The Plaid
The Destroyer of Worlds
I will attempt to keep this brief; the cats are circling and they've been in the catnip again.
Almost a year ago, DMT arrived all of a sudden, into my life. I grew up in seclusion and basically read for a living through my childhood. I fancied that I had read at least a little something on more or less everything there was to know on the subject of a number of subjects including the subject of psychedelics. (The writing style is defined: "tortured; and, adequately punctuated".)
So, at the age of 31, to discover something so new and amazing and promising-and yet, somehow, familiar?-came as a bit of a shock to me.
In the Spirit of Synchronicity and Goodwill, DMT herself made her entrance into my body within weeks of her name first exiting my lips. Three times in three weeks, and never again since; but, soon!
Example One: Sitting on the couch beside my wife; freebase pipe, purchased spice, eyeballed poorly. My hands shook and my heart pounded. I blackened the bulb, inhaled prematurely and shallowly, once; and then, again, but only even more shallowly. The heavy knockdown texture in brown jumps into sharp relief and geometries crystallized on the surface of now visible lumens. Nothing else and reality snaps back almost immediately and hugely disappointingly. I go to bed bitterly.
Example Two: Lying on the bed beside my wife, looking at the 8-pointed mirrored star that occupies most of the real estate upon the opposite wall. Same pipe, same spice, same residue, plus a little/lot more for good measure. “Good luck,” she says; “I’ll be right back,” she says, and goes outside for a cigarette. I’m exhaling the first burnt plastic monster hit of smoke before she is out of the room, and before I can exhale the second I have no lungs, no mouth, no nothing as my mathematical hand, pipe and smoke fall, fall, falling away into Platonic solids of light and the elves come rushing out of geometry holes as the diamond mirror fractures into ancient, sacred shapes that whir around my field of consciousness like a baby mobile, and oh my God! the sound, the sound, the sound as the universe/veil is rending! The elves have a joke they want to tell you (it’s really more of a pratfall); and they give you a shove and go over with you, crashing through a vertical tunnel illuminated from within, with no end and no beginning, kaleidoscoping through stained glass ceilings at unevenly spaced intervals, freefalling as they chant into dematerialized ears, “LIFE!...ismadeof(smash)DEATH!is madeofLIFE…is made of(smash)…etc. This continues awhile until my abject terror apparently comes to bore them, and everything goes white a piece. Assorted visions: concerned mothers attending my broken body on the floor; regressing to some depraved state and cringing in a hovel with my mate and child, fearing the arrival of some malevolent deity and his righteous indignation, but being raptured nonetheless while watching my family die; standing on the dark side of a stretched sheet while backlit scientists on the other side push their gas-masked faces in toward me. And then, I’m back, kind of, and gone again, screaming through the endless expanse of nothing, laughing massively with multiple mouthed brethren and we are all that One Thing that is the same Thing that we can call the Hydra-Bouros; and the nature of All is a never-ending laugh. And then I’m kind of back and trying to climb off of the bed to the obvious horror of my wife, who is also back. I can still see the laugh everywhere and can still feel them all/me wanting me to stay to taste me more and I’m wiping fluorescence out of my nose and mouth and shaking my head no,no,no, not yet, I want to, but I’m still afraid so not yet, please I haven’t even done anything with my life yet. And they finally go, and I sit back and feel the wind over there on the other side tearing my atoms back into manageable proportions and our semi-feral Maine Coon is looking at me like he knows what I’m doing and thinks that I am probably exactly as stupid as I look. The room resembles an Aztec sporting court built for midnight transformations and bloodlettings. I think, “This is a game for Gods to play.” I say, “I want to learn to play this game.” I need to know a shaman.
Example Three: To prove to myself that I am not a coward (I am a coward), I try again one week later. I put it on the calendar to make sure I wouldn’t forget. Same pipe, etc., even more fresh spice, etc. Significantly less heroic rips. As low a breakthrough as possible, I think: I was all the way gone for a blippet but back again before you could even see it. Comedown OEV’s of my wife disintegrating into the Visible Woman statuette of mythical proportions as the universe rung with the carrier tone that our love makes; that is, the tone that Shiva/Shakti make at the Fifth. It is a sound that is like chocolate and mewling cats with chocolate throats and like drinking chocolate rainbows. Yabyum.
