MYCOMYSTERIUM – mY FAVe O WiT (wE ALL It) EEEEE!!
(This, in a way, is a continuation of this report. Some concepts herein build on ones introduced in the earlier one)
Expect the unexpected. Because it is expecting you.
And be forewarned : these are the ramblings of a man pirouetting at the precipice of madness…
I opened the small jar pulled from the freezer an hour earlier : a quantity of P.cubensis (I think) from 3 different sources that I have had for a few years, but had forgotten about given that my energy had been put into growing and consuming my own. I remembered these particular mushrooms as being beautiful and potent in their effects, but manageable and blissful and ecstatic and primal and a direct rOot to the base of the roUte.
The effing ineffable.
The 3 batches were from British Columbia – which makes me think, given what you are about to read, that they were quite possibly P. semilanceata, aka liberty caps.
I was looking for a nice visual experience with some « work », but nothing overwhelming, so I settled on 4g (I have in the past done 5-7 fairly consistently). Measuring it out, however, I choked and decided to err on that facet of risk known as caution, and weighed in at 3.6g. That about sums me up - I am a risk taker, but a cautious one…
Well, suffice to say caution held no purchase in what was to become of my day.
(I should mention here that, for the first time ever, I downed about 3 tbsp of fresh ginger with the mushrooms to quell any minor stomach issues were they to arise.)
It started as it always does – a survey of my land, 2 acres of grassy field along the slope toward a small sinewy lake called « le lac sans nom » (the lake without a name – I kid you not!), dotted with little sylvan islands, forest oases that break up the space and send long poplar arms skyward. A journey around the circumference as the experience deepens and the plants – evergreens, poplars, cedars and unknown myriad flowering boughs – begin their familiar transformations. This walk helps me overcome, or at least mitigate, the oncoming and enveloping rush that otherwise is an hour of anxiety and apprehension. That day, the thin windy tendrils began their vegetative transformations in a scant 15 mins. I know what that means. You know what that means – I was in for a hell of a ride!!
:
I am artifice. I am an artificial island. We art the land of I. And I is the isthmus that must art.
To be is art. This is what I was to learn.
I had a blanket – some ratty grandmotherly thing that I laid on the ground at the place I dub the junction - an overlook where the ravine meets the stream that feeds the lake-with-no-name that winds serpentine to arrive at the corner of the land that slopes hard. I laid down and stared up at the expanse of darkening clouds through the evergreen nexus that folded above. And folded. And folded. And folded. I stood up. What the fuck…? I stared through the leafy canopy down the ravine as it divided and subdivided into planes that were all that a plane is not and more… rapturous colours and depth that knew no end. The fractal nature of a piercing vision that penetrates the fields laid out low, and perforates the hole through which I see. And understands the incomprehensible. Understanding in the absence of comprehension? Abrehension. I was abrehensive in my underhension.
Mind loops that fold and fold and wrap and Fold and Warp And Flow And praW And wolF dnA floW dnA Warp. My DNA has flowed AND warped.
I AM FUCKED.
How can this be? 3.6g. Of a familiar fungus. It should be manageable. But that is arrogance. I close my eyes and the crysanthemum advances – WTF? This isn’t DMT… This is me.
Spinning cartoon inexpressions. I am about to breakthrough. I open my eyes. I fight. This is the same. The same place again. Or a different part of the same place, the only place that is…?
I mind utter « help », but there is no help. Only me and this fracturing reality. I gather my things to head inside. It’s safe there. But I know it is not. I know that it is centuries from safe. I know there is no place to escape this place.
And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have NO dominion. This Dylan Thomas line pops into my head, unsolicited and unwelcomed.
Inside my chalet, I arrive at a decision. I will let it envelop me. I will WILL it. I lie down on the sofa and close my eyes. The fragments begin to fall away. The glass onion peels and shards shatter and fall, the crystal cleaves to its limitless centre. But the transition is too slow. I feel the torturous dissolution of ALL, and know I will never be back. This reality is fading and will never return. The place called reveN.
THE ABYSS IS ALL AROUND. The reveN.
I cannot. I open my eyes and fight. Why am I fighting? Because I am a child. Refusing to grow up. And crying about it. I decide to live as a child.
(I will return to this endeavour of willful succumbing, unsuccessfully, over and oever and ever and f-ever-ish for-ever again.)
