about 45minutes after I took them I was as heavy as a rock, thought nothing much was happening until i closed my eyes and didn't really open them for 4 hours, just laid in bed. Not at all what I was expecting, because I thought 2g was considered closer to a baby dose. I expected giggles, euphoria, maybe nature looking especially cool through my window. Instead I was inside a plant, and I was a plant, and it kept budding and I was budding and it was painful, and there were cosmic entities, and I was watching life just multiply multiply multiply die, deform, get bigger, bud, decay, mould, burst open, and it kept going like a mile a minute. it was very overwhelming. im glad i could return to my breath. it was just me being in another realm of earth, experiencing all the panic and power of being a bug, plant, of being fungus, spreading, moving. Like IT WAS SO FAST, A MILE A MINUTE, inescapable.

Not AT ALL what I thought 2g would be.

I do have meditation practice of over 10 years and I wonder if that makes you hypersensitive?

WOW - I understand now why they say start slow with shrooms, everyone is so so different and you have no idea how it could affect you. From the outside looking in I was 100% not home at all, I don't even think I could talk at one point when I tried and could barely move.

eight of wands

eights of cups

eights of swords

eight of pentacles

maybe even the strength card

what unifies their messaging as eight cards?

-our sex life wasnt great and was the reason from the split so i dont think he saw me lilith-like in a sexual way

-i was trying on being more traditionally feminine in this relationship, and we were together that long so I don't think he saw me for the independant, defiant person that i probably really am

-flash forward a month later, i met a guy and I think it actually might be one of his friends (ex has a small friend group he would refernece, but is notoriously busy so doesnt hand with them that much and I never actually got to meet them through him. but given this guys basically one of a kind career and that they both follow each other on instagram i think it is his friend of over 10 years.

YIKES...so my question is this, is this how he's going to start seeing me as lilith?

(My lilith on his descendant)

It happens pretty rarely but anytime I KNOW immediately that i just adore someone, they have capricorn or leo placements, which is my 1st and 8th house. I'm trying to see if there are any patterns.

I met a guy briefly while out who is albeit, a bit odd, quirky, believes himself to be on the spectrum but no diagnosis. I find him interesting and endearing. I'll probably run into him again, but it just got me thinking what are the things I should be privy to, things I should expect. I know neurodivergence isn't a one size fits all, so I'd like to hear about your individual experiences.

So I've already published this story in a collection and have been obsessing over how I now think it is the weakest in the collection, but I have put it at the beginning of the book, I'm worried it will deter others from the rest of my collection, but I'm unsure if I'm being too hard on myself. Can you read it and tell me what you think?

Tricks

They said there was only one woman he could see, the others had been let go. He only briefly wondered why before proceeding. 

They said she didn’t photograph well but he wouldn’t be disappointed.

He was not.

She laid perfectly still on her back, her breasts sliding off her chest towards her armpits in opposite directions. 

She was topless but wore a black skirt so long he couldn’t see her toes. It draped over the side of the bed and pooled on the carpet.

He asked her the question.
She responded “Hope is her name.” 

He checked the room to make sure it was just the two of them. 

She clarified, “The hope.”

He did not recognize her.

He looked at the mustard yellow walls, it reminded him of his childhood bedroom and that wasn’t a place he wanted to go back to. Suffocating. The color conjured his cousin's hands, but this time he shook them off. 

He didn’t have much time before he would have to get back. He had his own family now. He could alchemize that word now. Family. He thought of his wife briefly and hoped…

She spoke. “Your wife knows. That’s nothing Hope can help you with. She already knows.”

He was surprised, confused really. Had he said something out loud, some subconscious murmur?

He noticed burn marks on the ceiling.

He decided he wouldn’t get angry. Surely she dealt with a lot of angry men and he wouldn’t…

She spoke. “But do they not have a reason to be angry?”

He wondered if it was possible. 

She parted her legs and spoke, “You’ve used me before with lesser payoffs. You didn’t get transferred closer to home like you wanted. Your son doesn’t like sports. Hope isn’t even a prayer. She’s less. She’s trite.”

