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fuck christmas

im sick to death of all this christmas bullshit. so sit down and school yourself on this.

christmas is a sham. if jesus WAS born and indeed, even existed, he would not have been born at christmas. the shepherds in the story of his birth would not have been out in the fields during december, as palestinian winters are far too cold. what we know as christmas today is actually the reminants of an ancient roman festival called saturnalia, celebrating the winter solistice. it was a festival where men would give gifts to each other as part of the celebrations. then they would also get drunk, beat up their wives and have sex with each other.

early christians didnt celebrate the birth of christ, as easter was the main holiday. the church decided to institute the birth of christ as an official holiday in the fourth century. pope julius I chose december 25th as the day as a political strategy; to absorb the celebrations of saturnalia and thus ensure the popular embrace of christianity. but because celebrations were still the same and everyone still acted like madmen, christmas was banned by the prostestants until the 1800s, when the basis of the holiday we know today came to be.

the modern image of santa claus best characterises what christmas is today. mass produced, wasteful and hollow. santa rides a bell ridden sleigh with a dozen fine reindeer, the ultimate status symbol of the rich in 1820s manhattan, where he was first depicted with this mode of transportation. santa was made from a tall thin man into his familiar short plump figure by an editorial cartoonist, and finally given his glorious red cloak by none other than the coca cola company. it is a sad irony that the image of saint nicholas of myra, the real life basis of santa claus who was famous for his generous gifts to the poor and needy, has become the ultimate symbol of greed, consumerism and conspicuous consumption.

and if you think im over-reacting, take my word for it, consumerism is destroying our lives. just check out these figures: in the united states and europe alone, $17 billion per year is spent on pet food. yet $13 billion per year would provide basic health care and nutrition for the whole world. $12 billion is spent on american perfume, yet $9 billion would provide everyone alive with clean water. cosmetics cost $8 billion per year, yet basic education for all the children on earth would only cost 6. $450 billion is how much the US spends on christmas every year. thats enough for 16 years of food, water and education for the entire planet.

you can call me a grinch if you like, but you cant call me wrong. christmas is a hollow holiday that sheds light of the ugly truths of modern society. the very existence of a 'christmas spirit' is depressing proof of human natures blind acceptance of the status quo and cowardice to take action in the face of crisis for fellow man.

fuck christmas.

"when you go to uni..."

university is nothing like school.
you dont have lunch times with your mates and class actually matters.
the only school rules are local law and culture.
twist those to your advantage as much as possible.

when you go to uni, dont be afraid to ditch everything and get on the piss at every chance possible.
its pretty rare that everybody throws caution to the wind at the same time so you must step up and keep the fire alive.
if theres one time in your life when nobody really gives a fuck what you do, that time is when youre a student.
enjoy.
especially in first year, those classes are easy and dont mean shit.
party during o-week like youve never partied before.
it would actually be rude not to.
collect all the free shit you can.
play your cards right and youll have a new warddrobe and a goody bag to boot.
create a network of friends that represent as many social circles as possible.
pretty much the best thing about uni is all the trippy people you come across.
go out and find the good cunts, listen to stories and play drinking games.
blow out a few foreign exchange students.
fuck as many chicks as you can.
i cant stress this enough.
youve never had such an exotic menu so sample the range.
fall in love if you want but dont be a pussy whipped bitch.
if you dont get a misses then you'd better learn to cook properly.
make a point of knowing what times all the local shops close.
do as many epic missions as physically possible.
the more inventive and exciting the better.
embrace the experiences where you feel yourself go through a significant change even if they suck.
take heapsa pictures of everything all the time.
learn the town and make the most of it.
explore and scope out spots to call your own.
make a complete drunken fool of yourself every once in a while.
take massive naps in the middle of the day just because you can.
learn to skull beers.
its a skill that will save a lot of grief for you in the long run.
unless you just won lotto get pissed before you go to town.
take a hipflask with you if youre really game.
dance like the graceful mover you always secretly knew you were.
if you didnt hook any chick, walk home from town.
you probably wont remember it anyway so save your taxi money for a mean feed from the bakery.
stop watching TV.
i guarantee that theres at least 4000 more kick-ass things going on at the same time.

