Citation: sdxyln. "Hazardous Material Straight to the Dome: An Experience with Pharmahuasca (Syrian Rue & DMT) (exp114514)". Erowid.org. Sep 15, 2022. erowid.org/exp/114514
Prior to this experience, one which I will try my best to recall for the benefit of readers, DMT for me had been more than a mystery wrapped inside the proverbial enigma. For whatever reason, hardly of any real value to be judged as either a persistent feeling or simply a construct within my mind, it gained my reverence from the first day I came to know of it as a rather short-acting yet nonetheless powerful psychedelic. I was in no clear terms a stranger to the absurdities and occasional grotesqueness contained within a usual psychedelic experience. Quite the contrary I stood in fact. I had had my first acid experience in my sophomore year. With over a decade of experience getting hammered out of my wits fairly continually, I had definitely been more than just an associate of John Barleycorn's. I am not going to count sugar and nicotine and weed and hashish and once a bit of cocaine and cars and women and games and Hegel and Plato and music and more music into any of this. Those need not be accounted for here; maybe not today. One should, however, bear in mind that as the years did ensue, my total and utter resignation from everything else became firmly grounded and clearly visible through the unconditional acceptance of a fate marked in a Love of the bottle. Naturally then, that I would voluntarily accept rehabilitation, and rather impetuously too, acting like I was from behind the same alcoholic haze as before, but with yet another renewed sense of an impending doom, stands out to me an an anomie right down to this very moment.
Not to bore anyone with the presumed redundancy of all the facts of my life leading up to this self-proclaimed sacred experience, which in retrospect it clearly was mind you, but it must be said that I had been off the bottle for about a year. I had quit smoking cannabis at around the same time
I had been off the bottle for about a year. I had quit smoking cannabis at around the same time
, and a couple or so months later, by the end of September, I had kicked tobacco out hastily, as I would otherwise stand no chance of any success in recovery, if not to have its indelible entrails removed out of my lungs. Furthermore, as a last bit in a demented trifecta, I had been hopelessly involved in a strictly dysfunctional kind of partnership, which too had to be dealt with in a manner fitting of the borderline, in one of the months leading up to the heart of the experience. To sum things up in a nutshell, I was miserable, and the misery had only been prolonged in one way or another by me or by someone else.
I had moved cities after getting out of rehabilitation for reasons of recovery. It would be nothing more than a kind of suicide to remain at a location where most of all my memories were buried, or worse, forgotten over drink, I had thought. The place itself had held no other meaning for me, but was one where I had relentlessly pursued experiences of a spiritual kind, but ones bereft of true spirituality in any case. I was more than just lonely. I needed to be at meetings. I required support. I had wanted to be loved. But I was not willing to do the work for any of it. Let it be known to every man, woman, and child, that with the drink gone, sets in an overbearing sense of entitlement and the outstanding megalomania grows only worse. There is nothing in the world more helpless and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, we have been told over and again, yet there is no man as profoundly maladjusted to the most basic in all the commonalities of everyday existence, than one who has lived under the dictates of a badly misaligned instinctual drive for six whole months.
Nearly half of the substructure inside my skull had been eaten away by Gin. I left rehabilitation with a head as functional that of cattle awaiting slaughter. I had retained a corrupt will bound to nothing but instant gratification, but with a serious kind of regimental-ism impressed upon it by a routine of perfectionism, to cultivate a monumental determination for the suppression of the imperious urge. In this way I had held my freedom in hand, and for what that is worth, I knew my orientation had been all over the place. That I would need to be reborn, by this point, was not an idea gathered and put together by the remnants of the vicious kind of romanticism which had all but driven me into ruin in the past, but that commanded a sense of urgency the likes of which I had not known before, or believed sensing its extent would be possible, or at least known.
I saved up a chunk of money. I bought some untraceable digital currency. I did more than adequate research. I observed the minutest of changes for over a couple of days. I transferred most of the currency into another account. I corresponded over the desired product. I gathered my home address. I placed the order on a Sunday. I purchased a gramme of potent freebase DMT off a trusted vendor. I messaged the details in. I started to count the days leading up to D-Day. Then I held on to my skin.
