It seemed as though an infinitely expanding circumference was now infinitely contracting towards an infinitely contracting point that was now infinitely expanding towards an infinitely contracting circumference and all of the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings of an electromagnetic mirage parade were gradually fading away into the distance. The scent of the Agua de Florida and the Palo Santo, the taste of the vomit and the ayahuasca, the sight of the visions and the radiance, the sensation of the warm humidity and the spasmodic stomach muscles, the sound of the icaros and the schacapa. A dream becoming ever more obscured and remote, fainter and fainter, as the seconds, minutes, and hours fluttered quickly back to the faces of clocks like moths to a midnight lamp or mosquitoes to an open wound. A seamless transition from one soporific state to another.

I now beheld a pair of tall, slender humanoid figures, androgynous and featureless with skin like the smooth surface of spotless mirrors. The Simulacrum, a nine foot tall mirror skinned humanoid figure known only to The Hyperreal, the nine foot tall mirror skinned humanoid figure known only to The Simulacrum. The only thing that reflected off the surface of the skin of The Simulacrum was the skin of The Hyperreal and the only thing that reflected off the surface of The Hyperreal was the skin of The Simulacrum, like mirrors inside mirrors…ad infinitum. Peering into one another’s mirrorball eyes like astral scrying into crystal balls, the reflective skin of The Hyperreal and The Simulacrum formed an eternally infinite hall of facing mirrors, an infinite regress in the form of their androgynous hairless humanoid figures, a portal from, through, and to an eternally infinite hall of facing mirrors, an infinite regress in the form of their androgynous faceless humanoid figures, a portal out of which appeared the four Great Masters of the Self.

From the Western Temple of the Mind appeared Mariri, a tall and slender sadhu with blue skin, a long dark beard, ankle-length dreadlocked hair, star ruby eyes and clothed in red ankle-length robes. With his left hand he grasped an intricately carved human spine staff and around his neck hung many strings of dried lotus prayer beads. His forehead was painted white and in the center, between the eyes, were three horizontally painted red lines, one solid line between two broken lines.

Slowly the sadhu pulled out a chillum from underneath his robes and brought it to his lips, gently lowering his eyelids, and inhaling causing a brick of reddish-brown hashish to light up in the large wooden bowl with a soft orange glow. The smoke entered his oral cavity from the hole at the stem of the pipe, rolling slowly across the tongue, into the pharynx, past the epiglottis, larynx, and vocal cord, way down into the trachea, and deeper still into the upper, middle, and lower lobes through the labyrinth of main stem bronchus, bronchi, bronchioles, and alveoli. After holding his breath long enough for the full absorption of tetrahydrocannabinol into his blood stream, the sadhu exhaled just as slowly as he inhaled, releasing a thick cloud of pure white smoke into the surrounding atmosphere. Slowly he pulled the chillum away from his lips and gazed heavily into my deep hypnotic stare. With a voice that was infernal, and as ferocious as a blistering desert summer sun scorching a twisted wrinkly old tree of many leafless branches he proceeded to speak,

“Behind the red door lurks the Blue Sachamama who feeds on emotion and thirsts, hungers to devour it entirely into a total cessation of desire.”

From the Eastern Temple of the Mind appeared Yariri, a tall and slender sapera with red skin, a long dark beard, and blue moonstone eyes. He was clothed in blue ankle-length robes and a blue turban. With his left hand he grasped an intricately carved snake spine staff. Around his neck hung a thick braided necklace of many diverse species of venomous snakes including hydrophis belcheri, the belcher’s sea snake, oxyuranus microlepidotus, the western or inland taipan, bungarus caeruleus, the common krait, naja naja phillipinensis, the Phillipine cobra, ophiophagus hannah, the Indian king cobra, vipera russellii, russell’s viper, dendroaspis polylepis, the black mamba, bothrops asper, the yellow-jawed tommygoff, bungaris multicinctus, the multibanded krait, notechis scutatus, the tiger snake, and bothrops jarararcussu, the jarararcussu. His forehead was painted white and in the center, between the eyes were three horizontally painted blue lines, one broken line between two solid lines.

Slowly the sapera pulled out a punji from underneath his robes and brought it to his lips, gently lowering his eyelids, and began to play a mesmerizing mysterious and magical melody. The smoke that the sadhu exhaled and diffused into the surrounding atmosphere, gathered together and slowly spun around and around the maloka shaping itself into the form of a tornado-like funnel. The form became more and more opaque, elongated, and cylindrical as it spun faster and faster and faster. The melody was forming the hashish smoke into an Indian king cobra that was equal to the size of a fully grown Amazonian anaconda. Slowly he pulled the chillum away from his lips and gazed heavily into the hypnotic stare of this fierce and formidable ophidian that pendulated in the space between the highest of the Heavens and the lowest of the Hells. With a voice that was hard, and as cold as an icy winter gale screeching through a twisted wrinkly old tree of many leafless branches he proceeded to speak,

“Behind the blue door lurks the Red Sachamama who feeds on will and thirsts, hungers to devour it entirely into a total cessation of aspiration.”