when you go to uni, only do classes you have interest in.
doing classes you dont like sucks balls and its a total waste of time and money.
and youll probably fail too.
dont fail papers because of laziness because youll never finish your course.
put active effort into learning the most you can out of your classes.
it aint like school where everything is bullshit.
you paid for this so you'd better get your dollars worth.
do papers that are interesting but have little or nothing to do with your course.
it makes for a more well rounded experience and you get a look into the lives of completely different students.
go to all your lectures even if youre just gonna sit there and draw.
even when youre not paying attention you absorb knowledge so its better that its something the matters rather than daytime television.
if possible try to keep one chick in every class to flirt with.
she'll make the long days not suck as much and your attendance will definitely remain constant.
find your own learning and working style.
if writing essays between 3 and 4 in the morning works for you then fuck what everyone else says.
become friends with your lecturers and tutors.
theyre not dicks, are pretty interesting and may even end up buying you a beer sometime.

when you go to uni, enjoy and reflect on every single moment.
it passes really fast.

untitled movies rant

you know whats fucking bullshit? that the guys who made 40 year old virgin, knocked up, superbad, pineapple express -basically, the funniest fucking films to come out over the last few years- havent got a single oscar or golden nomination yet. not a single one!

katherine hiegl, the chick from knocked up and greys anatomy (and roswell too, for all you true TV geeks), didnt even get nominated for best actress in a musical or comedy at the golden globe awards. and you know won that award? muthafuckin' beyonce. yes, the same destinys-child, married-to-jayz, got-thighs-thicker-than-redwoods beyonce. sure, maybe she can shake her shit like jelly and sing a few notes here and there, but the bitch cant act her way out of a wet paper bag.

did you see austin powers goldmember? that movie was fucking terrible. it sucked more than the "paul holmes sings the classics" CD that came out a few years ago. beyonce 'acted' her way through every scene like pam grier on an ether binge whilst mike myers just proved what we've all been thinking for a while now: that he shoulda quit making comedies years ago, because shit is just getting cringe worthy now. and not in the funny ricky gervais way either. in the 'minister repeatedly saying the wrong name at a funeral' way.

and whats worse is that the movie beyonce won the award for, 'dreamgirls', also got the golden globe for best musical or comedy. are you fucking kidding me? dreamgirls won and neither knocked up nor superbad even got nominated? thats some grade-A 'i did not have sexual relations with that woman' bullshit.

if that doesnt prove the industry's blatant elitism and general disregard for you, then you might as well go and cut your hair with the lawnmower, 'cause youll never learn.

unicyclist is a synonym for douchebag

at uni every now and then a big crew of unicyclists show up during the day to have a jam. fair enough. but theyre such fucking dicks about it.

i was watching them today for about 15 minutes before i had to leave out of pure disgust. the audacity of these dudes is mind boggling - theyre the ones prancing about on a circus form of transportation during lunch hour on a university campus, and for some outlandishly fucked reason think THEY have the right to the footpaths. i even saw a couple of them evil eye a chick up for 'being in their way' when one of them nearly bumped into her after a botched trick. unbelievable.

furthermore, they think theyre hot shit because of it, too. theyre somehow under the impression that unicycling is the next 'big' extreme sport, and that everyone else is nowhere near cool enough to understand. all got their knee and shin pads on, wearing tshirts of their favourite unicycle brands and shit. they roll around in a big crew like the mickey fucking mouse club in a 'hey, look at us, we're the da bomb!' kinda way. (yeah, i'd imagine they actually still say shit like 'da bomb' too). i expect this from teenagers, but still pulling this shit after your 21st is straight up pathetic.

uh, i dont know if youve noticed this buddy ...but thats a fuckin unicycle. not a harley davidson. stop strutting your stuff like you deserve our lips on your ass, you wannabe peacock motherfuckers. youre not the cool kids, youre a bunch of fucking clowns. literally.

how many chicks has the average uncyclist ever got just 'cause hes a unicyclist? i know how many: fuck all. the average janitors probably got more game solely from being a janitor than a unicyclist has ever got. period. the only time a single wheel is ever cool is when its a chain steering wheel attached muscle-car-on-steroids so bad ass people cross the road just to avoid it. you unicyclist fags are just shit on wheels, as far as i can see.

get a real hobby, fucktards.