He asked “What are you talking about?” Surely most of the men out here travelled a lot and wanted to be closer to home, and most dads want a son who likes sports. She was trying to make a point, but what was it? He was tired. 

She responded “Her. Her name is Hope.”

He ran through everything that could be going on. Her. She said she was talking about herself. Do they not have a reason to be angry? Who? Angry with her? 

He stated “You don’t have to live up to your name. It is kind of a common one, but I guess, too big? For you?”

She continued, “At best, she is just a passing thought. In, out. Unattached. The Buddhists would be very proud of that one. At worst, she’s anxiety hidden in a habit*,* she is a worry about tomorrow, a worry about what will or won’t be theirs. The Buddhists don’t like her so much then. When Hope sinks into you, into the mud of you, and she just waits there until time picks out something for you with a coin. Then they hang up the habit until they need her again. Time is better than her. She wishes she was Time and not Hope.”

He noticed her accent. He noticed how she looked like she might be in her 50’s. Or 15. No in-between. He noticed that she looked like she had been wearing a lot of makeup and then wiped it off, only to re-apply too much blush. She laid perfectly still but it gave her a blurred, uncanny appearance, like she was paused at the wrong point in a video. But then she also reminded him of one of the tribal masks they had hanging up at home.

He said, “You are beautiful.” Mostly because it seemed to him like something she wanted or needed to hear. Her legs were still parted.

She put her hand to her cheek, then looked at the color transferred to her hands. “Dólos egṓ eimi. Egṓ eimi plánē. Egṓ eimi téchnasma.”

He crouched down beside the bed and put his hand on her inner thigh, tapping it gently and repeatedly. He spoke, “What language is that?” Something more lighthearted. He already knew his own thoughts, now and yesterday. Whatever she thought she knew about his wife’s thoughts, he didn’t want to know.
 
He knew they were almost always immigrants, foreigners, aliens. He knew he should ask if she did this willingly. Or if she was dragged here, stolen, threatened, maybe even across borders.

She answered, “Hellēnikḗ.”

He thought about it a moment, before admitting, “never heard of it.”

She spoke, “Like Greek.”

He purred, putting his hand on her inner thigh again, “Ah, but why do you speak Greek, if you are black? They got a country in Africa where they speak Greek? You from Egypt? Ethiopia?” He knew more than he thought he did and assumed his knowledge was impressing her. Warming her up.

She didn’t understand the meaning, and questioned, “Black?” She looked at her skin in comparison to his. His hands, her thighs, then his face. She thought it was obvious.

She stated “It’s just from time, aren’t you darker than when you were a child?” 

He searched her face and she was indeed serious. Hell, maybe he was darker actually. 

She continued, “and of course from the candles, soot, before they realized it was a waste. But that was a long time ago.”

He then said what needed to be asked, so they could stop with all the talking, “Do you want to be here, like, are you here because you want to be, on your own?”

She smiled, small, for the first time that night, “Of course, this is honest work, straightforward, concrete, dependable. We both know the outcome, well, for you we do.” She pulled on his belt but didn’t undo it. 

He agreed, “Well, I can give you honest work Mam.” He undid his belt and undid it all. If, somehow, she was right, and his wife already knew, then he could maybe one day tell her this story, the story of this very interaction (if they ever got to such a place in their marriage). It proved he was a good man. How he asked the right questions, treated her with respect, put aside his anger. 

She shook her head. No. She was about to speak more prophecies, so he covered her mouth. He was done with all that.

He closed his eyes and entered her. She came alive until he came. Then she fixed her skirt, pleasing herself by draping yet again, just so.

He asked, “Will you be here next week, same time?” He might want to see her again, he might not, after all there would soon be a whole slew of new girls to choose from. 

“She’ll be here. She promises.” 

He got to his truck and couldn’t help but think that her name didn’t fit her at all. She needed something that wouldn’t overwhelm her, a name that didn’t mean anything at all, like Jessica or Sarah.

He looked up at the neon sign as he pulled out. It only said The Box. It was a terrible name for a motel, it was barely a name. But it was realistic, and straightforward, so he couldn’t really be mad at it. 