I am back outside, inventing an exercise to keep my childmind occupied – I circle one of the oasis forests on my land. And count the number of times I circle it. I forget the number then forget how to count then forget what counting is and forget that I am a child doing an exercise to avoid growing up.
I am lost, so I go inside. And lie down. And close my eyes. And the child panics. And goes outside. And counts the number of… and goes inside. And lies down. And goes outside. And comes in. And goes out.
I decide I need to feel. Water. The lake is dangerous and I risk being seen. I get into the shower and turn it on and vomit all over myself. That’s the answer!! Flush the poison out!
From water, to water…! The return to the source.
I get down on my knees, the cold water rushing over my back, and stick my fingers down my throat. My hand disappears inside myself and I cease breathing. I have no hand and no throat and no lungs with which to breathe. I see little vermilion sparkles at the base of the tub. My hand must be out of my throat because I am touching them. They are jewels. They are red. They are my bowels. They are my blood. The resplendent adamantine blood of god, and god is dying.
I get out of the shower, terrified. What have I done to myself? I have annihilated my mind, and now I have killed my body… Then I remember, some seeming millennium ago, I had eaten a clump of sun dried tomatoes. The jewels were food, sustenance I had consumed back in that reality where it mattered. STONES.
The relief was short lived. The loop resumed. I looked at the clock. The eternity I had lived was less than an hour from ingestion! OMFG. GodOhMyFucking. How will I live through this? What is living? I don’t remember. I panic because I have forgotten what it is to be alive. Outside, inside, out, in out...
The paper beckons. Write something. Concentrate. Get your mind off it. I write, with great difficulty :
What takes the edge off a little eternity? Humour.
I laugh. And guffaw and laugh and peel the laughter from my mind till there is nothing but laughter. My mind has become laughter. Then I forget how to laugh. I try, and may be succeeding, but laughter may by crying may be screaming may be speaking but I don’t know because I am not me and I don’t recognize the sounds spewing from this gaping flesh-filled hole.
I invent another exercise. Jumping on beds! I run upstairs and jump on the bed. Then downstairs and jump on both beds in the guest rooms and roll around and try to forget and remember.
When I bring all of this back together it will be what it is.
How many times have I jumped on this bed? At least a million. Or several million - it seems eternal, infinite. I have no recollection of beginning. I have always jumped on this bed. I stare at the ceiling and can’t remember how long, how many, or the meaning of those very words, or the meaning of meaning…
I am off my head and this is L... no brimstone no fire just a oo-a-loo-a-loop in L.
So I roll on the ground and writhe. And a thought arrives:
"This is my favourite reality"
MY FAVOURITE REALITY. I CHOSE THIS ONE AMONG THE INFINITE POSSIBILITIES. BECAUSE IT IS MY FAVOURITE.
Looking at these words now, they seem childish. But never a revelation so profound. I look at the clock. 7 :07. Two hours in and many more to go before I return, before I allow myself the choice of my favourite reality.
TIME. EMIT. I EMIT TIME.
I made it up. I invented time, so that I could watch my son grow up. Because HE is ME. HEME. MEME. HEHE. And I get to watch him evolve. I feel a tide turning with this ebb and flow, this realization.
He will grow up as I grew/grow up. Verb tenses. Funny things. They delineate time. I put them there in order to sense progression, evolution, BECOMING. HAVING BEEN. WILL BE . Be will, having been becoming.
Live the evolution then, i-twill-not-bet-elev-eyes-d : GOAGEETTI FROMBLAGE. FROMBLOGJEDHISPIARVIOLI. The words/not words again; the incomprehensible signifiers flood the monkey brain. (see here for a discussion of these polysyllabic non sequitors)
Sometimes I forget why I chose it. My favourite reality. I made myself into a monkey named JBArk who has a little monkey baby named Lewis. How extraordinary. How Exquisite.
The sun is setting in my FAVe O WiT (wE ALL It) EEEEE!! And I am ok with that. That’s what favourites do. They get chosen. That’s it, that’s all!!
Childish thoughts that comfort the childmonkey.
Accept this reality and throw all the crap away. Throw away the keys. Throw away the DMT, the mushrooms, the salvia, the cactus. Throw it all away and be the child you chose to be. PLEASE…………………
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE JUST BE BE BE
But you all know the answer to that ploy play plea -
No, nay, neigh, the horse will play,
The horse will gallop in the equine sea…
He will see and say and turn black to gray,
The horse is me and the horse WILL SEE.
