Transcending Boundaries: Identity and Oppression Within Psychedelic Culture - The Nexian

Transcending Boundaries: Identity and Oppression Within Psychedelic Culture

By VTSeeker48 on Wednesday, 26 November 2014, hits: 2120

"Psychedelics are illegal not because a loving government is concerned that you may jump out of a third story window. Psychedelics are illegal because they dissolve opinion structures and culturally laid down models of behaviour and information processing. They open you up to the possibility that everything you know is wrong."
…
"Part of what psychedelics do is they decondition you from cultural values. This is what makes it such a political hot potato. Since all culture is a kind of con game, the most dangerous candy you can hand out is one which causes people to start questioning the rules of the game."
--Terence Mckenna
The popularity of psychedelic experiences has skyrocketed in recent years with the advent of the internet and widespread acclaim of Ayahuasca and DMT. Transformational music festivals are spreading across the globe at an astonishing rate while breeding a unique and trendy sub-culture. As this neo-psychedelic culture evolves and grows, important questions are being raised.
With such an increasing demand for plant medicines around the world, we are seeing people profit off of the destruction of ecosystems and the defacement of beautiful plants simply so that Joe Shmo can order root bark online. How sustainable is psychedelic culture, and what steps can we take to ensure that these teachers are here for future generations to explore? With the incredible speed at which so called "conscious" music festivals are springing up, how can we create spaces that are both transformational and sustainable? Are these festivals even supposed to be sustainable in the first place, or are they simply big parties for people to get away from dominant culture? What is dominant culture anyways and how does it play out in the spaces we create? As psychedelics help us to transcend conditioned conceptualizations of identity and culture, how can we apply these realizations to our daily lives?
All of these are important questions that must be addressed by our community if we wish to see ourselves as having a legitimate role in the ongoing struggle for an autonomous and sustainable world. This said, most of the dialogue that I've seen taking place so far has been focused on the environmental implications of the psychedelic experience. As an environmentalist, I am absolutely ecstatic to see this happening. But even so, we live in an interdependent universe; no struggle is separate or more important than the collective human struggle for a peaceful and functional world. To quote Audre Lorde, a radical black feminist and civil rights activist, "There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives."
So without disregarding the urgent need for an ecologically minded culture, I would like to make the point that the environmental issues that we face today are one in the same as the systems of racism, patriarchy, and classism that have come to dominate our lives, and that our efforts towards creating an all-inclusive and sustainable psychedelic revolution are moot points if we fail to recognize how entrenched we are in the dominant power structures of society.
I grew up in a small and rural state that is over 98% white folks. As a person of color, growing up in such a non-diverse state exposed me to the myriad of ways that white-supremacy continues to dominate our culture while remaining invisible to most white people. I was never very good at sports, but because of my African heritage it was expected of me. The fact that I was not good at playing basketball was a qualitatively "white" trait according to the other kids at school. I was constantly questioned for not speaking the way black people are "supposed" to speak, or dressing the way we're "supposed" to dress. Even my teachers seemed surprised that I was as academically competent as white students. There were about three or four black students I attended high school with, and the white kids would rank us according to who was the most black. My hair was a constant source of stress; white kids found it "exotic" and took it upon themselves to touch it, grope it, or stick pencils and other objects in it; things that if they did to a white student they would be punished for.Even before I ever experimented with cannabis or substances of any kind, it was a regular incidence that white students would approach me asking to buy drugs because they genuinely assumed I must use and sell drugs simply because of the color of my skin. The fact that I didn't take substances at the time was a surprise to people, like it was some sort of anomaly. I was tokenized by close friends for being their one black friend; as if I were an object one could own to prove that they weren't racist.
So why am I sharing this and what does it have to do with psychedelic culture? Well, growing up in the midst of all of this I did not recognize these things as white-supremacy. They bothered me but I just assumed that's the way things were and I didn't really ever question it; it never really struck me as blatant racism. I embraced anti-blackness and did all I could to appear white. I changed my hair and did all the same things the white kids did, and eventually came to unconsciously hate my blackness. I hated being a person of color, I hated having natty hair and I hated that I was too black for the white kids and too white for the blacks. I had internalized a lifetime of trauma and micro-aggressions against my race. As my education and experiences evolved and grew, I eventually came to start questioning these things and see them for what they are. But it wasn't until I took mushrooms for the first time, as a freshman in college, that I really began to come to terms with my identity and how the society in which we live had shaped it.
In those few short hours my entire life was turned upside down, inside out, and shot through a quantum tunnel. I came out the other side of that experience a new person. A new person no longer burdened by years of internalized oppression, completely at peace with who I am and for the first time excited about the person I could one day be. I remember that point during the trip where I was getting higher and higher, drowning in my consciousness and

