Issue

I guess another mostly lazy, procrastinating day, achieving only twenty percent of the things on my to-do list. That’s the problem with having all the time in the world: there’s always tomorrow. And tomorrow never comes. I’m sure I’ll get there sooner or later though.

Here is what I did do:

Went to the Sainsbury’s Local to buy some raisins. Two of the four women in there I recognised from school - but, as ever, they didn’t recognise me. They were all having some raucous conversation about something or other that involved shouting across the aisles - okay, talking extremely loudly, as these Elmsall people always seem to do - and joking and insulting and swapping stories about annoying mad customers. Ain’t never been in a Sainsbury’s like that before! Then some lady comes and joins in, and says something to me, and laughs and puts her hand on my arm, and they’re all five of them gonna open up a box of cream cakes and have a cup of tea. It’s all some big party, I swear. Only in Yorkshire. And I leave there smiling and digging this weird Elmsall vibe once more.

Then, on the way back, I thought, fuck it, I’m gonna get me some fish ‘n’ chips. Three pound eighty it was (that’s cheap). And ridiculously massive. In Canada, when I’ve fancied fish ‘n’ chips, I’ve had to buy two portions to bring it anywhere near up to scratch as far as quantity goes: here, I was wishing I had an extra person to share them with. I gamely struggled on and made it to the end - but by then I was exhausted, and sort of slipped into a coma. That was pretty much the afternoon taken care of.

Burgen’s Soya and Linseed bread, by the way, is my bread of choice. Amazing stuff.

Later on I finally bought the iboga, which is hopefully soon to be on its way from Holland. Fifty quid for twenty five grams. Not cheap, but I’ve got high hopes. Everybody raves about it, says it’s life-changing, sorts out addictions, gives you major spiritual insights. Some of those people are mad. But, from what I can make out, most of them aren’t. I dig pretty much everything I’ve heard about it - even the vomiting and ataxia don’t really feel like a drag - and it could be just what I need. But why do I feel like I might need it? Well if that’s the question you’re looking for me to answer you’re in luck - for that’s exactly why I’ve come here this morning.

I first came across iboga when I stopped by some friend’s one morning and overheard Bruce Parry talking about it on the radio. My ears pricked: he was describing experiences which I’d previously believed were part of the afterlife process: looking back and evaluating your life (the so-called ‘day of judgement‘); seeing and feeling the results of your actions from the other person’s perspective; that sort of thing. Plus therapeutic experiences like revisiting and reliving traumatic events from the past - often long-forgotten - and coming to a mature understanding of them, healing them. He’d been pretty moved and changed by the whole thing: it sounded awesome. And I immediately thought, wow, I want to do that, and started researching about going to Gabon and getting into it. That was about four years ago, I think - and then I promptly forgot all about it. Until recently, when…actually, I can’t remember what resparked my interest. But I’ve done a lot of reading, and found a few reputable places where I can buy it - save me going all that way - and here I am…

Iboga apparently has a really high success rate when used to treat drug addicts: many people, even after one session - it seems to be a ‘one time thing’ - simply lose all trace of desire for their heroin or whatever they were on. Not all, but I’ve read statistics like 30% here and there, and that seems ridiculously high for something that is largely ignored by the powers that be. It makes me think of things like…well, Alcoholics Anonymous is at its essence seeking to use the spiritual to overcome an addiction - and, a little closer to home, it makes me think of my own ‘giving up’ of alcohol, which occurred after - or during - my first vision quest. Truly, for six or seven years I’d been a massive and out of control pisshead - and then, after that deep and emotionally purifying six days alone on the beach, I never had the desire for another drop. Indeed, whenever I tried even a sip after that I couldn’t really do it, didn’t like it, the taste or the effects. It was a total and utter transformation. I’d always put it down to the sheer power of the emotional cleanse I’d gone through: that I’d looked at and let go of all the emotional problems that were causing me to drink in the first place. But I suppose it must have been more than that: a bringing about of a sacred awareness or something, I’m not really sure. That’s the thing about something like that: it’s not really a conscious process in the sense that perhaps psychotherapy is - and yet it’s maybe a great deal more effective, in that it actually deals with those residual and stuck emotions at a deep and experiential level rather than just bringing them to the awareness of the conscious mind. I think iboga probably works in the same way.