Link to PART 2
thanks for reading.
JBArk
(This, in a way, is a continuation of this report. Some concepts herein build on ones introduced in the earlier one)
Expect the unexpected. Because it is expecting you.
And be forewarned : these are the ramblings of a man pirouetting at the precipice of madness…
I opened the small jar pulled from the freezer an hour earlier : a quantity of P.cubensis (I think) from 3 different sources that I have had for a few years, but had forgotten about given that my energy had been put into growing and consuming my own. I remembered these particular mushrooms as being beautiful and potent in their effects, but manageable and blissful and ecstatic and primal and a direct rOot to the base of the roUte.
The effing ineffable.
The 3 batches were from British Columbia – which makes me think, given what you are about to read, that they were quite possibly P. semilanceata, aka liberty caps.
I was looking for a nice visual experience with some « work », but nothing overwhelming, so I settled on 4g (I have in the past done 5-7 fairly consistently). Measuring it out, however, I choked and decided to err on that facet of risk known as caution, and weighed in at 3.6g. That about sums me up - I am a risk taker, but a cautious one…
Well, suffice to say caution held no purchase in what was to become of my day.
(I should mention here that, for the first time ever, I downed about 3 tbsp of fresh ginger with the mushrooms to quell any minor stomach issues were they to arise.)
It started as it always does – a survey of my land, 2 acres of grassy field along the slope toward a small sinewy lake called « le lac sans nom » (the lake without a name – I kid you not!), dotted with little sylvan islands, forest oases that break up the space and send long poplar arms skyward. A journey around the circumference as the experience deepens and the plants – evergreens, poplars, cedars and unknown myriad flowering boughs – begin their familiar transformations. This walk helps me overcome, or at least mitigate, the oncoming and enveloping rush that otherwise is an hour of anxiety and apprehension. That day, the thin windy tendrils began their vegetative transformations in a scant 15 mins. I know what that means. You know what that means – I was in for a hell of a ride!!
:
I am artifice. I am an artificial island. We art the land of I. And I is the isthmus that must art.
To be is art. This is what I was to learn.
I had a blanket – some ratty grandmotherly thing that I laid on the ground at the place I dub the junction - an overlook where the ravine meets the stream that feeds the lake-with-no-name that winds serpentine to arrive at the corner of the land that slopes hard. I laid down and stared up at the expanse of darkening clouds through the evergreen nexus that folded above. And folded. And folded. And folded. I stood up. What the fuck…? I stared through the leafy canopy down the ravine as it divided and subdivided into planes that were all that a plane is not and more… rapturous colours and depth that knew no end. The fractal nature of a piercing vision that penetrates the fields laid out low, and perforates the hole through which I see. And understands the incomprehensible. Understanding in the absence of comprehension? Abrehension. I was abrehensive in my underhension.
Mind loops that fold and fold and wrap and Fold and Warp And Flow And praW And wolF dnA floW dnA Warp. My DNA has flowed AND warped.
I AM FUCKED.
How can this be? 3.6g. Of a familiar fungus. It should be manageable. But that is arrogance. I close my eyes and the crysanthemum advances – WTF? This isn’t DMT… This is me.
Spinning cartoon inexpressions. I am about to breakthrough. I open my eyes. I fight. This is the same. The same place again. Or a different part of the same place, the only place that is…?
I mind utter « help », but there is no help. Only me and this fracturing reality. I gather my things to head inside. It’s safe there. But I know it is not. I know that it is centuries from safe. I know there is no place to escape this place.
And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have NO dominion. This Dylan Thomas line pops into my head, unsolicited and unwelcomed.
Inside my chalet, I arrive at a decision. I will let it envelop me. I will WILL it. I lie down on the sofa and close my eyes. The fragments begin to fall away. The glass onion peels and shards shatter and fall, the crystal cleaves to its limitless centre. But the transition is too slow. I feel the torturous dissolution of ALL, and know I will never be back. This reality is fading and will never return. The place called reveN.
THE ABYSS IS ALL AROUND. The reveN.
I cannot. I open my eyes and fight. Why am I fighting? Because I am a child. Refusing to grow up. And crying about it. I decide to live as a child.
(I will return to this endeavour of willful succumbing, unsuccessfully, over and oever and ever and f-ever-ish for-ever again.)
I am back outside, inventing an exercise to keep my childmind occupied – I circle one of the oasis forests on my land. And count the number of times I circle it. I forget the number then forget how to count then forget what counting is and forget that I am a child doing an exercise to avoid growing up.
