Dosage: 2 unmeasured 'eighths'
Body Mass: 65 kg
Situation: No sitter, roomate away for weekend.
Purchased from a 'friend of a friend', second time dosing. First time had been on one 'eighth' consisting of 3 3" stems and three caps had led to euphoric laughter with mild visual distortions including a lightening and vague CEV of dancing geometric patterns but no real OEV.
So, in the interest of provoking more intense distortions of the sensorium and thought processes two times the above amount was consumed and washed down with orange juice.
First 30 minutes had some anticipatory jitters, layed down on a sofa and listened to some Mozart and Beethoven. After a half hour the music started to sound thicker than usual. Slight growling and lightness in stomach but nothing approaching frank nausea.
While listening to music closed eyes and began to see pastel fluorescent shapes which became 3-D. Looked like a cross between those odd stalagmites featured on 'Yes' albums and vertically oriented radiator grilles. Totally absorbing, POV started to cascade down a valley of these structures, very warm, bright colors.
Opened eyes, surprised to find self in appartment. Looks familiar yet simultaneously new. Cracks in the ceiling plaster seem to bleed beyond their boundaries, as if an imaginary boundary is stenciled around the perimeter of their confines. These stencilings increase, and the cracks take on the illusion of motion. SOon the entire ceiling is swarming with the things, as well as breathing. Walls are rippling with 6inch slow rolling waves. Sounds from the outside street seem disjointed and unconnected to events.
Then close eyes. Instead of geometrical CEV an entire organic story unfolds. Detailed and with a narrative depth, essentially depicting human life as this cycle from inception to grave. Except, and here's where it all leaves the beaten path, it wasn't strictly human beings. It was like a sentient cross between a kangaroo and a duck. Started out life in this marsupial pouch and somehow evolved into a human being. Memory gets foggy but I remember that this creature, of which I was one, was called a 'Flubberducker.'
I opened my eyes again, and was shocked to see the world of my appartment. I was shocked at being back and tried to convince myself that everything was normal. I tried to take out the garbage, you know, as a return to the everyday, normal human activities. Needless to say, that didn't go well. I walked outside but couldn't quite interpret the workings of the dumpster. I was trying to put the bag into a partially open dumpster, and as the cans clinked and clanked onto the ground I felt I was drawing too much unwanted attention and that folks would catch on to my altered state. The solution: run back to the sanctuary of the appartment.
Sat down at the desk, really enjoying the slick rasp of the fine-tipped pen over paper. Doodled, wrote down some gibberrish that seemed like the keys of wisdom to me at the time.
Decided I wanted to go out again, tried to get sunglasses, keys, and wallet. Kept putting down one thing, getting distracted by cats running around the appartment, and by things that actually weren't there. Worst distraction came in the form of the delusion that I had taken some sort of drug. Couldn't remember the name, or what it had been. Had the clear impression of the undergills of the mushroom, and the word mushroom did surface through the fog of my thought. But funny thing, though I identified 'mushrooms' as the cause of my confusion, I couldn't remember if I'd smoked them or eaten them. That's the kind of thing you'd think a person might tend to remember. Following fast on the heels of this thought was that I could get out of the situation, the delusion, by getting some help for myself.
Who are you gonna get help from? GOnna call mom of course (I can feel you wincing at home, gentle reader). Though I knew I had to call, I'd become confused as to the proper employment of telephone technology. Soon I thought I could just call out loud and mom would hear, despite being located close upon 200 miles away.
The next delusion that cropped up was...you guessed it...that I was dying. Except not of overdose of drug. In fact, I had the delusion that I was already an old, old man somewhere, mind ravaged and wracked by years and disease. And as I lay dying, my mind created this world (our real world) for me. There was a perverse logic to the delusion. Imagine a mind, all its memory circuits burned out and shattered except for a few detailing the mid-20s decades ago. The mind, searching for some material on which to attempt a reconstruction of a reality construct gropes through the debris and flotsam, fixing at last one that lone island of coherence.
Some of this delusion was open eyed, some of it wasn't. I was adrift between here and there...up until the point I felt a pressure at the top of my head. this jarred me back into real-time and also squeezed a healthy jolt of adrenaline out of my adrenal glands. In my delirium I had thrust my head through the screen on the fourth-floor window of my appartment. I came fairly close to plunging out the damn window!
At this point in time I decided (stupidly) to get out of the appartment and take my show on the road. There was a a wooded grove a few blocks from the appartment and I wanted to be soothed by the cool balm of nature. The appartment had become too hectic and cluttered.
The visual disturbances had abated, or I had forgotten about them. Everything took on a brightness and a luster outside. I forgot my name, and language become difficult. I walked by a group of strangers and started talking with them. Then I bugged out and ran into the woods. Fragments of running the breath raw and hot out of my lungs and collapsing into shaded underbrush. Thought I was Satan, that the world was a constantly shifting prison. In this particlular delusion, Satan's prison is a neverending string of realities that continually adapt. Each 'lifetime' he (I!) was given the chance to act less rebellious, to embrace the light rather than the dark. And each time the choice is anew, as he forgets all that has passed before. He is simply born as a person into a world of people, one among many. Gradually in this cycle of punishment he comes to realize, through his thoughts, through inexplicable coincidences, his true nature. There is a soul-rending moment of realization when he says to himself ' it is happening again' and then the cycle begins anew. The true torture of this is akin to those paddle-balls on the elastic cord. The illusion of freedom, of choice, with the the sudden harsh yank of reality, ad infinitum. I was seeing biblical names writhing and reforming in the texture of tree-bark.
As one might anticipate, I was overwhelmed by an oppressive feeling of the unjustness of the situation, and I despaired. It all felt so real. I felt accursed, and the whole universe created as a trap to mock me. Every human memory I bore was a lie, an artifice of the trap.
I said I was sorry, so very, very sorry. I had the sense that suddenly everything would blossom into an ecstasy of pain and torture. For it would be within God's power to both torture me indefinately and also make me life again through the punishing cycle. The anticipation was the worst, and the inevitablilty of it all.
Then amnesia. Sweet amnesia.
Awoke the next morning to birdsong. Felt good but extremely distressed and disoriented. Did a quick damage report. Wearing clothing, all teeth in place, limbs attached and functioning. No keys, no wallet, no sunglasses. I felt fairly overjoyed to be back in possession of my senses. I've never been so happy to wake up in a strange place broke dirty, and sore. AFter all, I wasn't in hell, right?
Run back to the appartment, trying hard to look like an early morning jogger. Return to find the door swinging wide in the breeze. Keys, sunglasses, and wallet sitting in the middle of the table. Paper filled with inexplicable swirls and markings. Kitchen window has large, head-shaped hole, a new and terrifying addition to the decor that suggests a disaster averted through no wisdom of my own and only by the slimmest of margins.
That could have ended another way altogether less pleasant. I learned some fairly valuable lessons the hard way about 1) measuring dosage 2) value of sitter, preferably one armed with a tranquilizer gun.
But when all's said and done, I can't consider the trip to be a bad one. It scared the pants off me and slung me into an existential despair for a few hours the likes of which I've never known, and never thought possible.
The measure of the value of an experience is whether one would choose to repeat it, knowing full well the consequences that might ensue. Right now, I don't know.