RhythmSpring
Bluelighter
Iboga Trip 2:
(This happened in November of 2012)
I was beginning to feel out of it, not myself. Who was myself? I wanted to know. No, I *really* wanted to know. I felt the question burning inside: “Who am I?” What is the part of me that is the most genuine substance? I held this question out in front of me as I walked up the street in the suburban outskirt of Austin, Texas, where I was living, renting an 8’x10’ room for $400 a month.
I had two other housemates, not including the landlady, who made herself scarce for the other renters. Oh, and Ganesha, the white cat with a personality.
I was feeling myself slip in and out of compulsive, bad habits. And my left hip was becoming so arthritic that at times I could just barely make it to the bathroom, down the hall.
So, I decided to do a hefty “microdose” of Iboga. The landlady was away for a three-day weekend. Now was my chance. So, one morning, I woke up, ate a bunch of macadamia nuts, and swallowed a pill that I thought contained a microdose. Well, it actually contained .5g TA, which was enough to put me through something deep.
As it was coming on, I was basically saying “Oh, shit” to myself. Perhaps aloud. I went on facebook and told a few people what was happening. I looked at my phone and tried to call someone. Fail. I would begin to enter a number, and then forget what I was doing, or who I was calling, or why. My short term memory was fast disappearing.
I laid down, let my mind wander. A bunch of times I would hear my celphone ring. It wasn’t ringing. Then I would perceive a series of many silences, each with a different feel or taste. Yes, that was the sound of the silence after “Hello.” Now this was the silence after “What?” The silence after a musical note. The silence after my name is said. Etc. All sounded different, yet all were silence. The silences had shape.
I didn’t have many visions of my life or childhood. Instead, I had visions and insights about Salvador Dali, Hitler, the Holocaust, Slavery (which had a sound to it, like a wide, rushing, oppressive sound--a mass of exhalations, perhaps), and of course, social media. Salvador Dali scared me. Hitler, of course, scared me. Both were men of power, deep, divine power. Dali suffered a lot, and, related to this, was connected strongly to Truth.
At times the Iboga felt like Salvia, or like a flowing Salvia, like Salviahuasca. Images of structures in darkness. Faces appear and disappear. Fear. I had some visions of white-on-black violence.
I listen to some West African music: Habib Koite, especially the songs Baro and Bitile. I am reminded of the African Savannah, and the warrior’s code. I hear the strength and groundedness channeled through Habib’s voice. The sound of the guitars were so beautiful. I mused that guitars are like harps carried by angels in heaven, who in reality are just people on Earth. We are creating heaven on Earth, with music.
I go to the electric piano, and all I seem to want to play is the final two arpeggiated chords in Bach’s prelude in C. It’s basically F major, G7, resolving to a C. The switch from F to G sounded to me like a transfer from masculine to feminine, landing on the C, the high C being the result of the two—a tiny, cute object atop a mountain of Work. The lightness, the meaning, the importance, the comedy, of placing something so tiny on top of so much work. What is it? Something so tiny, so delicately placed.
I begin to creep myself out with my thoughts. I turn the piano off. It’s not acoustic, anyway.
My body is heating up. Right? It’s hard to tell. Fuck, I don’t have a sitter. I really hope I don’t die. I will be happy if I just make it through this alive. I think I am home alone.
I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Is it cold? Hot? I can’t tell. Okay, I think it’s cold. I step in. Hot? Cold? Spikey? What is going on? Okay, I am probably being cooled off. Yeah. Okay, I feel more comfortable. Back into my room, with a towel.
I feel better. Time is so long. It is December 2012, before the 21st. Will the world end like some people are predicting? Or have a sudden shift? I ask Iboga.
HAH! Time is infinite. Human life on Earth goes on and on and on in both directions. I am able to perceive time as it is—an illusion. The existence of reality as one unified whole. A gigantic whole with spiraling steps or something like that. A floating city-like object? The understanding is deep but fleeting as I try to grasp it greedily. The world will not end. Humans have time. Lots of time.
I go online. There is a Take Away Show, a youtube video of a public impromptu performance by a folk musician, My Brightest Diamond. The song is called “I Have Never Loved Someone.” Sad title? I listen, and it is not the sadness I expect.
It gives me goosebumps just writing about this.
The song was a deep, pure proclamation of perhaps the deepest love there is on this planet—the love of a mother for her child. It sent me crying. I mean, I was *stressed out.* I cried for hours. I cried hard, like I have never cried before. I cried like I should have cried at birth (I was silent at birth). Phlegm came out. My brow furrowed hard like a crying baby and more phlegm came out, dripping. I opened my eyes and saw that everything was made of Love. Love was the glue, for lack of a better word, holding everything together. I still saw everything as it was, but it was as if I saw each atom, and each atom was love. It wasn’t a hallucinatory experience, it was a philosophical perception.
At one point I was crying so hard that I could only be in the fetal position, bowing down, on my mattress on the floor. I had a knock at my door. "You alright?" A concerned house mate. He’s a cool dude, with a good amount of psychedelic experience, anger problems, and military experience. Good guy with problems. Anyway, I said I was okay. It wasn’t a problem at all. I felt loved. By him, and by everything else.
I called my mom, told her what happened (in a nutshell), and she was comforting. I showed her the song and it made her tear up, too.
After the crying, it was the closest to feeling “reborn” I have ever felt.
