CBD Edibles And A Sigur Ros Sound Bath Make For One Intense Spiritual Journey
Watching naked Jesus lookalikes dance doesn't hurt either.
I meet two Robins. One is a 31-year-old burgeoning maternity photographer. The other is a fine art dealer from London who landed in the film industry and has an international membership to Soho House. One drove me to NeueHouse via Lyft, and the other struck up a conversation with me while waiting in line in the courtyard. In the course of talking to them, I find out weed saved both Robins’ lives. Robin is celebrating her one-year anniversary with weed soon. Other Robin avoids sativas. He tells me, “Everyone’s a chemist now,” and I nod. Robin nods. We exchange knowing looks.
I find all of this to be a sign of something larger because I am nothing, if not constantly attuned to signs. But, full disclosure, I took a few puffs of an energy-inducing hybrid before I left my house to see the evening’s event, a Sigur Ros sound bath co-hosted by gourmet marijuana edibles company Lord Jones. There isn't a moment of this experience in which I want to be not high. And looking at the bleary-eyed crowd surrounding me, it appears I’m not the only one.
When the invitation mentioned free gumdrops followed by an elevated sound experience, I scheduled “get weird” next to Tax Day in my calendar.
To give you a little background, I heard about the Sigur Ros sound bath by way of a PR email from Lord Jones. I’ve been wanting to write about their products ever since they sent me a high-CBD, tropical gumdrop and it changed my thoughts about edibles entirely. So, obviously, when the invitation mentioned free gumdrops, followed by an elevated sound experience, I scheduled “get weird” next to Tax Day in my calendar and counted down the days until I could do just that.
Once we’re inside, we line up for the new Lord Jones gummies, a “wild sigurberry” flavor made in collaboration with—you guessed it—Sigur Ros. That’s when I see Ali, the Satanic Temple L.A. chapter head, and do a double take. Insert the flashback of me meeting her at a Glendale biker bar two weeks ago for a community forum—a forum where I signed over my soul to Satan immediately upon hearing his followers value kindness and obliterating Trump. I tap her shoulder and tell her I’m a baby Satanist and she gives me a hug. Then she has her friend take a picture of her holding the sigurberry gumdrop, her wrist exposed to show off her Sigur Ros tattoo. Apparently, the universe is kicking into full gear tonight. Something must be in retrograde again, although I’m not sure when it’s ever not.
The theater doors open and I lose her as we flood from the bright, white lobby into the dark, cavernous, fog-filled space. To say it’s dreamy wouldn’t do it justice. My dreams are never this expertly styled. Feeling our way through the dim candlelight, we tiptoe through the fog to find our seats on sheepskin rugs and low-backed chaises. Ambient noise fills the space while we wait for the show to begin. It sounds like a WWII submarine croaking through pitch-black swaths of sea. Because this, for me, in this setting, is entertainment enough. I wonder if the show has already begun; if we are, in fact, the show itself.
But then the show begins and I realize I had no idea what I was getting into.
Here’s the thing. Sound baths are really fucking cool. Weed is really fucking cool. Put the two together and the really fucking coolness factor expands exponentially. I did not know this—not, at least, until I tried the combination for myself. There’s something innately jarring about sound, the way it can affect your equilibrium for better or worse long after you’ve heard it. It’s been three days since I saw—or more accurately, felt—the Sigur Ros sound bath, and I can’t recreate a single note in my head to save my life. I can only remember my conviction that one particularly triumphant stretch of sound will reenter my skull in full clarity in a year from now when I’m giving birth in a post-apocalyptic colony as a last-ditch effort to salvage the species. By then, we will have no music, but my mind will fill in the blanks with this because nothing could be more fitting.
Or at least that’s what I think in the moment.
Lots of thoughts flit between my ears as I watch near-naked boys drift through the space at a glacial pace carrying candles and incense. In loincloths and robes made of transparent gauze, their look can only be described as Jesus Christ meets Return of the Body Snatchers. Before they entered the space Chronicles of Narnia-style through a cabinet filled with mirrors, we’d all been lying on our backs looking up at Juan Azulay’s art installation, a pulsing alien egg of a chandelier. Like meerkats, we pop up one by one to watch the Jesus triplets carve a path through our CBD-chilled bodies. I imagine this is what virtual reality will feel like in our non-apocalyptic version of the future, when we become experts at transporting ourselves through time and space without having to leave our sofas.
"Your mind needs to descend into the dark in order to resurface into the light."
But the moment they disappear, my thoughts take a turn for the dark side. For instance, I wonder if telling Satanist Ali about the time I got surprisingly stoned from a CBD gumdrop while rummaging for bargain basics at American Apparel made me sound seem like a square. I think how my recent rejections from six MFA programs would pale in comparison to a rejection from the dark lord, Satan. Then again, there are worse things to think about, which I do; like the fact that death, and the entrance into the unknown, is a guarantee. And on average, we consume seven spiders in our lifetime all while we sleep. I’ll find later in my notes that I wrote, “why don't we move our heads like birds, so calculated.” So there’s also that.
What I’m trying to say is this is the point: Your mind needs to descend into the dark in order to resurface into the light. Spiritual cleansing doesn’t happen as a result of linear, cheerful thinking.
To experience no fluctuations in feeling would be to emotionally flatline, to be spiritually dead. Sound baths, much like weed, force you to dive deep internally and make do with whatever wreckage you may come across. That’s why I smoke (or dab or eat or vape). Getting high is not so much about feeling catatonically relaxed, as it is about feeling something.
All images courtesy of Lord Jones / Billy Farrell.