He thought about it and was glad they didn’t just get straight to business. She was evasive, a mystery, nothing simple about her, but that made it a little more natural, like dealing with a real woman. Like dealing with his wife. But now that she knew him she wouldn’t have to go on for so long next time. That would be a bit much. So that settled it, he would return, he would bring her a name, maybe a candle too. That would make her feel like something more. After listening to her, maybe she needed to pretend it was too.

So I've already published this story in a collection and have been obsessing over how I now think it is the weakest in the collection, but I have put it at the beginning of the book, I'm worried it will deter others from the rest of my collection, but I'm unsure if I'm being too hard on myself. Can you read it and tell me what you think?

Tricks

They said there was only one woman he could see, the others had been let go. He only briefly wondered why before proceeding. 

They said she didn’t photograph well but he wouldn’t be disappointed.

He was not.

She laid perfectly still on her back, her breasts sliding off her chest towards her armpits in opposite directions. 

She was topless but wore a black skirt so long he couldn’t see her toes. It draped over the side of the bed and pooled on the carpet.

He asked her the question.
She responded “Hope is her name.” 

He checked the room to make sure it was just the two of them. 

She clarified, “The hope.”

He did not recognize her.

He looked at the mustard yellow walls, it reminded him of his childhood bedroom and that wasn’t a place he wanted to go back to. Suffocating. The color conjured his cousin's hands, but this time he shook them off. 

He didn’t have much time before he would have to get back. He had his own family now. He could alchemize that word now. Family. He thought of his wife briefly and hoped…

She spoke. “Your wife knows. That’s nothing Hope can help you with. She already knows.”

He was surprised, confused really. Had he said something out loud, some subconscious murmur?

He noticed burn marks on the ceiling.

He decided he wouldn’t get angry. Surely she dealt with a lot of angry men and he wouldn’t…

She spoke. “But do they not have a reason to be angry?”

He wondered if it was possible. 

She parted her legs and spoke, “You’ve used me before with lesser payoffs. You didn’t get transferred closer to home like you wanted. Your son doesn’t like sports. Hope isn’t even a prayer. She’s less. She’s trite.”

He asked “What are you talking about?” Surely most of the men out here travelled a lot and wanted to be closer to home, and most dads want a son who likes sports. She was trying to make a point, but what was it? He was tired. 

She responded “Her. Her name is Hope.”

He ran through everything that could be going on. Her. She said she was talking about herself. Do they not have a reason to be angry? Who? Angry with her? 

He stated “You don’t have to live up to your name. It is kind of a common one, but I guess, too big? For you?”

She continued, “At best, she is just a passing thought. In, out. Unattached. The Buddhists would be very proud of that one. At worst, she’s anxiety hidden in a habit*,* she is a worry about tomorrow, a worry about what will or won’t be theirs. The Buddhists don’t like her so much then. When Hope sinks into you, into the mud of you, and she just waits there until time picks out something for you with a coin. Then they hang up the habit until they need her again. Time is better than her. She wishes she was Time and not Hope.”

He noticed her accent. He noticed how she looked like she might be in her 50’s. Or 15. No in-between. He noticed that she looked like she had been wearing a lot of makeup and then wiped it off, only to re-apply too much blush. She laid perfectly still but it gave her a blurred, uncanny appearance, like she was paused at the wrong point in a video. But then she also reminded him of one of the tribal masks they had hanging up at home.

He said, “You are beautiful.” Mostly because it seemed to him like something she wanted or needed to hear. Her legs were still parted.

She put her hand to her cheek, then looked at the color transferred to her hands. “Dólos egṓ eimi. Egṓ eimi plánē. Egṓ eimi téchnasma.”

He crouched down beside the bed and put his hand on her inner thigh, tapping it gently and repeatedly. He spoke, “What language is that?” Something more lighthearted. He already knew his own thoughts, now and yesterday. Whatever she thought she knew about his wife’s thoughts, he didn’t want to know.
 
He knew they were almost always immigrants, foreigners, aliens. He knew he should ask if she did this willingly. Or if she was dragged here, stolen, threatened, maybe even across borders.

She answered, “Hellēnikḗ.”

He thought about it a moment, before admitting, “never heard of it.”

