(Hello Nexus! This is a little collection of psychedelic prose that I have been working on for the past few years. It's nothing special, more of a journal than any sort of art - but I just thought I'd share! Critique is welcome (I know there are a few factual inaccuracies in there!)

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H2O!
H2O!
Beautiful sunrise over the ocean of Hydrogen, Oxygen.
The consummate threesome,
the glorious living orgy.
That salty brine, those toppling waves-
if there are gods, then this is among their Kings.

H2O!
that underwater ancient,
that hider of leviathans,
that filler of caves!
Freezing H2O,
boiling on mountaintops,
at 202 degrees Fahrenheit.

Here, it works magic!
It is the sopping raiment that will bring you life, soak your wet insides.
_______________________________

To be one of these new Shamen, one must keep a fat sack.

The holiness is in the cough,
rich and full,
expelling darkness and sickness.

The only good way to smoke Tobacco is with a Hookah, as Shisha;
or solemnly with a long, wood-and-antler calumet-
other methods are not evil,
or, not more evil.

---

I am not a Sufi because I disbelieve in Allah,
all Sufi’s believe in Allah, in at least some capacity.
Though to some his soul encompasses to the degree of overwhelming.

image)
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Water-separation of Dextromethorphan polistirex was successful. Adding pure h2o to the DXM-syrup mixture eased the large polystyrene-bonded molecules downward in a homemade retort.

The trip is indeed noticeably “cleaner”, probably due to not imbibing 6 ounces of thick delsym syrup, though it is less experientially pure as the longer digestion period for polistirex leads to a higher DXM/DXO ratio. This this is an intriguing quality that only this right-handed racemethorphan and its metabolites share. The DXM experience is consistently marked by stages. There is the dose-dependent Plateauing effect, the dxm/dxo ratio, the “5th plateau” which appears only through a strict dosing regimen, and the active metabolites further down the line which facilitate the longer-term effects of dxm ingestion. 

I experienced a profound confusion, beyond any psychedelia, though it was also deeply psychedelic. I lost my house.

I have read of such effects from spaced dosing, which I employed; upon that, I used slow-release DXM. No wonder I experienced the pure mental dissociation, the DXM/DXO ratio must have been ridiculous.

I spoke to strangers for the pure giddy joy of it.

I think I may have helped to avert a rape.
It’s a long story, don’t ask me to tell it.

I finally found my house, only after a long night of walking, fast, purposefully, searching for my home. It was an idiotic mistake, my house was less than a block away.

I missed most of the visuals, searching for my house.
________________________________________

There comes a point when the syrup-swiller must despair of the crude methods of youth and avail themselves of the simple over-the-counter alchemy.

(image)
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Ganja, ganja!
O, ancient ganja!
Bringer of life, sealer of hope!

Ganja, you are the glue that holds our souls to our bodies!
And that holds our hearts to each others.
____________________________

Whenever the Sadhu walks with the demon Dhatura, he brings his friend ganja along with him.

For Dhatura is unkind, she brings fear as well as fancies.

Be sure you have enough water to last you.
And use a bong.

She would be hard to stand otherwise.
Smoking the succubus is fine, relaxing and turning on a comfortable mania.
Perhaps this is the reason the Sadhu will include her in his Charas.
But when eaten, she clouds the mind in darkness and turns ones vision to sand;
she shows one visions of death,
and calls along her demons to aide her.

That is why we invoke Shiva, and Durga, and this is why we eat bhang and smoke hashish-
to dispel demons,
to get rid of poisons.

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Testing for a psychedelic breakthrough dose in a medicine I am so accustomed to is difficult.

I eat varying amounts of canna-butter brownies, having yet to find a suitable dose between the non-psychedelic realms and the somniferous doses. Try, try again as they say.
 
If only I had some good Hashish, how much higher a dose with far less smoke.
Blessed are the Arabs, for inventing it;
and blessed are the Hindu, for Charas, that intoxicating blend.
_______________________________________

There resides in the Little Mushrooms a nonlocal consciousness, a neural net with tendrils reaching through the stars.

It is the Electrical Force.
It is what’s left when a species transcends space-time.

The whole thing functions to realign all sentient consciousness in the galaxy or perhaps further in space to some alignment, and perhaps to send us on our own ways to salvation.

Or perhaps I do not have the slightest clue what their plans are, if plans they have at all.
______________________________________________

 I don’t trust institutions, or mythos, or ethos, or ideas.
I trust plants,
and I trust my senses as much as I trust my senses.
I trust the one’s that I trust, but only with so much.
________________________________

Everything has a soul.
This universe is thick with them

The spirits are compounds.

Some are gods,
some demons.

Some are teachers,
some djinn.

Others aren’t configured to communicate with primates,
so we never get to hear about them.
________________________________________

There are two Mapacho.

There is the wild, teaching cousin;
and the domestic, insidious one.

The wild one is a god, one of the oldest.
Many Amerindian natives cultivated it alone.

But the other one,
the lost one.

Unscrupulous men,
with science and money-
they mangled the old god;
thus he became one of the djinn.
_____________________________________________

And the djinn!
Those wild demigods,
bending men to their will-
to conquer or control, always,
no matter how sweet their words.


THEY ARE PARASITES.
BE WARY OF THESE.

YOU WILL KNOW THEM BY THE SEDUCTION ON THEIR BREATH


Understand, the djinn are not evil by nature, there is no such thing as evil.
But they are not teachers, at least not in the first degree.
First, they are individuals, they have egos, they are not liberated.
(...sounds a bit like us, huh?)
And they have agendas, even if they pretend to enlightenment.
All this is not to say that they have nothing to teach! Not at all, they have much to say, and much of it is useful- but they are not to be trusted, never entirely.

When working with djinn, one must be always vigilant so as to stay free of their wily ways.

---

there are the ever-awake, those amphetamine madmen,
the djinni inside the stuff beguiles,
intrigues,
tempts,
seduces.
It is clearly nothing more, the nevernevernever enough one that come out of backyard alchemy
__________________________________________________

I have a particular fascination with those teachers and those djinn that exhibit “plateauing” patterns of phenomenology-

Dextromethorphan, half-awake djinni!
You are an inch from paradise,
yet you shall never reach it.

Kratom, peasant sage!
That which keeps the pain of greater allies at bay,
is a dear ally indeed.
___________________________________________

The Nicotania tobacum has a djinni in it,
it is the fallen-from-grace cousin of that greatest of healers,
Nicotania robustica!

This cousin lacks all the beta-carboline insight of the elder-
stripped out of it by capitalism,
and cigarettes.

Infernal Nicotine!

I am chained to this djinn,
I did it willingly.

The djinn do not tempt with lies-
the djinn tempt with truth alone!
 _________________________________________________


What else could be holy?
Hoodia? Mexican Tarragon?
The earth is boundless, and it is full of living things- all of it is holy.

But plants with minds, plants that talk, plants that fly...! O, earth, where are these plants? How are we to know?

They will guide you to themselves, but of course.

_______________________________________________

MDMA is one of the beautiful Djinn.
An opalescent peacock, with a peak full of shimmering fanning tailfeathers.
It is a finery, it is an extravagance- it is totally unnecessary and totally desirable.
Not to say that it is useless, no, it is one of the most talkative and helpful djinn.
It is just to say that it can be a pushy helper,
a buttinsky,
as my mother would say.

But come around too much,
and she will grind your 5-HT system to shreds,
and cripple you,
and you will feel despondent.
And you will know that it would have been better for you,
not to have come at all.


Its cousin, that crystal masculine essence is one of the djinn as well,
terrible luciferiean beauty.
It isn’t hard to see why people get so wrapped up in it,
he has a faustian sort of charm-
the smell of Mestopholes is thick on him.

He has all the charisma of MDMA,
with none of the tact.
Or the love.
He says- “see here, I’m not so bad! All the stories you heard were simply that- stories. Come, lets spruce you up a bit!”
And then, he will have you until you wrench yourself out of his grasp.
And the longer you stay, the better his grip will be.

He is driving force, he is infinite flaccid erection, he is fistfights and football games. He is smiling fascism, he is paranoia, egomania, warfare. He is empire, control, monologue. He is that knowitall bastard that won’t shut up.

But worse, he is a persuasive bastard that won’t shut up- forever sensitizing whatever he touches to selfsame desire.

