#1 Posted : 4/24/2010 11:54:38 AM

I Eat Plant Magic

Posts: 1099
Joined: 30-Jan-2010
Last visit: 28-Mar-2013
Location: The Wilds of Wales
About an hour ago, a mythical reconstruction of me came back to baseline from his first DMT experience, and his first real psychedelic journey.
He took ~3 grams worth of rue potion, followed a half-hour later by ~3 grams worth of mimosa tea.
I know mimosa+rue is not ayahuasca, but at one point I asked Her if She was aya or not and she said yes, there is only one She.
A couple of notes on the account: the first two-thirds mostly deals with the initial hyperspace voyage, but after a while I do get to the interaction with Her.

This is what I wrote, soon after landing safely:

"Even now I am not quite sure what happened, what has happened, or what will happen. Constantly, even now, three hours after ingestion, it takes nothing more than a nudge for the creation of a new reality to appear. I know they are fake, but they appear nonetheless. Now, my purpose here is to record my memory of the last few hours before it fades into the deep oblivion that makes up the fabric of each of our individual universes.
I'm going to try to re-learn the concept of “time”, now, but I'm not sure how that'll work out. Bear with me.

The last thing I remember thinking coherently was “I'm puking into a bucket.” or it may have been when I took more Syrian rue concoction, which I don't know if I did do, and I'm extra unsure of whether or not I took extra mimosa. I remember a million times throughout the experience reliving taking extra mimosa, sucking it out through the siphon like some Dionysian reveler. Only the things like that, the things I thought an infinite number of times throughout my infinite existence as God, are the things I may have once called real. Those other realities which were conceived a finite number of times, those realities perhaps no longer pertain to me, pertain to me any more than they always have. I'm was God- I am God- She is God- this didn't happen until later. Puking into the bucket, I assume (I don't remember much of this) then the world started disappearing into the extra-terestially glowing shadowed pinkitude of neon walls and coursing, howling jackal's faces that everything was constantly morphing into and out of. I must have undressed, puked, walked into the bathroom and grabbed a towel- the whole process enveloped in the silent screaming electrodal explosion that was consuming everything – wiped off my face, walked back, arranged the bucket, gotten into bed. This is were all causal, chronologically aligned reality totally is subsumed into chaos.
The blanket was a snake. I kept coming back to the snake, I kept coming back to her, I kept worming my way deeper into her sweet embrace before losing myself entirely... snapping back, trying desperately to stay afloat, throwing off the blanket, falling asleep and never waking up, drinking an endless amount of water, leaping off of the bed, fighting an omnichromatic coyote as it charged at me down the hallway, looking at my reflection-shadow in the mirror, headache, hearing a ringing sound, returning to the snake, the sound of swallowing water has become music, the wolf stands as tall as me, looking in through the window, its all-encompassing eye pounding me back over chairs, touching something soft and warm as it slithers past my foot, putting the vomit-rag behind the bucket, waking up, staring into the endless pink-purple-green circuitboard that dances and thrashes to the sound of that horrendous whine.
I remember the first moment I thought of ego-death-- ironic use of terms, I hope someone gets the joke-- was one of the first (?!) times I gave into the snake-blanket. It was like an art-deco, Tex-Mex boutique made tasteful, laced with poison ivy. Laced with the color and smooth sensuality of a well-made cartoon, it was almost like a cavern, but not quite- lacking the limitations. It was purple-pink and dark poison green, with one split of zipper-like red squares, and in the middle the most elaborate and beautiful eye. I was totally alone, although in actuality I was totally not there. There was no me. I thought, “Wow. There it is.:” And then I woke up. Except there was no wake-up, and that was not the ego-death, that was a forgetting of bodies; a temporary and delicate state. This scene was interspersed in the endless snake of southwestern mosaics come to horrible life- last paragraph's onslaught of sensory experience.
Eventually, I must have given in to her... I could not fight, I thought (I thought! I thought!) from a hundred thousand nauseating angles that the best way to ride out the incomprehensible nightmare would be to sit outside, to drink more water, to simply trust~ lay down, go into her arms. Who knows what became of me then? Once I believed that if I went to sleep in her arms I would be asleep forever; I had no trust. She was like a predator, and I was cowering in my cave from the wrath I expected to descend upon my bare, Neolithic flesh. She was not even a she, I was a afraid, I was afraid of the thing which had me in its grip. Going to sleep with it would be like turning one's back to the tiger. I thought that a thousand times... reminding me now of how I felt earlier, when I stepped naked out of the shower and stood in the middle of the cold bathroom, air-drying, that I felt like I was a Christian about to be thrown to the lions. Or a teen suicide, sending last notes to friends and leaving the poison in a jar atop the last bedside table.
I'm digressing... this is not what happened now. Giving into her, being taken: she was not here yet. Slowly ushered into the annals of hyperspace... the other world that is NOT what romantics take it for. The Other Side is the pure-wrought, glowin' drummin' definition of Groovularly Funkadelic, without even the semblance of a personal consciousness to experience it. Another thought that I remember happening (ha ha! They happen!) over and over again was has when I spoke I would be sucked away from the concept of a concept, not to mention language, before I even got to the fourth word of the sentence itself. Halfway through the third word of any given sentence, the word itself and all of the sound would transform before my eye into a glowing millisecond on the fourth-dimension multi-tongue of some god whose glottis circulated up through the roof, and I'd begin following it on up, riding it like some intense wave, as nothing but a speck along the current of music.
The entirety of being was immersed in the multiple, unconjoined levels of rhythm, devoured within the humming multi-hued tones that made all that is vibrate. The whole new plane I could experience was pumping with this semi-divine music; an unending harmony of humming notes undulating to those two arhythmic beats. At the best it was surfing along this, being flung through the thousand worlds like a gerbil from a slingshot. As it neared the end, the me-gerbil's momentum petered out and I became lost inside of the dark, Aztec labyrinths. It was a labyrinth as much as a foreign city at night is a labyrinth to child; navigable, surely, objective and yet totally incomprehensible. Different, lonely, shadowed, dangerous. Except this city was illuminated only by those neon currents of purple, pink, red, green, and now increasingly blue.
My consciousness was in a multilevel inner courtyard, dimly lit. It seemed like night, at this point it all seemed like night, as if the sun had dipped below the horizon in this plane. Except light comes not from suns; only the music, now reduced to a gentler, distant set of tones, causes light. The music had set on the planet of Mars. The courtyard was crawling endlessly with green shapes, and performers of light-sound would come to the inner sanctum and gesticulate themselves into impossible shapes with which to make their new designs. Like a fly or a mouse, I only observed, could only observe. There was a chamber filled with water also, much like the place where I first lost my body mentioned above. Instead of the mimosa's vivacious southwestern technicolor, it was filled with the most entrancing jewelled blue. The single eye was still there, blinking from time to time. New beings resembling beautiful squid would summon themselves into the light projecting up through the middle, dance and play their piece before intro-dissolving back to nothingness. The last place was the darkest. Not emotionally dark, per se, but lacking light; lacking sound. It was like one of those Native American cabins that is built into the ground, a pit house I think it's called? It was like a log pit-house in shape and feel, with innumerable gaps to slither in and out from. It was very dark- my consciousness could barely perceive anything. I fumbled around in this darkness, fumbled... until there was nothing left. Hoping, praying, still barely capable of some internal dialogue with my rapidly-disappearing self, wishing to be a dream, fading, fading...