About three weeks later, my sound sleep broke very early one morning, and as I made my way to the bathroom, I looked over at the mirror. This is when the augury stuck. I was going to get the letter delivered to me today. I better clean house and do whatever I can in the meantime to maintain the impression of a hard-at-work everyday man doing nothing more than tending to his lot and himself. Afternoon came and went. It then seemed a good idea to go out and get myself some soda and munchies before the evening would hit. I made my way back fairly quickly, and as I entered the gate to the building wherein is my flat, I was stopped and handed over a letter freshly delivered by the post-man which seemed to have come from another continent and a land distant and foreign. Nothing more in the world can help one maintain the impression of a sincere businessman than a letter in hand. I had escaped a terrible fate. Coming for me was the out-there, the uncharted unknown, the land of the elven spirits and mad turpentine geometry.
Adequate preparation had to be done first. I was surely happy because the chances of getting the letter had seemed bleak. My prayers had been answered. It was now to be entirely my responsibility to work and trudge towards the right time for the ceremony of rebirth. I put the envelope in the middle of Schopenhauer's Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, for no other place seemed more just to harbour the spirit molecule and its ship. It was left unopened. I had been burnt by a guy from whom I had purchased a gram before, who instead of sending the package, robbed me of the money. I was going to wait. I did not know why I was going to wait or what for, but I, the lone wolf forever alone in whatever endeavour undertaken, would be patient and wait for the rightest of the right times. Yet what is the right time to have Consciousness as you know it driven to the outer most bounds of an alien space? Contemplation would be my friend, and I would know what to make of it soon, I thought.
About a month later I emptied all the trash early and cleaned up my little studio-flat respectably. This would be my way of creating a small ritual for the taking of a sacred substance, History's own child, the ancestor's portion. I had procured about fifty grams of Syrian Rue seeds, and had a mini experience as the precursor to the final event about a week before receiving the envelope, and it was a pleasant time which enabled some additional functioning of a largely decrepit nervous system. My legs needed revitalisation. I closed my eyes and an ethereal figure in white hurled a ball of fire at me, whose sparks travelled all through the nerve-endings every where, and made me feel alive. I purged a couple of times and the stark taste of Rue covered my mouth. I purged a couple of times over again, and the feeling was not unlike being drunk, except that I had not ingested any of that poison, and this hangover would not be one at all.
Then night came. My Fast for the ceremony had been successful. I had not eaten but had sipped only bits of soda to keep glucose levels up to par. As the windy and cool embrace of the night slowly enveloped the city, I heard silence take over the area, once every one else every where seemed fast asleep, then I became free to unearth a part of me which had so far been kept entirely dormant, of the shaman, the conjurer of images and visions, healer, conduit of the spirits, man of nature, one capable psychic change, and he who stumbles all over for an encounter with God.
Everything in my invisible to-do list had been finished. The room was squeaky. I had taken out some of the unwashed clothes and put those aside. The bathroom floors were clean. It did not feel very right to be sitting on the bed and progressing from there on. I got my yoga mat out, a true companion who stuck it out with me in rehabilitation, and lay it on a space about in the middle of the floor, and got a few Dharma items to give me company. I covered myself up by wearing a t-shirt first. Then I put the white scarf given to me by a Lama around the neck. I got the pipe out. I got the black Mylar bag containing the spice. I put those aside for a moment and go to open Schopenhauer's Volume II, which contained a chapter I was to read in preparation for the ceremony, on the indestructibility of our true essence in spite of Death. I had opened a series of windows in front of me to let the cool air greet me inside the room, and to listen to the rustling of the leaves in the trees outside, so drew the curtains accordingly. I entertained the idea that perhaps I was mad in doing so because maybe I would have liked the people around me to see the in the ceremony in action. Thoughts that are intrusive really intrude upon.