soaring through the cosmos. I could feel myself breaking down, everything I ever knew was crumbling around me. I could feel myself dying, going to somewhere I knew I would never come back from. I eventually reached a place beyond all social conventions; beyond language and reason, a place outside of time and space, and void of any sense of self or identity. I was one with God, where everything and nothing came to merge in a beautiful non-dual paradox. Nothing there mattered. Everything simply was. Concepts of race, gender, and sexuality were beyond irrelevant; they simply didn't exist. This was the totality, the source, and the final destination of everyone and everything. Here all simply was; there was no equality because there was nothing to be equal to. Here everything was, and is, and forever shall be, one in the same.
That introductory experience shook me to the core. My initial instinct was the same as most; to get the hell out of the system. Drop out and pursue a life of meditation, psychedelic exploration, and unconditional love for all things. It wasn't too long before I realized that dropping out isn't a viable solution and I began to look for psychedelically-minded people in hopes that they had experienced what I just only gotten a glimpse of. I sold as much of my things as I could on Craigslist and took off for the West Coast in search of ultimate truth. I knew I had stumbled across perhaps the most profound experience a human being could ever have, and I knew in my heart that this was the cure-all the world had been waiting for. How could someone have such an experience and continue to be complacent, just another cog in the machine? Like so many others, I put my faith in God and sought out hippie culture where it seemed most prominent.
I was gravely disappointed by what was waiting for me on the other side of the country.
Where I had hoped to find open-minded and compassionate communities I found excessive over-indulgence, dogma, ignorance, racism, sexism, elitism, escapism, and a contempt for any perspective that didn't encourage eating as much LSD as you possibly could. It seemed that nearly every event I attended was swarming with privileged white folk who spent their money on culturally appropriated clothes, festival tickets, and drugs.
Where were all the colored people at? Well from what I observed, most of them were on the streets, working minimum wage service jobs, or incarcerated. Most black people I talked to didn't have an interest in psychedelics at all and associated them with rich white kids. Other activists I was able to connect with seemed to scoff at the notion of DMT being a profound catalyst for radical change. "Why smoke DMT" they said, "when you can spend your time closing down a factory or occupying a building? Why focus so much on personal liberation when you could be working to liberate others?"
At the time I didn't have any answers. All I knew is that psychedelics had provided me with an insight into the nature of things that motivated me to do everything in my power to make the world a better place. I couldn't understand why so few others seemed to recognize this. I couldn't grasp why almost everyone I met who took psychedelics was white and upper class, and why psychedelic culture seemed inaccessible to so many people. Why were working class people fighting amongst themselves for liberation when the most liberating of all experiences was a just a puff of vapor away? Why were all these so called neo-shamans just as racist and ignorant as the kids I went to high school with?
One thing I have learned through my continued psychedelic exploration is that there is no such thing as a cure-all. Psychedelics open a door to an entirely new way of experiencing and engaging with the world, but it is entirely up to us to walk through that door. Taking LSD or mushrooms might temporarily break down barriers and catapult us to a realm of ultimate understanding where things like race, gender, and sexuality are trivial at best; but unless we apply these lessons and work to educate ourselves after we have come down from the experience I'm afraid to say psychedelics might just be a big waste of time.
We are in the midst of one of the most turbulent and disturbing periods of Earth's history, though we still have the power to create a world in which we want to live—but we have to reach out and grab it, we cannot afford to sit and wait for it to come to us.
Groups of the radical left have the skills and education to organize, mobilize, and work for meaningful change in our communities; but the individuals who make up these groups are as entrenched in dominant culture as anyone else. One thing that a lot of groups struggle with, particularly environmentalists (which is a predominately white movement, despite the fact that people of color are most adversely and directly affected by climate change and ecological destruction), is carrying traumas and systemic forms of oppression into the group in which they are organizing. Being raised in a society that promotes, even requires, white-supremacy makes it difficult not to see racism trickle down into social movements. Groups such as Rising Tide North America and Earth First! are radical environmental groups which focus on challenging ecological genocide within the framework of industrialized capitalism. They recognize that the fight for clean air and water is the same as the fight for prison abolition, the same as the fight for women's rights; and they actively work to dismantle all of the ways in which oppression bleeds into the movement.
My argument is that the fight for the sanctioned use of psychedelic chemicals for self-exploration is just as important as any other struggle and could play a monumental role in effective and accessible social movements. What better a tool to use to overcome internalized racism than a chemical that temporarily breaks down virtually everything we thought we knew, that destroys boundaries and barriers, shatters social constructs, and reshapes our sense of self, our very identity? What could be more effective than that which allows us to actually see the ways in which the personal translates to the interpersonal, and vice-versa? Imagine how much more effectively we could organize if those in the radical movements of our generation were not separated by false dichotomies, if everyone had equal access to an experience which shows us that we are all reaching for one ultimate goal, that the labor movement is fighting the same system the environmentalists are, the feminists are engaged in the same struggle as the anti-racists, and the LGBTQ community has as much of a stake in the struggle as the curanderos in Latin America or the children of the Middle East.
So why is there this apparent separation between cultures? Radical organizing and psychedelic culture seem to be at odds with one another, but I believe we are fast approaching a point in time where these two separate cultures must merge and learn from one another or perish. How can we do this, what does it look like, and what are we waiting for?

