I had tripped on shrooms before, always psilosyben, and had done acid many many times, so I didn't expect anything unusual to happen this trip. I had just bought a quarter ounce of dried shrooms (one BIG stem and cap plus 1 tiny cap and stem) and had plans to meet at my friend Chucks house and then maybe go to a party with another of my friends, John.
Chucks house was a party place. He kept it neat and clean, but any day of the week you could go there and get stoned with a few people. There was general panic amongst the whole "crew" when there wasn't bud to be smoked at Chucks. This because everyone went to Chucks and odds were always good that at least half of the people would be holding.
It was Saturday night and when I arrived at Chucks at 8:00 pm there were about 8 people hanging around drinking and smoking out with more filing in every few minutes. Some, like John, were tripping on acid but I was the only one with shrooms. Following custom, those of us that were holding rolled joints and passed them in a circle around the living room. By the time the last of the six joints were done I was pretty stoned and decided this would be a good time to exit the room and eat my big shroom. John had been pushing me the whole time to commit to go to the party with him, and he followed me into the kitchen talking about how great it would be.
While we both remarked about the huge size of the shroom in my baggy, I considered going to the party with him. I knew it depended on the type of trip I would have. Some trips are definitely best spent by ones self. At least for me. I have no problem rolling with a mind-bending trip by myself, but around alot of people I can tend to get paranoid and restless. If I want to turn off all the lights and run through the house naked and screaming, I can very well do that alone. It does tend to frighten and annoy a house full of other people though. I especially didn't want to be weirded out by, or weird out, a bunch of new people. This was at least 6 grams I was going to take- the highest dose I had yet done.
Just as John said he wanted to leave at 10:00 pm before his party peaked, I began chewing peices off the large shroom and swallowing them. The taste didn't really bother me and I drank water to keep my mouth from getting too dry. I finished eating the shroom and went back into the living room to sit on the couch. John followed me in.
I could tell John was starting to trip from the acid he had taken because his demeanor was becomeing ever more jumpy and agitated. It was obviously laced with speed and this would likely not be a good trip for John. That was another reason to not go to his party. I engaged in some small talk with the people around me and watched John walk rapidly in and out of the room. He almost seemed frantic as he went from person to person, chattering away.
I didn't keep track of time. I wasn't concerned about it in the least. I had concluded during a previous trip that the only time that actually truly exists is the present, so what damn difference does it make?
The scene at Chucks house now seemed strangly organized, uptight, and for lack of better words, "official". This was in complete contrast to how it normaly is- mellow, relaxed, everyone kind of melted to their seats with no where better to go or nothing better to do, incense burning and a casual game of spades being played in the corner as music flowed through the air. This time the music seemed annoying, faces rapidly darted in and out of the focus of my attention as different people mingled about and different friends came by to excahnge greetings. Everyone had somewhere else to go, and suddenly the whole scene seemed like some kind of military operation. Chucks house was the base where all the soldiers gathered and were given their orders. From here they would launch out to the night in tight formations, eager to aggresively attack whatever kind of pleasure or exitement buzzed in the air.
My hands started to sweat and it felt as if the skin on my palms was being displaced, as if it was literaly crawling. I could feel the hair on my arms stand up and suddenly I felt like a porcupine. The feeling of the hair standing up was so distinct and intense that I was honestly afraid someone would look at me and see hair standing a few feet up off of my body. Then it seemed the hair was like cats whiskers or the attenaes on an ant, that it was ultra sensative and it was absolutely crucial that no one brush against them. If they did it would produce a catastrophic wave of sensation through the hair and into my body and at that moment I would either puke right across the room or start pulling my teeth out my head. The hair on my arms was so sensative that it seemed I could actually hear the music that was playing through them.
I felt the muscles in my forearms start to vibrate and it took all of my will to keep the vibration from encompassing my whole body. I did not want to turn into an uncontrolable mass of quivering flesh there on the ground.
Chuck came over and offered me a beer. I politely declined and prayed to god he woulden't touch my arms. Even Chuck was going somewhere else tonight and he told me all about it. I tried to listen carefully as I stared at the stark, amazing plainess of his face. His high cheekbones, well proportioned features and long eye lashes make him an attractive man- normaly. Now though, he seemed plain beyond beleif. I almost wanted to touch his face to make sure it was real and not made of paper mache.
Chucks words at first were distinct and clear. They stood out from the mumbling unified chaos of sounds that took place in the backround. However, the more he spoke, the more his voice became blurred and the distinct sounds of his words melted into the backround noise. It was an effort to keep track of what he was saying even though the backround noise wasn't very loud.
I knew Chuck was talking about some kind of party somewhere. That was the best I could do. It was as if Chuck was speaking a different language. Half backround noise and half words. It was an amazing thing to experience and the best I could do was to say, "Thats cool." and "Sounds like fun".
Chuck abruptly left to go into the other room and suddenly I felt as if some type of anchor had been ripped away from me, as if some comfort and fixed point was suddenly removed.
The people moving around the apartment were now semi-distinct shapes and blurs that bustled around with little consistency or coherency. Faces were painted on heads with little thought or consideration as to assembling a logical or easily discernable image. The details seemed strewn together hap hazardly, thown together, jury rigged, barely making any sense at all.