I would have preferred to have one of those $50 light spectacles going about their thing in the room but refrained from making a purchase of really anything significant before the ceremony, and as I would later realise, of an inexpensive oil-burner too, because I managed to do the one thing I would have never let someone else do, i.e. burn a bit of the spice. But I digress.
The night sky was visibly dark blue. Orange lights on the streets gave the whole scene a glowing hue, and went well together with the greens bouncing off the leaves of tall coconut trees, not to mention the spice itself, which contained NMT for promises of an added effect. I took a look at the room before going to the kitchen and ingesting a couple of fistfuls of the Rue. The smell of the Rue, particularly if not grounded and in seed form, is about as revolting to the will to live of anyone as is the very phenomena which momentarily puts a stop to that impulse. One can really get a confirmation of the imperative nature has planted in every man in the way of his instinct. Anyone will be repulsed. To not have it was not an option for me. I chewed on it like a cow does on grass, then gulped it all down, but not without throwing out a bit of it in the sink. Things had begun, and I was going to wait for a bit to feel the fuzzy effects of the Rue on me, before lighting up the first pipe, which I had prepared with crushed mint leaves, in the middle of which was spread the spice in very minute quantities. The measurement was based on an eye-ball, but the method of simply sprinkling bits of it on the pipe, to this day, seemed to have worked well but only in the appearance of things alone.
When I first opened the bag containing the spice, I was thrilled to be able to look at it first, and then immediately related its appearance to Orange Tang, but when I proceeded to take a sniff of it, an unlikely feeling of having smelt something like it before made my forehead belch in wonder, and gave a lasting grin to the face. I was, however, not going to go through the entire chapter as I had planned before, so took glances at some of the passages, and told myself that it was all right, because I had read it before and I remember what the Philosopher per excellence has had to say. Besides, what would it matter because I was only prolonging of that which one could have only speculated upon till not long ago. I switched the main light off, and turned on the little green bulb, because I would have liked to have a bit of light inside, as I felt the presence of something else long before I began to inhale vapours of the spice. That it was beckoning me all along I had missed out or ignored entirely. In retrospect, switching the green light on had been entirely unnecessary, but I could hardly have done otherwise, because my emotions were well at their tipping-off points, and there I was still to place the damn pipe between the lips.
In spite of knowing just about everything on consuming the spice I made an overkill because normal anxiety had crossed its threshold into a feeling of absolute and irrational fear. My mind raced with questions of ‚what ifs‘, and a whole multitude of jarring thoughts came down in the form of voices from inside my head. The voices were all of my own but the intensity of their communication at that moment was quite bewildering to me. All dialogue had collapsed to a point wherein I simply had to take the plunge because I had exhausted all the help I could possibly get.
I held the pipe on my left hand. On my right was an orange BIC. The effects of the Rue were starting to kick in. I took a look at my watch to note down the time but I have since forgotten what exactly the time was. I would remember it as sometime around 00:30 A.M. I was getting really anxious. I looked at my left hand, told it to put the pipe on my lips, and then had a look at the right hand, and told it to carefully light it up, and the mixture light up like a bulb on a Christmas tree. I had been anxious, now I was terrified, but I inhaled the smoke and kept it inside my lungs for as long as I could, eventually puffing some of it out because the thrill was strong in me, my eyes did the work automatically and I no longer had to think over those, till I saw the bulb get visibly dimmer, which so had to be lit up again, and thus I inhaled once more, but the Will to fight the coming of a mystical encounter of an unknown type with the spirit of the very substance I so revered at least in principle, was overpowering the senses, to let the dialectic unfold in favor of the body, and to forsake the mind as much as possible. Then it happened. My eyes closed themselves despite the Will acting on them, and a Spirit assumed control, while the lens of my eyes became capable of the clearest, most vivid, HD-like refractions which could ever be made possible on them. I was mentally in outside of space and time, but causality held my body down, and it felt like I was tied to the ground. The struggle then to scramble as many as my thoughts came upon, and I was continuously told that this is what I had wanted to be done!