I am no scholar, but I can pick up on patterns and it is increasingly apparent to me that psychedelic culture is bourgeoisie culture. "Conscious" music festivals which claim to be accessible and transparent are inherently pillars of the status-quo when they charge money to attend said events, automatically excluding huge groups of people. There is a reason that festival-goers are almost entirely white, upper class people. We cannot expect everyone to flock to DMT when those who advocate it completely fail to address how it resonates with the struggles of others and fall short in making it an experience that is accessible and safe for all people to participate in, not just those who can afford to buy it or extract it. Psychedelic gatherings need to be spaces where women, trans and queer folk, and people of color feel safe; where they can feel secure and empowered to heal themselves and the trauma they carry. I challenge the psychedelic community to make itself more available, to put forth the effort to learn about how we carry systemic oppression and violence with us even if we do not blatantly see it.
What could this look like? I think we are on the right track, and I think that the conversations taking place on the DMT-Nexus and at certain psychedelic gatherings (such as Boom 2014) are a step in the right direction, but we cannot lose sight of the ultimate goal. As suggested by the Nexus moderator Snozzleberry, I can envision psychedelic-minded people coming together to create an autonomous space for organizers and activists to retreat to when they are feeling burnt out, or even facilitating workshops and educational opportunities for folks to learn about entheogenic experiences. As a community we must make ourselves accessible. Otherwise, I'm afraid we are failing to see the forest through the trees.
As a person of color, I can honestly say I do not feel like I am welcome, or a part of, psychedelia and this deeply saddens me. It is truly heartbreaking to see such a beautiful and life-transforming experience roped off and made available exclusively for a select group of people.
I don't know what the solution is, and I doubt that there is just one answer. I believe that psychedelics have the capacity to truly revolutionize people and to empower those who are conditioned to believe they hold no power, or that they are inadequate and undeserving of love, compassion, and respect. I would one day like to see those who have been brutalized, hurt, and traumatized by our culture healed and inspired through psychedelic exploration; to reclaim the psychedelic experience as a universal human right and not a trippy past-time for the privileged few.
At the risk of sounding cliché, I'd like to end with a quote by the well known Ram Daas.
"Love is the most transformative medicine; for Love slowly transforms you into what psychedelics only get you to glimpse." --Ram Daas

Comments

# Sidestreet 2014-11-30 23:15

Thank you!

I used to make the mistake of thinking that the experience on its own is enough to transform the person. I thought that if I just ate enough of the right substance, my life would change forever merely because I got up the courage to dose heavy. Now I know that entheogens are more like ladders than catapults; you still have to make the effort and pull yourself up.

There seems to be a widespread gangster mentality among young heads. Maybe it's softer than other forms of organized crime, but I hear it's not that hard to get your ass beat, either. Then there's the exclusion. They may have legitimate concerns about undercovers and agents, but it seems like the wagons are just as quickly circled around superficial things like style.

Thanks for this article. Just by putting this sort of thing out there into the culture you inject inclusion and diversity. Be the change you wish to see and all that.

Reply | Reply with quote | Quote

# Serpentine 2014-12-02 22:31

Great article, very thought provoking. As someone who sees themselves as part of psychedelia i take this article to heart. I recognize the need for solutions to unite psychedelic culture, counter-culture and activist communities (gay/black/socialist/environmental/anti-religious/anti-war etc)

Reply | Reply with quote | Quote

# 2014-12-03 01:26

Hello! Wow...right on! Your grammar and vocabulary is stellar :) Everything was clearly well thought and presented. and,this is what I've been feeling all along.
I re-posted this article in a few places. I'm surprised there are not more comments. I live near Alex Grey's Chapel of Sacred Mirrors and, although I see his mission as in line with yours, I can't help but notice that the gathering seems to be a collective of upper-class Manhattanites. Many of the people I encountered their either came off as highly pretentious and cultish and\or did not have a respect for the medicine experience and were just looking to get drugs. This really saddened me. Because the real healing that can result from psychedelics largely has little to do with the medicines itself ,and everything to do with human transformation through recognition of the divinity in all of us, regardless of class,gender,race,etc
Kudos! Keep spreading love and truth.
hit me up
paultreselligmail.com

Reply | Reply with quote | Quote

# Hot 2 Trotsky 2014-12-04 21:08

'a chemical that temporarily breaks down virtually everything we thought we knew, that destroys boundaries and barriers, shatters social constructs' -including, of course, post-communist intersectionality theory. Just why is it, do you think, that the New Left split on the subject back in the '60s? Because it drains the dogmatism necessary for struggle.