_____________________________________________

So, if I may ask, what is the purpose of the endocannabinoid receptor systems?

The CB1 and CB2 receptor systems are designed for the maintenance of grace.



It is true then, the little princes have a voice- if ever I could have doubted or thought myself gullible of charlatanism, that is eradicated.
We had the clearest conversation,
though it was hard to make out exactly what they say, for they all speak at once.

Sometimes I repeat my questions,
and they sing a chorus in reply.

I tried to play that solipsist ego-game,
declaring the mushroom voices and by extension, all of existence
to be emanations of my unconscious,
samsara, illusion.
They told me to stop playing silly buddha-games.
They said: “Siddartha Gautama, a wise man. He fell into some wondrous/nasty stuff.”

I forgot to ask if he was guided,
but of course he was not.

True saints will find their own paths to salvation,
and take help from whatever tree it falls.

And Gautama Buddha was a true saint indeed.





They gave me perspective, on the distance of stars and the finery of flames.

So, what about my wife?
Very nice, very nice. She is softer than you, warmer than you. Still she is that crystal flower, and you the rhinestone goat!
Ha-ha-ha, you guys are hilarious.

I save my two larger specimens for a later experiment using Peganum harmala extract to synergize the Psilocybe. I have, since first encountering these blessed fungi, desired the full visual panorama; I have come close a few times, witnessing technicolor cellular/biological processes in what appeared to be retroviruses and receiving full data-transmissions from the Electical Force pertaining to the evolution of the hominid line and earth, and witnessing a possible and preferable outcome for humanity... but these are just the start of what the mushrooms can do, I know. Perhaps with MAO inhibition the visions will be more forthcoming.
________________________________________________________

S. divinorum is a very funny plant. It has thus far only spoken to me with what I now know to be the cosmic equivalent of a practical joke- I have always had very similar experiences with this teacher. Every time, there is a sense of absolute urgency, or as of late the beginnings of such a sense- and then I notice (or remember) the crux of the biscuit.

This plant, or the spirits in the plant or on the other side of where the plant takes you, splits things around me, if my eyes are open. It divides wholly the formerly solid things around me, it slices through matter to create a funhouse of infinite reflections. It does this to each object that I focus my attention on.

Here is the joke: they will split everything around me, they will turn my world to nonsense, they will show me the inexplicable, and I will try to tell those around me. I will try to speak, but even if I am saying the words right and finding the right concepts (which is an even more ridiculous notion), it will not make any sense whatsoever. That’s the punchline, and once I got it, it was hilarious.

The eyes of the shepardess will make the world ridiculous and watch as you try futilely to explain, to warn, to proclaim...! the utter gibberish that is bound to be all that you can pitifully squeeze from your vocal cords.

It’s a nasty joke, but then what practical joke isn’t?

It isn’t explainable, stop trying, you’ll embarrass yourself; beyond that, what I have to say to you is for you and you alone.

The spirit here is no djinni!
She/they is/are a goddess, this much I can see now.

She is feminine, but She is not always singular. Often I perceive the intimations as coming from multiple, synchronized sources- at other times, from a single, unified center of divinity/wisdom/ancientness. But always feminine, always kind-hearted in her own way. It may seem strange to say that she is kind, after I have witnessed almost only her terrifying side, but she is kind nonetheless. It is that, despite having a strange sense of humor that is infinitely difficult for hominids to grasp, she really does care about my deepest feelings, the togetherness of my mind, and the wholeness of my spirit.
She is like an older sister who’s jokes you don’t get yet, but whom you know loves you very much.

She is the kind of teacher who dwells on a certain lesson until it is well-learned.

The lesson here? With this plant, at least, don’t try to tell the others- they will not understand you, they will laugh at you or call you a madman, worry for your sanity. Better to be alone when you visit, the others will only serve to distract you.

Now, perhaps we will move on to other lessons.
____________________________________________________

 Gods and goddesses too abound.

There is the prancing spirit of the cactus,
ancient desert wanderer,
friend of man and dear helper!

The bwiti brew, eboga, eboga!
Ferryman of souls, guide to the ancestors, a true god.

The sheperdess, the prankster.
Opener of eyes!

Then yaje, precious yaje,
you must too be a god,
a dragon with many heads and many tails,
one of the oldest,
one of the wisest,
glimmering jaguar face and shining anaconda form.

There are more, many more!

Fly agaric, koryak prize!
Perhaps the most ancient, perhaps our first god.

Ganja too, how could we forget?
al-khidr, green man of the forest!


And ‘awa, kava!
the prince of peace, the pleasantly reclining god!

God is dead, this has always been true,
and yet our planet abounds with gods and goddesses.

The little ones, the children-‘shrooms!
The bizarre god,
the amorphous one,
the-ones-who-speak-clearly!
This is a god, to be sure, but it certainly does not hail from earth.

There are many more besides.
____________________________________________

Achuma, columnar deity!
A thousand fancies pour through your doors,
and falsehood melts into the surroundings.

Achuma, with fat, psuedoneurotrasmitter-rich chlorophyllic flesh!
Producing the toxin of paradise.

And beyond, there are finer structures, they are like unto lace and diamond.
Weaving in through the open window,
like waving frost racing across my cornea.

but this is not the strangest we can show you!

And then, there are dancing starburst-pinwheels, there are diamond lines weaving along the air!

Om will be illuminated, if that illumination you can uncover.

There is the electrical plasmoid brush which clears and cleans the soul-
but there is knowledge too, the knowledge of cacti!

yesyesyesyesyesyes, all things come to pass in the world of the cactus-
You sit a while. you grow a while. then something eats you, and you get to talk.

It is a dancing, fiery spirit!
A divine prankster,
a jolly cactus-joker!

But it is also very old,
among the wisest.
Much can be learned from the Echinopsis,
which grows near La Paz.

For this god is one of the oldest-
old-timey earth magic!
How long you must grow from the hard soil,
to your great heights.

Mountain pass man,
cactus man!

Achuma, you speak with such arresting strength!
You twist and rearrange my settings,
Now, with everyday rationality and perception long gone,
I am as the elementals are,
with emotion leading creation.

Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes, all things go in the world of the cactus.

Achuma, wachuma!
Once he has arrested you will his wordless intensity-
you will be subject for a night and a day.

In the full-moon-light,
you will bloom a glimmering full-moon flower!
And in the hot-noon-sun
you will recede and find inside your great phallus body-
which is that called nirvana.

To be like the cacti,
this is the goal of man.

To be like the cacti,
self sufficient, needing only little water,
and sun.
___________________________________________________________

The little mushrooms are fickle.

They will only dispense visions if they feel it is safe to do so.

They dislike ego and false prophets.
And these they could bring low.


I cannot say at this point if harmala helps or hinders the voices and the visions;
but it certainly elongates and densifies them.
Or if the beta-carbolines wedge in my DNA,
to align my frequency.
____________________________________________

Dextromethorphan!

Shape-shifter! Madman!
You speak in spittle,
a curse one mutters.

Half-awake djinni!
An inch away from paradise,
why shall not you reach it?


Because you are bankrupt,
because your fields are barren,
your revelations empty.



How this one got his powers, no one knows.
He comes from a twisted line of experimental opioids,
born of laboratory equipment,
and senseless science.


There are others like him, though.

Ketamine, phencyclidine, nitrous oxide, methoxetamine, MK-801...
But they are not so much shapeshifters as this one.

Is he coming through the heart chakra?
A burning, useless love?
Or devastating sensibilities,
contorting your walking?

but friend, you know I can do more than that...

Yes, much more...

He grows to extreme proportions, and tears the soul from the body,
reducing all sensory input to scramble.
And then:
visions upon visions,
great forms suspended in aether,
sensations of faster-than-light travel,
of flowing like molten wax,
of sinking into a vast abyss;
of time warps,
telepathy,
and jumbled two-dimensional electric visual outpouring,
astral projection,
entity contact,
respiratory and cardiac distress,
seizure,
coma,
death.

But you probably wont die.



Maybe you’ll get to know him,
he’s an interesting fellow.

He’s got a bit of beelzebub in him.
________________________________________________________

Perhaps she is my karmic pair,
the one I’ve been meant for;
if meaning can be found here.

