Circa sunset I ate roughly ten, young, freshly harvested from botanical gardens on Mt. Dandenong, Psilocybe subaeruginosa smothered in honey. Their psilocybin content is roughly twice that of Psilocybe cubensis according to wikipedia. Prior to this I'd taken psilocybin on 5 occasions over the past three years, and LSD twice, always with extensive planning and examination of prospective portage, and more often than not in solitude. Drawing on these experiences, I could not have anticipated what was about to occur. I suspect DMT was synthesised and released from my pineal gland (or wherever it's supposed to occur) at the fey climax of my departure.
Bob had been tripping for a couple of hours after making a big fuss about consuming the mushrooms, which he did gradually, painstakingly over about 20 minutes using many methods to avoid tasting and gagging, this and the unanticipated size of the dosage had taken its toll. Overwhelmed by the torrent of repressed grievances beating down, the apprehension and painstakingly extended consumption, and the usual tweaking of incoming data, Bob was verbally incapacitated, pacing and uttering fragmented mantras about familiar comforts in an attempt to ground himself. He asks us to come to "the warmth of my room" expressing fears of melting and asphyxia, we come (myself not yet tripping, arrogantly and foolhardily convinced that I could talk Bob down, while maintaining my ritualised nautical framework) he caresses the oil heater then sits slouched on the bed and engages in the fragmented, repetitious, verbal incapacity that I've previously had the displeasure to observe in people tripping heavily on MDMA. It pained me to see his fragmented humble confusion. The topics of his ramblings include: nausea, vomiting, incontinence, and other bodily dysfunction and discomfort, desire for time to pass less expansively, hyper-stimulation, isolation, want of familiarity, feeling of unreality, gratitude for our presence, and tripping after apparently forgetting/remembering that he'd eaten mushrooms, etc...and, eventually psychosis. Phrases 'too much', 'time is irrelevant', etc... he repeated prominently, punctuated by our attempts to console him. John puts Rowan Atkinson's 'Welcome to hell' (the video of which I'd seen previously and not been terribly impressed with) on the stereo which I perceived as music and perfectly demonic. I said 'what the fuck', awestruck by the pressurized immensity of repressed conscious. Bob's diatribe reached a dramatic crescendo with Bob repeating: 'I've hit psychosis', soon before which John and Jack (who didn't take mushrooms), unaware of the solemn immensity of my lack of framework, leave, John smirking, stating: "I'm sorry Fred, were gonna have to leave you with Bob", this and the music becomes unbearable, I walk with body lagging behind to the stereo, press stop, and leave Bob chanting about psychosis.
In my room temporarily relieved sitting crosslegged on my bed dreading the imminent opening of my door, it's Bob and this sends me over the precipice of responsibility. Memory at this point becomes less vivid, eventually this culminates in Bob, John, and Jack in my room and me feeling madness ensue, becoming deluded that I was poisoned, which surprised (and further disturbed) me because I could not detect having any doubt of the identity of the mushrooms. I know now it was merely a symbolic performance to my self, of my ill-experiences of medicine, tortured by pathological thinking about pathological thinking and about psychosomatics. At this point what I needed was either privacy or reassurance that I wasn't sick or mentally unsound, lack of this escalated with me requesting medical attention and my mother, in a foetal position.
Frying pan became fire by my delusion being validated by John and my mother attempting to analyse any symptoms I may have had and doing pseudo-procedures in an effort to comfort me (instead of adamantly rejecting my obvious (even to me) delusion), and Bob, lost in his self-proclaimed psychosis, madly trying to console me, and the degree of the split between the theatre being acted to myself and my self that knew it was theatre. Memory beyond this point is only of my dream which lasted expansive subjective time and did not appear to end in any waking. The immense humiliation I felt at my lack of rigidity of mind that I've always attempted to maintain, was eclipsed by my gratitude for my dream in which 'godlike'(strictly from the point of a disinterested agnostic who's faith in atheos) love was felt. I will attempt to describe my dream...
Edited by foe (07/13/08 12:43 PM)
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