I’m going on a hiatus, taking a break from writing in order to do some reading and renew associations with family members and friends, take part in some culturally sanctioned group ceremonies, and generally spend a little more time out out of the cyber space.
Lokirenard.com will continue to update with relevant information re: book releases as and where appropriate.
I recommend The Doors of Perception, by Aldous Huxley, a lengthy essay about mescalin, psychotherapy, art and the chairness of chairs. The man is really impressed with just how chair-y a chair can be.
“The legs, for example, of that chair–how miraculous their tubularity, how supernatural their polished smoothness! I spent several minutes–or was it several centuries?–not merely gazing at those bamboo legs, but actually being them—or rather being myself in them; or, to be still more accurate (for “I” was not involved in the case, nor in a certain sense were “they”) being my Not-self in the Not-self which was the chair.”
You can find The Doors of Perception, which is really quite a treatise on the importance of art and suchness, here.
I love how much it reads like Reed’s experiences on Blue Lady, though she is admittedly far less preoccupied with mundane furniture (and yes, this is a segue into reminding you that there’s lots of Lesbia to read, not a genuine comparison with Aldous Huxley’s work, which would be like taking that Popsicle stick house I made once to the Taj Mahal and pointing out the similarities):
A warm sensation started spreading across Reed’s body, starting in her stomach. The lady was bestowing her touch. It bought euphoria, a sense of corporeal disconnection. Reed was keenly aware that she was not her body any more than she was the wall, or the tree or the grass. She was something else. She was something inhabiting the world, piloting her meat suit about the place for the duration of its lifespan.
She laughed at the silliness of it all, quietly at first, but soon she was roaring with laughter, caught up in the mirth of the cosmic giggle.
“Who goes there!” The rough shout of a guard came from below. Reed felt the guard’s separateness. She felt the guard’s mundanity.
“Nobody! Everybody! You! Me!” Reed shouted the words in quick order.
“Come down from there!”
Reed seriously contemplated obeying the order, but she couldn’t work out how. “There is no here, don’t you see!?” She rolled over and stuck her head over the Clitera City side of the wall. The wall was not nearly so tall on that side. The drop was a much more manageable hundred feet or so. “Your here is my there. How can I go there when I will always be here?”
“It’s not safe! That wall is due for maintenance.”
The shiny tin head of the guard spoke in angry staccato. Reed saw the words rising out of the woman’s head. Little black dots floated up, up, up into the sky. Then two thick black baubles rose up to Reed. For long seconds they hung before her eyes. Curious, Reed reached out with a finger and poked one. They both burst in her face, expelling their words.
(From Lesbia, Clitera City Trials)