stuff to do before death

-rip a tshirt off like hulk hogan
-make a movie
-land a cabolleral flip
-run up a 'down' escalator
-join MENSA
-see some stand up comedy
-get on TV
-kiss a chicks hand when i meet her for the first time
-fart in an elevator
-hit a ping pong ball with enough spin that it bounces back over the net
-record a few rap tracks
-do a yardy
-get a standing ovation
-process a film
-pull a rabbit out of a hat
-streak across something
-eat chicken with eggs (mother and baby meal)
-write and draw a comic book
-smoke a joint outside parliament
-join the mile high club
-go to japan
-try my hand at acting
-do a mean hitch-hiking mission
-make a successful attempt at avoiding police capture
-jump from moving vehicle
-get a puppy and name him 'optimus prime'
-start/join another band
-joint/head
-get something i wrote published
-learn another language
-amsterdam. nuff said.
-parkour a straight line about 500 metres long
-watch fight club 28 times
-dress up as hendrix and enter the national air guitar comp
-skitch a car
-skitch a random car
-three way ...phonecall (ya dirty bastards)
-print some t shirts
-teach a class
-hang porn on my bed room walls
-fear and loathing in las vegas
-get married in vegas
-get divorced in vegas
-grind a handrail
-perform something on stage in front of a large audience again
-learn a martial art of some kind
-get more ink done
-camp overnight for tickets
-bomb a whole wall
-do a decent throwie
-teach monkeys to play poker
-start a s l o w clap
-throwie on a 10
-draw another decent self-portrait

tell me if you can help me with any of them, or if youve got anything you think i should add to the list.

consumerism sucks

if you look in the fields of a farm thats been owned by the same family for about the last 70 years or so, chances are, youll see their first 1946 ford pickup truck just sitting there. pretty rusty, miles away from getting a warrant and most likely home to a racoon or two.

but still pretty good.

when the industrial world realised that they were selling products that consumers would only need to buy one of, they got smarter. and a lot more sinister. they started selling products that were actually designed to become faulty over time, forcing consumers to purchase more products. a stab in the back of all the loyal customers in the name of money.

schick sells disposable razors. doctors will sell you medicine, but not the cure. mobile phones seem to conveniently be updating right after you buy the lastest $7 billion dollar sattelite equipped magic nokia.

wu tang said it best with Cash Rules Everything Around Me, this greed is everywhere. what a sad world we live in, governed only by our selfish instincts in the pursuit of a very hollow, material happiness.

i hate how people of our modern society have to try to find meaning in their lives through commercial culture. we're all fucking drones shackled to the timetable of capitolism with our wristwatches, bending over backwards in the hopes of accumlulating financial wealth. wealth that means nothing anyway. we live a meaningless lifestyle in a hollow world, and the beast just looks to be getting stronger.

i think this resentment of consumerism has fuelled many a mans angst. american beauty is a direct criticism of living in a "perfect" world, and tyler durdens monologue half way through fight club succintly summarises the sentiments of many:

"I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."

bring on project mayhem, i say.

'My Favourite Game' - a treatment i wrote.

02 Apr 2007

shyeah, winning entry rite hurr.