I am lost, so I go inside. And lie down. And close my eyes. And the child panics. And goes outside. And counts the number of… and goes inside. And lies down. And goes outside. And comes in. And goes out.
I decide I need to feel. Water. The lake is dangerous and I risk being seen. I get into the shower and turn it on and vomit all over myself. That’s the answer!! Flush the poison out!
From water, to water…! The return to the source.
I get down on my knees, the cold water rushing over my back, and stick my fingers down my throat. My hand disappears inside myself and I cease breathing. I have no hand and no throat and no lungs with which to breathe. I see little vermilion sparkles at the base of the tub. My hand must be out of my throat because I am touching them. They are jewels. They are red. They are my bowels. They are my blood. The resplendent adamantine blood of god, and god is dying.
I get out of the shower, terrified. What have I done to myself? I have annihilated my mind, and now I have killed my body… Then I remember, some seeming millennium ago, I had eaten a clump of sun dried tomatoes. The jewels were food, sustenance I had consumed back in that reality where it mattered. STONES.
The relief was short lived. The loop resumed. I looked at the clock. The eternity I had lived was less than an hour from ingestion! OMFG. GodOhMyFucking. How will I live through this? What is living? I don’t remember. I panic because I have forgotten what it is to be alive. Outside, inside, out, in out...
The paper beckons. Write something. Concentrate. Get your mind off it. I write, with great difficulty :
What takes the edge off a little eternity? Humour.
I laugh. And guffaw and laugh and peel the laughter from my mind till there is nothing but laughter. My mind has become laughter. Then I forget how to laugh. I try, and may be succeeding, but laughter may by crying may be screaming may be speaking but I don’t know because I am not me and I don’t recognize the sounds spewing from this gaping flesh-filled hole.
I invent another exercise. Jumping on beds! I run upstairs and jump on the bed. Then downstairs and jump on both beds in the guest rooms and roll around and try to forget and remember.
When I bring all of this back together it will be what it is.
How many times have I jumped on this bed? At least a million. Or several million - it seems eternal, infinite. I have no recollection of beginning. I have always jumped on this bed. I stare at the ceiling and can’t remember how long, how many, or the meaning of those very words, or the meaning of meaning…
I am off my head and this is L... no brimstone no fire just a oo-a-loo-a-loop in L.
So I roll on the ground and writhe. And a thought arrives:
"This is my favourite reality"
MY FAVOURITE REALITY. I CHOSE THIS ONE AMONG THE INFINITE POSSIBILITIES. BECAUSE IT IS MY FAVOURITE.
Looking at these words now, they seem childish. But never a revelation so profound. I look at the clock. 7 :07. Two hours in and many more to go before I return, before I allow myself the choice of my favourite reality.
TIME. EMIT. I EMIT TIME.
I made it up. I invented time, so that I could watch my son grow up. Because HE is ME. HEME. MEME. HEHE. And I get to watch him evolve. I feel a tide turning with this ebb and flow, this realization.
He will grow up as I grew/grow up. Verb tenses. Funny things. They delineate time. I put them there in order to sense progression, evolution, BECOMING. HAVING BEEN. WILL BE . Be will, having been becoming.
Live the evolution then, i-twill-not-bet-elev-eyes-d : GOAGEETTI FROMBLAGE. FROMBLOGJEDHISPIARVIOLI. The words/not words again; the incomprehensible signifiers flood the monkey brain. (see here for a discussion of these polysyllabic non sequitors)
Sometimes I forget why I chose it. My favourite reality. I made myself into a monkey named JBArk who has a little monkey baby named Lewis. How extraordinary. How Exquisite.
The sun is setting in my FAVe O WiT (wE ALL It) EEEEE!! And I am ok with that. That’s what favourites do. They get chosen. That’s it, that’s all!!
Childish thoughts that comfort the childmonkey.
Accept this reality and throw all the crap away. Throw away the keys. Throw away the DMT, the mushrooms, the salvia, the cactus. Throw it all away and be the child you chose to be. PLEASE…………………
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE JUST BE BE BE
But you all know the answer to that ploy play plea -
No, nay, neigh, the horse will play,
The horse will gallop in the equine sea…
He will see and say and turn black to gray,
The horse is me and the horse WILL SEE.
Link to PART 2
thanks for reading.
JBArk