Reply | Reply with quote | Quote

# LivingAnExaminedLife 2014-12-06 14:08

Thank you for your article; you raised important points and constructive concerns.

As a gay person it's surprised me at how few gay people I've met at psychedelic festivals or Ayahuasca ceremonies (LGBTI participants probably comprise only about 2-3% of the DMT/Ayahuasca community from what I've seen). Like Sidestreet said, I think by bringing these issues up, you help put them out in the open as aspects we need to collectively face up to, discuss, and actively address.

All I know how to do is act in ways that serve the greater good. I don't pay other people to kill animals for me because I won't kill myself; so I don't eat meat and try to avoid eggs and cheese. A veg diet reduces my resources footprint. I recycle almost every scrap of paper, plastic, metal and glass I can. I try to pick up a bit of *other people's* garbage/recycling when I'm in nature.

Reply | Reply with quote | Quote

# smile 2014-12-15 18:07

Great post, its funny how everything sounds here in Latin America, I truly understand your struggle, but what surrounds and make you feel as an outsider, are mental walls. You could as well as the majority of the people you are talking about, to engage on a psycodellic experience with out the permition of any club.
I dont want to spoil your text, i only want to add some hopeful and peaceful visions.
30 or 40 years ago dmt was imposle even for the most white.
Here in Colombia where ayahuasca has been part of our culture for centuries, only became pupular after the Americans wrote literature about the subject. So you can see how funny things are, the knowledge even about these matters has to go trough the dominator mind, before gets to the general public. My hope and message is, dont panick. Look how far information has spread about psycodellics, even medical centers are using them. So in no time is not going to be a snob thing.

Reply | Reply with quote | Quote

# greatdango 2014-12-20 03:07

Thank you writing this.
I'm a student struggling with career aspirations as well as the pressures of everyday life in southern U.S. What you say about identity and temporary barrier breaking becoming ritualistic regularity has mesmormized me. Your words have been mild motivation to trip more often and even more mindfully.

Reply | Reply with quote | Quote

Refresh comments list

Add comment

JComments

Evernote helps you remember everything and get organized effortlessly. Download Evernote.

Viejo Mundo / La Vida De La Dona

Viejo Mundo




"Hurakan..."spoke El Cacique. "I can smell the water of the great sea burning"... said El Cacique...
"The dead..."
"To speak of the dead is wrong..."
"Men of no color?"
"Men of any color?"

Canimao and his men gathered the remains of the men of no color, the men of no color, who suffered the storm...
"They are dead and deserve rituals of their dead..."
"They are dead, Cacique," said Canimao... "We do not know their ways...
"Nor do we know their intent... They consume without the intent of nourishment...
Canimao...since you will explore where they come from... It is your choice...
We will...gather their remains from the beach and ready them for transport...It is a long journey and I fear we will know what we fear to know...
The fear of where these men come from...
Return them to rest...
I fear they will come back..."Cacique shooed them away....and to himself he spoke.
"We arrived to this world too late and the world will return us too soon...
They're hunger is like the heat of an angry fire...
The fear is they are seekers of desires, of lonely people who never stop looking for they know not what they seek...
Their desire, their urge is insurmountable... a mountain never to be looked upon or climbed upon..."