The individual flames of a thousand candles illuminate a small and mostly empty dark room. Each of varying size and placed at just as many heights around the room atop the many chairs, tables and drawers littered around the wall, as well as the floor. While the candles abient glow is one of gentle stillness, it hides an uneasy sense of fear and loathing, and this is confirmed by the look splashed across the face of the nervous man standing alone in the room.
He is a young man of approximately 20 years, with a nerve of steel and a bead of cold sweat for each year on display. He stands without shoes, black khaki pants acting as the vines to his tree trunk legs and with a white cotton singlet acting as an armour chest plate. The nametag on his singlet reveals his name – "Fox", and he looks just as sly and cunning as his namesake suggests.
With footsteps to quiet to register with even elephant ears, he walks toward the window. He pulls the curtain open; only just enough for him to get a view out of, and it is revealed that he is on the second floor overlooking a main road. He quickly turns back and begins to dress himself in a fast and efficient manner. A black t-shirt is first, which is smartly followed by black socks. A blue pair of Chuck Taylor sneakers is next, before he stands, puts on a black zip-up hood and pulls black gloves out of the pockets. He puts the right one on first, and then pulls the left one over his ringed left hand.
Fox nervously paces back to the table in the middle of the room, to have a quick check with the map spread out on it. He confirms his actions in his head before picking up the black bandana on the table and covers his mouth with it. He now looks as the Grim Reaper would if Death were a cowboy.
An arriving car is heard breaking the silence of the deserted road below, and our reluctant hero rushes to the window before opening it and climbing out of the room. He is careful about his noise level when shutting it again, careful not to draw any attention whatsoever, and now he creeps along the awning to get a better vantage point on this vehicle. He watches, he watches like an eagle high perched on the branch of a California Redwood watching a trout swim upstream in the current below.
The drivers side door of the car opens, and out emerges a large man with no hair cloaking his head, sanding in a leather trench-coat and distinctive red boots. Our inconspicuous friend pulls back the bandana from his mouth momentarily to mouth out his built up feelings: "That bastard".
Like the shadow of a power pole as directed by the headlights of a passing car, he swiftly moves across the awning and drops into the alleyway waiting for him at the end. A time-check allows him to watch the display on his digital watch change from 6:59 to 7:00pm. He peeks his head around the corner to see the man is crossing the road, and the slight sparkle on his chest lets Fox see the ring attached to his necklace. He pulls his head back around to take a final sharp breath.
All of a sudden he runs up behind the bald man too quick for him to hear and gives him a solid kick in the back of the knee. No later than the very second that the man hits the ground does Fox snap the necklace from his neck. He leans over with his forearm across the mans shoulders and whispers in his ear "Me – 1, You – 0", adding insult to injury.
He leaps to his feet and sprints for the alleyway as the bald mans mouth finally catches up with his reactions, letting out roars of pure rage. Our hero reveals a concealed motorcycle in the alleyway, starts it first time and rides off into the night to the sound of vocal frustration.

Fox is now sitting unaccompanied, chewing on a medium rare steak in the corner booth of a lonesome and bland diner. The is a couple a few booths away enjoying each others company, an old man reading his newspaper close to the restroom and the whole diner smells of a day stained with coffee. The Wurlitzer jukebox plays the Jimi Hendrix blues classic 'Hey Joe' as Fox puts down his knife and fork to look past the chequered table clothed booths between him and the window. In a paranoid moment of reflection, he looks beyond the glass to check the other side for possible danger. With only safety in sight, he resumes the meal.
A few more bites in, he stops again. This time, he stands and walks across the diner past the young waitress to the restroom on the other side. Just as the restroom door swings shut, car lights are seen arriving outside the very same window Fox was afraid of. The bald man once again emerges from the driers side door, but this time he has an entourage of two larger men, who are obviously his strong-arm thugs, as suggested by the body language between the three. They enter the diner scanning the room for their target and quickly identify Fox's booth by the presence of food and the absence of a patron. They move fast, settling at a booth with the bald mans back to the restroom, the two shadowy figures sitting opposite him. Fox walks out of the restroom, ironically feeling a little safer, and sits down to resume the meal once again. But before he can even swallow the first mouthful, he finds himself sitting in the shadow of these three men. The bald man slaps Fox with enough force to put a caught trout out of its misery, holds his hand out and silently demands the rings with his open palm. Fox tries to make a last minute attempt at escape but is forced back into his seat when one of the men push him back onto his backside. He reluctantly hands the rings over, and the three walk toward the counter laughing smugly.
Feeling angry and bitter but not yet defeated, Fox walks outside and sits on the doorstep, to think. With an invisible light bulb switching on above his head, he stands and attempts to get the attention of the waitress inside. His attempts are successful after a few seconds and he gets her to come to the door. Looking slightly puzzled, she looks at him curiously and he leans over to whisper something in her ear. He hands over a $20 note as he whispers, and she returns to serve the three men. Fox mounts his motorcycle, starts it and waits. The waitress walks outside wearing a coat over her uniform and holding a brown paper bag. She hands him the bag that he exchanges for another $20 note, and with a smile she can't hide, she runs off into the darkness. With his cycle idling beneath him, Fox reaches into the bag and, like a magician drawing a rabbit from his hat, he draws the two rings out of the bag. He places them both on one hand, and gets his cell phone out of his pocket and begins dialling. The bald man looks at his cell phone and sees "Fox Calling" on the display, and his eyes dart straight out the window, where his attention is met by Fox's ringed hand waving back at him in front of a devilish smile. The bald man puts both his hands on the table, as if just getting up, and Fox makes a swift exit on the motorcycle.

