junctionalfunkie
Bluelighter
On April 11, 2010, I loaded a completely arbitrary amount of primary-pull, pure white crystalline, home-extracted DMT into my pipe, and took a single huge hit. I was immersed in hyperspace before having completely exhaled. The early part of the trip was similar to other recent breakthrough trips: swarms of energy swirling around me in every direction.
I wasn’t aware of anything out of the ordinary (if, indeed, hyperspace can ever be termed “ordinary!”) happening at this point. There was no explosion, or surge of light, or anything like that, as far as I can remember, when someone was shouting “A breach! We got a breach!”
I looked over to one side and saw what can only be described as one reality pouring into another through a hole in the wall, about a foot in diameter and a foot off the “ground,’ or “floor,” or whatever it is one walks around on whilst in hyperspace. I was aware of a blinding light coming from the upper-left (this later turned out to be my desk lamp). I was now lying on my side, whereas I had been standing/sitting upright (or so it seemed) just moments before.
“This isn’t supposed to happen,” a male voice behind my head said, a trace of apology audible.
Looking down at my bare torso and legs, I realized they were constructed of what appeared to be flesh-colored rubber. What’s more, my physical body was not keeping its form; it behaved with a viscosity reminiscent of molten glass.
"My god…..” I said, horrified. “What do I do?” Parts of my body, parts of my body that I certainly had plans for in either the near or distant future, appeared to be reduced to a formless pink goo. There was no answer to my question. Behind me I heard a woman’s voice, speaking discreetly:
“… he was smoking DMT. There was a breach and he was right in the middle of it…
Uh oh.
At this point, I physically rolled over, and could literally feel my lower extremities “reassemble” themselves, as though from nothing. Gradually, I returned to earth.
Still shaking, I downed 8 mg Xanax. Sleep was a long time in coming. I had experienced, by this time, dozens of DMT trips, but none in which my corporeal self had been transformed to rubber. I decided that a vacation from DMT was in order. It had given me more than enough to ponder, to process, for a while. The last time I decided to take a DMT break like this, it lasted 8 months.
* * *
The next night, April 12, 2010, I decided to try again. The pipe still had a good amount of DMT remaining in it, and anyway, I was in the market for a gentler ride, to say the least. I took a good, long inhalation, though not as big as the one I had taken the previous night. I exhaled, and was not quite finished when I heard a woman’s voice coming from the right side of the room. She sounded like an older woman, with an affectionate Southern drawl to her voice, like a Truck Stop Waitress.
“When will it start? What will happen?” she asked, in gentle mockery of my anticipation of the experience to come. “Some folks want a word with you, hon.” I’m not sure if she actually used the word “hon,” but her general demeanor and tone indicated that it was more than likely.
“Hi!” said a small man in the far corner of the room. “Perhaps you remember when you visited yesterday and witnessed our….. accident?” An image of the previous night’s “breach” appeared with a wave of the small man’s hand.
“Yes. I remember!" I replied, nodding furiously. I remember hoping I wasn’t in some kind of trouble. I was simultaneously desperate to know where this conversation was headed, and dreadfully afraid that my earthly form would once again be replaced by melting rubber.
“And, you remember about the….” he demonstrated by pulling various “drawers,” each containing some kind of light, noise, or activity, out of my bedroom’s empty space. The drawers opened into the not only the x, y and z axes of the room, but axes that I don’t believe we have names for as of yet. In each one, a party clearly raged.
In retrospect, I’m not really sure what knowledge the man was attempting to confirm with the last question. I was beside myself with anticipation as to where this dialogue was leading. Perhaps I would be invited to join these people in whatever realm they inhabited! The prospect seemed like the most attractive thing in the world (as long as I remained not made of rubber, that is).
Unfortunately, that was the end of that conversation.
* * *
There is a film and television actor named Timothy Olyphant. He played one of the main characters in HBO’s series Deadwood, and played the drug dealer in the film Go, which is where I first saw him. Earlier in the evening, I had (regrettably) caught a few minutes of Live Free or Die Hard, in which Olyphant played the villain.
Have you ever had the experience of feeling a certain connection with some kind of celebrity you have never met? Like, you just know this person would be a really cool person to hang out and have a beer with, and the two of you would click like old friends in no time at all. Over the years, I have felt this way about George Clooney, Johnny Depp, Eric Stoltz, and…. Timothy Olyphant. Well, for what I can only deduce is this reason, an entity in the physical form of Mr. Olyphant appeared at the foot of my bed. I can only figure whatever entity was addressing me was taking Mr. Olyphant’s form because is was sensed to trust that person to some degree.
“Do you remember the way your body, your legs and torso, looked during last night’s experience? Look at them now.” The Olyphant-being said gently.