From the Southern Temple of the Mind appeared Shamuriri, a tall and slender clown with green skin, a long dark beard, citrine eyes and clothed in yellow ankle-length robes. On his head lay a wide brimmed hat made out of yellow clay from which dangled a thick tuft of shells and acorns knotted all along the length of dozens of green ankle-length braids of stems and weeds. With his left hand he grasped an intricately carved elephant spine staff and around his neck hung a string of many diverse and colorfully painted shrunken circus animal heads. His forehead was painted white and in the center, between the eyes, were three horizontally painted solid yellow lines.

Slowly the clown pulled out a wood-cutting saw and violin bow from underneath his robes, brought the handle to his chin, bent the blade into an S-curve, rested the bow upon the back edge of the blade, gently lowered his eyelids, and began to play the most haunting melody upon his musical saw that anyone or anything had ever heard before. As the music played like a sun-warped phonograph recording of an aetherphone, the anaconda-sized Indian king cobra that the sadhu had evoked before him began to appear less and less caliginous as its skin transformed into reflective mirror-like scales of magnificent multifaceted precious gems of the entire spectrum of colors perceivable within the greatly restricted confines of the human brain and nervous system. The great serpent’s eyes had a barium platinocyanide glow, peering through the flesh of outer illusion like an x-ray to reveal the illusion’s inner skeletal structure. Back and forth she swayed, flattening her neck, spreading her hood open wide, emitting a high-pitched hiss, and revealing a pair of long thin needle-like neurotoxic hypodermic fangs. The clown pulled his violin bow away from the saw and stared deeply into and beyond the cobra’s fierce phosphorescent eyes. With a voice that was absurd, and as elusive as a flock of autumn starlings he proceeded to speak,

“Behind the yellow door lurks the Green Sachamama who feeds on thought and thirsts, hungers to devour it entirely into a total cessation of reason.”

From the Northern Temple of the Mind appeared Cayariri, a tall and slender curandero with yellow skin, a long dark beard, jade eyes and clothed in green ankle-length robes. His hair hung down to his ankles, all one length, fine, and shiny black, wavering beneath the midday midsummer desert sun like lisianthius nigrescens, la flor de muerte. Seven green parakeet feathers were braided into his hair and several species of iridescent green hummingbirds orbited his body like planetary spheres around a vital central sun. With his left hand he grasped an intricately carved Banisteriopsis caapi vine staff and around his neck hung a string of myriad medicinal flowers from the deep Peruvian Amazon including ajo sacha, ajosquiro, ayahuasca, bobizana, came, catahua, cat’s claw, chacruna, chiric sanango, chuchuuasi, clavo huasca, coca, guayusa, huasi, jargon sacha, lupuna blanca, misqui panga, mucura, oje, piri-piri, renaco, tobacco, toe, ucho sanango, ushpawasa sanango, yawar panga, yawar piri-piri, and all of the other medicinal plants of the sacred blessed jungle. His forehead was painted white and in the center, between the eyes, were three horizontally painted broken green lines.

Slowly the curandero pulled out a schacapa from underneath his robes, raised it up to heart level, and began to shake it rhythmically in the space before him as his eyelids gently lowered into trance. The rhythm became accompanied by a magical icaro of such peculiar alchemical properties that it seemed to be coming from somewhere way beyond the lungs, larynx, lips and tongue of the ayahuascaro. The resonations of the vibratory intonations interweaved and coalesced with the melodies of the stars and everything that they do and do not shine upon revealing the one symphony of the eternally infinite, the secret song that is the puzzle of which every other icaro that has ever been sung, is being sung, and ever will be sung is but another piece of this very puzzle. An icaro that was, is, and forever will be a puzzle in the shape of a puzzle piece made up of puzzle pieces that are puzzles themselves made up of puzzle pieces. An icaro that was, is, and forever will be the question and the answer. An icaro that was, is, and forever will be the holy medicine. As the strange beautiful visions, voices, and vomit poured out from the mouth of the vegetalista, the astronomic serpent gracefully twisted its jewel-bespeckled body, taking its own tail into its mouth, and formed into an oroboros around the perimeter of the maloka. The medicine man fell silent for several minutes and then, seeing deeply into the eternally infinite inner eye of the gleaming oroboros, he spoke with a voice that was wise, and as youthful as a redwood or a spring sapling bursting through the soil of morning,

“Behind the green door lurks the Yellow Sachamama who feeds on breath and thirsts, hungers to devour it entirely into a total cessation of life.”

Naked stood the Holy Trinity for all to see, free from all illusions of reality and free from all realities of illusion. The Holy Omnipotent Father, the Holy Omniscient Mother, and their eternally infinite Holy Omnipresent Orgasmic Union. His flesh as bright as the tree of life and hers as dark as the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. His hair long and twisted thickly like dreaded vines of white Yura ayahuasca and her hair long and twisted thickly like dreaded vines of black Yana ayahuasca. In the center of his forehead, between the eyes, a thunderous reverberation like Trueno ayahuasca and in the center of her forehead between the eyes, a vast spaciousness like Cielo ayahuasca. Their two bodies as one, twisted thickly like vines of ayahuasca Cascabel, their orgasmic ecstasy a healing fire like Puka ayahuasca. Whomever has ears to hear, let them hear. A revolution, a global transformation, has taken root in the mysterious garden of the Old Healer. Concentrate on and surrender to the Divine Love of the Eternally Infinite.