It is early morning, the sun has just risen and the songs of the birds are a stark reminder of the new day. The smell of morning dew is fresh on the light breeze and the sky is clearing the suns path for an afternoon for what promises to be a scorcher.
The bald mans cell phone is flipped open, and he is reading a txt message that says "One – Nil". He flips it shut with one hand and looks up at the 1940's Victorian house standing before him. He walks up to the doorstep and discovers that the door is already slightly open. He pushes the door open to find Fox rocking back forth in a rocking chair, his face painted ear to ear with an uncontrollable smile.
Looking down from the wall behind Fox is a big black-board with a metal plate mounted at the top, with the words "Capture The Flag Score Board" engraved on it. It is divided in two, with "blue" painted on one side and "red" on the other. The red side has a large 0 chalked on it, and the blue has a 1, as well as the two rings hanging from the piece of string.
Fox cannot contain his pleasure and amusement any longer and begins laughing. The bald man pauses with a blank face, and after a moment breaks the tension with the crack of a smile. Fox stands up, and the two men shake hands before embracing in a hug and laughing together.
Fox emits the final words, "Capture the Flag - My Favourite Game".

australia

13 Dec 2006

What can I say about Australia, the almighty land down under? Well first and foremost, let me mention the quality that initially struck me - the heat. From what I've gathered, in my early summer month spent almost entirely on the Gold Coast, there is very little use for a hoody here. Especially for someone raised in the cold, such as myself. I've had to recycle the 3 or 4, maybe 5 pairs of shorts I brought with me because pants are about as practical as high heels in a rugby match. The summer-themed surfshops littered around every nook and cranny of the CBD are testament to the areas climate, regardless of their money making agenda. And, according to the locals, this is very cool compared to this exact time last year. A few of the more sun-worshipping might even go so far as to call the current weather 'cold', a call my body could never agree with. There have been a few days where I found it difficult to function normally because of the temperature. My forehead breaks into a panic-ing sweat just imagining how I would cope in one these 'heatwaves' the native Gold Coasters speak of with such reverance. On one of the few rainy/overcast nights here, I found myself and Feeble outside in the rain reminiscing about our home town of Rotorua, jokingly refering to the cold conditions as the 'feel of home'.

Surfers Paradise. Surfers Paradise has an interesting dynamic to say the least. It is Australia's traditional holiday spot, the place to where your bright orange hawaiian shirt, the town where aussies from all over let their hair down in merry abandon. One minor pet peeve I picked up on is the name. A more fitting label would be 'Perverts Paradise', as the surf is disappointing at the best of times and there is eye-candy for all, whatever your tastes may be. Surfers Paradise, with all its skyscraping high-risers, fashionable beaches, many picturesque waterways, loud shirts, pretty sunglasses, bikinis, shopping malls and clean-enough-to-eat-off streets, reminds me very much of the projected image of Vice City in the Grand Theft Auto videogame series. I imagine this is how Miami would feel.

The local culture is a strong consumer one, except with the emphasis shifted from material happiness to social exceptence and an overall goal of collective fun, whatever one may deem that to be. Being the holiday spot is no well kept secret either, infact, it seems to be embedded into the Australian psyche that this is the place to cut loose. For 2 weeks this is the Schoolies' stomping ground which is immediately followed by the erection of the nearly 3 storey high Christmas Tree and other festive decorations over Cavill mall. Right now, it is host to a cycling event, and Im sure there are many more exciting events on the horizon. This place goes off.

There is a (what Im assuming to be) homeless man who makes the streets and malls of Surfers Paradise his residence. He is famous for wearing a bikini that would be 10 sizes too small even if he were a woman. And even though he shares the same iconic status as Wellingtons now-internet-famous vagrant 'Blanket Man', he enjoys about half the respect and humility of his Kiwi counterpart. They bully him here, just as the class of troubled school children would do to the unfortunate kid with six fingers on one hand, if they were all left unattended. I can only imagine how it feels to be looked so far down on, how it would feel for your days only verbal contact with other humans to be on the recieving end of names like "freak", "weirdo" and "faggot". Quite frankly, I would probably lose it too. Perhaps this is a reflection of the average Mr & Mrs Aussie's hollow nature? Perhaps ...I dont know. What I do know is that the group mentality here is strong, and not being excepted has an equally as strong impact.