Then was the most profound; this was the very beginning, the big bang, the moment from which my non-self was plucked from the aether by a divine hand and rebuilt upon the foundation of memory. Every person I'd ever met, ever loved, ever wanted to love was there and I loved them all, shook hands, got married; every possible outcome of the next day was played, as well as everything that might have been from yesterday. I lived every strand of the inconceivably dense thread which exists of me and time. Each possibility, each path, each face lived and grew old and died, I lived and grew old and died, I woke up in a dozen different hospitals a thousand different times. I conceived of my parents, thought about them, drifted back spontaneously to the feeling of ultimate dissolution I had felt beforehand. There was no now, there was no reality. My parents were just a dream within a dream, one branch of options in the infinity which is in turn engulfed within the total emptiness of that which is.
Learning poured forth like from a font, some underground spring that cannot be seen in the depth of its own waters. Every piece of knowledge existed; each piece of knowledge flashed and descended beneath the tsunami of cascading ideas. The me that could be was at once wise and then ignorant, loved and then lost, fat and then emaciated. The I that watched did not exist yet.
Like flashing through a box of photographs, eventually the recurring slides began sifting themselves out from the amalgamated eternity, never failing to halt while some new face or feeling was explored. They shuffled and rearranged themselves, rebuilding, from total, vacuous nothingness into my chosen Self. Each recurring flash of memory juxtaposed itself in my forming consciousness, swirling and building. Every once in a while throughout this process, some new function would be temporarily given to me, and I would wonder at its warped nuances. Now I could open my eyes, see the room before I got sucked back into the vortex; then I could feel the sweat on my skin. Or I could taste my tongue, which didn't fail to crackle like water would if it were solid. Then the sound would turn into shape, and dissolve back into the blackness.
Soon some coherence existed. I my consciousness had been turned into form. I could now think in I. I marveled that something like me existed. Nothing else existed, just this me. And then, BAM, with an earth-shattering roar simultaneously accompanied by a soft sliding into bed, She smashed in through the window. Ever since I became interested in psychedelics, I had been intrigued by the idea of Her. Some people talk about conversing with the plants, hearing their voice, but this was on an entirely new level. By the time I recovered my coherence enough to communicate, I said/thought/became “You're Her.” There was no question. At all, even for an instant. This could not possibly be some delusion... there, rolling around in a bed I could now perceive with a Self and body somehow conjoined but intriguingly disconnected, we made love into a new time. I cannot explain in any way, whatsoever, what making love to Her is like; if you be so lucky, experience it for yourself. This was the first time since rebirth that the concept of time itself really came back into play as something which affected me, and the love-making was finite. I asked; She told me it was finite, told me I'd have to return too soon to the world. In her caress, I did not want to return. In her caress, the different shades of red mosaic coyote that I could sense on the walls lived in perfect harmony with all the rest.
Slowly, so slowly, she departed. At approximately 2:30 AM I had enough control over my body, even if it was shaky control, to stand up and uncover the clock face. "



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