Reiman Unhinged

GOOD TO GO. Or bad, but. LET'S DO IT!

Write what gets you hard.

So says Hank Moody in the season of Californication where he’s a college professor, though he could have also guided you to write what gets you wet. Write what excites you. Say what excites you. Do what excites you. Do it. Do it as consciously as you can.

God, Reiman, I’m so tired of your words. When have you ever been good at taking your own advice? You’ll find Reiman is neither writing literotica nor doing anything “exciting.” It’s 1:51am (it was 1:50am, but Reiman updated to 1:51am because palindrome times are not just exciting but scintillating) and Reiman is writing. Now he’s writing about himself in the third person after writing to himself in the second person because after so many measured words, the only writing voice that feels possibly exciting is his UNHINGED WRITING VOICE.

I haven’t had sex in fourteen months. Presidents change, dry season turns into apocalypse season and apocalypse season turns into wet season, yet the legendary pussy drought of 2023-2025 continues. It’s been raining cats and dogs here in Vilcabamba, but the unicorn chica of cosmic consciousness has not graced the forecast. Others have offered to moisten the barren desert of my bottom chakras, but my conscience has reminded me of their immaturity and likelihood to get hurt. If the unicorn exists, she’s likely in her thirties, extremely mature even for her age, into the expansion of consciousness for its own sake, into pursuing truth for its own sake, into plants, as fearless as I am and less unhinged than I am. She might exist, but I doubt it. As the months go by here in the sacral Sahara, wisdom whispers louder and louder that “the one” is just a pernicious program we’ve been fed. “The one”… what a joke. A cosmic joke akin to our existence itself. All there is is now, and so the only “one” there can ever be is “the one for now.”

It turns out “the one for now” isn’t something most chicas want to be called. And to their point, being pragmatic about love — understanding that it’s about bringing kids into the world — means creating a lifelong attachment. Ideally we do this with “the forever partner,” but nothing is forever, and I can’t lie anymore. I can’t pretend romanticism is natural anymore. The natural reality is far more beautiful than the movies, and also far more brutal. Nature is poetic in its savagery. Humanity can only continue through immense sacrifice — through the wombs of women bearing our pain-body, and on the backs of men surrendering their masculine energy to the weakness of attachment.

Actually it’s not that bad, I feel whenever I happen to be in love. Love makes it seem okay. It is okay, so long as we understand the depth of sacrifice we’re making, and make that sacrifice consciously. My estimate is that less than 1% of parents today actually understand the sacrifice when they make it, though. Conscious parents exist and I’m lucky to know some of them. They give me hope. Yet, the reality is that they’re outnumbered by parents who had kids to follow a societal script, or worse, to add to their own self-image. Parents posting content of their children on social media are using the beings they created for their own gratification, straight up. Kids can’t understand the implications of the being on the internet forever, and so they can’t possibly consent to such a thing. By allowing ego’s desires to trump spirit’s sacrifice of ego, humanity has devolved into generations upon generations of children having children.

Adults having children is hard enough. I mean Jesus, how fucked are we? How fucked are children named X Æ A-Xii, Exa Dark Sideræl and Techno Mechanicus? As Unhinged Reiman writes, the world’s Reichest man and king autist is dreaming not of how he can unconditionally love his tragically named children, but of memes on X. This goon manchild who had twelve children… he’s the leader of Trump’s “Department of Government Efficiency” and he wants to put chips in our brains. He claims he’s doing God’s work by having kids at all, and he steamrolls ahead with his dreams of space colonization. He colonizes space in lieu of being attached enough to Earth to protect Earth, or being attached enough to his kids to give them human names. He’s a puppet just as Trump is a puppet (I really hoped not, but it’s become clear), as Biden and Harris are puppets and as almost all talking heads are puppets. Our perception of what the “adults” “in charge” are doing with the world is nothing more than a puppet show.

So, our shit’s fucked up and not even Warren Zevon can save us. Elon Musk might actually be capable of saving us were he not a reptilian alien preoccupied with symbolically fucking other planets. As the rare bird who can actually sympathize with both Zevon and Musk, I hope we can climb our way back to sacrificing our pipe dreams, bearing the pain of life, protecting Earth and keeping the whole thing going. I hope women can feel all they feel and continue finding their voice. I hope men can find it within themselves to sacrifice their egoic dreams for family dreams and future generations of adults. I hope the sacrifices can be made consciously by humanity’s adults to come. Except for me. I’m special.