The people of Surfers Paradise are the very blood that keeps this beast alive. Their wallets are the nutrients that provide nourishment for the seemingly endless growth. I estimate that about half (give or take 10%) of the people here are also out-of-towners, most of those not Australian. At times it seems that half of New Zealands population have made the trip across the ditch, I pretty sure I see less Maori in Wellington. As with anywhere in the modern western world, the asian comunity's presence is too large to be ignored. The only ethnic community that I had not previously encountered, and furthermore not even realised existed so prominently, are the people known by outsiders' (and an increasing number of insiders') slurs as "wogs". The youthful males are known to roll 10 or 11 deep and have a reputation for being obnoxious and arrogant trouble makers. Greasy slick hair, sharply dressed and an unuusually (perhaps unwarranted?) cocky swagger are the typical traits of the 20 year old male 'wog'. As expected, the Aboriginies are Australia's dust swept under the rug, despite the every souvenir shop whoring off their native culture with cheap and mass produced didgereedoo's, boomerangs and other 'arts and crafts'. I wouldnt be surprised to find a 'Made in China' sticker on half of that merchandise. But the Aboriginies have well and truly been culture raped, moreso than the native americans, and this is evident upon sight of their current generaton. Abo's - Aussies secret shame.

But regardless of how diverse and multicultural the ethnic make-up of this place is, Australia maintains her white face. Most people that fill the street are of European descent, and are most definitely caucasian at heart. Keeping up appearences seems to be at the top of the priority list, as it is screamingly obvious that much effort is put into looking good. I have grown to despise the currently fashionable females sunglasses, for one reason: while they certainly do their job in making the wearer look pretty, this is exactly the problem. Everybody looks good. Whoopi Goldberg is on the same playing field as Jessica Alba, survival of the fittest looks to be on the way out. I bet Charles Darwin is turning in his grave.

Aside from that minor bone to pick, the quality of the girls here is unlike anything I have ever seen. Let me just re-state my case for changing the name to 'Perverts Paradise'. The girls are impecably dressed and all know what looks good on them. But this is no case of wolves-in-sheeps-clothing, as a trip to the packed out beach anyday of the week will prove. This is the stuff that inspires Hip Hop music videos, nude portraits and rapists. Aesthetic beauty and physical attraction aside, the girls really are a dfferent breed here. Right down to the way they think they are fundamentally different from myself, and this has been the obstacle which has kept most of them fro making a home in my hands. No love loss though, as I still consider being in their presence a victory, even if I did mostly win from the sideline. I wish I had more time to pick all this lovely fruit, and enjoy a sweet wine or two. Next time. No regrets though, as I found that my time here was more about my boys, not other girls, and im more than happy with the quality time we spent.

Nappyface Vs. mexican trippin weed

05 May 2006

"Q.What is Saliva Divinorum?

A. Salvia divinorum is a plant used for its psychoactive effects. Given the right dose, individual, set and setting, it produces a unique state of 'divine inebriation' which has been traditionally used by Mazatec healers. This inebriation is quite different from that of alcohol. Salvia divinorum is both similar to, and different from, other drugs that affect the brain and behavior. In many ways Salvia divinorum is a unique 'magical' herb. Salvia (and the salvinorin it contains) is very difficult to categorize pharmacologically. It does not fit well into any existing pharmacological class. Louis Lewin, the father of psychopharmacology called vision inducing drugs 'phantastica'. Let us dust off this venerable term and recycle it by calling Salvia divinorum a 'phantasticant'.

Q. What is a Salvia divinorum experience like?

A. It is almost certainly not like what you expect. Even if you have considerable experience with other psychoactive drugs, you will find that salvia is significantly different from what you may have encountered before. Salvia is unique, and it is best understood on its own terms, and not by analogy with other substances. Salvia is not a recreational drug, rather, it is best used by those wishing to explore deep meditative states, spiritual realms, mysticism, the nature of consciousness and reality, or the possibilities of shamanistic healing. Experiences vary with the individual, set, and setting as well as with dose and route of administration. It produces a short-lived inebriation that is very different from that of alcohol. However, like alcohol it interferes with the ability to drive, produces incoordination (ataxia), and may produce slurred speech.

