Huichol Hikuri Art: Multi-colored beaded deer.
The old-school mining tunnel, "El Ogarrio." I met the good-natured Mexican ranchero, Don Carlos, in the spectacularly quaint desert pueblo, Real de Catorce, while traveling through Mexico last year. I met him and his wife while admiring the products they were selling at their pop-up shop by the old mining tunnel that help to spill the people into town. Among these products was a peyote and hemp-based cream that was being marketed as a pain-relieving muscle-relaxant. After applying some of this uniquely blended cream on my shoulders, neck and traps that night I came back the next morning and started asking about potentially importing the popular peyote cream to sell on the ZOOMDOUT Smart Shop. After discussing and considering it at length, it turned out that the risky, semi-illegal logistics proved to be too complicated to make the venture worth my time.
While we talked about the benefits and techniques involved in producing the peyote cream, Don Carlos casually asked me if I was interested in eating peyote at his ranch.
"Why, I thought you'd never ask," I thought to myself.
I told him I would think about it since I had many things to do in a cramped amount of time before leaving this quaintly, dusty desert village.
A couple of days after meeting and talking with Huicholes, admiring Hikuri art, listening to live Huichol and Mexican music, desert trekking, lunching on cactus tacos and enchiladas, savoring red wine and salvia tea, thoroughly exploring the town and mentally preparing myself for an all-night peyote voyage, I decided to contact Don Carlos in order to take him up on his offer.
While we talked about the benefits and techniques involved in producing the peyote cream, Don Carlos casually asked me if I was interested in eating peyote at his ranch.
"Why, I thought you'd never ask," I thought to myself.
I told him I would think about it since I had many things to do in a cramped amount of time before leaving this quaintly, dusty desert village.
A couple of days after meeting and talking with Huicholes, admiring Hikuri art, listening to live Huichol and Mexican music, desert trekking, lunching on cactus tacos and enchiladas, savoring red wine and salvia tea, thoroughly exploring the town and mentally preparing myself for an all-night peyote voyage, I decided to contact Don Carlos in order to take him up on his offer.
Real de Catorce.
 Hikuri (Huichol Art) |  Huichol Elder. |  Hikuri (Huichol Art) |
Don Carlos scheduled to bring me a horse to the trodden hotel I was staying at later that same afternoon. Once he got to my place I packed my bags on top of the horse, mounted the beast and began horseback riding down the winding desert cliff of Real de Catorce.
 Wheelies. |  Getting out of the way of the wheelies. |
My horses name was Tren (Train) and every other mile, or so, Tren and I would have to squeeze over to the side of the dirt cliff road so that the compact 4x4's (or "wheelies," as they call them in ) could continue riding up the cliff to Real de Catorce. The train-like Tren and I followed Don Carlos out of town and expertly trotted down the long and winding dirt road that would eventually lead us down the dignified mountain into the flatlands of cactus land. The panoramic view from the edge of the cliff can give you plenty of shivering chills. The sun's rays emblazoned the dryness and sounds of stillness inherent in the Mexican desert atmosphere.
After about an hour-and-a-half of riding, Don Carlos found the luxurious desert trench he was looking for and let me know that we arrived. He instructed me to pitch up my tent while he located the peyote. I told him five full pies should do me plenty for the night, as I was still processing the semi-deceiving situation at hand.
After about an hour-and-a-half of riding, Don Carlos found the luxurious desert trench he was looking for and let me know that we arrived. He instructed me to pitch up my tent while he located the peyote. I told him five full pies should do me plenty for the night, as I was still processing the semi-deceiving situation at hand.
My yawning home for the night.
"Wait, what? Are you fucking kidding me?" I was thinking. I was wondering what exactly was happening—I was under the initial impression that I would be staying at Don Carlos's home on his ranch, ingesting peyote in front of his fireplace, not tripping alone in a secluded trench in the dessert with a fire pit and an ax in my hand for added protection. As Don Carlos explained that I would be sleeping in this secluded desert trench, we chopped enough wood for a long-lasting fire. He advised me to keep the fire going as long as I could since snakes and coyotes will most likely stay away from an ongoing fire. He literally handed over his ax and explained that I can use it if an unpleasant coyote confrontation were to happen. I accepted my situation, finished setting up my tent and prepared myself for a long night ahead of me. Don Carlos laid out five peyote pies on my stone psychedelic supper table where I would be dining that night.
