Bliss. Bomb!

A month washed in, a month washed out.

Here in Vilcabamba rainbows were broiled up and rinsed out, we had a peace festival which caused no end of bitching and treachery, dust devils hurled themselves about the gritty streets and I walked on with dirt in my teeth and a bliss bomb in my pocket.

It was one of those months that wound up with nothing but a bucket of filthy water with fairy wings floating in it to show for itself… and a small grave where I planted the bloody swaddling left behind after the transcendental baby slipped on out of her mortal coil to elf-dance in metaphysical realms.

Knitting a fifth dimensional baby is no picnic. She was like a nymph that grew from a seed in the little pond inside me for a while, then wriggled out of that transitional body to dry her wings, made of string theory, and slip past gravity to surf the negative space. She was like a lotus, that disturbed my muddy waters to make something triumphant out of them. But she was a slow mover, and dropped her petals so slowly it was a torture to endure. My unevolved body didn’t know if it was spring or autumn and after the third month I was faced with the hard edge of the gynaecologist’s gaze.

The textbook says that when faced with the dead-end outcome of a non-embodied baby, the appropriate couse of action is to filet the womb.

This is considered a ‘no-biggy’ – you just force open the tight little bud of the rosy cervix, scrape the uterus with an instrument that looks like something out of Edward Scissorhands, then vacume her out and presto! Nothin’ for the little lady to complain about. Should said little lady peer sideways at the suddenly not so avuncular-looking doctor who is offering her this comfort, thinking, “Are you freaking insane?” He will warn her that failing to be fileted in this way could mean DEATH!

“Oh, that again,” I thought, as the doctor tried to explain how the uterus is just like a kind of leathery old coconut, and how he would scrape all the bad old coconut flesh out of it with his stainless steel razor fingers, and I would be new again, fresh and clean! And baby parts would be flushed out with the hospital waste. tidy.

I thanked him for his eloquence and took Mother Nature as my midwife. She provided a little spindly bush which my witchy-poo, slightly-inclined-to-storms-in-teacups-landlady showed me how to use as a tea to love up my uterus, rather than strip her down. The tea was green and astrigent. It sent me to bed and gave me hallucinations in which I could talk direct to my reluctant hitchhiker. I said things like, “Baby, release me.”, and “Baby, teach me.”

To which she said, mostly, “A bird can fish, but a fish can’t bird.”  Which made sense at the time.

Sometime during the slow, long, sickly work of gently birthing my baby into the refined dimensions, while carefully managing the wrapping she came in, Scott was stealthily sneaking my credit card and copying all my playlists onto his laptop. He was making private plans to further his ambitions as an enlightened leader of the lost masses. Baby was watching him, on tiptoe, from the translucent view past her peeling cocoon.

He left every day to work out, talk shit and salivate over the gluttonous profit margins of an online spiritual counseling and prophecy website being brewed up by a pair of narcissistic sidewinders fattening up their maggoty souls under Ecuador’s shady legal umbrella here in Vilcabamba. Just up the road.

Scott had decided that his personal enlightenment would first require complete lighten-ment of any bothersome responsibilities in this crappy, out-of-date mundane world, starting with those well-known yokes to Great Men; their partner, child, debts and any time-wasting acts of care, while I decided that mine would basically depend on my yogic bubble and Jack Johnson. In the end, we both got what we were wishing for.

One fine Monday in August I planted the hot pink bed sheets that slipped out of the cradle inside me in the herb spiral at our Little Green House. By Wednesday Scott left us (in the dark, in the rain – so theatric!) to move in with the obese Danish guru up the road, and his Canadian internet hoaxter cash cow. I decorated the grave with marigolds and little banana pancakes I made as an offering.

I lit incense which stretched elegant fingers of sandalwood into the high rolling clouds, writing sophisticated haikus and an ornate FUCK YOU to that lowdown loser boyfriend of mine who left when I was weak and broken and bleeding and went off with a pack of hyenas.

Oh well…. there are times when the cosmic laundromat just wants to get all the bad out at once.

Baby and me remain connected through a little white star that hovers about the edge of my vision, and she shines on… a giggly little dancer who reminds me that things fall apart so that life can constelate into new mandalas. We have been making quite a funky one together, but first we had some scrubbing out to do.

While even more weird and possibly dangerous American refugees oozed out of the States into the crapped out little hamlet of Vilcabamba, reeking of anti-depressants and desperate for a last slice of that Ecuadorian property for the sustainable mansion of their American Dream, I bought a puppy for a dollar on my volunteer shift at the local library.

She was a sad bag of small bones, being lurched down the pulverised rubble known as a road here by two boys who said her mother had been killed by a taxi. They wanted a cash crop from passing off the orphan. Fast learners, Ecuadorians.

Anyhow, true to form, I have a little rescue nature baby. I call her Honey. And, true to form, it turns out that she was really blown into town to rescue me. Which she does every day.

Once relieved of 37 ticks, a batallion of fleas and fierce hunger that had possession of her 5-week-old body, Honey turned on a passion for life large enough to jump-start even a tragic shape like mine. She lives in a wicker basket with a crochet blanket and smells of patchouli.

