packing list: 

– a soft blanket
– a bottle of water
– comfortable clothing
– a beloved piece of rock
– a few shroom friends (optional)
– disinfection spray
– the packet of sliquid that’s been lying around in my pouch since that one party

my frozen creative state has
been bothering me for a while,
and corona’s not been any help.

by now i’m used to my mind's eye being foggy, but lately my head-radio is alarmingly silent, too.
today i take time for a ritual
to re-sensitize my creative center.

i cycle to a nearby forest and
take a deep breath of the local flora
and its pollen.

i explore and take my shoes off
to better feel the soil,
the roots, the plants
and the endless beings—
dead and alive—
that make up the earth.

when i feel ready, i go off-path
to find a sheltered, damp spot;
a bit like a darkroom or
a womb.
it’s okay (even exciting) for me
to be seen —

i’m a forest slut and my pleasure is radiant and belongs in the open

— but i don’t like feeling exposed.
i hope to be surrounded with trees and still get a sliver of sun in my eyes.
there is no one perfect place to melt,
so i settle. 

i spread my blanket and arrange a makeshift altar with the items
i brought along. now’s the time for those shroomie friends.
i lie down and play a guided meditation.

“loving your inner child” is freely available and speaks to my heart.

renee sills says
there’s a bubble surrounding me;
when i inhale,
it fills with my radiance;
when i exhale, i take the world in.

i’ve arrived.
thanks, renee!

i start saying hello to my body.
“hey, chest,”
i squeeze; “hi, leg,”
i scratch; “hello, hand,”
i bite. i make sure to give attention to all the nooks and crannies of my ends. reaching under my panties for ends i haven’t touched yet, i notice how excited i am.

the forest turns me on
like few humans do.

the fungi i ingested speak to the fungi all around me; we are ecstatic. i’ve been ready since the moment i got here, but now i go even slower and linger to realign with the sun. moments after i release, hikers find my bubble and pass through it.

i smile at them.

echoing through the trees, i hear a mesmerizing melody.
i bike over to find the musician playing it. it's a screeching crane.

“come record me,”
it calls.