He was going to fight the Elves. A hyperspace warrior, a seasoned pychonaut, the wise Menjour to my humble Glyndon. I was afraid for him, and for some reason, myself. I had yet to truly witness, in person, a close personal friend's journey into the deepest (and often times) darkest of realms. Realms, which, for my comrade especially it seems, and for many others as I've come to discover, are fraught with danger.
I was the last of our circle to venture into Hyperspace. I wen't deep, and I got there quickly, if not immediately, bypassing the H.R. Giger dueling ram machine roller-coaster vortex, skyrocketing past the sixth-seventh-eighth dimensions and all of their infinite inhabitants like a fully cranked Ducati redefining the known laws of light and sound to eventually commune with the Great Yogi of the Unified Field, who physically shaped my body in its image (I say "its" in reference to It being a very different presence than the distinctly female Earth Mother Goddess encountered on my weaker, but no less astonishing first foray into DMT. This being was not more masculine, or even Asexual, simply all encompassing). This position, unsurprisingly, is the Lotus position, the ideal pose for receiving the love light energy, as if you were a billion stringed, fully aligned, air fueled, electric flesh and blood machine marionette, helpless to an infinite and masterful power source.
This position does not come easily or naturally for me. Though physically fit, I am notoriously inflexible. This early portion of the whole experience I remember being torturously challenging, requiring intense, laborous breathing. I could only compare it to the patterned Lamaze style breathing utilized during childbirth. This was, in hindsight, apparently necessary in order to subconsciously cater to and eventually manifest the whims and desires of a outside intelligence. I can say now that it was brutal, jarring, demanding, and a little scary. On my first experience to hyperspace, there were no physical requirements at all. On my second, despite consciously taking a more powerful dose, I was not expecting any dynamic physical implications, though strangely, when they appeared, I did not feel unprepared, just surprised and for better or worse, completely overwhelmed.
I was a vessel, a living conduit for the ultimate conductor. Once it shaped me, it reached out for me. It's right arm, an intimidating, side winding, slow motion bolt of lighting, with fingers extending out towards me like tributaries of the Nile, seething and vibrating in hues of pink and blue, yearning and cordially inviting me to share in it's energy. After some hesitation, I let it take me. It was beautiful. It loved me, it really loved me (best soap opera voice)! As I came slowly back to our earthly plane, before the juice was completely cut off, I asked my friend, facilitator, roommate, and urban Shaman, SmilingBlock, if he wanted to join in on the love and energy. I extended my free right hand and he took it till I was completely out. We watched in awe as the hair on our arms stood in static attention. A few minutes later, mind blown but back to things as usual, I left for work.
Two weeks had passed and my after glow had come and gone. It had been almost a month since Smiling Block's last journey to Hyperspace, which some of you may recall, was a bitter one. I would say he left a part of himself in hyperspace, but the truth was, something was taken from him. Dignity, a small slice of his humanity, a little pride...his soul? What makes SmilingBlock's collective experiences with the elves at once so fascinating and frustrating for me is, my inability to not only interact with them myself, but whether or not I would even want to in the first place. That being said, there may exist a certain live by the sword, die by the sword mentality that greatly colors and effects the mood, tone, setting, and characters that populate a DMT user's particular experience. After my above chronicled trip, I could tell that he was eager to get back in there, and certainly deeper then I, and this time, with a very specific mission. There was much at stake here. More than either of us could have imagined. We were nervous. I would be lying if I said there wasn't a friendly competition running between us, like Russia and the U. S., racing to the moon.
SmilingBlock describes the lead up to this specific launch beautifully in his post so I will keep it brief here. We prepared the setting. Before we packed the bowl, I smelled the remnants of the Spice from my previous trip and it further solidified the pending reality of the truly immense trial I was about to initiate. SmilingBlock assumed the Lotus to potentially bypass the potential heavy lifting. I stood over him. After several deep breaths. He took the first hit. Then the second. Then the third. Perhaps even a forth or a fifth, I probably should have taken the bowl away from his lips at that point. The thing was, he was sincerely looking at me, I wasn't sure if it was working. I asked him if it was. He said nothing. I asked him if he was ok...I backed up about five feet, sat down in a chair facing him, the chair I sat in during both of my trips, and realized after a brief moment of intense observation, that he was totally gone.
Yet there he sat, a strange never before seen combination of fear and defiance sewn into his face. It was barely a second after this realization, easily two minutes after his last hit, that he closed his eyes. His head slowly fell forward, his chin nestling safety on his chest. I saw his mouth struggling to form words. I could only compare this to watching someone in REM sleep. What was strange however, is that he remained very still, none of the violent gestures found in intense dreamers. He looked stoic, like a monk in some Himalayan Monastery, a Shaman in the Jungle, yet still my buddy on a crappy green yoga mat in our Brooklyn apartment. His mouth was still on auto-pilot but I could tell his mind was struggling. I stood up quietly, knelt behind him, and delivered three cool blasts of powdered Cinnamon to the back of his neck, and twice behind his left and right ear. Though often used by South American Shamans, we had yet to employ this new tool in our DMT journeys. I quietly stood up and sat back down in the chair, unsure of its effect. I decided to sing an Icaro of my own creation that I incorporated into the soothing four minute Drum and Bass track playing in the background. I remembered in my last experience how much the Great Yogi liked that we were making music inspired by its principles of tone, energy, and vibrations, and that we were able to express ourselves in such a unique beautiful way. It had already looped around three times at this point and I wondered where in the world he was and if he was coming back anytime soon.
Suddenly, he spoke. "Human." It sounded like a Donald Trump voice recording played back in slow motion. This was followed in similar fashion by, "Individual." This was awkward for me to say the least, and a little amusing, until he briefly opened his eyes and literally gave me a look that suggested dire implications of some sort, or that he had just received some terrible news. I paused my Icaro. He closed his eyes again. The track had begun its sixth loop. He had now been in for roughly 18 minutes. I decided to continue with my Icaro, despite the possibility that I was doing more harm than help. I didn't know what else to do, I couldn't sit there passively. I felt helpless. This was what i was afraid of. Seventh loop. He opened his eyes and took a series of very long breaths and slowly raised his hands defiantly into the air. His middle fingers rising up like stems from two knotty bulbs in search of sunlight. "Fuck you Elves!"
This was Smiling Block talking. I stopped the Icaro and watched as his body aggressively leapt into action. Let the record state that SmilingBlock, despite being one of the most intelligent people I know, and being in good physical shape, is the single clumsiest person I know. I wondered if I would have to restrain him. If he would hurt himself or break something. There was a violent and primal look in his eyes. He was staring deep into the darkness of an unoccupied bedroom in the center of our apartment, as if about to scold a party of squatters trespassing within the shadows. SmilingBlock went on to berate the elves like a Viking Savoring the spoils of a well worn battle. Whatever he lost he had found it.
We continue to debate the implications of this experience. I seem to push him towards Archetypes and away from a nihilism stemming from the possibility that Multi-Dimensional Alien beings are harvesting our life energy. The retrieval of knowledge, however fleeting is fraught with it's own dangers. This is DMT's own brand of withdrawal. Sometimes I think. He's crazy. Then remember my own Journeys. I sigh and sit back in awe then contemplate my next venture into the great unknown.