Shortly after her arrival at The Little Green House in the Wild I spent 4 days with gruesome tummy problems and 3 more vomiting hard into a blue bucket. During the magical delusions of shit, puke, cramp, sleep, the star baby smiled over me from her glittery little node on the fifth dimensional web, and said, “We need to get the hell out of this house.”

And so it was… the Little Green House had done it’s job.

Through the weird and contractive rites of boredom, loss, betrayal, surrender, wretching and finally being able to turn my slightly rusted-up kaleidescope… at last… just two vital, magical, pivotal, painful degrees to the left – Tink! – I was done.

The Green House of the snake-rider shamansita sista priestess of the San Pedro wrench, with her dark bangs and her fierce love, had put a bomb under my delusions and it had gone off like a fire-cracker in a jam jar.

This is what a learnt: after boredom, comes the heavy wash cycle, and then, once the letting it, letting, it, ouchy, ooooeei, eeek, aarrrggghhh, puff, pant, boo hoo, out out out OUT!    comes the gorgeous, effervescent, anything possible… nothingness!


This morning Honey and I woke up to the pretty musical yawns of faraway birds and the distinct smell of cat piss, gently stired by gum-scented breezes on an Ecuadorian Wednesday with a very fine clean sheets feeling.

We have given up the Little Green House in the Wild trip for a more Beatrix Potter goes Latino style home high, high, high up in the mountain range, far far away from the lost souls and those who hunt them in the old town below. La casa of love-birds, Matt and beautifully up the duff Stacy Joy, who have gone off to launch their new album and a fresh manuscript in the yonder world, comes annointed with the priceless magic of good lovin’, sensible folk who know how to make proper tea.

As the day bloomed, we stretched, had a pot of English Breakfast, found one of the cats had pissed all over my laptop, which is now defunct, and had passionfruit pancakes listening to Halleileuha, by Jeff Buckley… who sings it pretty much like we’re feelin’ it.

And then we played Red Hot Chili Peppers VERY LOUD, singing, tralala... Antony Keidis really is better looking than you, Scott!

I have big plans for a bottle of pine-o-clean, and three mangoes sun-baking on the window sill.

Baby is dancing in and out of spring growth on the fig tree, and Honey is chasing bees among the marigolds.

8 thoughts on “Bliss. Bomb!

  1. Remarkable! Quite remarkable. Jade, there’s nobody that tells it the way you do. Beautiful. Thank you. Julian

  2. Fierce, delicate, raw, authentic. I can taste the mangoes, feel the earth where you mourned and smell the clean white sheets of a resolution morning. Ubud is a lesser place without you, my sweet, but I understand your call to more mountainous jungles. Thank you for starting my day with your post xx

  3. I was never entirely comfortable with that Wisconsin connection. Maybe the muse was humming a discordant tune. But (as Julian Hodges says, above) … there’s nobody that tells it the way you do. Take care and have fun with Honey in your new mountain digs. xx

  4. what a gift you are….thank you! you take me to other worlds when i read what you create….a joy…full of life…and love, no matter what you are writing about…and a smile all the way..much love, eileen

  5. Hugs & Love to you big Sis
    It seems the world is not quite ready for you
    Keep trying tho won’t you, we need you
    How about a spell with family?

  6. Hi pretty… I like that I am getting congratulated these days on ‘being authentic’… but isn’t it kinda kooky that we see that as a triumph? Cause it means that the usual way to be is fake. Anyhow, am happy to think of you reading me at Vespa. That’s the way I picture it. Ecuador has not yielded the fruit I came in search of…. but I have been more or less happy to take her medicine… and it was pretty amazing for me to observe myself coping with the shit-storm here in a pretty cool and collected way… so I guess I am really getting somewhere with all this yoga business. Only cried once, listening to Missy Higgins. And damaged no more than a dozen boxes of cheap cask wine in my metamorphosis. Not bad going, I reckon.
    Most obstinant stiffness I am receiving in this present chapter of the story is a serious and escalating loathing of Americans.
    I realise this is a problem, now that the place is crawling with them.
    what to do, what to do?
    How are things floating along for you?
    Am planning my return to he ‘bud in the new year (if we have a new year)… will you still be there?
    j x

  7. ” to move in with the obese Danish guru ”.

    Ei vey, I know this guy. Joshua ‘Dhamma’. Guru. Shaman. Master. (idiot). He was run out of Koh Samui Thailand (before rolling up in Vilacambra) after trying to fraud everyone there, rip-them off however he could, and sell his Ibogaine trips for absurd amounts of money preying on the detoxers, the fast-ing folk and the spiritual seekers because his disability check from home doesn’t strech far enough to stop him having to scam whoever he comes into contact with. He’s a fat fool who drinks his own urine, and believes in little green men. Keep us updated about him though, it’s always good to see frauds exposed.

    Does this sound familiar: ”Because one iboga trip costs 2500 US and I gave him 5.000 US as provider in Canada told me Thailand was good. (this guy was referring more to the guy that moved to Ecuador. It was a huge mistake for me to pay him in advance. I never did the second trip so you can say that he just took my 2500 for doing nothing.”

    Full story here:

    Your writing is truly brilliant by the way. You have a real talent for beautiful prose.

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