The inebriation, at low doses, can facilitate aesthetic and sensual appreciation. However, the experience is not marijuana-like, and salvia is not a marijuana substitute. At somewhat higher doses, visionary trances occur. The lowest level visions consist mainly of closed-eye imagery somewhat similar to the hypnagogic phenomena that many people experience when falling asleep. These tend to be two dimensional faint images. The term "eye candy" is an appropriate description of the interesting closed eye visuals that are not confused with reality. At this level communication with others is still easy and one can move about although clumsiness will occur. With a higher dose vivid visual images occur even with eyes open, and with eyes closed one may completely enter the visionary world, and it will seem quite real, but upon opening ones eyes one will reestablish contact with ones surroundings. Speech patterns may be interfered with and communication is difficult. At still higher doses, one remains conscious but completely enters an inner realm and loses all contact with ones actual surroundings. Some people may move around in this deep trance state and for this reason a sitter is required for anyone seeking to explore such deep levels. With very high dosage a brief period of unconsciousness or at least the inability to subsequently remember the experience will occur. It is useful to have a scale to describe salvia experiences. One such rating scale is based on the mnemonic S-A-L-V-I-A

- selected samples from 'sagewisdom.com'

Nappyface 0, Trippin Weed 1

I had never encountered this magic stuff before then. Salvia Divinorum comes in various strengths, the highest being 40. My flatmate Callan had already tried the 15 strength stuff, and apparently he tripped balls, with various other characters in life claiming that the Mexican Mint left them indifferent. With all this taken on board, I decided to go with the 25 concentrate. Perfect thing to usher in a new age, John as a 19 year old.

Salvia is typically a stoner drug, and is usually only done by those involved in some sort of a relationship with Mary Jane. I was already kinda stoned from sessions earlier in the day, but to get the full effect of it, I loaded up a cone and inhaled the sweetness.

Now, the moment of truth.

The packet that this shit comes in says that it "likes a hot flame", and in the absence of a butane lighter, two ordinary bic lighters were to be used for my first trip. Sitting there with the bong in my hand, Callan and P Nut lit the bong as I inhaled. It was a very deep toke, and I started blowing out the smoke. I went in for another, but by time I started inhaling again, the world had already started to change. Halfway through my second hit, I was totally immersed in an alternate reality. The only thing I can liken what I seeing to is the opening 'dream' sequence in 'Mullholland Drive': a strange blend of soft colours with a real spooky element. The only way I can explain this is if everything you saw (the colour of the wall or whatever is in front of you at the time) starts to twirl into a psychedlic wheel of dim shades. Next thing I remember was the world was throwing layers of gravity at me, all attached to various things like buildings and peoples faces. I stumled around in this haze for a few minutes before my whole existence was being thrown around, gravity was going horizontally. And because gravity was going sideways, when I found myself at the fence (about nose height) It felt like the world was turning but I was stuck under this structure. I had to get over this thing. In a mad scramble to get over, my feet desperately tried to gain leverage on anything, and consequently Sam's bucket was sacrificed. The desperation of me climbing the fence would be the same as if you were hanging off a cliff, hanging on for your life - it was intense. I'd climbed the fence, but I found that there were no more 'obstacles' on the other side. Confused, I looked back over the fence to see the familiar faces of my friends laughing. I still didn't know that i was tripping, but the sight of them reassured some form of safety and stability.

It was at this point that a new phase of my buzz begun. The disorientation of time and space was confined to the limits of my head. Everything I saw from the viewpoint of my head (obviously lol) became a 2D plain, similar to a giant painting or movie screen. And this 2D plane had a slight gravity pulling me in, so my balance was upset to say the least. For the about next 20 minutes I wandered around the place trying to get a grip on reality. Just like the exact same way you'd continually wipe your eyes if your vision was blurry.

In my state, I attempted to complete an eclectic list of goals. MSN, getting myself a glass of water and kissing mary jane again were a few items. My memories of all these is a bizzarre mix of colours/ light and a skitsophrenic sense of gravity.

first blog

figure i write enough shit these days i might as well keep all it together in a blog.

the first few are just all my other blogs reposted here.

but who knows, may even write another one sometime.