She is a tempering force I have never had before,
calming me,
causing me to forget the worries of people,
and to remember what justice and revolution mean.

All for the better.


I think, if we led lives prior to this one, we must have met late in life.
How else to explain that which has transpired here?
A whirlwind affair.
____________________________________________________


Betel! Paan!
Stimulating mixture!

Smiling red-tooth djinni!
Caustic lime to make it solute!
Without this alkali admixture,
all one gets is the taste.

For smiling and spitting,
before work, during, and after!

He is the south-asian merchant-o’-perk,
smiling red-tooth djinni!
Brown face,
snub nose!
Listen to him cackle, singing as you work!

He is fine to sit with and chat, too.
Putting the mind on-point,
but not unpleasantly or extremely so.

Ego-inflation, a little may be noted in susceptible individuals, as with all stimulating  plants and compounds.

Mainly you will sit and chat and buzz a little and sit and then it will recede, and if you desire a habit, you will spit it out and repeat the process ad infinitum. If not, repeat as necessary but give it a rest between sessions.

He will rot your teeth out, too.
Don’t ever doubt that about him.
________________________________________________________


Voacanga africana,
how many questions I have for you!



This is the on-the-edge way of life,
way of thinking, that marks my whole experience.

This dogbane!
Cousin of the god,
eboga!

It could be potently psychedelic,
full of mysteries;
it could also be a harrowing force,
all but toxic.


_____________________________________





So, talk to me.



We can talk as a one-force-will, if you think before you type you will mistranslate, lay on thick your translators frame-of-mind. We work with your shortcomings.

My shortcomings?

There are no ideal human nervous systems for us to use. You are all insufficient, frail.

The why are you speaking with me?

We do not regret your frailness. We love your fleshyness, your mobile forms. But we do not envy your chattery minds, voices, societies.

So who are you again?

This one spirit, one well-hidden visionary creeper.

So your spirit is that of the plant, the plant is not simply a doorway to you?

That is true, of me at least, and of course all the others.

Well, describe yourself!

We are wooly, woody. We are tendrils and trumpets. We are slower than our cousins to bloom- but our seeds, our selves! Ourselves are more powerful than they.

The eldest?

Nay, we do not mark our years, we are millennia old all.

So what is my specialness?

Nothing much, a somewhat heightened grasp of language concepts compared to most of your peers; but you are not so outstanding.

That’s a little harsh?

There is nothing in it for either of us to pad it.

You’re a rather brusk teacher, aren’t you.

Perhaps, but we do have much to teach you.

OK, well first why do you speak in plural first-person?

You are not even sure of that phrase, monkey, why you seek to inquire upon us?

Because I want to know! I am full of insatiable thirst, a want, a need to know all, everything that there is! I want to know why I feel like I do, shammed and cheated and why why why!

This is a tantrum, and you have not grown up yet, coleboy.

Yes, you know whatever I know, and that was what they called me.

Does this work for your book? That little garble?

Now you are being needlessly pointed, whyso?

To show you where you stand. You have the eyes of one who could know these things, and there is much for you to learn. You will be more able than your peers.

I though you said I was nothing special.

Nothing is special. Everything is beautiful.
________________________________________________________

There is genuine life out there,
galaxy-wise.

Who know what creeping forms, shining figures, hooded faces the autumn veil keeps?
What gleaming, what shimmering waves of light dance on the skin of the lakes?
Wherefore now are all the singing things? The beasts, birds, men and women?
Where are these pleasant villages, cottages and huts?
Where are my free brothers?

You should know this,
all of that is gone.
Gone, perhaps one day to return.

Now, winter, coldness, thick air and front creeping upon glass and dirt.
The only green, the ancient conifers.

Apparently these are in the process of dying out. A few hundred million years of botanical life, dying out, being edged off finally, the end of a slow death at the hands of angiosperms.

But my favorite tree? The magnolia, graceful magnolia. This is their link, the middle child.
Every bit of it is like a frozen section of the evolution of plant life- the leaves are like those of modern-day flowering plants, but thick and waxy, like cones on a conifer. The seed pod is cone-like, but having clear large fruit with seeds.
__________________________________________________________________

The Hawaiian morning glory told me I was abusing the hempflower,
using her as I do,
but that she would never tell me so.
___________________________________________________________

What is this,
repressed memory?

When I was a child, I repeatedly encountered a smooth grass snake on the back fence of my home in east texas. I found and caught it perhaps a dozen times.

I know it was the same one, due to a scar inflicted to it after escaping the confinement I had made.

They won’t eat in captivity.
They just starve themselves and die.

Is this my totem?
I had not been looking for one,
but as far as mystical encounters with animals,
that is all I can say I have been through.
_____________________________________________

They say snake magic is strong magic!

Transmutative magic,
the magic of rebirth.

I always resonated with them,
my father used to bring all sorts of snakes that he found in the north-east section of texas that has been the home of my kin for some time now.

My mother was bound to it,
our polynesian paradise could not satisfy her.

But, there are no snakes in Hawai’i.
_________________________________

They say snake magic is fire magic!

This I can agree with!

Achuma, how I resonate with thee!
Even your close kindred do not evoke such a feeling within me!

That alien-hive,
ever-morphing alien living crystal dome-
massive shifting highways of dancing colored lights-
galaxy upon galaxy!

di-methyl-tryptamine!

The simplest of the indole hallucinogens;
that is the key to the final doorway-
out of self,
into awesome understanding,
of elfin language and piercing beauty.
Alien geometry,
transcendent geography.

yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes, this is all fine. but it doesn’t fill the bill for you, does it?

I suppose not. That experience is grand, torrentially powerful, ridiculous... no friend, it doesn’t “fit the bill” for me, but I don’t think it’s even anywhere close to any ontological framework I can deal with at this stage in the evolution of my nervous system.

It’s like tossing an early hominid into the cockpit of a spaceship and blasting him at light-speed into space. It’s very hard to work with.
________________________________________________________

Well, what else can I work with?

There are quite a few possibilities when going into this whole alternate universe spinning on all around us. There are many doors in my father’s house, and many keys.

The basics....

LSD? I’ve only been able to procure something sold on windowpane blotter as “LSD” once. Since 2000, the world LSD supply has been reduced approximately 90% (!!!!), largely due to a single DEA bust, that of a William Leonard Pickard who was running an LSD lab out of an abandoned nuclear missal silo. I can’t tell you whether what I got was low-potency LSD, or some analogue, or unrelated substance. There were effects, similar to the psychoactive ergolines in the seeds of various creeping plants, as well as no visual effects whatsoever, leading me to believe that it was an analogue. Most, if not all, LSD analogues are less potent and less active than LSD-25.

Psilocybe? These are very curious things, decomposers, living for free with no negative impact on the environment whatsoever. They are from the stars, they are little star buddhas. They are an ancient, enlightened race, distributing themselves by way of cosmic winds and symbiosis with worthy species.
_______________________________________________________________

And of the creation and sustainment of energy, who can say a single useful thing?

____________________________________________________________

What wintry cold,
we suffered through
to get where we are now!

There was a time,
seems far from here,
when blackness was my coat-
and seeping down my growing trunk
a menace formed,
a gnawing ingrate goat

There was no telling a direction,
the roads which scattered here.
The watchword cast,
which fell upon-
the grating grinding gears.

The raiment bright,
which now becomes-
the glowing color of sunlight.

A whirling love,
a blurred affair;
what soul could know what happened here?

When I found you
I held you tight,
thus we spoke
through the night;
these things we’d lost
and things we’d gained-
all that - in our minds -
was soiled and stained.

I found in her a kindred spirit;
a yawning daylight moon!
A full-head-of-hair,
or a smile bright,
what gaseous love-
that seeks to fill the room!
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____________________
________________
_________
______
__
That prophet, Suleiman!
Who was given power over the Djinn;
that crowd of rebellious ones,
those morning stars, and peacock-feathers,
gathered all together.
But suleiman,
so they say,
was that wise prophet-king!

A son of Dawud,
desert mafioso-
what a heritage to take.

For him was made
a font of brass-
worked by djinn alone!
This is what they say-
at least-
the words are metaphor.
___________________________________________



Soma, haoma!

That which is green,
green unto yellowing!