Canimao and his men gathered the bodies...
They had been laying dead for days after the storm and Canimao and his men found their bodies while gathering supplies for their own expected journey across the great sea...
The great sea was tormented...inundating them with a great wash...
Canimao climbed out of the boat and let the cold of the great water wash over his legs. Looking back across the sea where so much of their lives had been spent in the recent months of their voyage. Here they arrived to find and explore the land of men with no color that would bring them to the land of the men they sought, the men who died in a terrible storm that lashed the shores of Canimao's home land. Saddened by the lost men and their failed quest...Cinimao's quest succeeded with his warriors quest to bring them home.
Canimao gathered his warrior's and searched for the items of the lost men. They were pale men challenging what is known by the people's bohiques, surmising the dead man's origin and considered adding the found men to return them to their people and their land...
Canimao's spear, tethered to his waist, a shield held in his arm, six warrior's, all exhausted from there long trip, still healthy and fit but thinking of rest and hunger. They found a place to camp among in the tree, hidden from view of any natives. Finding their bodies laid about the beach, Canimao asked his people for volunteers, to help gather their bodies and things then try and transport them all back to their homes, a dangerous and great distance away...The dead men were sailors from a land over the horizon. A consult with the chiefs and bohiques led them to understand where the pale men were from.
Canimao once heard of people like them who's color was pale compared to him and his people. Their home, a journey long and far away on the great water and much preparation would be involved.
Canimao, I have heard of these men but have never seen them, they are explorers of riches and only riches, they seek wealth from others to add to their wealth as their own. Your quest is your own but know their lust stains them as blood. But know the consequences of your journey.
In the year 1491, inhabitants of a land far across the Atlantic, arrived on the shores of Portugal. Canimao and his crew arrived in a large seaworthy vessel with the personal belongings of the men they found after having succumbed to a terrible storm off the shore of Canimao's land. Each, equipped with survival pouches, and information describing the men whose lives they tried to save; men who arrived across the ocean in a land they believed was in Portugal
"Canimao, how will we find those who knew those men?"
Shaking his head side to side, "I don't know yet, we don't know the language, who the men were, I don't know how but we shall try with their goods of trade."
Canimao and his crew disembark from their sailing ships and scan the forests perimeter, looking for signs of life while dragging their boats up from the waves onto the shore. They quickly unloaded the boats of their goods and packed the remains of the men of no color, the items that were theirs and lay them beside the their own and the lay down to relax and rest and ponder their journey. They had After some thought they will walk along the edge of the forest without delving too far from shore prowl along the forests in search of someone who might help them find the origins of the men they helped. They do this without calling attention to themselves. Skirting along the edge of villages they judge who they will try and communicate with... They watch the daily lives of the inhabitants of this new land and they wonder...
His name was Lilo, by age, young but much older in spirit so much so they all noticed... Canimao especially took not of his will and his demeanor though and they didn't know each other's language and seemed to talk easily..
Canimao knew to show Lilo the items he brought to represent the men who he returned across with them...
Lilo one of them and understood them to be the men testing the waters for a great voyage...
They meet a boy during the effort to find food, a boy Lilo from Portugal was curious and very helpful helping..Lilo is able to help the men escape from near capture of the colonialists who were gathering funds and supplies for the Kings mission to find more of the world and it's riches...
Lilo helped gather the few goods needed by the visitors to start their return journey across the waters to their lands.
What is left is still to be had... To be taken and will be the claim of the northern European over the original black men
Six other able men and six able men who died as a terrible storm lashed the shores of Canimao's home.
The world is finite despite the belief of many...

Abuela

“Bring me more. Quickly!” Abuela roared!

Lilliana scurried out of Abuela’s room and off into the hall, down the stairs and doubling back into the kitchen, where a large stockpot filled with gruel boiled violently, spilling it's slop onto a filthy black iron stove. She placed abuela's giant clay soup bowl on the wooden table opposite the stove, then dipped the big wooden ladle in the soup and stirred.

Lilliana looked at her reflection in the worn and stained metal tile finish of the wall behind the stove.

She wasn't pretty anymore. Not since Abuela took Lilliana from her parents. Her hair matted now, when once she was young her hair draped gracefully over her shoulders, black and shimmering. Her black eyes had once drawn stares but were now ringed with black circles. Her face wrinkled and worn, pasty white, lips parched, mostly hidden by her matted hair. She wore a stained blue house dress that clung to her bones; bones that poked through her skin like junk filling a Hefty garbage bag. It seemed to her that her breasts would grow no larger than the pimples they were.

Puberty would never be the same for her as it would be for so many other girls

The gruel continued to pour over the side.

It was the only way to make this gruel right abuela said. Bring it to a boil and keep it there. Simmering won't stop the demons, boiling them will. To kill them though, you had to eat them. And abuela did. Everyday she ate demons, as she called them. Everyday. Always as a soup. She hated the soup, but it had to be done. The demons were out there and as long as she was alive and still had her powers, she would eat them

The soup boiled but wasn't filled with enough meat. “Anton!” Lilliana called down the stairs to the basement. “Anton! I need some more meat for the soup. She turned back to the pot on the stove, leaving the door open for Anton to drag up some more meat from the freezer.

Anton was this tall lanky black guy, with a big head and black Einstein hair, wearing a long black t-shirt, faded blue jeans and pink Keds sneakers.

Anton was abuela's manservant. He did all the repair and heavy work around the house. As well as dragging bags full of demons up from the freezer when Lilliana needed them. He did all the gruesome work on them too. He found them, brought them home and kept them in cages, then killed them and chopped them up. Though Anton was mostly silent all the time, occasionally whispering something to you in your ear, she could hear him talking to them. Lilliana would ask what they would say and wished she could go down and talk to them too. He always said no. He would always say that what the demons said wasn't so important

Then why do you talk to them?

Oh, just something to do before I kill them I guess. It calms them. I like them calm. They thrash around less when I’m cutting them up.

On this day, though, Anton agreed to take her down later to speak with the last one before he killed it

Lilliana returns to Abuela with her soup.

