Last night 60mg was ingested in an attempt to reach the M-hole. It took longer than expected to come on and the psychedelic effects lagged at least 20 minutes behind the euphoriant dissociative effects. I lay in bed reading Raymond Carver stories and laughing because they all seem to be a caricature of his signature style. Everything started to take on a strong cinematic quality and I suddenly felt enveloped by a curtain of warm glittering insecticide a la The Incredible Shrinking Man. With this sensation came some of the strongest Brobdingnagian hallucinations I have every experienced, only paralleled by 750mg+ of DXM. My girlfriend looked enormous and seems to be flowing away from me as if her portion of the mattress were on a conveyer belt. In fact, everything was flowing, and because dissocatives seem to operate on these homonymic linguistic cues, everything seemed not only to be flowing but to be “flowing on floes”. There was a flowingness to each object in the room as if it were locked tightly into a precision machined drawer slide. I tried again to read, and was aggravated by the fact that I was seeing double and triple of most words on the page, in retrospect it seems ridiculous that I was attempting to read in the first place. Again I felt strong cinematic overtones as if I were the protagonist of the Time Enough at Last Twilight Zone episode and methoxetamine had broken my glasses...all this while still flowing across my mattress like a Maglev train.
In the closed eye visual landscape of ketamine I often find a preponderance of cool tones like greens and blues, with methoxetmine I find the mind screen to be painted with oranges browns and purples. In other words Ketamine is Fuji 35mm film and methoxetamine is Kodak.
I attempt to use the time constructively by listening to a hypnosis program and find that it is just as easy as with ketamine to leave my body. Also like ketamine, my trip is inextricably wound up with my professional and academic requirements and I find professors, editors, and writers I admire strung together in a web of creative supply and demand. All of the unfinished tasks that plague my conscious mind are represented as monstrous faces stacking upon one another in a giant totem pole of responsibility.
I find myself repeatedly asking my girlfriend if she knows what the Manhattan Project was, she keeps telling me “no” and I keep asking, appalled that she could be unaware of such an important piece of history, then asking follow-up questions like “but wait, you know who Richard Feynman is, right? But wait, you know who Enrico Fermi is, right?” When I try to explain who Richard Feynman is, all I can say is that he was a “fine man.” She seems stupefied by the drug and unable to speak whereas I’m more or less able to express my self in complete, albeit weird, sentences with some kind of confused dissociative syntax. We have a long “Ryan Trecartin moment” where I repeatedly caution her not to climb a ladder in my apartment. Although this is such a simple and obvious request, it still takes what feels like twenty minutes of conversation to establish my warning because I'm phrasing it in ways such as “please eschew ladder.” Anytime we are about to have sex I accuse her of being a “semen thief” or “sabotaging my testicles”. This chemical is more disorganized, hebephrenic, and physically-taxing then ketamine. Although it has felt almost completely different each of the three times I've tried it.
Three hours later as the effects wound down, everything looked as if it were coated with glittery purple plastic and I kept thinking that the anesthetic's aesthetic was "very Mattel" or "very Malibu Stacy." We then ate tortillas in the darkness while my roommate recounted a long story about almost having sex with Paz de la Huerta.