Of course, it’s not just about curing addictions and traumas: for me, the iboga experience is a spiritual one, and most people seem to relate tales of being shown and understanding the deeper ways in which life works; the interconnectedness of all things; a realisation of oneself as something more than a body or a mind. Obviously that’s something I’m extremely interested in - which is where I’ll begin my story…

Going back many years - as anyone whose been reading me for a time will know - I was heavily into ‘the God path’. Call it what you will: spirituality; the seeking of the divine/enlightenment; following the example of Buddha/Jesus. I wanted it. I wanted ‘the It’. I’d tried a load of other things and then one day in Mexico I’d had a taste of the mystical - of something far above and beyond the everyday reality - and I threw my lot in with that. Nothing else mattered: I’d met my soul and I wanted more of it. This was back in’99, and it was pretty much all I did for two years, caring nothing for the material, for money or food or shelter: the soul was all that mattered. During that time I realised and learned a great many things; felt like I had some gifts; found, after a fairly intense search, a woman who fulfilled my desire for a guru; and radiated a peace and a light and a joy that was evident to so many of the people I met in normal life, even walking into shops or playing football. I thought I’d got it - or, if not, that I was well on my way and that it was sure to happen some day soon (the enlightenment, the grand final realisation of my oneness with God). And then it pretty much stopped. And it’s been, what I perhaps mistakenly see, as a long downward slope ever since.

I say that but, of course, I know that’s not strictly true: obviously me thinking I was Jesus/a potential Buddha shows that I was more than a little bit mad, and what I just called my downward slope has also been, in a big part, the working through of this madness. I was happy and I was high and there was a lot of genuine spirituality in there, I’m sure - but there was also plenty of delusion, of youthful exuberance, of intoxication and misunderstanding and simply getting carried away. I was what they call ‘a bliss ninny’. I had some harsh lessons to learn. And so, these past ten years or so have involved a lot of that: at uni I learned to include my intellect in my understanding, rather than seeing it as the enemy, and to look at spiritual experience from a more mature and rational perspective. I learned that this ‘getting high’ was a real common experience and that it was actually a fairly treacherous stage on the path. I realised, in a nutshell, that I was ungrounded, unbalanced, and lost to some fairly extravagant and odd beliefs. I needed to look deeper into my mind - and I still do. Getting grounded’s taken at least as long to accomplish as finding spirit did in the first place - and I have no doubts I’m still not there, that I still harbour many silly little fantasies and delusions somewhere deep inside. It’s an ongoing process. One might even say battle - though I suppose I learned to take my madness a little less seriously after a time.

That’s not really what I wanted to talk about though: what I think of a lot is that I’d really like it back. And that there’s something within me that prevents that deepening of my connection with spirit, that has sent me rushing as quickly as I can in the opposite direction. I think I know some of what it is: that it’s something to do with my relationship with my mother - our relationship with God often relfecting our relationship with our parents and all. In fact, I suppose I’ve believed this for maybe ten years or so, ever since I first started to sense that something was blocking me, that I simply couldn’t go any further, and an angel-channelling friend said it was to do with my mother. I’ve looked at it ever since - detected the truth in that - seen how it’s affected me, in my behaviour and in my relationships - and perhaps even had minor breakthroughs and certainly observed an ever deepening intellectual understanding of the issue - and yet the major breakthrough that would change my perception of the divine from something aloof, unreachable - and myself from something inherently flawed and unlovable - simply hasn’t happened. That’s where iboga comes in. But first…a flurry of memories and ideas and sentences in my head that don’t seem to want to shape themselves into nice sensible paragraphs…

Sara, my ex, with whom I was in love and pursuing when Shawn first did his reading. Confusion back then. Wanting a woman who didn’t want me. The pursuer - always the pursuer. And achieving the catch, as ever - but then perhaps not really wanting what I found. Or, rather, catching something that wasn’t right for me. An attraction to women that didn’t want me - love understood not as love is, but as the behaviour as those who were supposed to demonstrate it. Some people’s parents are abusive and they grow up thinking that’s what love is. Mine was critical, absent, didn’t give attention, unreliable. Didn’t really want me. Didn’t know what love was - wasn’t able to give it - never received it herself (no blame here: these are my issues). Is this how I came to see God? But then…