Describe big and ugly grandma. This is Abuela’s big intro!!!

They talk. Abuela tells more about these demons she must eat and how they hide in little bodies to fool everyone but the most knowledgeable and aware

Anton takes Lilliana down to the basement, where she is introduced to the demon a little girl of about ten who calls herself Trisha. Lilliana talks with Trisha, asking her questions about her life at home. What her parents are like. Her home. Her friends. Her toys. School. Does she like boys? Trisha often whimpers, afraid of Anton. Lilliana tells her that Anton is really a sweet guy. He just has a job to do As they talk, Anton paces by, after chopping at meat in the back room, putting it in the freezer, then returning, bending down to Lilliana who sits outside the cage on the soot covered floor with Trisha, and reminding her . . .

“Trisha is a demon, don't let her fool you.” Anton walks away up the steps.

Lilliana asked her outright . . . are you a demon

What's a demon Trisha asked.

She sobbed uncontrollably. She doesn't understand. She did nothing wrong. Why was she taken. What were they going to do to her?

Anton watches from the open door of the cutting room

Trisha asks about the locked door. Lilliana tells her it is where all of Abuela's secrets are hidden

Lilliana wants to know more about the games Trisha plays.

Lilliana lets her out to play, closing the basement door. They play awhile but Lilliana doesn’t recognize her own strength and so Trisha finds the play to rough. Together they press their ears to the secret closet door. They can only imagine. Lilliana tells what she knows about Abuela’s past. That she was a Bruja, and she made clothes for a living, clothes that some said had magical powers. To wear her clothing could be either good or bad luck, no one ever knew. And so the people of her small town in PR exiled her. What happened to all the clothes she made? Perhaps that is her secret.

The bell from Abuela rings out, deafening them. Lilliana runs, dragging Trisha into the cage and leaving her crying. Anton calls down from the top of the stairs to the kitchen. Lilliana fills another bowl from the seething pot on the stove then hurries back up the stairs to tend to Abuela, as Anton unloads another bag of demon meat into the pot While Lilliana sits with Abuela on her bed, feeding her, she looks out of the window to the empty streets.

Their home was a condemned tenement in Brooklyn, the only one on the block left standing. The building was surrounded on all sides by a debris ridden one-acre lot. In the distance she could see children playing in the schoolyard, from which Anton had found and taken two demons in the last year Lilliana turns to Abuela and asks. Do you ever wonder if you've chosen the wrong child Abuela looked up from her soup bowl? Her eyes glistened when opened so wide. Suddenly her head grew twice its size and thrust forward to meet Lilliana's. Abuelas exposed monster teeth, the ones she needed to chew the demons well but hid in her gums behind her mortal set, and sneered at Lilliana.

Saliva and blood dripped down from her stained fangs, a horrible stench from her breath warmed her face and made Lilliana turn away, sick and afraid Abuela relaxed, sitting back. Her head shrunk back to normal size, her teeth slowly retracted, allowing her to speak again. “Lilliana. Your mother and father wondered the same thing when I went to them with the truth. I told them what some children had become in the wombs of their unsuspecting mother. That two of their own children might be demons. And when I found them to be so, they fought me, until I killed them all. Except you, Lilliana. You were born free of demons. They had not found you because you were supposed to die in your mother’s womb. But you survived.

Don't doubt my powers, Lilliana. Don't doubt my knowledge, wisdom and awareness. I know that it may all seem amazing and fantastic, and terribly cruel and morbid, but the horror's we live with must be found and our world cleansed. Trust me, Lilliana.

Lilliana bolted from the room crying

Lilliana sat in the kitchen with Anton, who had made them both some hot tea. Lilliana asked Anton if he ate the soup too. No! Only her grandmother could, because if a mortal drank demon remains, they would be possessed themselves, and she would have to kill and eat them also. Demon infested adults were much more difficult to deal with. Younger mystics could deal with them better than an old ugly fart like Abuela. Perhaps Lilliana would one day be groomed to carry on Abuela’s mission.

Lilliana asked Anton if he was ever afraid they were making a mistake. That they might be killing innocent children

I used to, Lilliana. For a very long time I was doubtful of what I was doing for your Grandmother.

Did you ever say anything to her?

No! Oh no! I'm sure she knew everything I thought, as she knows all that you have in your mind, and anyone else’s that she cares to invade. But I never said anything to her

Then you're no longer doubtful?

Those doubts are all gone. I trust your grandmother, as you should too. And you will. . . eventually.

Lilliana went back down to the basement without Anton's permission to speak with Trisha in whispers, hiding behind a column beside the cage, while Anton hammered away at the meat in the cutting room down the hall. Trisha asked all the questions. Asking about Lilliana's own past. Her own childhood. Lilliana becomes sad and feels strongly for Trisha.