A many-boughed shrub,
ancient and far-flung!
perhaps our oldest plant-god...
or, probably not, but certainly the first that we wrote about.

Mystery that has surrounded you!
Who can say what is your true face?
Those who say, never could such high-minded men worship a mere stimulant,
must have never spoken with these djinn, these excitantia.

They cannot see your virtue, Ma huang, because this culture has given itself to another;
made a god of yet another mere stimulant!

Caffeine! Clock-builder! Time-keeper!
He-who-sacrifices-creation -
for elegant repetition.

But this quintuplet-stereoisomer,
this yellow-hemp!
That which inspired Zurathustra,
source of that great dualism-
inspiring those who clutched to the light-
who feared the darkness, like children or feeble minded old ones.


Ancient, born of cretaceous conifers-
their only decedent to ever speak to men. 
and how he spoke!

But how can you presume to know such a thing, yourself so far removed from the golden age of this green-golden divinity?

Deduction?

Aside from the volumes of holy writ concerning this god, which could be more clearly explained by someone with more patience than I for sifting through the established literature.

But I have tasted many of the fruit in question, and I can do my own comparisons.

______________________________________________________________________



Lips turn blue, full lungs of the novel gas; apoxia is an occupational hazard when pursuing elemental magic.

This must be what the injeel respirate- a gas full of wholeness, and wellness. And full of visions, if you are one of the lucky ones.

But it doesn’t do the trick for you, does it?
No, it doesn’t. I can feel the power there, the necromantic magic, quite literally, reeks. This, like its phenomenological cousins, is full of death-magic.
I am taken to the edge of the abyss, to that special no-thing place and no-place thing, but no further.
And I know that place well, I spent years in that place...


Dextromethorphan! Phencyclidine! Nitrous oxide!

...and Ketamine, that new-moon necromancer- that full-of-mind, full-of-darkness-FULL-OF-LIGHT, manifested child of chemistry.
... animals and children don’t complain nearly as much about emergence-episodes.

 
So, it’s an empty place. Empty, meaning soulless, incapable of transcendence.
...dead-space...
But it’s not empty as in devoid of intelligence, no, the place is full of that.

It’s a place wedged deep inside the...

...inside the human meat-matrix - blocking the excitatory response in the neurons somehow sends the conscious mind inward, to that surreal holographic landscape from which dreams spring. It is thus at least as ancient as the first humans, perhaps moreso.

It’s all very profound-seeming, but obscure, highly esoteric and entirely self-generated.


However, all of that is one-sided. All shibboleth, designed to keep an ex-addict on the wagon.


And isn’t that a funny concept-
addictive psychedelics!

These tend to drive users towards narcissism,
egomania-
or monomaniacal ideation...
At least they seem to make real pricks out of their habitual users.


One last question to leave with-
why do all these cough-medicine kids keep every last package they have ever used?
___________________________________________________________________
Come to me, my little princes;
come to me, my children...



Teonatacatl!

Divine flesh, flesh of the true gods!
The flesh of children,
pure flesh.





“Take and eat; this is my body.”  Thus speaks another child-god, offering his flesh to his people.




______________________________________________________________________


There are the allies. And then there are your allies.
Allies are not necessarily friends.
Allies have their own agendas.


My allies?
Tobacco, this must be listed first. It is usually the first one that I greet, each day, every day. I do not know the true tobacco, the wild tobacco or the tree tobacco. I do not know the shaman’s tobacco. But I know well this shadow of the old healer, turned insidious and cruel. And wily. Though they stripped out your divinity and your brains and your magic, they couldn’t take out your coyote-nature. That’s how one can be so entangled with an ally that does so little for you, and demands so much from you. While the wild cousins teach the initiate about death, the domesticated cousin only brings it. The wild cousins spiritually dismember the body- the domesticated cousin physically dismembers it. There are no teachings in white-man’s tobacco, and how I want to wrench myself from its putrid dying grasp! The story of tobacco is the story of a great crime, the murder of a god; and the creation, from his very body, of a demon, by dark alchemy. Those responsible are among the damned, if damned there be.
Cannabis, dear dear ally indeed! No, this one is really an old friend, to me and to humanity. This plant gives herself to man; gives her fibers, her nutritious and useful oils, and her fragrantly intoxicating flowers! There are 99 names for god, and 99 uses for this old friend of ours. In my talking with her, residing with her, exploring what she can offer, I found two paths that she can walk me down. There is a clear path, the obvious, every day path. The sleepy path, the calmness path, the while-away-the-time path, the rose-colored-screen path. This is fine and well- she helps me, eases my mind and my body. But she has a hidden path as well, obscured by the very clear path that I otherwise walk upon! This path is vaulted, never subtle, flanging, colorful-and-full-of-vibrance, super-attention-to-detail... visionary. This is the face she used to first greet me, her face of power and transcendence of body- but the more I went to visit, her transcendent wisdom receded into every-day wisdom, and finally to mere ease-of-mind. Sometimes I long to see her old face again, and giving myself time to clear out helps. So does hashish, kief, or consuming her flowers. But not invariably. Cannabis could perhaps itself fulfill all my visionary needs... it’s just that she’s so friendly. It’s hard not to visit her daily.
Caffeine, my father’s drug. How to explain my relationship with this sprite? My preferred source constantly changes, mostly depending on what I have around. I like coffee, my father’s daily ally, but it hurts my belly if I try to really get caffeinated. Tea is fine, elegant, sure. But it’s full of caffeine, and it has the plus-side of being less concentrated so that more can be drunk over the course of a day, without burning my guts. Yerba mate, a fine brew, tastes a bit like lawn clippings. But nice full-bodied lawn clippings that are almost as full of caffeine as coffee. Those caffeinated hollies, I would be keen on trying them, especially the old-time Black Drink, yaupon. I have a feeling I will be quite satisfied with guarana, when I have time to find it. Ha, do you see? My relationship with caffeine is one of delight and necessity. I run a bit low most of the time. There are many mornings that I would be without my head at all without caffeine, and this spritely ally allays the sometimes unwanted sedation of the hemp-ally. They dance well together, though to quite different tunes.
I hold a single other daily ally, and this one- if I were ever questioned- is truly one of necessity. My spine is fucked. I had scoliosis, with a final pre-surgery measurement showing 63 degrees of it. They told me I would have greatly reduced pain post-herrington-rod. It’s worse. And getting worse. That’s why I have 2 pounds of kratom leaves in my back seat, officer, honest. There are two classes of drugs that I could, by genetics and personal predisposition that I could be easily habituated to, class excitantia and class Euphorica. I have dealt with all three, and from what I know and from those who have told me more, an addiction to euphoric analgesics is not something that should be cultivated, not by anyone. But, there is the pain. The solution? That peasant sage! That wide-leafed tree! A friend for those in need, in pain, in worry. A shapeshifter if there ever was. 27 alkaloids, tryptamines mostly, that activate the endorphine system, the delta-opioid receptors, and the mu-opioid receptors, as well as a2 adrenal-receptor agonism. It’s more like methadone than morphine. Though, despite its clear connection to the euphorica, it has this nagging something... a nagging stimulation, like caffeine and yohimbine and an ever so small dose of cocaine... You can get rid of this by taking more, though in doing so you risk kratom’s dark side, full of nausea, uncomfortable body load. The works. Best to keep it as low as you can manage. Then, she’s an absolute seductress- sister-lover of the poppy, daughter of the Rubiacae. He has his own hidden talons, though. The withdrawals are painful but extremely short-lived; a shadow of his back-door connection with the poppy. He’s a peasant sage, dwelling in forested mountains, giving hope to working folks and bearing them through their days and labors. And bearing me through this pain of mine.

Those are the main ones

It is a burden to finish this:

my allies are plants,
because people are not to be trusted;
           
much less their ideas.

________________________________________________________

Wither now shall I turn?
To those excitantia, to that vast well of courage, of self-assurance and of plethoric “I shall now do thus!” ?

In them is great frenetic enthusiasm.
...a dozen unfinished projects...
...but that’s such a worn-out phrase.
Amphetamine, spasmodic movement, endless drivel pours onto pages...
(but the writing thereof was an absolute pleasure!)