P.S. Thank you for bearing with us. This concludes our broadcast day.
Almost a year ago, DMT arrived all of a sudden, into my life. I grew up in seclusion and basically read for a living through my childhood. I fancied that I had read at least a little something on more or less everything there was to know on the subject of a number of subjects including the subject of psychedelics. (The writing style is defined: "tortured; and, adequately punctuated".)
So, at the age of 31, to discover something so new and amazing and promising-and yet, somehow, familiar?-came as a bit of a shock to me.
In the Spirit of Synchronicity and Goodwill, DMT herself made her entrance into my body within weeks of her name first exiting my lips. Three times in three weeks, and never again since; but, soon!
Example One: Sitting on the couch beside my wife; freebase pipe, purchased spice, eyeballed poorly. My hands shook and my heart pounded. I blackened the bulb, inhaled prematurely and shallowly, once; and then, again, but only even more shallowly. The heavy knockdown texture in brown jumps into sharp relief and geometries crystallized on the surface of now visible lumens. Nothing else and reality snaps back almost immediately and hugely disappointingly. I go to bed bitterly.
Example Two: Lying on the bed beside my wife, looking at the 8-pointed mirrored star that occupies most of the real estate upon the opposite wall. Same pipe, same spice, same residue, plus a little/lot more for good measure. “Good luck,” she says; “I’ll be right back,” she says, and goes outside for a cigarette. I’m exhaling the first burnt plastic monster hit of smoke before she is out of the room, and before I can exhale the second I have no lungs, no mouth, no nothing as my mathematical hand, pipe and smoke fall, fall, falling away into Platonic solids of light and the elves come rushing out of geometry holes as the diamond mirror fractures into ancient, sacred shapes that whir around my field of consciousness like a baby mobile, and oh my God! the sound, the sound, the sound as the universe/veil is rending! The elves have a joke they want to tell you (it’s really more of a pratfall); and they give you a shove and go over with you, crashing through a vertical tunnel illuminated from within, with no end and no beginning, kaleidoscoping through stained glass ceilings at unevenly spaced intervals, freefalling as they chant into dematerialized ears, “LIFE!...ismadeof(smash)DEATH!is madeofLIFE…is made of(smash)…etc. This continues awhile until my abject terror apparently comes to bore them, and everything goes white a piece. Assorted visions: concerned mothers attending my broken body on the floor; regressing to some depraved state and cringing in a hovel with my mate and child, fearing the arrival of some malevolent deity and his righteous indignation, but being raptured nonetheless while watching my family die; standing on the dark side of a stretched sheet while backlit scientists on the other side push their gas-masked faces in toward me. And then, I’m back, kind of, and gone again, screaming through the endless expanse of nothing, laughing massively with multiple mouthed brethren and we are all that One Thing that is the same Thing that we can call the Hydra-Bouros; and the nature of All is a never-ending laugh. And then I’m kind of back and trying to climb off of the bed to the obvious horror of my wife, who is also back. I can still see the laugh everywhere and can still feel them all/me wanting me to stay to taste me more and I’m wiping fluorescence out of my nose and mouth and shaking my head no,no,no, not yet, I want to, but I’m still afraid so not yet, please I haven’t even done anything with my life yet. And they finally go, and I sit back and feel the wind over there on the other side tearing my atoms back into manageable proportions and our semi-feral Maine Coon is looking at me like he knows what I’m doing and thinks that I am probably exactly as stupid as I look. The room resembles an Aztec sporting court built for midnight transformations and bloodlettings. I think, “This is a game for Gods to play.” I say, “I want to learn to play this game.” I need to know a shaman.
Example Three: To prove to myself that I am not a coward (I am a coward), I try again one week later. I put it on the calendar to make sure I wouldn’t forget. Same pipe, etc., even more fresh spice, etc. Significantly less heroic rips. As low a breakthrough as possible, I think: I was all the way gone for a blippet but back again before you could even see it. Comedown OEV’s of my wife disintegrating into the Visible Woman statuette of mythical proportions as the universe rung with the carrier tone that our love makes; that is, the tone that Shiva/Shakti make at the Fifth. It is a sound that is like chocolate and mewling cats with chocolate throats and like drinking chocolate rainbows. Yabyum.
P.S. Thank you for bearing with us. This concludes our broadcast day.