She spoke, “Like Greek.”

He purred, putting his hand on her inner thigh again, “Ah, but why do you speak Greek, if you are black? They got a country in Africa where they speak Greek? You from Egypt? Ethiopia?” He knew more than he thought he did and assumed his knowledge was impressing her. Warming her up.

She didn’t understand the meaning, and questioned, “Black?” She looked at her skin in comparison to his. His hands, her thighs, then his face. She thought it was obvious.

She stated “It’s just from time, aren’t you darker than when you were a child?” 

He searched her face and she was indeed serious. Hell, maybe he was darker actually. 

She continued, “and of course from the candles, soot, before they realized it was a waste. But that was a long time ago.”

He then said what needed to be asked, so they could stop with all the talking, “Do you want to be here, like, are you here because you want to be, on your own?”

She smiled, small, for the first time that night, “Of course, this is honest work, straightforward, concrete, dependable. We both know the outcome, well, for you we do.” She pulled on his belt but didn’t undo it. 

He agreed, “Well, I can give you honest work Mam.” He undid his belt and undid it all. If, somehow, she was right, and his wife already knew, then he could maybe one day tell her this story, the story of this very interaction (if they ever got to such a place in their marriage). It proved he was a good man. How he asked the right questions, treated her with respect, put aside his anger. 

She shook her head. No. She was about to speak more prophecies, so he covered her mouth. He was done with all that.

He closed his eyes and entered her. She came alive until he came. Then she fixed her skirt, pleasing herself by draping yet again, just so.

He asked, “Will you be here next week, same time?” He might want to see her again, he might not, after all there would soon be a whole slew of new girls to choose from. 

“She’ll be here. She promises.” 

He got to his truck and couldn’t help but think that her name didn’t fit her at all. She needed something that wouldn’t overwhelm her, a name that didn’t mean anything at all, like Jessica or Sarah.

He looked up at the neon sign as he pulled out. It only said The Box. It was a terrible name for a motel, it was barely a name. But it was realistic, and straightforward, so he couldn’t really be mad at it. 

He thought about it and was glad they didn’t just get straight to business. She was evasive, a mystery, nothing simple about her, but that made it a little more natural, like dealing with a real woman. Like dealing with his wife. But now that she knew him she wouldn’t have to go on for so long next time. That would be a bit much. So that settled it, he would return, he would bring her a name, maybe a candle too. That would make her feel like something more. After listening to her, maybe she needed to pretend it was too.

I am very excited to go, any and all details or anecdotes are welcome

1. If you don't want to talk about race, then don't comment on my post.

2. If you don't have lived experience as a black buddhist, please refrain from commenting anything at all on my post.

Of course we know the US has more people and more black people than Canada, so even thought buddhist practice is in the minority, you're likelihood of finding more representation there is of course higher. I've been practicing for awhile and long to connect teachings/worldview to distinctly black experiences and I just want to be in community with people like me, a minority within a minority (being buddhist, being black, in Canada). If you feel the same, feel free to comment here (but because I know, sadly, ignorance is everywhere and someone will no doubt comment something unnecessary, instead of simply scrolling past this post untriggered as a healthy mind would) you can also private message me, please do! I'd love to connect.

Or smells familiar or like home to you?

Its interesting to me because it seems like alot of lush perfume are or were inspired by asia probably due to the spiritual connection with hippies.

Before you even know what they look like or before you meet them, when they are mentioned, you feel a pit in your stomach and it goes on from there. I've had this recently and we'll probably cross paths soon being in the same circle and I've scoped them out online. It's not inherently sexual YET, but just kind of obsessive and I can't wait to meet them and get to know them, even if just as friends.

Before you even know what they look like or before you meet them, when they are mentioned, you feel a pit in your stomach and it goes on from there. I've had this recently and we'll probably cross paths soon being in the same circle and I've scoped them out online. It's not inherently sexual YET, but just kind of obsessive and I can't wait to meet them and get to know them, even if just as friends.

Which nakshatras, placements, yogas etc are the most commonly associated with a bad bride, what are the most notorious red flags that scare people off from marrying a woman in particular?