(This happened in November of 2012)
I was beginning to feel out of it, not myself. Who was myself? I wanted to know. No, I *really* wanted to know. I felt the question burning inside: “Who am I?” What is the part of me that is the most genuine substance? I held this question out in front of me as I walked up the street in the suburban outskirt of Austin, Texas, where I was living, renting an 8’x10’ room for $400 a month.
I had two other housemates, not including the landlady, who made herself scarce for the other renters. Oh, and Ganesha, the white cat with a personality.
I was feeling myself slip in and out of compulsive, bad habits. And my left hip was becoming so arthritic that at times I could just barely make it to the bathroom, down the hall.
So, I decided to do a hefty “microdose” of Iboga. The landlady was away for a three-day weekend. Now was my chance. So, one morning, I woke up, ate a bunch of macadamia nuts, and swallowed a pill that I thought contained a microdose. Well, it actually contained .5g TA, which was enough to put me through something deep.
As it was coming on, I was basically saying “Oh, shit” to myself. Perhaps aloud. I went on facebook and told a few people what was happening. I looked at my phone and tried to call someone. Fail. I would begin to enter a number, and then forget what I was doing, or who I was calling, or why. My short term memory was fast disappearing.
I laid down, let my mind wander. A bunch of times I would hear my celphone ring. It wasn’t ringing. Then I would perceive a series of many silences, each with a different feel or taste. Yes, that was the sound of the silence after “Hello.” Now this was the silence after “What?” The silence after a musical note. The silence after my name is said. Etc. All sounded different, yet all were silence. The silences had shape.
I didn’t have many visions of my life or childhood. Instead, I had visions and insights about Salvador Dali, Hitler, the Holocaust, Slavery (which had a sound to it, like a wide, rushing, oppressive sound--a mass of exhalations, perhaps), and of course, social media. Salvador Dali scared me. Hitler, of course, scared me. Both were men of power, deep, divine power. Dali suffered a lot, and, related to this, was connected strongly to Truth.
At times the Iboga felt like Salvia, or like a flowing Salvia, like Salviahuasca. Images of structures in darkness. Faces appear and disappear. Fear. I had some visions of white-on-black violence.
I listen to some West African music: Habib Koite, especially the songs Baro and Bitile. I am reminded of the African Savannah, and the warrior’s code. I hear the strength and groundedness channeled through Habib’s voice. The sound of the guitars were so beautiful. I mused that guitars are like harps carried by angels in heaven, who in reality are just people on Earth. We are creating heaven on Earth, with music.
I go to the electric piano, and all I seem to want to play is the final two arpeggiated chords in Bach’s prelude in C. It’s basically F major, G7, resolving to a C. The switch from F to G sounded to me like a transfer from masculine to feminine, landing on the C, the high C being the result of the two—a tiny, cute object atop a mountain of Work. The lightness, the meaning, the importance, the comedy, of placing something so tiny on top of so much work. What is it? Something so tiny, so delicately placed.
I begin to creep myself out with my thoughts. I turn the piano off. It’s not acoustic, anyway.
My body is heating up. Right? It’s hard to tell. Fuck, I don’t have a sitter. I really hope I don’t die. I will be happy if I just make it through this alive. I think I am home alone.
I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Is it cold? Hot? I can’t tell. Okay, I think it’s cold. I step in. Hot? Cold? Spikey? What is going on? Okay, I am probably being cooled off. Yeah. Okay, I feel more comfortable. Back into my room, with a towel.
I feel better. Time is so long. It is December 2012, before the 21st. Will the world end like some people are predicting? Or have a sudden shift? I ask Iboga.
HAH! Time is infinite. Human life on Earth goes on and on and on in both directions. I am able to perceive time as it is—an illusion. The existence of reality as one unified whole. A gigantic whole with spiraling steps or something like that. A floating city-like object? The understanding is deep but fleeting as I try to grasp it greedily. The world will not end. Humans have time. Lots of time.
I go online. There is a Take Away Show, a youtube video of a public impromptu performance by a folk musician, My Brightest Diamond. The song is called “I Have Never Loved Someone.” Sad title? I listen, and it is not the sadness I expect.
It gives me goosebumps just writing about this.
The song was a deep, pure proclamation of perhaps the deepest love there is on this planet—the love of a mother for her child. It sent me crying. I mean, I was *stressed out.* I cried for hours. I cried hard, like I have never cried before. I cried like I should have cried at birth (I was silent at birth). Phlegm came out. My brow furrowed hard like a crying baby and more phlegm came out, dripping. I opened my eyes and saw that everything was made of Love. Love was the glue, for lack of a better word, holding everything together. I still saw everything as it was, but it was as if I saw each atom, and each atom was love. It wasn’t a hallucinatory experience, it was a philosophical perception.
At one point I was crying so hard that I could only be in the fetal position, bowing down, on my mattress on the floor. I had a knock at my door. "You alright?" A concerned house mate. He’s a cool dude, with a good amount of psychedelic experience, anger problems, and military experience. Good guy with problems. Anyway, I said I was okay. It wasn’t a problem at all. I felt loved. By him, and by everything else.
I called my mom, told her what happened (in a nutshell), and she was comforting. I showed her the song and it made her tear up, too.
After the crying, it was the closest to feeling “reborn” I have ever felt.
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