Light & Shadows is my child, and through L&S I will energetically father nations. For me to have a human child now would be a disservice to my creative child before us. Of course we need the chillun in order to carry on as a species, but the chillun will be useless in the world’s current dilemma between paths of light and dark. Immense dark forces have been very obviously making their moves for five years, and less obviously making their moves for decades. We may have only five more years to overcome fuckery like Agenda 2030. By the time the babies of today become New Earth adults, the world’s fate will essentially already be decided. So, with a heavy heart and even heavier flotsam of unused sperm, I now honestly tell the women I’m with that I don’t want to get attached. I want to maximally impact and brighten the direction that Earth takes now.

Even though I premised the revelation above by seeming to revel in my specialness, I was actually just coping with what is, right now, a difficult moment in my path. I’d find it much more enjoyable to have kids with “the one” and just stop with this godforsaken young man’s ambition. I don’t actually want to be special nearly as much as I want to fit in and feel loved.

Universe, on the other hand, created me to fit in so little and feel so unloved that I spend my entire life being special on behalf of Earth. Thanks, Universe… what a fun life. FUN to be deranged enough to give sarcasm to the Universe itself. Honestly, I wouldn’t choose to be Reiman again. I’d like to reincarnate in a much more chill spot. Yet, we do our dharma, don’t we. Our dharma does us. Damn is this a hard moment.

I spent the last 9-10 months in love, waiting for a woman who couldn’t be with me to be with me. Beyond other limitations (namely her having a boyfriend), my realization that I don’t want to have kids isn’t reconcilable with her readiness to have kids pronto. I wanted to want to have kids, simply because I love her so much. Yet, a plant called Jatamansi — an herb from the Himalayas that gives clarifying dreams and was purportedly used on Jesus’s feet — showed me that I simply don’t. Naturally, ironically and per Universe’s sense of humor in my life, it was this woman I love who introduced me to the plant that began breaking my “the one” illusion. My first night working with Jatamansi I dreamt that indeed, we had a kid and the kid had become a toddler. I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by baby toys and feeling deeply unhappy. “This isn’t what I wanted my purpose to be,” I said while looking at the toys in dismay.

Jatamansi and my subconscious gave me a clear felt sense of this wayward path we avoided, but of course I tried to ignore that for a couple more months… “for love.” To my shame (not really, no regrets!), I got a diamond from my mom for her ring. Then I went to the jungle a couple weeks ago and liquid Tobacco pummeled the fear and delusion out of my chest. Then a bowl of Piton cleaned my stomach and made me vomit blood. Then more Tobacco began unfolding the excruciatingly painful wounds sitting on the right side of my pelvic floor. Then my shaman told me I needed to forget about the love with this woman; it’s hard to say how he knows much of what he knows, but he somehow does. Then Ayahuasca showed me with resounding clarity that the woman isn’t for me, and I couldn’t spend another second waiting for her.

So here I am, waiting for no one and moving forward on my life’s purpose — to help humans, to protect water and soil on Earth, to light the world up through L&S and to release attachments as I grow in consciousness. Clouds come and go, and I feel foggy as I write now, but I remember the light clarifying my purpose wherever I find myself. Before I began this writing I found myself with a woman who is amazingly intelligent and beautiful, but who isn’t a unicorn. She doesn’t resonate with my ethos of overcoming the monogamy program, and she presented me with some testing clouds by smoking tobacco when greeting me and then smoking ganja as we sat on her bed at the end of the night. Choosing myself, my own energy, light and purpose, meant using my power to say no to smoking, which I actually didn’t find too hard. Challenging, however, was the intellectual conversation we had.

We both recognize ourselves as painfully dualistic creatures — part beastly animal and part loving awareness, part ego and part spirit. She is a psychologist and former professor who values and enjoys mind/ego, yet sees the sickness born of our ego’s abandonment of soul. She hopes mind can realign with spirit as spirit’s rightful best friend. She trusts that body can guide mind toward that realignment, though she heard my point that there is no body. What we call “body” or “heart” or “brain” is actually just a construct of mind, and “mind” is just our manifestation of the consciousness of spirit underlying all.