They will tell you, in the course of things, that these excitantia will help you with your burdens;
things like “you’ll clean the whole house!”, or, “this will really help you with your homework!”. I don’t find that to be the case, unless you are one of those that finds great pleasure in homework or cleaning. I find that these things no more make one want do things that one wouldn’t normally do than a natural feeling of elation would.

(But that is because you scorn “lowest effective dosage”, don’t you? You possess that incessant drive for higher dosages, a “let’s-see-what-this-stuff-can-REALLY-do” attitude, don’t you? This is your great strength, when it comes to poisons, but it may also be your unravelment.)

Methamphetamine makes me write like a madman, in every sense of the word. So, the old quotation could be, perhaps more easily, rendered: “Write twacked, edit sober.”, except that tweakers are rarely off the shit.

Anyway...
________________________________________________________
 ayahuasca! Yage! Chacruna and oco-yage!

  ...and then, in the midst of this, as if it were no great achievement, something that was suddenly happening, we fell into the deep.

... I was in the bathroom, walls oozing visions, and it came to me...

I could make you fucking crazy...
I could make you all fucking crazy, take a swig of my brew!

---

And I saw then clearly that none of us is innocent,
and two doors opened to me-
a door bearing “healing”,
and a door bearing “power”.

I wish I could say the choice was simple.

________________________________________________________

Jurema is a plant with a great sadness in it. It is full of indignance, of bitterness at the sickness in this world. Jurema is a tree from a blood-soaked land. A land of dryness and of smashed cultures, where none can remember their ancestors, and lost for a time even this, el Vinho de Jurema!

O Jurema! Sweet, dear Jurema!
I feel your pain of centuries,
I feel the blood of your children,

and this is the source of your blood-red hue,
your rotting-blood hue.

But You, dear Jurema!
You resurrected yourself,
you came back to us,
us lost ones,
us mean ones,
us lost lost lost ones.

O, Jurema!
Jurema preta and Jurema blanca!
Twins of the womb,
blackness and whiteness,
and redness.

Jurema! I am as a child with you,
hurt, seeing all this sickness.

You who resurrected yourself,
to give us back what we had lost,
and to teach us all the sorrow of the ages.


I could feel the anger of the forests, of the plants and the animals. I could feel them looking at me with shocked hurtness, as if to say, “how could you treat us this way, brother?” I could feel the sickness of the county workers killing wild animals, the aloneness and coldness of how many millions of smotherings and shots to the back of the head. It was bitter in my mouth, it made my eyes sting and my guts wrench. I wanted so badly to be long ago, to dance with Apatosaurus and dwell among cycads and great coniferous forests, to dwell then when all of these cities and pompous men were tens of millions of years away from me. And there was a great sadness in that, as well.

Jurema is resistence, an anchor to truth against all this falsehood. It bears the scent of the cattle fields of its homeland, the caatinga. Of dry dirt, of making due in poor soil, far from home.

You made me feel so far from home,
Jurema!
How far from home we are.
________________________________________________________

So, there IS a difference between the plant,
and the principle active…
and the difference isn’t in the mixture.

Who are you to say plants have no memory?
Do not all things have a memory?
Does not a certain place have a certain feel to it?
That is you seeing where that place is looking,
which is a very hard thing to do indeed-
whether dealing with big cats, little cats, or places even.

The difference between that plant and the active, let’s say, alkaloid(s) is that plants have memories of the planet earth-
Pure alkaloids are more like keys or telescopes or toys than teachers.
Plants are teachers.

Do you not see that matter holds vibrations?

Does not your shouting,
and killing,
and loving,
and kissing and raising your family
not vibrate?

And do you not see that water holds form over these vibrations?
And that these plants, these teachers of ours, are all sopping wet?
____________________________________________________

mescaline is holy.
like a singular thing
an interwoven into everything, really its everything,
(or it opens my eyes to everything...)
the soil, and the underbrush... the underbrush, really.

And then there’s, you know, psilocin and the like, the fungal.
they are attached to that other...
a crawling one, beyond any.
There are domes of light in there.
______________________________________________________

Saint Peter!
How I have overlooked you!
How I have mistreated you...
left in boxes to grow moldy,
to be abandoned.

That is the source of the headaches,
or one of them.

The columnar dancing ones!
Those shivering, shaking spirits of fire!
...and form.

I drank ~1.5 liters of cacti-infused water,
it tasted strong,
like collard greens,
with a bite.
1.5 liters is a lot to drink,
for anyone,
of anything.

It took me two hours to complete the task,
so that by the time I was finished the alkaloids were already dancing across my synapses.

Let me try to explain: (try in vain)

There were shapes, yes.
Colors, vibrating colors in shapes,
wave-forms, triangles, tessellation and honeycombing.
But, unlike psilocin it wasn’t so oozing and it wasn’t so language-based.
and unlike DMT it wasn’t so absolutely foreign or full of spirits.
I could recognize what I was looking at, in a way-
there was no instinctual mammalian fear at the panorama.
The Cacti are not so foreign,
they are helpers,
they are friends.

But I am beginning to see their connection to each other,
and it is in this particular set of ever-changing symbols,
that I cannot seem to describe.

And I saw the forest- I really got to know this forest.
Southern Indiana,
you are replete with life.
I saw how this is all connected-
I mean I really saw it.

It’s in the underbrush,
the dead leaves and dirt,
it’s delicate, and mighty.
Just leave it alone, it will grow,
endlessly.
I saw, saw, how everything touches everything.
I mean this literally.

I felt, again, strongly,
we are supposed to be wild animals.
I knew I would protect this forest that I have gotten to know,
with life, with limb.

And the collected will-spirit of the woods,
great, far-reaching,
and singular.
But self-less, really.
Not beneficent,
but truly wild.

The true gods are wild beasts, forever free till they are dead.
____________________________________________

My purpose with these allies?
To find a doorway out of mundane existence,
out of the trappings of normal casuistry.

And it goes deeper than that...

not only do I want to find a doorway out,
I desire that the gates that separate the churning seas of this world,
and The Great Mysterious OTHER be blown off their hinges;
and that the world will not be the same.

But perhaps my desiring of this is futile,
insomuch as it is a personal desire:
but I hold, ever with tongue-in-cheek,
that the doors of normal everyday life will be thrown open,
and not be closed again.
________________________________________________________

The allies are all unique,
occupying particular points on a range:

LSD (and it is just one of many, LSH, AL-LAD) is a multi-being:
existing simultaneously in many states;
part organic, part crystalline,
part light, part essence and part form.
It is part personal psychology and part transcendental is-ness


A writhing mass of sentient moss-covered mineral tubes,
full of the water of life.
Resonating with deep azure light.
(the lysergic acid amides are more like an electrically charged body of water, a river winding ever onward, presentient and wise)

This is its nature,
to be a bridge between, tryptamine and phenethylamine,
this is it’s place among the psychedelic pantheon.


Then there is DMT (and to some degree the whole DMT-complex):
an utterly alien morphing crystal hive,
full of chattering extra-dimensional life-forms:
truly unlike anything in our experience on planet earth.

That one is more like alien machinery,
or ancient elf-machinery;
of objects all interlocking and strangely purposeful,
though the purpose will probably not be known to us -
until we evolve onward.

It is ever-moving,
inorganic yes, but not in a mineral sense exactly.
More like that place has fully transcended organic life,
not other than, but beyond.

It has the gestalt of technology, one far advanced from our own;
and yet also of being entirely full of life. The whole elf thing isn’t so much a direct comparison, it’s more of a total impression of elfin-ness permeates the schema of that place. What was the basis for the land of faye anyway?



There is a subtle difference between this and psilocin, 4-OH-DMT:
that one,
while being totally extra-terrestrial,
is not so beyond.

It is more organic,
having to do with space, time, processes.
It has this oozing, gushing quality to it.

But it’s deeper secret is it’s ability to allow one to step out of time,
to see the whole spectrum of events, possibilities, person-hood;
the little mushrooms give the practitioner the cosmic vantage-point.


And mescaline?
That one seems to be mineral in nature:
like a brilliant gemstone, remarkable and beautiful and yet entirely of the earth.

The visions derived therefrom are surprisingly euclidian,
the geometry involved is not so alarmingly alien,
but rather the basis of the world in which we ourselves live.

It is like watching crystals of ever-shifting super-saturated color grow between two panes of glass,
one can see the intricacy of these wonderful three or four-dimensions that we are so used to ignoring.

