Thanks Lizbot and Disney artists!
Mind acing for revelation instead of more meditation, I gave in to my inner-demon.
I couldn’t get my syringes of Golden Teacher, just wasn’t in the cards. The State had a lien against all users. Inoculate the substrate with the gold, and you could go to jail for a 9 stretch. Even if you didn’t go to jail, the Feds would be so far up your butt that you’d puke badges. That’s the way they keep the sheep, that’s the way it is.
Frustrated, I picked the next best thing, HBRW seeds. I did my research, knew the odds, and obtained. They arrived eight days later. Opening the container, I saw the little peepers for the first time. Grand total: 100. They looked like baby oysters, lips with white fuzz, but dried, dead.
Mental depression was on my back like feathers on a bird, so I decided, I chose, and in my teeth I grinded a set of five seeds.
I did the dishes as they took root in me, listened to NPR and the woes of the world. I was pissed off thirty minutes later. I’ve been had! This doesn’t work! I thought. But I was supposed to give it an hour at least. Hawaiian seeds have a slow up-take. But minutes later, I could feel them in me like a rogue intelligence. The seeds were crowding around my eyes, fogging my perception of the world I’d known since birth. I liked the fog. It was soft and alluring. I could feel my depression leaving me in dribs and drabs.
And when I felt the sway creep into my legs, I knew they were coming on strong. I forgot my anger for the government’s Baptist policy against shrooms. But it was all so stupid. In America we are free to drink our weight in Jack Daniels, smoke our weight in Camels non-filtered, but when it comes to solving problems free of a bill payable to Dr. Freud down at the clinic, John Law ain’t on my side. John walks the narrows, and he wants to keep you there too, tucked inside his jacket pocket. You see, John needs slaves to float his world. More on that later.
I flipped on FB, put my buds in my ear, and selected some appropriate long term tracks. They worked like magic. Others had tripped this way before, long before. I was taking a crash course in Zen. Zen owed me big time. I had kissed the Buddha’s ass long enough, tongued his feet good. That son-ov-uh-Bodhi owed me , and the way I figured it, I had his ass in a snare.
I was feeling a three martini high at minute twenty; and then minutes later, a five strong high. But that’s when I closed my eyes and saw stained glass windows glaring with a dying sun in their panes. To the Left and right were whirly-wheels, wheels gyrating around like ancient Aztec programs, changing by the second, flickering and blazing. And then the glass began to rotate and collapse into itself, turning into a slit eye, a green reptile-eye opening into a perfectly beaded orbit of scarlet reds, greens, and yellows. It blinked in the inkiness, staring into me.
Knowing the time, I detached from FB, ear plug wire trailing from my laptop like a life line, and parked myself in the full lotus, ignoring the need to puck all over the carpet. Foresight was working because I had my bucket next to me, a bucket moistened by rain drops from the morning storm.
I sat in half-lotus position and meditated to ignore the need to purge immediately. All things are in a state of suffering, I told myself, even me, the carpet, my stomach, the air around me. The eye was still blinking at me, at first wrathful, then passive, then wrathful again. Was I looking at my unconscious? God? Goddess? I didn’t know.
Opening my eyes, dirt on my carpet (the crap my vacuum didn’t suck up) was apparent, but there was absolutely no need to clean (I’m definitely that way…straighten up, put things in order, rectify situations immediately); in fact, some parts of the carpet were bumpier than others, poofing out in full 3d from the floor.
I stood with the help of my wife. Staring at her made-up face, she was the most beautiful angel I had ever laid eyes on. That was the truth. I told her so. She smiled. And all around me I could feel the fabric of being, but it wasn’t frightening. Long and expansive, it was the porch of Eternity. I had that feeling. I just knew it. Long eras of timeless calm were before me. All I need do was touch it. It wasn’t hyperspace, it was the un detectable nowness of being most of us–including me–ignore to our obsession with time, time and suffering.
She sat me outside.
I could feel her arm tangle with my flesh, becoming one. I was looking at our potted flowers, thinking of how they were the most perfect sonnet I’d every felt; dogs barked in distant yards, but my mind only labeled it as “dog barks” eons later. Perception was delayed. I had phenomenal comprehension, but it was lagged out like a bad internet connection. And in the long distances between associations between THIS and THAT, there loomed for me a growing feeling of disassociation. Insanity. Chaos. Space and time was trying to drink me in throw the narrow straws of grass in my yard, in through the petals of the nearby flowers. Meditate too long on understanding nothing, and I would be absorbed. Gone. Finished. Bye-bye.
My breathing was problematic. There were long seconds, I felt, when my lungs were asking for breath. Were the seeds doing this? Could they cut short my life by first having me drift off to Nirvana, and then, quite insidiously, make me forget to breathe? Or was this paranoia, a bad trip, bad juju for taking three more seeds past five?
I spent the remainder of my time indoors, clock radio in my lap tuned into to A.M. baseball. Baseball? I hated sports. But the announcer’s voice kept me here, kept me now, kept me sane. To cleanse the horrid after taste in my mouth, I ate what remained of a sack of jelly beans. And as I ate, I kept my eyes from focusing too hard on the wall. Swirly patterns would appear, and if the swirls started rolling, they would suck me in, and I would forget to breathe…perhaps die.
With this in mind, a warning pinged up from my stomach: “Go vomit, I hurt.”
I had read enough to know that purging was part and parcel to the process. You can’t glimpse Eternity, can’t feel it as a visceral truth, without paying the price. Knees on bathroom floor, the scent of toilet water in my nose, I forced my finger down my throat until I heaved, heaved, and heaved three times more. Later, Dr. Pepper became a craving. It was so sweet that it drowned out the bad taste lingering. I was grateful.
To my best estimate, my trip started around 3:30 in the P.M. and only gradually ceased around 12:30 a.m. It was a long introduction to peace, beauty, and then terror. In the coming weeks, I would write half of this essay (the experience was last March). However, as I branched out to forum after forum, I would tell a little of my experience (never the volume above), and I was met with skepticism, doubt, and the usual “if you think that is great, try shrooms.”
It is only now that my interest in DMT evolves that I am publishing this experience. HBWR was my first experience into the realm of the psychedelic. And after the months passed by, my hunger to try something else, something different, has finally risen; risen enough to make me interested.
Here’s to the weeks and months ahead as a new member and new student.