I did so, and my legs were once again, composed of a flesh-colored rubbery material. It was too much.
“No!” I pleaded, but to no avail. Usually, in hyperspace, if the experience gets to be too overwhelming, simply saying “no“ or “stop” will end the experience immediately. Not so, this time. My legs (and for all I know, the rest of me, too) were rubber, literally.
“When you die….” Olyphant was continuing…..
On the cusp of learning what exactly waits us beyond this world may strike some as an inopportune time to panic, but panic I did. I had become one with the bed, the blanket on it, the floor, everything. The furniture was warped and melting into the floor, too. I couldn’t make out anything else Olyphant said, he walked slowly across the room and through the wall. He was wearing a sort of toga made of blue clay.
“I get it!” I cried. “I am it! We all are! All one! Please make it stop!”
And stop it finally did, Dr. Bronner’s mantra still hanging in the empty air. I huddled under my blankets, trembling and breathing rapidly, feeling my various appendages to ensure they were actual flesh and bone.
In my panic, I had not heard most of Mr. Olyphant’s words after “When you die…” My hysteria had deprived mankind (or at least me) of knowledge of the hereafter. Being vague, however, has always been the way of the words of Hyperspace’s denizens. I usually come out of the experience with only the vaguest idea of what I was told there. The fact that I had been screaming hysterically like a little girl during Mr. Olyphant’s monologue probably made no difference at all, in the long run.
Right?
****
OK, it’s now a couple of weeks later and I’ve been reflecting on this trip and what it might mean or be trying to tell me.
I believe that what the Timothy Olyphant entity was trying to say was that the rubbery stuff that I and my surroundings (indeed, all physical matter) was composed of that night was going to revert to something equally homogeneous, lifeless, and inert when I died.
Life, in other words, is energy alone (as opposed to some combination of energy and matter). While life of any kind is composed structurally of this rubbery matter (or something that that substance is representative of), when life ends, the energy dissipates, or forms something new. Simple matter is all that remains. And that matter rematerialized into whatever form, with or devoid of life, that it was bound for next.
There are apparent parallels between this theory of mine and the Buddhist doctrine that everything in the Universe (the Material Universe) is in perpetual flux, impermanent, and in a constant state of dying from the moment it is born. As this is essentially the metaphysical philosophy I most closely subscribe to, there is a distinct possibility that the DMT was simply making use of information (or misinformation)already extant in the subject’s consciousness.
Instead of as messengers, delivering new information, perhaps DMT and similar drugs act more like teachers, explaining to the user the significance of knowledge already possessed by the user.
Far out, man.
I wasn’t aware of anything out of the ordinary (if, indeed, hyperspace can ever be termed “ordinary!”) happening at this point. There was no explosion, or surge of light, or anything like that, as far as I can remember, when someone was shouting “A breach! We got a breach!”
I looked over to one side and saw what can only be described as one reality pouring into another through a hole in the wall, about a foot in diameter and a foot off the “ground,’ or “floor,” or whatever it is one walks around on whilst in hyperspace. I was aware of a blinding light coming from the upper-left (this later turned out to be my desk lamp). I was now lying on my side, whereas I had been standing/sitting upright (or so it seemed) just moments before.
“This isn’t supposed to happen,” a male voice behind my head said, a trace of apology audible.
Looking down at my bare torso and legs, I realized they were constructed of what appeared to be flesh-colored rubber. What’s more, my physical body was not keeping its form; it behaved with a viscosity reminiscent of molten glass.
"My god…..” I said, horrified. “What do I do?” Parts of my body, parts of my body that I certainly had plans for in either the near or distant future, appeared to be reduced to a formless pink goo. There was no answer to my question. Behind me I heard a woman’s voice, speaking discreetly:
“… he was smoking DMT. There was a breach and he was right in the middle of it…
Uh oh.
At this point, I physically rolled over, and could literally feel my lower extremities “reassemble” themselves, as though from nothing. Gradually, I returned to earth.
Still shaking, I downed 8 mg Xanax. Sleep was a long time in coming. I had experienced, by this time, dozens of DMT trips, but none in which my corporeal self had been transformed to rubber. I decided that a vacation from DMT was in order. It had given me more than enough to ponder, to process, for a while. The last time I decided to take a DMT break like this, it lasted 8 months.
* * *
The next night, April 12, 2010, I decided to try again. The pipe still had a good amount of DMT remaining in it, and anyway, I was in the market for a gentler ride, to say the least. I took a good, long inhalation, though not as big as the one I had taken the previous night. I exhaled, and was not quite finished when I heard a woman’s voice coming from the right side of the room. She sounded like an older woman, with an affectionate Southern drawl to her voice, like a Truck Stop Waitress.
