I was an old dog chasing a beautiful young dove. She had Frida Kahlo bloodlines, mine were disjointed, part Scottish, Jewish, part crazy bastard. She was a writer . She wanted to be another Pessoa. I could dig that. She was a shaman . They have a word for it over there but I’ve forgotten. She was another Maria Sabina who spoke with the mushrooms. She asked me if I would like to come to a sweat lodge with her. She was officiating the event out in the back blocks of Belgrave. Where else I thought,? After crawling through the entrance semi naked and after the heat ratcheted up a few notches I felt like screaming. My cat

eyes could see my Mexican goddess chanting some wired shit to the spirits, a guy opposite was totally naked, the feeling of lust gorged through me and a touch of hysteria. In the end through to the last of the four directions, I screamed over bodies, and yelled not too politely, I gotta get the fuck out of here. It was pretty heady stuff. Later she urged me to take the medicine. Everyone back home takes it she said. Her mother, father, grandparents, why it’s just like Sunday dinner around the table. I thought , maybe, I’d do anything for Frida. In the end I never took the medicine , I didn’t want a bad trip like William Hurt in the movie Altered States. I thought I might end up in a zoo knee deep in goats blood. Ah well , what could have been.