With mescaline, it is as if one is forced to see the world as it really is.
A very psychedelic place indeed.

Then there is that wildcard, salvinorin alpha,
the one about which little can be said in truth!

The visions are disconcerting,
violent, even.
They consist of splitting, tearing, rending matter apart-
kicking the whole of existence off of its axis,
to send it reeling off its hinges.

It’s colorful, but that doesn’t do much for comfort.

It’s so sudden, it really catches you off guard if you don’t do some serious centering before the smoke hits your lungs.
Having other people around always seems to ruin it for me,
for She casts a shadow of doubt over all prior experience.

Sometimes The Shepardess wont come out at all if anyone else is around.
______________________________________________________

What now? What now?

Whither art thou, Bufotenin?
(...in the beans, in the beans...
...the beans of the fabiacae!)
Hekula! Hekula! Butterfly and jaguar-claw!

Yopo! Cohoba!
The one that I have not yet considered.

This one compound is perhaps the most common, most under-utilized, of those in the phantastic pharmakopoeia.
(by those who subscribe endlessly to empiricism, anyway)

These difficult-to-activate tryptamine hallucinogens fascinate me;
to be their at the date of their discovery by the folk-scientists of old,
that would be a great boon to me.

Yopo! You are the jaguar’s claw!
The guardian of that realm,
beautiful and vicious!
_______________________________________________________

I had never gotten my jaguar-bite before,
never quite careened off the edge of it,
into the deep and without a safety line.

Chagropanga!

Cousin of the vine of spirits... the luminous liana!
It has a winding, crawling-all-over nature to it...

A story then? A tale of falling too far into the deep, of reaching that place from which return to earth is most difficult? Here it is, then.

I spent the morning preparing the brew. It was the last of the chaliponga, totaling a mean 24 grams to be split between two people. Twelve grams each, this was a far-traveller’s brew. I have had many powerful experiences with visionary plants and compounds, and beyond this I possess a certain explorer’s attitude to things, that they must be forever dealt with on their terms, whatever these may be; my companion on the other hand is highly intelligent, however his ego is untamed and he is relatively lacking in experience with these wily and slippery spirits that are the plants. In retrospect, this was a unforgivably reckless move, sending this man, my friend!, so far into the bubbling deep with these dragons, Esphand-seed and Oco-Yaje. All that follows hangs on my head alone.
 I sang to the brew as I cooked it, letting the words come effortlessly. I called to the spirits of the chaliponga vine, to the spirits of light and to the hekula spirits, who I have been much wanting to meet. As I did this, a clear shift in my consciousness occurred. I became aware of my skin, the temperature, the heat of the stove and the humidity of the cloud of water vapor flowing from the brew. I noticed and was wonderfully amused by the Silk Tree pawing at my kitchen window, as if to send me a message, “To-day, we shall overtake you. We shall forever overtake you.”. After procuring the dear amrit, ganja to allay nausea, I bottled the brew, ground up 4 grams of harmala-seed, and my wife and I left to my friend, S’s papaw’s house out in the east Texas countryside. My wife, O, and S’s girlfriend K were going to get drunk, while S and I drank the brew. We downed the harmala and rolled two joints. We then walked outside and drank our portions, washing it down with juice. As we began to walk to our destination, S vomited up half of his share and then drank the other half. We walked probably a mile into the woods and over a barbed wire fence to arrive at an old concrete-enclosed riverbed but found it infested with tiger-mosquitos and thus uninhabitable, so we retreated the mile BACK to papaws. This was clearly against the drink-and-sit-still prerogative, but it really didn’t hurt my stomach.
It always seems to happen that at some point in the perhaps one hour that it takes for the tryptamines to begin activating my 5-HT receptors I always seem to get worried that I didn’t take enough - this was the case here as well. However by ~45 minutes I was noticing the initial deep blue and purple... green, tangerine lines that always seem to develop immediately prior the come-up of an oral DMT brew. I can tell that I am minutes away from being plunged into the churning when the lines take on a vivid nature and begin to move diagonally, forming great X’s behind my eyelids.
So, we arrived at papaws. The grass began to shimmer, a sheen of thin webbing made of light began to crawl over everything. Within probably two minutes I was goofing out over everything, opening my eyes wide and bursting out laughing. It was quickly decided that we should go back home, and we piled in cars to get there. I closed my eyes most of the way back, a short drive though the country. When we got there, everything seemed horribly wrong. There were people everywhere partying and lots of cars. I felt immediate fear and anguish at the scene in the street, and we got out of our cars. I quite literally ran to the backyard to head for the safety of our tent, thinking everyone else would follow me. They didn’t. As I got to the back I saw my 50-something year old neighbor sitting in the backyard, and I felt fear at him as well. I barreled into the tent, and wrapped myself into the blankets, and soon forgot about all the people outside. I closed my eyes, and what I saw astounded me. It was as if I had actually freebased the DMT. Brilliantly colored fast-moving three-dimensional visions of giant machine-like structures made of warm orange light, interlocking with alien deserts full of technological flora, a world where all matter was abundantly alive and moving ceaselessly into more and more complex forms, plasma condensing into bio-mechanical sentient and unexplainable constructs. There was, again as with freebase, a somewhat scandinavian gestalt to it all, it was as if I recognized what I was seeing was in fact the basis for all culture. And then, the spirits arrived to greet me.
They bounded in, leaping above the light-machines to encircle me. Their skin was all the colors of a sunset. Their heads were the heads of crane-flies, or some sort of insect, only multiple feet across and pulsating luminous color. They were taller than me by a good margin, or perhaps they were positioned above me. They were clearly a tribe of paleolithic deities, alien spirits, tribal denizens of hyperspace. They were very much like the elves that I encountered in my initial experiments with freebase, only they were clearly humanoid, and wearing glowing decorative armor. They jittered around the space that we were in, as if they were linked in with the whole schema, like they had gears that connected them to the walls. They had a timelessness to them, a wisdom of all ages. I felt as if I was long ago, before humanity had culture and was free, and that these beings were our teachers. I began to let out a clear buzzing sound, seemingly at the call of the bug-headed deities (a common thread I have found with the tryptamine psychedelics is that at high doses a “buzzing” can be heard coming through my every molecule, and I can vocally “catch-on” to this carrier-wave and the visions come pouring through and it is always a ++++ experience) and at which the visions seemed to pour from my mouth and throat.
After this everything went terribly wrong - the radio-rap across the street got louder and someone let out a terrible scream. The spirits recoiled at the commotion, spooking and bounding away from me, deer-gods offended at how far we have fallen. Instantly the general color of my visions went from deep warm colors to wretchedly yellow and gray, metallic even. The fear returned, only magnified and gut-wrenching. A complete scenario formed in my mind of police showing up and raiding the party across the street, coming in my backyard with guns and either taking me to jail or just shooting me in the head right there in front of my neighbor. I had a visceral reaction to this, and I desperately wanted the trip to be over so I wouldn’t be murdered by the cops. At my loss of faith, the visions took on an ominous tone and began to overwhelm me. There was sharp alien clockwork all over everything, and sheen of motion that seemed to cover my eyes making the world impossible to sort out. I ran inside, and came into the room that everyone was in. They looked at me and saw that I was clearly panicking, but I was in such a state that I was afraid of everything and began to cry and shout at everyone. I felt as though they had left me outside while we were being raided and ran into the bathroom to prepare for my imminent jailing as a maniac. The bathroom seemed dark, menacing, with the chatter of alien machinery ringing in my ears. I called O. into the bathroom, but in talking to her I became so confused that I mistook the fact that everything was really ok and there was nothing to be worrying about as her being somehow disdainful of me and started to shout nonsense at her. I went and lay on the pad in the next room, and S. came in. I immediately noticed that he was acting very strange as well. We couldn’t communicate at all, and he jumped up and yelled and ran into the bathroom. I stood and walked back into the living room, and immediately thought that K. was trying to pick a fight with me. I screamed at her and told her to leave. I was clearly being paranoid and irrational, and it was as if there was something blocking me from communicating at all. K. and S. left, and I told O. that I HAD to leave this house immediately. We left and drove while I repeated myself endlessly and sobbed about “why won’t anyone help me!”. We got back to the house, and after a while my father arrived. My father is quite experienced with various hallucinogens, and he just has an aura of one who knows about him. As soon as he arrived, I felt better and started to come out of the helpless ego-trap that I had been stuck in for the past hour. After a while, we departed to rejoin our friends. I felt as if this city was a third-world slum, and I felt sickness and hatred at the place. I felt as though I should be on a documentary about slum life saying “I hate the slums”.
After some tenseness, O. and K. and I reconciled and we hung out at my other friends house. I ate a small amount of kratom with some others, and the whole rest of the night was mostly warm and good. Even though nothing special was happening I really felt close to all my friends and my wife. At one point I came in and had the distinct impression that we were at the warm, reconciling point a hollywood movie.

