somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
When I last I reported from hyperspace, it was early February. Since then I have ventured small tokes one or two times, each time sinking into a pleasant fleeting state of contemplation but not really penetrating at all beyond the most surface levels of the DMT experience. I think on each of those occasions that I set myself up for such experiences, because I was so overwhelmed with fear as I approached them that I put small doses in the pipe. It's strange, you know. Not a single day of my life passes that I don't, for at least one brief moment, contemplate and consider smoking DMT, though it puts the proverbial fear of God in me. As time passes between experiences I find my heart swelling with both trepidation and delight at the thought of re-entering those realms.
I don't know why 10:45 P.M. on Monday, August 31, 2009 was the time that I would consider it and decide that yes, this was the right moment to return to the infini-fold. I only know that with DMT, there is a sense - more than with any other entheogen that I have encountered - a sense of rightness and wrongness. And this originates with the feeling, for me, of having encountered through DMT a spirit, a vibrant face of the All. There is such life beyond the veil when you smoke DMT, that it deserves as much respect as any other lifeform. The night before this experience, I had very much wanted to and planned to smoke DMT. That night, though, I ate junk food, watched television, got obscenely high on marijuana and when I finally returned my thinking to DMT, just did not feel right doing it.
But Monday...Monday was different. I had not eaten in many hours by the time I decided to take the plunge. In that time, I had remained mainly in the confines of my bedroom, writing. I had stayed sober, drinking water. I pondered DMT throughout our conversation, and when it drew to a close, I made the decision. I shut my laptop and took out the pipe and the spice. Sitting in the comfortable large chair by my window and drawing the curtain closed, nestled beneath the green-tinted light of a banker's lamp, I funneled a most generous amount of the yellow-tinted powder into the bulb.
After many deep, slow breaths I lit the underside of the pipe, rolling the bulb gently in the flame. Tiny crackles and then a curling hiss of smoke out of the one small opening. I took five hits. The last two were veritable lungfuls of plastic-tasting vapor. That taste, once so invasive and foreign, came comfortably this time. A welcome taste, once you know what it portends.
As I held the fourth and largest hit in my chest the boundaries of all the world around me began to dissolve most subtly, most organically. It was an anti-hallucination. There was an undeniable truth to the way my books collapsed into one another along their shelves, my bed became the air where the comforter ended, the flame under the pipe became the windowsill to my right. I took the fifth and final hit, leaned back, and put the pipe aside. It rolled off the windowsill and down onto the wood floor where it made three glassy bounces. I thought to pick it up, then shook my head as if telling myself no, and settled back into my chair, wriggling my fingers and toes as if to get out a building anxiety and then closing my eyes and resting still.
Immediately, I was appproached by a shifting, noodly mass of many moving parts, its colors tan and white and pink and brown, with flecks and sparkles of mustard yellow. It was rectangular, flag-like and defined, yet completely lacked sharp edges and angles. Moving towards me as if slowly flapping to propel itself, it grew closer - and it seemed eager! And I was eager too! Oh, how I wanted more than to just watch it! I wanted to communicate!
I sat suspended there, watching its approach and its undulations, understanding little it was saying but understanding that its every moment of existence was a form of communication. How to talk with this thing? Long had I listened to recordings of Terence McKenna and grinned at his descriptions of lapsing into glossolalia in DMT space. But try as I may have, no gibberish would be spewed by me, no sacred non-sensical language was waiting to roll off of my tongue. I did the simplest thing I could - I moaned lightly, my mouth closed, and when I did I perceived that the shifting tapestry creature reacted - it seemed to shiver or shimmy. So I said again, "mmm..." and again it seemed to warm to me. I opened my mouth and said, in a pleasant sigh, "Ahhh..." and again it writhed with seeming delight.
So, I thought, why not? I'll read to you a poem, my phantom friend from the great beyond within...
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
-immediately, the vision changes...the digitized organic patterns, all their squiggles and curves, scatter...not gone, but spreading from the center to the periphery...at their center, and growing towards me, comes a flower of exquisitely fine detail...it is a trans-dimensional magnolia, a bud ever so slowly bursting forth filmy milky white sheets in a constant, slow state of growth-
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because you are too near
-with those words the flower, once closed in on itself, begins to open...through the unfolding layers of ethereal yet textured petals I perceive, far in the depths, a heart of pink, glowing softly-
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully,mysteriously) her first rose
-the cartoon squiggles at this point are a digital frame of neon otherworldliness, out of which this flower, now a galaxy unto itself, is spreading-
or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
-the flower trembles, creaking and groaning like an old tree as it grows, bursting out of the frame around it and reaching out towards me...my hand is on my heart now, and tears in no great rush are welling up against my gently closed eyes...I feel an overwhelming graciousness for this flower to whom I am reading this poem...I feel incredibly blessed by its presence, that it would open like this to me...and it continues to open, unfolding in waves of silken mist, showing me glimpses - flecks - of its fiery heart...my voice falls to a whisper, my pace slows-
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever in each breathing
-we are dancing, the flower and I...my steps come in words and the flowers come in being...i feel that, for as much love as I am invoking into my intonation of these words, the flower is reciprocating and refracting that love back at me with gratitude for my sharing them...has it ever heard e.e. cummings before?-
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
-I come to the end of the poem, my head comes to rest against the chair back, and my hand is holding my heart...my eyes hold the flower in their gaze and watch as it blooms all around me...I am enveloped until my eyes are shrouded in the fog of this flower's being, the pink heart as distant as ever through the spectre...-
After a time, I opened my eyes.
I was so, so happy.
If you're familiar with my prior reports, what happened next may serve as no surprise to you. Rising from the chair with a huge smile, I turned and spun, and twirled. Everything was still a-squiggle and I squiggled with everything. DMT has the amazing effect on me of making me entirely comfortable and at peace with my body, something that is not at all always the case. I danced to no music, holding my body in poses, flexing muscles and losing myself in the feeling of how they tautened and then slackened. Once again, as after other DMT voyages, I found myself drawing my body into different poses, only to realize after a moment that these were yoga poses - yet another sign I should take up that practice.
I knelt, and kissed the floor. I jumped up and reached for the ceiling and beyond. My room was a temple. My body was a temple. The word "holy" was ringing in my head.
I spoke aloud, and I felt a great power rushing through me.
--------------------
Acid doesn't give you truths; it builds machines that push the envelope of perception. Whatever revelations came to me then have dissolved like skywriting. All I really know is that those few years saddled me with a faith in the redemptive potential of the imagination which, however flat, stale and unprofitable the world seems to me now, I cannot for the life of me shake.
-Erik Davis
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