Don’t try to make sense of it. We can’t help but try to make sense of it, because our egos are sense-making machines. You can’t make sense out of nonsense, though. Spirit, our deepest Truth, is simply beyond sense.

Sense is the domain of mind/ego, and this conversation with the cute psychological lady clarified why so many people think I’m crazy. It’s because I am crazy. It’s because I’ve connected to and begun embodying my spirit. From the perspective of minds / psyches / egos / words, of sense-making, spirit is crazy! Spirit is also the essence of who we are. Yes. We are all crazy.

A time approaches when the world realizes this, when the puppet show unravels and when suddenly no one can explain what’s going on. I honestly fear how the modern developed world will react, though I trust our path and I believe in the human spirit. Spirit will take over and recreate the world, though not in the “Love Has Won” sense. There will always arise new creation, new mind and new order.

I view my purpose as essentially supporting that Divine Order — picking up the pieces of our shattered devolution and realigning them to present humanity 2.0 with a vision of how we might be inspired to carry on living. In order to live such a purpose, I choose myself over the comfort of “the one,” or of smoke in my lungs and THC in my brain. I choose to let go of attachment, even if it means developing an attachment to not smoking in order to replace the attachment to smoking, which replaced an attachment to biting my nails, which replaced the boob my inner toddler missed and transmuted into an oral fixation. The cute psychological lady pointed out that my newfound identification with not smoking is also an attachment, but affirmed that it’s an attachment I need right now for my healing. I also need to start preparing liquid Tobacco and allow myself an attachment to this zero-downside way of connecting to the master plant. I also might need sex. Sex might make me less unhinged, though. I might need to be unhinged. Let’s see.

We need our attachments to be human, and our decisions regarding attachment define who we are in this life. As mind/ego sees it, we do well to cultivate what psychologists call a “secure attachment style.” I’d do well to let go of what psychologists would call my “avoidant attachment style.” As spirit sees it, though, the entire field of psychology is complete bullshit. We need no attachment, because “need” is a nonsensical word. You might argue that we need certain things (air, water, earthly food) in order to live, but the fire of our spirit knows that in truth, we don’t need to live. Humans need to die and new humans need to be born. Our spirits are eternal. Our True Selves “need” nothing.

Our human selves need relationship to connect to our True Selves, who don’t need relationship. Herein lies the painfully dualistic paradox of the human experience. As Kid Cudi brilliantly rapped, “ignorance is love, and I need that shit.”

Weeks ago I dreamt of having a conversation with the cute psychological lady regarding her monogamy, my non-monogamy and our resulting unresonance. Lastnight we had that conversation in “real life” almost exactly as we’d had it in the dream. Weeks ago I also dreamt of the cute psychological lady telling me: “I’ve already given you two vasectomies. Don’t make me give you another one.”

In that dream I interpret the cute psychological lady as representing the feminine as a whole, and Her relationship with me. I interpret the “vasectomies” as the natural and perhaps unavoidable energetic phenomenon of a guy who chooses monogamy becoming pussy-whipped, which happened to me in two (or so) past relationships. I don’t believe a man can choose monogamy without surrendering his masculine imperative of freedom to the feminine imperative of la familia, or the societal imperative to pretend he found “the one.” There’s nothing wrong with consciously making that sacrifice for family, but I don’t want to start a family now, so I don’t choose monogamy.

As I said, I wouldn’t choose to be Reiman again either, but here I am. The cute psychological lady and I resonated deeply about this — the annoyingness of being human while knowing that in truth, we are spirit. She recalled coming down from big trips with Huachuma / Aguacolla / San Pedro / mescaline, during which she felt limitless / powerful / magnificent / free, and finding it depressing to be back in the limitation of the body. Indeed, I often find it so annoying to be in a body! I need to feed and clothe (for now) this body, I need to live in the illusion of “needing,” and sometimes I feel fed up with it. I feel fed up with mind, too, and with the relentless thoughts pinging Reiman’s brain. So, I either find a cute psychological lady with whom to philosophize and not fuck, or I write unhinged rants to you, or both. Meditating would be a way better solution, but hey, I’m out of practice. So please don’t mind me scratching the itch of writing what gets me wet. You’re welcome?