I was acutely aware of my body on the couch. Shifting, half-incorprated shapes would ocassionaly move onto the couch next to me and then move away. The displacement of the couch beneath me constantly threw any semblence of order I had worked twords, out of alighnment. I felt like I was bobbing up and down on the couch like a bouy on rough seas.
I felt gigantic. The presence of myself that normaly only fills the physical space also occupied by my body, now seemed to encompass the whole room. I could feel it push at the walls where normaly it would only push at the limits of my body. Shadows and human forms melted together and differentiated in a weird rythym whos pace was a mixture of the steady beat of the music and random shufflings and minglings of the people. The shapes and forms moved through my presence and suddenly it all seemed to have a certain order to it.
No one specific thing made very much sense without much concentration. However, feeling these shapes move within my presence as a whole gave way to consistent patterns and a kind of logical order. I realized that the single consistent thing about all of this was that I was experiencing it.
John suddenly broke loose from the transparent singular entity with all of its shifting shapes and inner fluctuations. His head was way too large and unaturaly luminescent, and his mouth moved independent from the rest of his face. "Come on man, its already 11:00 and most of the action is going to be over soon". It sounded absurd. He was obviously deeply frightened at the prospect of going to that party, tripping, by himself.
"Hows your trip, man?" I asked him and he responded in an agitated chanting gibberish. He clearly wanted to leave right away. The idea that a person was talking to me about something and that I was sitting there trying to listen seemed totaly absurb and out of the question. But I knew thats what was actually happening so I should make my best effort to play the game and give as coherent a response as possible. "Noooo way man". There was no way I was going to a party filled with new people in my present state. The idea of going home and writing seemed much more appealing.
John was pissed and I beleive he said, "Thats dick man. You said you were gonna go." I don't know what else he said because making sense out of his words and actions seemed to be more effort than it was worth. Thats when I decided I would probably best enjoy my trip at home.
I got off of the couch and the chaos resulting from standing up was almost too much to bear. I focused my concentration on saying bye to my friends and got the hell out of there. The walk home was uninteresting largely because I focused soley on finding my house and avoiding contact with other people. Shapes of objects and people grew out of the darkness and sucked back in; I'd wondered where something had gone and then I'd realized that I'd walked past it. The sounds of my footsteps came from the walls, the sky, other people, everywhere but my own feet.
The door to my house and my porchlight seemed like the end to a very long dark tunnel. I shut the door behind me and felt very happy to be home. I felt as if I was in a bunker deep beneath the earth.
Without even taking my coat off, I grabbed my tablet and a pencil and sat at the kitchen table and began writing. My arms and legs didn't seem to be able to arrange themselves in any sensable or natural way with my body on the chair, so I sat on the floor. The hard, flat, solid surface beneath me was ungodly comfortable. I felt grounded on the floor and it seemed like a sponge that sucked confusion into it.
As soon as I put the pencil to the paper, words exploded onto the page. It was a releasing of energy and thoughts that were bound up inside of me. I was totaly unaware of myself and my being felt entirely moved through the pencil. I was no longer, "Writing something" but I was the writing its self. It was as if writing, writer, and being written, were all the same entity.
When my literary orgasm was expended and my pencil had ejaculated its words onto the paper, I threw the tablet on the table without looking at what I had written and stretched out on my back on the floor. I felt at one with the grounding, still, solid force of the floor.
My dog meandered in the kitchen, its claws clicking a friendly greeting out on the linoleum tiles, and she sniffed at me lying there. She licked my face producing a disquieting flurry of strange sensations. I patted and petted her, but the motion seemed robotic and contrived. She left the room, the darkness blending with her black spots, expanding them gradually over her white body until she was completely consumed.
I laid on the floor, slowly comeing down, closing my eyes to squeeze out the last of the trip into my mind in cascading three dimensional, exponentially expanding patterns of multi colored lights. A kind of pipe-work built its self into multiple interconnected geometric forms, and Bart Simpson, composed entirely of bright neon, slid along the pipes that went right through his center.
I went to bed soon thereafter, riding the gentle flowing rythym of Mary Black to sleep. I looked at what I had written the next day when I woke up. Here it is, though I'm not sure it makes much sense:
"ALL I KNOW: Everybody is shreiking at me, using MY voice, trying to tell me something EVIL- The words they weave tease my mind, they taunt me, trying to hypnotize me, trying to lure me in with them, they pound at my WALLS as I breath.
I am inside laughing so hard my very head thumps, but these people are so hard to ignore, so hard to resist. A thousand sirens singing cannot be dismissed- I kiss each one of them with subtle shades of consideration.
I touch the sun with liquid time and I laugh so dearly, laughing like light flowing through a window showing a stream flowing into its self. Crystal water emraces my scars, my soul cries as I'm laughing clearly at what I've found here: Saftey is only found when one knows that it CANNOT exist, life is only truely lived when one knows he must someday die, certainty is found when one knows that there is only doubt, and being is being only when one can see that there is absolutely nothing at all!
I still hear them playing my gentle harp with such rough whipping fingers, trying to make me cum, trying to make me become. I know what mask "they" wear, I know how to laugh at them."