Microdose Lockdown
My last acid trip in 2020 was surreal.
Chao squirms at my feet. My poor dog is frantic. Her wet eyes weigh me down. Her eyebrows emote, I want to come with you. She is my single unit of chaos.
Heart in knots, my racing thoughts pour into the sky. I hide tears as rusted clouds trickle across the cerulean sunset. The atmosphere is foreign. Frivolous splashes and drunken laughter disturb me.
My neighbors in the apartment complex are breaking quarantine at the pool. I wave politely but keep my distance. Lockdown is becoming more strict but not everyone cares. I should introduce myself, except I don’t want to catch the coronavirus.
The air is dense with quarantine gossip and vaccine predictions. My boyfriend Nick and I are somewhere in the middle even though we are not sure what the middle is anymore. We take the pandemic seriously, but we also question the corrupt authorities behind the operation. We worry that the propaganda is a distraction from something bigger; we speculate that it’s aliens.
Nick unpacks his guitar equipment. His pedal board is a command module. Sonic blue chrome, moon-silver buttons, mystic purple fonts. A vintage TV loops Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey near an unfinished robot. His house looks like a mid-century modern spaceship.
“Star Trek is our tripping theme,” he announces as he hands me a mini dress.
“I must be Troi,” I muse as I wield the acid.
Nick’s upstairs neighbor and Polyphonic Spree bandmate Bri swirls a bundle of sage. “Is it that awesome green-gel kind?”
Smoke cleanses me as I hand her a tab, “You know it is.”
Bri tosses on a red Starfleet uniform shirt. Her eyes roll back in bliss. “I’m setting up my cello and pedals. We should jam.”
Our acid’s shape reminds me of an iridescent computer chip. I laugh at the people on the TV going overboard with the theory that vaccines are laced with microchips. In spite of the apocalyptic absurdities churning outside of our ship's doors, our setting is conducive to a heavenly night.
My vata is out of control. I plug in my vocal pedal as the ether in my blood surges because of the pandemic scare. I will play it safe and microdose, I decide as I sliver the crescent under my tongue. Nick pops a little more than the recommended dose. He inputs our launch time on the back of the door.
“9:32 pm. And we look perfect.” He hands Bri and I the Star Trek pins that he DIY’d for the occasion.
“We are official now.” Nick’s mood erases my fear of uncertainty. The constellations prepare our consciousness. They overlook our ascent like star sapphire portals.
We were journeying light years into deep space while society plunged into darkness. Even though I was anxious as humanity’s skull cracked open around me, together my crew and I were eager to initiate ourselves into the 2020 lockdown at full speed.
Time fractures around us. Nick stands in a melting corner. I can’t see his face. Bri’s voice echoes and yet is too quiet, “Have y’all seen the ghost family that lives here?”
I don’t want to see. Cosmic intelligence merges into my mouth. Pranic waves shimmer and crescendo on my skin. I meditate on the nagas Rahu and Ketu as the LSD unhinges my ego. The head and tail of the dragon swallow and spit me out. They are the psychedelic catalysts of revolution and renaissance. When untempered, the shadowy lunar nodes wreak havoc on society’s mental sphere.
The room is a kaleidoscopic panopticon. Fractalized blues and reds project harshly through the mod window. The furious rays threaten my body’s fragile infrastructure. I snake in a feverish trance—network fried. Rumors of martial law. Experimental vaccines. An impending insurrection. Biowarfare. Police brutality. Government falsehoods. Climate apocalypse. UFO disclosure. I fold into a sacred mound—vulnerable and crushed by my country’s destructive fate.
Even though the pandemic seemed to appear out of nowhere, I foresaw it for years. Online conspiracies alluded to a major global event that was scheduled to ignite around 2020. I witnessed synchronicities and had dreams that also confirmed that a huge paradigm shift would occur. The acid would not let me escape these frightening realizations. The ambulance sirens outside of the window must have triggered a negative spiral. Each wail an apocalyptic horseman preparing for battle in my head.
As I writhed with questions and speculations, my fellow officers of the USS Enterprise coasted on a smoother course. Not nearly as bothered as me, Nick and Bri were paisley ripples in the room. I’m so sleepy.
“You can go to bed.” Nick chooses a foreign film to watch as he comforts me from the couch. We’ve been tripping for hours.
I am drained but too paranoid to be by myself, “I like it here on the floor.”
Before facing my fears alone in the bedroom, I crawl over to Nick’s lap and whisper a secret Sanskrit mantra into his ear.
“You need to know this mantra for what is to come.”
I pray that those syllables are a weapon. Nick has already forgotten how they sound.
***
Reivin Alexandria is an occultist writer and musician based out of Dallas, TX. For more of her work, click here.