I had debated what music put on. I put more thought into it than was required. Yet given the sanctity of the occasion I chose to listen to the Tantric chants of elder Tibetan monks recorded at one of their monasteries still left standing in Tibet. That gave me a sense of being around others who were not simply a benevolent force willing to guide my life into the deeper seats of my own consciousness, which foremost necessitates the phenomenal appearance of the whole wide world itself. I wondered if I could secretly decipher their chants and the meaning of those. But I quickly shifted my perspective back to the body, and wondered quietly to myself, if I were in possession of a plant spirit, when the next moment, I saw the fingers of both my hands resemble the twigs and branches of plants and trees. The positions and looks of my fingers were so like they were in control by the Spirit itself, with the proof lay up to scrutiny. All sorts of visions and images passed through the head. The fact of Neo being awoke set in rather quickly and at first. I saw characters who encouraged me to move forward and those who stood entirely opposed to my being. I was inundated for some time with the junk inside my head which had beaten me into submission without any mercy for many months leading up to this moment. I was powerless to do anything about those. I had to sit it all out. A moment of clarity occurred when I debated turning the volume down because perhaps it had been too loud.
I hesitantly ignored the mind's suggestion and tried to let go the best I could, but not before witnessing a whole set of flashing lights appear in tandem and copulating rather seriously, as if with the intent to show me something new about the walls inside of my room. The spectacle seemed a tad bit disappointing when no picture-by-picture replacement of my view of reality had been made, without any elves to greet me in a homecoming or aliens to pop out of a magically bouncing portal linking to an alternate universe. I closed my eyes and let go with the ability of a child at play.
Immediately I was transported to a vivid space occupied by no one else but me from the mere appearances of things alone. I lay right in centre, my consciousness hovering over the middle of a dome comprised of hyperbole geometry the likes of which even Euclid could not have considered before. This thought was quite distinct, and I am happy to be able to remember it right now, because it provided a much-needed sense of comic relief during the experience, because otherwise the utter inexplicability of the whole thing would probably elude my memory banks. I tried my best to look around at the dome to see if I was being observed, but there was nothing else in sight, yet the vivid and sparkling colours of the structure seemed to communicate to me exactly at the moment I questioned something. Funnily enough, though I had forgotten all about my body, as the Ego scrambled hard and fast to locate itself in the midst of the experience, and I gave in to its whim, because to know the place this I occupies in the seemingly infinite cosmos, would do a great deal of reassurance for it to be not really alone, serve as a confirmation that mankind was not alone, and thus aid in healing the existential angst which surmounts its otherwise able and far-out rationality.
I lay hovering there for a few more moments. Then the fundamental truth about the existence of everything was made clear not by the spice or its spirit, but in the hollow recesses of my head, when I felt a sense, among all things, Boredom creep it yet again. Life indeed is like a pendulum which oscillates between pain and boredom. There cannot be a more fitting confirmation for me than in that moment when I was surrounded in an otherworldly place full of awe-inspiring splendour, yet I stood transfixed only at the surprise afforded by a rogue kind of moderation. The secrets of the Universe lay before my Consciousness perhaps, and it might all have been there for the taking too, but no, I had seen enough of it! Nonetheless, Consciousness did not move, it stayed inside the dome studying and surveying its parts.
The Rue had done its part. That much was clear. I was in the midst of an experience which had evidently been prolonged and one which showed no real signs of stopping any time after. I got off the Yoga mat upon seeing a few other visions conjured up by the directing mind, and lay flat on the bed beside it, hoping that the experience would soon conclude, and if it did not ever, which seemed like a funny possibility, then woe upon me because I went in knowing full well I would never be the same man again in form or spirit. The bouncing lights from before stayed around doing the same dance when the first rays of the morning came to pass outside, and I thought to maybe go and have a look, but was too tired to really walk, especially when the whole proposition felt like just another dare placed in my head by a severely punitive mind.