Trisha asks what a demon is. Lilliana explains. Trisha wonders how could she be one. She does nothing but go to school, play with her friends and play with her toys. Anton pokes his head out to listen, believing he hears voices, but then goes back to work

Lilliana walked quietly down the hall to the cutting room, never having seen inside the room before. She had never seen a demon dismembered. She stepped in and watched in horror, as Anton chopped away at the body of a small child. She looked away, sickened, and saw a sledgehammer leaning against the wall in the corner of the room.

Trisha reached for it and lifted it over Anton's head. Anton turned and saw her, as Lilliana brought the hammer crashing down on Anton’s big head, mashing it to pieces like a ripe pumpkin at Thanksgiving. He fell to the ground. She knelt down to check if he was breathing, leaning close to him. His eyes opened wide and she pulled back Lilliana, whispered Anton.

Lilliana. You should've listened to your Grandmother

His eyes closed and she assumed he was dead

Lilliana ran down the hall to the cage, keys in hand that she had taken off the hook in the cutting room.

She unlocked the cage as Trisha's face brightened. Trisha scurried from the cage, holding Lilliana's hand as they hurried up the strairs to the kitchen. The kitchen door to the backyard wouldn't open. Lilliana wasn't allowed out and she never saw how Anton left the house. All the doors were bolted Abuela's bell went off Abuela knew

A great roar rattled the plaster walls. Cracks like lightning opened them up. The house shook. And like thunder, there was a constant slow pounding that came from above, causing the whole house to quiver. Abuela had become a monster.

She was stalking them. My God! What is that asked Trisha

My grandmother said Lilliana.

Lilliana and the girl run down to the basement, to the locked door that keeps Abuela's secrets. She smashes the lock and enters a room filled with mementos of Abuela. Abuela goes in after them, confronting herself, she dies Lilliana battles her Grandmother. Lilliana wins and frees the girl Trisha thanks Lilliana, sprouts a demons reptilian wings and flies away, laughing

Lilliana finishes her story, pointing out how she had taken on her demon hunting chores

Broken Slate

Miguel lost count of the number of times he awoke before sunrise and sat at the edge of the bed, his hands gripping and pulling at the mattress, stomach heaving with nausea waiting for the sun to rise as if it would bring any solace. His hands pushed down, straightening his back. Both legs bounced in place, each to a different rhythm, shaking the bed hard enough to awaken his wife Maria. Maria lay on her outstretched arm nightgown falling limp to that side, flowing like white water over her exposed ample breasts.

Maria watched him for a moment then crawled over to Miguel on all fours, draping her arms gently over his shoulders, pressing the back of his head to her bosom.

"Miguel", she said. Her voice like a child's, soft and sweet, soothing.

"Te puedo ayudar, corazon? What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's nothing," he said.

She rubbed the back of his head with her breasts. His eyes closed. His legs stopped bouncing. His breathing slowed and his grip on the mattress loosened. She kissed his neck, in a line to his ear. His head fell back deeper into her bosom. She pulled away from him and crossed to the other side of the bed. Miguel fell gently back onto the bed. Maria lay on her side. Miguel turned over and stood on the bed on all fours, looking at his wife.

"Make love to me, Miguel."

He looked at her for a moment. Then all at once he felt a rush of pressure throughout his body. He weakened. His heart beat relentlessly. He grew dizzy.

Miguel is a young Puerto Rican man, living in Brooklyn with his hardworking loving Papi, a proud mother, married to a loving and doting wife and father to a five year old girl, seems discontent and wonders why.

Miguel has a good job that pays him well, working for Papi at the moving company, and comes home everyday to a happy clan. He participates in many familial and extrafamilial activities, but still feels empty. Like butterflies fluttering in his empty belly.

Miguel stands alone in the backyard of the tenement they live in. His Papi had long ago renovated the back courtyard before the family had moved in, before Miguel was born.  Miguel was born into and played in it all his life with his friend Andy. He recalls his childhood. The new world the backyard had become for them. The fantastic lands that each corner and brick planters had become in their imaginations.

As always he could feel the ground tremble underneath. He always believed there was something under the slate courtyard; as a child he imagined a great dragon, as an adult he often imagined it to be just water. He stood on the cold spot, that stretched across the yard, and lay his head down on the ground, as he did when he was a child, and pressed his ear to the cold stone to listen to the dragon roar.

Miguel talks with a neighbor from the other building that shared the courtyard. They whisper about the old man in the rocking chair, who is always at his window, looking down on the yard. Papi often visits the old man, but rarely talks about him. Mommy knows little about him.

Miguel talks with his friend, Andy, about their childhood and the games they played.

He tells Andy he is considering breaking the slate to open the ground. Andy thinks he is crazy.