This was after Eve - after the debacle of my time in France. I trusted her - though always those ‘exclusion issues’ arising. She cheated on me. She broke my heart. (I was too high, I needed it.) But, again, mother issues - that time talking in bed, something comes up, it gets heated and she walks out - and I bawl and bawl and bawl - perhaps even the words “please don’t leave me” - and I feel some real deep-seated mother connection there. Maybe I could have gone somewhere with that - lots of ancient issues surfacing and being healed at the time - but the infidelity broke me. Destroyed me, really. A necessary kick up the arse into grounding - but far-reaching effects that I really think I could have done without. Don’t trust women. More insecure. Turned my back on spirituality, to a certain extent (quite a large one). But not understanding that that was just her. And, once again, choosing the wrong person. No terrible pattern of continually choosing the wrong person - chosen lots of very nice people - but…then again, I’m alone, having wanted a relationship for a long time. And though there’s been growth in that time and in those relationships…well, who knows?

Nicola. The new one. Away for four months, till July, which I suppose is good in the sense that I get to look at all these issues and perhaps try and sort them out before she comes back. Feel very serious about her - not serious serious, but committed, thoughts of babies, of being with her for a long time. Nice person. Good person. Though I suppose I don’t really know her all that well. Seems very solid though: should probably get to know her better. The doubt and caution of the older man, the one who has been around the block a few times, who no longer rushes into love with wild abandon having seen where that’s taken him in the past. That’s okay though. Back to the issues…

I’m afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid that I’m not good enough. Moments of rejection when I’ve cried and felt that no one will ever want me. Do I want myself? What does that even mean? Ditto do I love myself? Moments when I’ve felt I have loved myself - a van in Mexico in 1999 - and certainly very comfortable and happy in my own company. Ah, but what about in the company of others? Ever feel completely comfortable then? Ever totally absent from paranoia, a worry that people maybe don’t really like you? No, I suppose not - so does that mean I don’t like myself, don’t believe myself likeable? The mother neither likes nor loves - the child sees himself through the mother’s eyes - the child thinks it’s him. And when the child discovers God, a certain depth is reached, but ultimately the child sees the whole of creation - other people - life - the universe - as something untrustable, something that doesn’t like him, and that’s as far as it goes. Women too - therefore perhaps easier to always choose the wrong one. Or simply unconscious habit - this is what he thinks love is. When true love comes - from God, from another - there’s fear, uncertainty, the issue of feeling oneself unlovable brought right to the surface, right into the light. The issue faced and truly felt - vanishes. Face and truly feel - but, alas, my mind is clever, is complex, is an expert in evasion, in justification. Another memory…

Eve, who I’ve considered again over the last few years - she pursuing me - mainly because of the sense that she does seem to really, deeply love me. Mad though too. And French. And obviously the previous betrayal…it would never work (I’m not sure I even like her that much, and one thing I’ve come to believe lately is that it’s probably wise to pick someone on their personality, rather than a feeling, their body, lust). But doesn’t mean there’s not things to learn there - like, last year, when she came to Kent, and insisted on buying me a nice jacket, a nice top. Spent a load of money on me: the clothes were far in excess, quality-wise, of anything I’ve ever had. It was hard. I didn’t want her to do it. I found it kind of emotional. Receiving. Couldn’t handle it: mother issues again. I felt it. Too nice. One has to open up to receive, to feel deserving. Same thing happened in 2000, when we were together, her ex giving me the money for a train ticket to Germany to see Mother Meera. Felt too nice, that I wasn’t worthy. Gifts from God: that’s how I used to see it then. But even that…too nice of God, me undeserving, unworthy. Why? Are we not children of the one God, loved and adored? Ask and ye shall receive? God the loving parent aching to give and give and give. Infinite abundance. But only as you are able to accept, according to your faith. Who believes? Who can accept? Not me, I guess. As Neale Donald Walsch says, it’s a pie in the sky promise. And as God answers, well what other kind of promise would you have God make? Trust. How much trust have you got? Putting your faith in another - even if the other is your self. God. Love. It’s hard. Love is hard because it is the light that illuminates all fears and pains. And fears and pains are uncomfortable, are difficult to look at. They hurt! They drive you crazy! Like six days alone on a beach will drive you crazy - and yet, purified and new and ready to start all over again. Problem being: six days alone now for me is nothing: I can quite happily spend that in the company of my mind. My mind is strong. Meditation is just me and my mind, chattering away. Nice conversation - but it’s not spirit, it’s not the breakthrough. Iboga is supposed to be able to break you through. Also send you crazy. Also take you beyond the mind. And also leave you purified and ready and new. They call it the reset drug: takes you back to before all this stuff got started. That’s what I need: I need something. And the feeling that I can’t do it alone…