Fucking itches. The human experience can feel like a Sisyphean fate in Greek mythology. Even if we identify as soul and not as the animal we’re playing, we “need” to perpetually scratch animal itches for our entire lives. We scratch seemingly forever, much like Sisyphus being doomed to laboriously push a boulder up a hill for eternity. Scratching can feel good, though. Food and sex can feel very good. Drinking water is nice, and drinking coconut water can feel sublime. Writing really well can make me feel hard and wet at the same time, at least metaphorically. All any human wants is a feeling, after all, so maybe our fate is neither doom nor eternal? In The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus (also the author of L'Étranger (The Stranger), one of my favorite books), the Sisyphean fate represents a metaphor for our struggle with the absurdity of life (according to AI; I can’t read French). Per AI, which I think might literally be the antichrist, but which is usually logically accurate: “despite the eternal nature of his punishment, Camus concludes that one can find meaning in the struggle itself, suggesting that Sisyphus might be happy in his defiance and perseverance.”

Maybe we need only learn to adult while also staying connected to our defiant, untamable, wild inner child. Maybe then the boulder feels more like an inflatable ball, the hill more like a sandy beach and the fate more like a game. My child can scratch itches with a free flow of glee, without judging himself or feeling the itches as a burden. The child feels free. The cute psychological lady felt free, because after six years vagabonding and organizing rainbow gatherings, she is deeply connected to and accepting of her inner girl. Her inner girl is free to sing, scream, cry or laugh as she feels. I met a lot of her rainbow gathering hippie family lastnight at our dinner, and whereas Spencer would have been repelled hard (because they reflect a freedom that Spencer lacked in himself), Reiman felt only good vibes. Loopy vibes, for sure, but good vibes nonetheless. I felt good vibes across the full range of rainbow personalities, from my rainbow cute psychological lady date to the voice of the rainbow singer named “Hola,” from the warm hug and kiss on the cheek (it took three years, but I’ve finally gotten used to smoochy greetings) with “Hola” to the rainbow dude who kindly rubbed my back. With his rainbow hand on my monochromatic shoulder, he said in Spanish that I understand his Spanish even though I’m missing vocabulary, because I feel it in my heart. He wasn’t wrong; I understood him. I’ve even understood my shaman speaking Kichwa before in the same way.

Our hearts can simply know. We know that doom is illusion, and we’re simply adults holding our children while they fly as freely as we judge to be safe in this world. I want to adult and I need to adult, for the sake of that safety, but I also want to fly. I want to be as wildly unhinged as my inner boy whose fire will never die. I want to keep writing fire posts and producing fire videos just because my child finds them fun and my man finds them meaningful, without giving a fuck how many people care or might take offense. I want to scream “DO IT!” and “LE FAIRE!” (apparently fais-le is the correct French, but who cares) as I did with my friend in 10th grade biology lab. Our teacher nicknamed us “the crayon chewers” because rather than paying attention in biology class, we’d do sudokus and raise our hands only to announce how many days were left until Monday Night Football. I want to rekindle that badass kid who gave no fucks and integrate him with serious, serious Reiman. In this way Unhinged Reiman, who just does it, takes birth. Yes. You are welcome.

The cute psychological lady just did it and just does it, too. She taught the shit out of psychology students and organized the shit out of hoards of rainbow hippies. She organized yoga, kirtan and other spiritualism events here in town, even when no one came or cared. Why? Because she wanted to, for her, and she just did it. She’s cool. She’s no unicorn, but she’s an inspiration to DO IT myself with what I’m building — Light & Shadows, baby.

Alright, Universe.

I’ll do it. I’ll move my energy from things I used to do (ganja is the most dangerous drug; I’m not joking) to what I’m doing now — to what gets me hard, to the excitement. Even when clouds prevent me from feeling that excitement, higher mind knows that the excitement for my new doing is present, and all I need to do to feel it is to keep doing it. Simply deciding to do it, to focus on the new doing, to use sheer mind to jumpstart my hurting heart, to pay mind to my boy’s unhinged inspiration, grows me into Unhinged Reiman — a free man.

I simply choose inspiration over all other impulses, knowing that only the inner boy knows what’s truly inspired. I keep him safe and let him fly and listen to him; that’s what I decide.

Truth and inspired conspiracy talks are coming, lovers of Light & Shadows. It’ll sound really crazy. Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m unhinged.