“When will it start? What will happen?” she asked, in gentle mockery of my anticipation of the experience to come. “Some folks want a word with you, hon.” I’m not sure if she actually used the word “hon,” but her general demeanor and tone indicated that it was more than likely.
“Hi!” said a small man in the far corner of the room. “Perhaps you remember when you visited yesterday and witnessed our….. accident?” An image of the previous night’s “breach” appeared with a wave of the small man’s hand.
“Yes. I remember!" I replied, nodding furiously. I remember hoping I wasn’t in some kind of trouble. I was simultaneously desperate to know where this conversation was headed, and dreadfully afraid that my earthly form would once again be replaced by melting rubber.
“And, you remember about the….” he demonstrated by pulling various “drawers,” each containing some kind of light, noise, or activity, out of my bedroom’s empty space. The drawers opened into the not only the x, y and z axes of the room, but axes that I don’t believe we have names for as of yet. In each one, a party clearly raged.
In retrospect, I’m not really sure what knowledge the man was attempting to confirm with the last question. I was beside myself with anticipation as to where this dialogue was leading. Perhaps I would be invited to join these people in whatever realm they inhabited! The prospect seemed like the most attractive thing in the world (as long as I remained not made of rubber, that is).
Unfortunately, that was the end of that conversation.
* * *
There is a film and television actor named Timothy Olyphant. He played one of the main characters in HBO’s series Deadwood, and played the drug dealer in the film Go, which is where I first saw him. Earlier in the evening, I had (regrettably) caught a few minutes of Live Free or Die Hard, in which Olyphant played the villain.
Have you ever had the experience of feeling a certain connection with some kind of celebrity you have never met? Like, you just know this person would be a really cool person to hang out and have a beer with, and the two of you would click like old friends in no time at all. Over the years, I have felt this way about George Clooney, Johnny Depp, Eric Stoltz, and…. Timothy Olyphant. Well, for what I can only deduce is this reason, an entity in the physical form of Mr. Olyphant appeared at the foot of my bed. I can only figure whatever entity was addressing me was taking Mr. Olyphant’s form because is was sensed to trust that person to some degree.
“Do you remember the way your body, your legs and torso, looked during last night’s experience? Look at them now.” The Olyphant-being said gently.
I did so, and my legs were once again, composed of a flesh-colored rubbery material. It was too much.
“No!” I pleaded, but to no avail. Usually, in hyperspace, if the experience gets to be too overwhelming, simply saying “no“ or “stop” will end the experience immediately. Not so, this time. My legs (and for all I know, the rest of me, too) were rubber, literally.
“When you die….” Olyphant was continuing…..
On the cusp of learning what exactly waits us beyond this world may strike some as an inopportune time to panic, but panic I did. I had become one with the bed, the blanket on it, the floor, everything. The furniture was warped and melting into the floor, too. I couldn’t make out anything else Olyphant said, he walked slowly across the room and through the wall. He was wearing a sort of toga made of blue clay.
“I get it!” I cried. “I am it! We all are! All one! Please make it stop!”
And stop it finally did, Dr. Bronner’s mantra still hanging in the empty air. I huddled under my blankets, trembling and breathing rapidly, feeling my various appendages to ensure they were actual flesh and bone.
In my panic, I had not heard most of Mr. Olyphant’s words after “When you die…” My hysteria had deprived mankind (or at least me) of knowledge of the hereafter. Being vague, however, has always been the way of the words of Hyperspace’s denizens. I usually come out of the experience with only the vaguest idea of what I was told there. The fact that I had been screaming hysterically like a little girl during Mr. Olyphant’s monologue probably made no difference at all, in the long run.
Right?
****
OK, it’s now a couple of weeks later and I’ve been reflecting on this trip and what it might mean or be trying to tell me.
I believe that what the Timothy Olyphant entity was trying to say was that the rubbery stuff that I and my surroundings (indeed, all physical matter) was composed of that night was going to revert to something equally homogeneous, lifeless, and inert when I died.
Life, in other words, is energy alone (as opposed to some combination of energy and matter). While life of any kind is composed structurally of this rubbery matter (or something that that substance is representative of), when life ends, the energy dissipates, or forms something new. Simple matter is all that remains. And that matter rematerialized into whatever form, with or devoid of life, that it was bound for next.
There are apparent parallels between this theory of mine and the Buddhist doctrine that everything in the Universe (the Material Universe) is in perpetual flux, impermanent, and in a constant state of dying from the moment it is born. As this is essentially the metaphysical philosophy I most closely subscribe to, there is a distinct possibility that the DMT was simply making use of information (or misinformation)already extant in the subject’s consciousness.
Instead of as messengers, delivering new information, perhaps DMT and similar drugs act more like teachers, explaining to the user the significance of knowledge already possessed by the user.
Far out, man.
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