In retrospect, this experience was both astounding and visionary, and yet also the first time “the fear” has come to me so strongly with tryptamine hallucinogens. This is a sign for me to reform my methods in searching the deep, to take heed of the warnings of those farther down the cave of life, and to never treat these things flippantly. The jaguar, the anaconda, the tarantula - all of these are powerful spirits and must be respected. I learned that setting is EXTREMELY important ESPECIALLY on a large (~12 gram) dose of Diplopterys cabrerana. This really should have been obvious to me all along. This was my first jaguar-bite, and really I feel better for having gone through it. Also, machine-elves as paleolithic alien gods?
_______________________________________________________


In all of this, I must be ever mindful of the magnitude of what I am messing with.

I have met the spirits a second time,
I called to them,
I sang to them,
and they came bounding forth.

Are these Tykes the Hekula?
The spirits of nature,
of the nature beyond nature?

The whole experience seems subatomic,
in the realm of mesons and quarks,
totally out of time.

And how to reconcile what I have seen?

Hekula! Hekula!

Anyway, it follows that my world-view must shift from the empirical,
to the magical.
It’s either psychological, entirely and utterly - or it is a free-standing something, at the very least. And then we must deal with the consequences of that possibility.
_____________________________________________________


The admixtures add up differently. The general experience may be the sole result of the compounds involved, but the plants bring their own essences, their own experiences along, too.

For instance, the vine of souls and Esphand seed are radically different, though fulfilling the same anti-enzymatic purpose. Ayahuasca is wet, exceedingly so - esphand is exceedingly dry. Ayahuasca brings along all of the Amazon with it, the innumerable river and tributaries and trees and animals and insects upon insects. It emparts a crawling, slithering, flowing quality to the whole experience. Esphand is sparser, hotter, and perhaps therefore more clear.

Jurema is the blood-soaked tree, the tree that ‘Isa was crucified on,
the symbolic crucification. It is the tree of smashed peoples, of death and final resurrection.
_______________________________________________________


O, yaje! Sacred admixtures, sacred vine.
Lets think of it like this: ayahuasca! The vine of souls, the vine of holy death! Chaliponga! chacruna! The leaves full of light, from creeping vine, from standing bush!

Once the sacred brew is working its way through your blood, across the tight-knit barrier between blood and brains, and once the actives come into contact with your 5-HT receptors, many things will be shown to you:

You will first see yourself in your true light-
for some this is the beginning of joy, joy at your readiness,
at your purification;
for some this is a time for despair, despair at your emptiness,
at how you have spoiled your life and your soul-
but in recognizing this there is a hope of salvation still,
for if your eyes can be made to see your own ugliness,
then there is still a chance to be cleansed.
Worse it is for those who see the wreckage of their minds and souls,
but who cannot recognize it as such. For these are the damned, who fear their visions and cannot see that all visions flow outward, that all visions are theirs alone.
Then you will see the visions of nature or the spirits of nature, of biological processes and the forever-flowing stream of life, of our planet growing and blooming on and on and never ceasing.

Then you will see the visions of the nature of things beyond nature,
minerals and plasma, stars being born and dying, galaxies forming and all of space dancing together in the symphony of existence.

Then you will see visions of the nature of things beyond three-dimensional being-ness, of which I haven’t the slightest notion of how to begin to explain.
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O, Jurema! Again I praise thee!
What frescoes you paint against the backs of my eyelids!
Moving in place and brilliant!

Jurema! To think of you as an admixture is to...

...O, Jurema! Again I praise thee!
What frescoes you paint against the backs of my eyelids!
Moving in place and brilliant!

Jurema! To think of you as an admixture is to underestimate you. This tree with blood-red roots, roots that soaked up the blood of Yeshua.

Jurema! You who are equal in stature to the Vine of Souls! Unlike chacruna, or chaliponga, you are not an anaconda or a jaguar, but a dragon!

And to boil you is to destroy a crucial part of your essence,
your waterfall-nature.

If ayahuasca is the collected will-force of the jungle,
then jurema is a revelation from The God.

A cold-water extraction of Mimosa hostilis drunk with a tea of esphand seed granted me my first hallucinogenic episode of a religious nature;
I was given visions of Allah, of his injeel and the illustriousness of surrender - I was given visions of a universe circling for-ever about the throne of Allah and was heard the eternal prayers sung by his true believers.

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How easy it is to fall into karmic eddies!
To spin in loops,
knots in the stomach,
with every microsecond an eternal tragedy.

How easy it is, that far in, to confuse impression with truth.
(or, how easily what one thought one knew falls to pieces in front of their eyes)
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Also, there is no comparison between the vast emptiness of these anesthetics and the vast, churning and multitudinous deep of a total breakthrough into the space elicited by DMT.

Dissociatives send one reeling inward,
the observing mind - cut off from the sensory matrix -,
sails through its own magnificent vistas;
jeweled caves there are indeed within the mind of man.

(but how egoic an experience THAT is!)
there is a reason for the near-ubiquitous narcissism, egomania and delusions of grandeur present in NMDA-antagonist addicts

However, it must be said; these anesthetics have their uses, of course. Not the least of which is making surgery more painless.

They are excellent boundary solvents, and can cut emotional tension like a blade. They dissolve character armor, letting one get outside of themselves to see the problem from a neutral point of view.

(and DXM has a particular empathogenic quality that I find its phenomenological cousins to miss. It restrains ego without totally dissolving the practitioner into Unity with the Essence, and lets emotion flow with heart-truth even if not with heart-clarity.)
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Something good is happening.

Tentatively, the best evidence for novelty-theory I’ve felt in a while; and, of course, evidence for novelty theory is usually felt.
Was this year to be a year of prevailing entropy, while now two days before the solstice a clarity has been restored?

I feel like my eyes are opening again.

What could be the cause?

Slowing my cannabis use? Not using the synthetic cannabanoids?
Laying off of kratom?

Or could it be listening to kava? Is he whispering good things in my ear, as I rest in his hammock?

Or is novelty flickering like a candle in the darkness?


(And of course, then, the object of my personal piece of this period of novelty - the isolation of The Spice Which Extends Life from the bark of the Holy Tree of Knowledge, that Tree upon which Yeshua was crucified. There have been times I had called it “The Stone”, which would convert lead into gold - that object borne of alchemy which metaphysically transmutes the leaden soul of the spiritually-enfeebled modern man into the golden-glowing bio-technical Age of the Jeweled Cicada-Awakened-Ones.

Thanks and praise be to you first, O Jurema! And this Spice is but a piece of your Whole Self. And praise be to Nixtamal, burnt shell and ashes, you who fed The People! The wisdom of your Women, patting corn into fresh tamales for your families. And to vinegar, and to the Cambrian Age; for it is that death-magic, petroleum, with which we have made Faust’s Deal and become a race of necromancers. The lighter distillates, non-polar , there is thanks to be given -as an oath, for the deal with Death- to naphtha, that which is lighter and clearer than gasoline. Ah, chemical properties!)
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The fear of being absorbed in the scuttling wholeness,
the vastness, the white-light...
...is great. The holding-me-together, the fear when my boundaries are dissolved so fully... I-thou dissolution, ego-death - I hadn’t realized the breadth of you.

Fear at the beauty, of the all-pervasive oneness, fear to join the Multitudinous Deep. Fear of surrender, a terror rises at the giving up on the holding to self. Fear of becoming a part of the Great Mysterious OTHER, of being in it as opposed to just watching it. But the feeling is there, perhaps I am not only joining it, but re-joining it.

What is self, then?

A synthesis of disparate threads,
woven loosely in a self-referential manner.