All this time, the intensity of the experience remained ever-strong, but I was plagued with self-defeating thoughts that maybe the planning had not been up to par, and that I had certainly burnt some of the holy spice, and thus the Gods would be quite disappointed if not angry over me. I began to make mental notes of the mistakes of this journey while still in the middle of it. In doing so I forgot entirely to close my eyes after lying down on the bed, and the idea did not occur again afterward. I was not going to go out to the side of the terrance and have a feel for an environment of concrete blocks all around because I was in an entirely separate headspace. Ennui rolled in again, and so I remembered to put on a song or two for the delight of a pair of ears that had taken a great deal of abuse and trauma over the years. The tones and notes in the songs stood out so very clearly again. I took that as a signal that I should continue with my musical endeavours for the rest of my life, taking those at a pace I am content in, and that for the first time in life, I actually stood a chance of accepting responsibility for myself. I felt happiness again. Boy had it been long!
I went to sleep not long afterward because all in all the ceremony did kick into gear the kind of healing work I had desired for it to do. It solidified the life-long commitment towards a respect for psychedelic substances and the experiences on it, with the acceptable but very rare party use. It fuelled the urge to get to the bottom of the experience intellectually when is made possible. At the end of the day I am driven not merely by my Understanding, but am preoccupied over the ability to be able to see things like does a Hawk looking over the jungles in the Amazon. I have since had about five more DMT experiences. The thirst to prepare for those died out by a bit over the months. I could not get the technique right and did waste a good chuck of the spice quite hastily. I took an amnesiac dose once and experienced what it was like to be in the Loop. That experience highlighted the fundamental truths which the Buddha got down to point some 3000 years ago. The Philosophical interpretation of being in the Loop on DMT is that it is a first hand experience of Samsara in action. That the cycle of birth-life-death-rebirth is bound to the Universe is a fact which one can observe on DMT, sadly, without any adequate time to study it often enough.
In a couple or so experiences I found myself dissociating from things and forcing visions of a truth about my life had things only been otherwise. The Spice gave me a glimpse of what could have been. I had proper catharsis over those. But none of it gave me a lasting sense of fulfilment, not that those had been in any sense real. There is so much about ourselves we forget to improve upon. Then there was a time when I partook without intending to break-through, and after the experience felt a strongly tethered pull that I should go all in, because I was being beckoned again, but did not follow through to it. Over time I have learnt to heed those calls as nothing but obfuscations of a mind steeped in its subjective excesses, without any real objective grounding, and this has been crucial.
On one particularly long night without any sense of sleep I inhaled a bit listening to some Möbius and Rödelius, both whom I greatly admire, and got a real fright because I saw I had been out of my mind drinking all those years away. That same night I partook with a bit more, and burnt the spice out of a fit alone, yet in any case felt a true embrace by the Spirit which has shown me the worth of unconditional love toward all beings. I wish to state that before the experience I did not know the feeling of being loved absolutely. I became the Mother I did not have, and I loved myself, but felt a cunning, baffling, and largely redundant sense of self-pity take over not long after.
I have not been impatient with DMT after all that. I have accepted that intervals between sessions are the way to go. Micro-dosing on it would be great but is not an option for me yet. I certainly have not planned a proper ceremony of a similar calibre again. I have a bit of the freebase still left which I will save for one day till I can use it in a Pharmahuasca portion, making which is extremely simple, and would be recommended to anyone new reading this, who like me, have once waited to experience the wonders contained in the plant-given gift of DMT.
I have had a number of acid experiences after that to treat my underlying trauma. I have integrated the lessons of those in a self-administered MDMA session in March of this year. I am waiting till the end of the month to partake in a second self-administer MDMA session to integrate the lessons of the acid trip from a few days ago, during which I had a calling to partake with some of the remaining DMT around the peak-time, but resisted the urge because it did not feel as if the time was right. But then again time feels hardly of any proper consequence after DMT acquaintance. I am eager to try out some of the other Tryptamines, especially 5-MeO-DMT.
Neminem laede; imo omnes, quantum potes, juva; harm no one, but help everyone as much as you can.
[Reported Dose: ''100 mg vaped in two separate 50 mg doses, approx 5 grammes of the Rue'']
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