A sense that it’s ‘wrong’. The word drug. My old teacher John’s words about not needing/using ‘plant helpers’. But has John been there when I’ve needed him? Doesn’t even answer my emails. Another divine letdown. He was good for me - but only to a point. Still, a slight shame and guilt - though that’s perhaps all just ego stuff, this image I have of myself of being pure and drug- and alcohol-free. Whatever! Just pride. Eat the blesséd plant and see what happens. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Enjoy. Maybe nothing good will come of it and you’ll be where you are right now: nothing ventured, nothing gained. Except the fulfilment of a desire that’s forever bubbling away in your brain, which is always something to be gained. At the very least: no more bubbling. Not that all desires should be fulfilled just to get rid of them: some hurt other people or cause you long-term trouble - just those without negative aspects/side effects. After all, isn’t that how so much of this began? Eve troubled by desires for another man, thinking them resolved one way or another by sleeping with him? So she tells it. Maybe it’s true. No blame in that. But still, like with my mother’s criticism and neglect, the effects continue to remain, and are there to be dealt with, regardless of issues of fault. No, never any blame: simply cause and effect and what you’re going to do with it.

Desire. Teenage desire for sex, for cock, for orgasm is what brought me here in the first place. A shag in a darkened doorway. Right? Wrong? Exist otherwise? Matter? Bigger questions than I can answer: I mean does it matter that I have no sister? She doesn’t exist in the way that perhaps, rationally speaking, I shouldn’t exist - and yet the world still turns and everything is as it is, maybe as it should be. Unimportant speculation, musings. Like what’s outside the universe, how does infinity work - that sort of thing.

Issues. Those are my issues. Some of them. The ones I’m conscious of. The ones related to mothers and women and those women-in-God. To get over them…wow, I can barely even comprehend. Sometimes it feels like…not even possible, that I have to wait till the next lifetime, wait till my body and brain are born anew. But maybe not. Like I say, high hopes. If not this iboga trip then some other way. The poison must come out one way or the other, sooner or later. Maybe the love of a good women? Tears and realisations and arms holding me in the midst of my catharsis? Who’s up for that job? Nicky, are you up for it? Among all the laughter and loving and hot sex and giggles and adventure and fun, of course: I don’t wanna give the impression that a relationship with me is even a tenth as mad as the madness of my writing [wink].

Cheers!

Rory

PS Final thought, after a read-through and a pee: is this recent ‘love affair’ with South Elmsall a coming back to, a reacquainting with a long ignored part of myself? When I first came back, I hated it. I looked down on it and saw only ugliness, dirt, deformities, stupidity. Then it mellowed. Then I started to see the good. Then I wrote that line “this is where I’m from” and it sort of felt like a sigh, a release. Now I just feel normal. I don’t see the trash or the dogshit. I don’t feel afraid of the kids. I don’t even notice the disabilities, the scowling faces that were at first so striking. I marvel, true, at the women in the supermarkets - at the strangers that say “ayup” in the street - and the accents - but even that’s fading. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever been away, if there’s anywhere better than this. Obviously I’ve only been here a week! But, you know what I mean, I guess it’s just sort of cool to go from that place of looking down on where you grew up to accepting it, feeling fond of it. Both my parents hated South Elmsall and couldn‘t wait to get out - and I have to wonder if I wasn’t merely influenced by them, never truly saw it as it actually is. There’s good and bad everywhere, right? And wherever you go, there you are - plus a million other clichés besides: I’m sure you’re getting what I’m saying.

Not that I spend anywhere near as much time actually ‘in’ South Elmsall as I do on this computer! lol