The Teafaerie does not believe in discarnate entities. This is my official stance. It’s the stance that I absolutely have to take at this point in order to maintain what I’m still pleased to call my sanity. The last thing I need, insofar as my tenuous and tempestuous romance with consensus reality is concerned, is to think I’m some kind of god damned Faerie Ambassador. I get the irony of my name (Teafaerie is actually a title, like Doctor or Professor, rather than a proper name) but in fact I don’t believe in faeries, demons, lizard people, or self-transforming machine elves. Clap all you want, it won’t do a lick of good. Or rather, I should say I don’t Believe in them, with an emphasis on the capital “B”. I’ve taken enough ayahuasca that I can’t deny the compelling intensity of some of these experiences, nor dismiss their relevance, but I don’t think I know what they are anymore than I think that I know what I am, myself. To label such a phenomenon as “entity contact” is to attempt to box it into a metaphor that is perhaps not large enough to contain it.
I could totally go there if I wanted to. I would not be straight-up lying if I said that I’ve had dozens of entity encounters. But is it True or true or “true”? No one can say, least of all me, as I’m the sole observer of whatever it was that may or may not have happened, and I have only the most subjective possible viewpoint from which to assess its validity.
If they were asked to take them at face value, almost nobody else would believe my entity stories. For one thing, they all took place when I was tripping fairly hard. For most people that’s the end of the conversation. My early attempts to process this kind of thing, even and maybe especially with my intimates, were discouraging, to say the least. Far from impressing my friends and lovers with my honored status as a contactee, my fractured and breathless tales of “whoa” elicited no small concern for my mental hygiene. It soon became clear that a cusp was approaching, and I was going to have to figure out how to frame my experiences in more acceptable terms or face some sort of attempt at intervention. I don’t blame my family for their reaction. In fact, I love them for it. I had a friend who was getting kinda paranoid around the edges for a while, and if we had all taken refuge in relativism or humored him about the agents forever lurking just out of view, he might well have drifted further and further off. Instead, his friends quite properly took the stance that this was all a bunch of whack talk and insisted that he get some help. It is perhaps because of our vigilance, concern, and willingness to discriminate that he remains amongst us, now untroubled by his former preoccupations. Friends don’t let friends go crazy. This is a good thing. It does make it hard to talk about certain experiences, though.