Splitting some wood with Don Carlos during the approaching sunset.
Mexican Desert Sunset.
Below is a poetic attempt at describing an aspect of the peyote experience I had during that extremely animated night, alone in the Mexican desert. I split up the masculine peyote pies into twenty-five buttons and began masticating bitter, alkaloid-y cactus. The moral, mantra, and essential nectar I managed to gather from this particular Peyote Trip was that everything was: Animate not inanimate. Animate not inanimate. Animate not inanimate. Please enjoy the ZOOMDOUT visionary poem: Entering the Yawn.
The Sacred Cactus for Supper.
Entering the Yawn
| Everything is yawning around me. It appears that each of these yawns are inviting me home. And every yawn contains a yawn within a yawn. Which of these tunneling yawns am I supposed to explore? Because everything is yawning around me. These ubiquitous fractal-costumed yawns Are absolutely everywhere! The stones around me are yawning. The trees around me are yawning. The cacti around me are yawning. The fire I'm looking into is yawning. My tent is yawning. They're all wickedly mischievous yawns. Filled with the curious infinities of the Fractalverse. All living and animate. Animate not inanimate-- Animate not inanimate— Animate not inanimate. Like a looping mantra The living world around me Repeats and repeats: Animate not inanimate— Animate not inanimate-- Animate not inanimate. The yawns are made up of yawns. The twinkling stars are made up of eon-long yawns. Even the majestic womanly moon is yawning over me. These titillating yawns are seducing me into their never-ending world of eternity. These expanding yawns are beginning to swallow me. Inviting me in like the mischievous cosmic twinkle in a woman's eyes as she curls her index-finger towards her glittering star-lit body. Who and where are these trickster yawns introducing me to? Am I supposed to accept their invitation? Of course I am! But there are so many yawns willing to swallow me; So many yawns I can blindingly get lost into. I'm not sure which one I'm supposed to explore. Varieties of yawns; And yawning yawns made up of yawning yawns. The maddening, inescapable yawning never ending. They are omniscient laughing yawning fractals, after all. As I enter one of the ubiquitous, quantum yawns I wonder: Where will these yawns swallow me to? Flashes of existential hopelessness overtake me as I experience the beginnings of infinity... The soul-wrenching beginnings of infinity... The never-ending beginnings of infinity... As the twinkling night proceeded She increased the volume of the chirping of the crickets Their music becoming louder and sharper. The clear, communicating crickets Were piercing through my consciousness. Judgements of the cricket god manifested through Ultra-high-frequency cricket vibration. The inside-out consciousness of mechanical insectoids were bathing the surface of my soul as they judged me. | There is so much happening. But what exactly is happening? There was so much happening, in fact, The only answer to the happenings Were to dance ecstatically. This is precisely why you dance. Orgasmic life experiences Force you into dancing Around your solitary lunar-lit desert fire. The sporadic, random deer dance I am automatically taught kept me over-flooding with life. As the fire extinguished I stared into the fire Praying and hoping I can keep the fire going When all of the sudden a living breeze Shot right past me and set the fire back ablaze. There is a peculiar knowing message clearly trying to be conveyed But what are these yawning invitations suggesting? Why am I pretending Not to be lost anyway? If you were to zoom out Your perspective far away enough You too would undoubtedly be lost. I beg you to zoom out To the tips of the galactic super clusters. And that's just the relative Beginning of the holotropic zoom out. Wouldn't you be lost, as well? In the midst of all the chaos you find yourself Wondering—where in the world is my home? The only possible thing you can do Is to become your own Home. To become your own OM. Once you come to grips And gather what is scattered You've managed to find your Eternal Home. You'll never be lost again. In the end, we all are entering Back into our Home. We are all walking into our yawning grave. The yawn is incredible. The yawn is inevitable. Welcome to the yawn. I'm entering the yawn. |
Real de Catorce, Mexico.
 Real de Catorce. |  Have a happy trip! |
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