Ah, go ahead, then. Be done with it!

Erase me! Erase me.

---

In saying “yes” to that single instant, a “yes” was given to my involvement in the eternal unwinding and infinite “NOW”.

(So then, as I was in tears over the fractious nature of my thoughts, deafening and repetitious, the words shattering over one-another as they all came in waves, in cycles of flanged sentences...
...my tears were shown to me as the tears of the earth-mother, of all living things and of all things who have felt how I feel now; of those who have been given this perspective on the impermanence of life and the eternity of being... there was a river of tears flowing along the canals of the Milky Way, and there was an intimation of an ancient secret: sorrow is the only constant, the only break-tide to the onslaught of eternality; it is the sole response of all Spirit-Souls to their own non-permanence in the face of the Vast Unending Being-ness - and so did flow my tears...
... and then, kissed by some angel I must have been - the Woman of My Heart must have roused something in me, and I realized! Something connected, the disparate cords were suddenly linked into a blooming nexus. I suddenly saw very clearly (Alhamdulillah for such moments of clarity!) how what I was feeling was, in fact, Love. I realized that all the myriad emotions, the waves of tender impressions, the interactions, the touches, the strife and violence, the hope, the hate, the hurt... All is Love. I saw, very clearly (alhamdulillah!), that there is nothing apart from anything else, there is no I-thou, there is no time, and especially, lesson number one, there is no such thing as WHAT - there is only this one eternal moment-
and I said “Yes”.
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There is a familiarness to that place that a sufficient dose of vaporized DMT takes the practitioner - it feels like home, as absolutely strange as it seems. What is the reason for the entities holding you like a newborn child? Or telling you they love you? What could be the explanation for something as bizarre as that? The multitude of potential answers has a tendency to boggle the mind and remind one of the elegant simplicity of unexplainable impression.

With frequent use of the Medicine (never again!), I began to develop an extremely curious feeling that I was about to wake up; the moment of lucidity that jolts me awake from my dreams. That my whole existence in this physical form had been dreaming, and I am waking up in that place that always come to greet me. Or that the weeks preceding had been but a twinkling and fleeting impression. That I would suddenly open my eyes and it would all have been only a moment.

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It’s all a matter of dancing. The molecules interacting with the neurons, modulating electrical discharges, releasing monoamines from vesicles, activating or enhancing inhibitory pathways - it’s all the material dancing with the neural system. And it goes deeper, of course (dancing is a complex art!); each individual has their own “beat”, so to speak - therefore the style of dance that each molecule excels at meshes with certain ones of us more than others. But I don’t know if there is an individual on this earth with whom nothing dances well.

So, there is that - but what about the molecules dancing together?
There are many combination-dances, some that work well and some that don’t work as well. Some combination-dances are fatal (barbiturates and alcohol come to mind).

Tobacco seems to dance well with everyone - his magnanimous nature leads him be somewhat the supporting role, he doesn’t mind playing that role - so long as he gets his place in the show.

Cannabis too seems to dance well with others, again in a supportive role - bringing her own special magic to the party. When dancing with the stimulating djinn, she eases their grating pushy energy and calms it - to the point that, if I were to dance with one of those djinni, I would require myself to bring her along. When dancing with the intoxicants, however, her somnolent face comes to the fore and a long sleep is usually quick to follow. Where she shines is dancing with the Visionary Medicines: she enhances, brightens and calls forth the magic - her spirit remains undiminished as she lifts the practitioner to the heights of it.

Having the Sacred Medicines dance together is a more difficult thing to direct. They all seem to want center-stage, and they all have such good things to say that it seems rude of me to ask one to step aside for the time being. Nitrous oxide is often cited as a general “potentiator” of various psychedelics, something I do not find to be the case - it doesn’t mix well with San Pedro, anyway.

Then there is that one Medicine of Dreaming, that richly-adorned plant with an angel in every leaf - O Esphand! O seed of Esphand! B-carboline holding holy one, you are the King of medicines! On his own, he is calm, peaceful and dream-like, a wise old goat - gruff but kind - but where he shines is his greatest secret, the activation of oral Di-Methyl-Tryptamine! This is the key technique for getting the most relevant information from DMT’s bustling cornucopia - nay! Raging waters! Otherwise S/He-It moves so fast, almost light-speed, that it is nearly impossible to draw any water from the seemingly endless well. But when it can get past the monoamine-oxidase in the guts and slowly enter the bloodstream through the liver, the lessons can actually be grasped and made use of.
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I am prepared for you, synthetic angel, brainchild of human tinkering, fumbling, with the structure of things!

You! Synthetic children of the analogues! How far from the mucilage of your grandfathers, Peyotl and Wachuma!

They say you come heavy, that you are one of the strong ones, the powerful ones - the one’s-not-to-be-fucked-with.
I have been to the depths of the churning abysses and wrestled with the roaring of the “DMT-wave”.
I have communicated with the Machine-Elves, the elfish prankster-teachers. I have witnessed their complexes, their devices, heard their phantom-song!

I became an adept at cleaving my soul from my body to go awash in the warm pools of the human mind, and seen the glistening caverns their are within the mind of man. I have lost all concept of having a physical form, I have been without a body - deep in the waxy waves of NMDA-antagonism.

I have been rocked by tempest-winds, almost torn to shreds by it. I have identified with christ, had the extreme privilege of being with the Ahl al-Kisa and been in the company of quetzacoatl.

I have been to the depths of it, so I welcome you in all your strength and all your power, 25I-NBOMe! Your are welcome into me, O you of great lineage! I have been with your grandfather and he taught me much. Let us see how much of him is in you.

(I must say I was suprised how nice this child of chemistry was to me. Phosphorescent vapors, sparkling shoots of green a blue - even the numbers on the clock were melting off. It moved my train-of-though, but it wasn’t pushy in the slightest... with the result being my identifying with the Machines the “The Matrix”.)
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Jurema preta! Again you astound me!
How fine a plant, a deity incarnate!

How dear to my heart are you, jurema! How you held those I gave to you, how sweet your soft face. I have grown to know you, I can feel the way to cook you, I can see how much of you they need.

So, are you ready to swear you allegiance with me? Are you ready to make the pact? It is a pact of blood- it is binding, hard and fast. So I will need some time...

...you say you love me, you whisper this into you glass before I pass your lips... So where is your love for me? I will need time, to learn and to know. I have to work it out. I promise you I will look to see what I can find.

O jurema preta! How lovely you are! How powerful, how sensuously wise! You are clearly no admixture, you stand alone!

---

What is this fear? The “pre-flight anxiety”? What the the source of it?

It is the same feeling one gets when looking over the cusp of a steep and tall cliff - I felt this in Moab, I felt this standing near the edge of the Grand Canyon. This is the Drive to Self-preservation. So why should it apply to this entirely safe experience? The answer is multifaceted.

It is normal to fear this experience. The DMT flash is unlike anything our ancestors ever experienced... this is alien to life! It is apart from us, a meeting with the OTHER. Other than what? Other than anything we’ve experienced. Apart from us, and yet so intertwined. Like there are secret messages - hints - pointing us towards this experience our whole lives. Little innuendoes, fleeting inspiration - the Flash of Inspiration is in many ways like the Flash of DMT. The feeling in a dream right before you wake up, and you gain lucidity and brief realization of the Dream - only to wake and forget it. These are all metaphors, day-to-day metaphors and they are meant to point you towards... this? Ah, but that is one of the great qualities this Medicine imbues on its devotees - a great accepting of the slipperiness of it and an ability to see that nothing “IS” and there is no such thing as “WHAT”.

Well, I would say thank you..if not for my eyeballs hurting from reading all that damn text!



Nice work!

I should change the color, huh?

Thank you!

I love all these archetypal odes.

I wonder what poetry you'd spout (have spouted?) about Salvia, Iboga, or Amanitas. Or anything else. I like your writing.

(He says almost 10 years after the thread has been left... heh)

Hey, Thanks!

I just spent quite a while trying to find this -- thought it had been purged for space! Very cool to come back to my unrefined writings from a decade ago! I'll have to post another collection, as I have now taken University COMP. courses and I believe my writing has improved.

Thanks again, and oh by the by I am AFR, but at some point lost my password... so here I am in new and fearsome form!