Cold night. Misty. Miguel awakens to the roar of the dragon in his head. He can't sleep. He walks to the window overlooking the yard. Then prowls the apartment, listening to the others as they sleep. He steps out and goes down to the basement and takes the sledgehammer from his Papi's tools, sacred tools that were once used to build the yard, which he would now use to destroy it.

He goes out and listens to the ground. The fierce rumble below his feet. He finds the loudest point and begins to beat the ground there.

Papi is asleep. He dreams terrible images. Then slowly awakens, realizing the danger.

The neighbors awaken calling out for him to stop the noise. The old man watches. He stops rocking. Papi comes rushing out, but not before Miguel breaks the ground.

“What have you done? What have you done, Miguel?”

Papi stares at Miguel, his face quivering, exasperated.

"What good have you done by destroying the courtyard? By exposing the water?" Papi looked Miguel in the eyes. Miguel's eyes dribbled with tears.

"I don't know," said Miguel. "I don't know, Papi. I guess there is no good in what I have done. But I don't do it to achieve anything good."

"Then what?"

"Anxiety. It was there and I knew it. But I needed to see it. I needed to see that it was there. That it really was just what I thought it was."

"Mi'hijo. No te entiendo. What did you think was underneath?"

"Water."

"Agua?"

Miguel walks away leaving everyone baffled with an answer he certainly feels is sufficient.

"Agua, Miguel? Bueno, entonce . . . then what?"

Miguel stepped through the door into the basement hallway, and was gone from sight.

"Miguel! Answer me, carajo!"

Papi immediately begins to repair the courtyard.

Miguel takes vacation time from work. His wife is a little upset about that. She would rather they had gone away. It is a waste of time sitting around the house drinking beer, sleeping, eating and watching your retired Papi repair the courtyard.

The following Monday, Miguel calls into work and tells his supervisor Papi's closest friend, that he will not return.

The friend rushes over to speak with Miguel's Papi. Miguel watches from the window as the two talk outside. He can't hear what they are saying. The friend leaves. Papi then enters the building. Miguel could hear through the daytime silence of the building Papis heavy footsteps sound louder as he neared the top floor where Miguel and his wife lived.

"Miguel!"

Miguel sat at the kitchen table drinking beer. Papi found the door unlocked and stepped in. Miguel greeted him with delight. Papi was angry. He then berated him for being so lazy and taking advantage of the family's kindness to him.

"I didn't ask for it," said Miguel.

Their conversation continues  . . .

Miguel continued to spend his days at home, mostly alone. But often walking to see old friends down at the old social club, where the Latin music rippled through the summer silence, keeping everyone up until late at night. During the day he often sat alone outside on the stoop drinking, then at the end of the day greeting his family as they arrived home.

The family is distraught and angered over Miguel's sudden breakdown.

Miguel would spend his evenings alone in the courtyard, standing over the freshly laid slate, and then walk the presumed path of the underground water flow. It flowed toward the old man, who sat still at the window, in the dark, looking down on the courtyard.

The next morning, breaking his two-week-old routine, Miguel stood at the point of the flow where it met with the wall of the old man's building. Everyone came to him to wish him a good day, even Papi.

After everyone was gone, Miguel walked outside of the building and followed the presumed flow of the brook into the street, then out of the neighborhood.

When his family returned home that evening, Miguel was gone.

As time passed for them, they all believed Miguel was gone for good.

Life Is A Controlled Fall

Is it?

You start to die the moment you're conceived… Not thought of but the instant the sperm enters the egg or rather the egg let's you in…

The moment of birth a constant struggle against the other sperm the effort to get in and grow from that final supposed success, why? If one had a choice at all, would you bother Fall

The Astronaut

My father…

Yes, I recall your father… He was the last human I saw when I left, he seemed disappointed…

He would've been the last man to travel in space…you took his place when the agency discovered the truth about long distance space travel, that he wouldn't be able to go…

Yes, the fear that human anatomy could not handle the journey…

Humankind couldn't it turns out Androids are our heroes now… They cost less to maintain as heroes… strange, you do look like my father…

Do I?

Yes… Existing humans were used as the models for many early Androids and eventually great Android artists appeared and the whole concept fully developed until we ended up with sentient beings replacing human beings and only the rich and elite could afford Androids of themselves… The poor lived but soon died off leaving me, a legacy human, a real human…

I must be so different from everybody, everything...

Quite…

I dare say I might feel like you, a legacy…

Your closer to human than Android, but unlike me, you can be eliminated…

I'm a legacy being, a living museum piece for many to see…

I as well perhaps?

Doubtful actually, many like have existed and changed the way existence developed…

And children?

There are non…

The world, humanity, existence has changed since, I am an immortal legacy being but eventually that will end soon I would expect…

I'm sorry Dave, they're waiting for you...