown into deep, geometric ayahuasca worlds where nothing made sense. Instead, truth bombs, as I like to call them, would wave over me, from deep within me, giving me insights on myself and the universe at large (a future blog for sure).

So, while on these mushrooms, the notion of the elusive muse floated into my perception. I have no idea why. Artists, writers and musicians for centuries have all paid homage to their creative muses, often citing they don’t know where the inspiration comes from, but it is certainly from outside of themselves. If you believe the soul lives on after death, which I do, especially after ayahuasca, then it is said that the part of us that continues to live is our consciousness. Which could mean, the consciousnesses of all the great artists who have walked the earth are somewhere in a cosmic library, waiting to be borrowed and checked out. 

Do our muses somehow merge into our own consciousness to provide assistance in blossoming our creativity? I cannot answer that question. But what the mushrooms were saying to me is that maybe, something like that is happening. Personally, I love this idea. It takes the pressure off of trying to be this creative genius and allows room for ethereal collaboration. There is so much about our own consciousness we have yet to uncover so I keep an open mind to the possibilities that stretch our current way of understanding how the world works.

During these uncertain and precarious times, I find comfort in expanding my mind and opening my heart through psychedelics. We’re all processing the anxiety and existential dread caused by this pandemic in our own ways. There’s no right or wrong way to understand or go deeper into yourself. 

The next morning, while walking home, the sun had barely risen over Smuggler Mountain, casting a muted glow over the concrete landscape around me. The air was slightly dewy and I was still happily feeling the residual effects of the psilocybin. It felt good to feel something within this abyss of lately feeling nothing.

WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE

Well, it's finally happened. I blame it on the coronavirus, of course, which has pushed me so far into solitude and desolation that I have started… a blog. I have been in full 90’s nostalgia during this stay at home order; binging Daria, writing poems, slamming my door and crying in my room for no reason and now, blogging. 

I have never understood this form of creativity. Why give away precious content for free when you can try to sell it and instead make money? Spoken like a true child of 90’s capitalist ideology. But here we are in 2020 where hugging and sunlight are outlawed but sitting on your couch and watching endless forms of entertainment are encouraged. Does anyone else feel these Beavis and Butthead vibes? 

To be brutally honest, which, its my blog so I guess I can say whatever I want, I’ve always resisted this form of writing simply because of the regularity it requires. I have never been good with balance. It's usually all or nothing, as in, all of the alcohol in my immediate surroundings until last call at the bar when I have to work the next day, or, sober for three weeks. But, I am trying to change my imbalanced ways to grow as a writer and give myself an online presence, so, here we are. 

I truly do not even know what the theme will be or what I should talk about. I imagine a more linear structure will emerge as time flows on, so please bear with me (if anyone is even reading this except the seven friends I have forced to do so).

As the saying goes, write about what you know, so here are a few of my favorite topics I’ve acquainted myself with that I know marginally enough about to discuss:

• Travel, specifically, dirty backpacking 

• Psychedelics, my favorite avenue to alter my consciousness 

• Esoteric forms of thought and philosophy 

• Fighting the good fight with alcohol and other drugs 

• Failed relationships and casual sex

• Failed diet fads and workout plans

• South Florida ratchet-ness

• That is correct, I still work in a restaurant 

• How to avoid real life responsibilities by choosing to live in a mountain town

• Confinement during a global pandemic that has suffocated my soul and nearly brought on multiple mental breakdowns

• The undeniable, indisputable fact that memes are life 

I hope you join me on this crash course of my subconscious, I’m really looking forward to discovering what I uncover the same time you do!

**And yes, this photo was taken during the pandemic because children are actually playing outside again and using sidewalk chalk, Lisa Frank style, boom, 90’s, case closed.