DOSE:

5 mg

smoked

DMT

BODY WEIGHT:

200 lb

The smoke tastes like plastic-molded jungle rot. Shuddering, I force myself to learn to enjoy it. I've had this little green bong for two years, and I know inherently that I'll never get the stink out. It's like inhaling a funeral. I hold it, quietly. I don't want the plant-spirit to deny me; I refuse to remain in this sharp-edged world of rationality and wanting. There are silver tendrils squirming through the sickly-grey folds of my brain, testing my motives. I mumble, 'Everything will be fine,' and moan as my forehead begins to cave. Electric blue geometric forms dance on the backs of my fluttering eyelids. The lines on my hands descend into canyons; the mitts themselves have ballooned to paw-like proportions. I take one last glance at the moldering porch, the mismatched chairs and ashtrays, my quietly reading girlfriend. My neck folds backward and the ivy growing up the tall fence shudders and rustles, interlacing into an emerald carpet of jungle green. I start to think about Jurassic Park, and suddenly, I am there.

I don't know if I'm imagining it or not when the small, sticky, orange flakes heat up the tips of my fingers. I don't know if the voices that start to echo in my head are my own subconscious projections or something else.

'Stop looking at me. You don't understand.' The holly tree, twisting from the earth, leers at me. Cigarette butts and aluminum can tabs litter the ground around her, and the writhing squidlike tendrils of her roots turn black and shy away. A gaping scar, folded splintering flesh, opens; the Venus flytrap maw stretches, baring resined splinter-teeth. Mounds of glittering black insect eyes glare at me, and I tear my gaze away, bashful and ashamed. It's hard to breathe.

'Don't worry about her,' booms a voice from above. My head tilts back. I am a child looking up at grandpa. The elm rustles kindly, scale-like chips of his bark fluffing like blackbird feathers. 'I'm happy you're here.' The positive affirmation of a smile is expressed in the fireworks of white fungus that explodes up his shivery side. His unspoken whisper is I'm so glad you've noticed me. His vines creep under the eaves of the porch, reaching to hold me close. The weight on my chest intensifies and I gasp a breath. The tendrils recede, and I am left staring at a cold, lonely elder quickly approaching winter, though spring has just arrived in the 'real' world. The husks of his leaves flutter in the wind, drop, and burst into a kaleidoscope of reds and golds, re-attaching and reverting to young buds once more. He's got a few years left in him yet, but he doesn't have much hope for the future.


I went into the experience with an open mind. I had dabbled with LSD and psiloscybin mushrooms, but the call of entering 'another world' body and soul sang to me. The bare bone definition of 'shamanism,' according to The Complete Idiot's Guide is 'the practice of entering into an altered state of consciousness to contact the spirits to help and heal others.' I read a lot of books that delve into the subject; from where I'm sitting, I can see The Way of the Shaman by Michael Harner, Green Pharmacy by Barbara Griggs, and Breaking Open the Head by Daniel Pinchbeck.

It's strange to 'convert,' if you will, from being a Baptist-raised rational atheist to a crystal-clutching neo-shamanist. There are no Bible groups or cynically-populated latenight coffee houses for people who believe there is a spirit in everything. It's difficult to second-guess my perception, to humble myself, to think about interdimensional travel like it's riding the bus. I study in secret; my books are hidden when I know I'll have company. I don't take vision quests--sober--almost every night to get better aquainted with helpful spirits. I don't worry about lost bits of souls and the sadness that lurks in the eyes of almost everyone I see and can't touch.

Vishnu is sitting on my chest. My mouth is hanging as grotesquely as the holly tree's, searching for breath, so he stands and steps back, looking at me like I'm a baby in a cradle. The air floods in as he disappears, and I can taste the oh-so-sweet sadness of the trees and the shrieking birds as he dissolves into a spinning, aquamarine mandala. My hands curled into soft fists, I come to, sitting in a blue canvas camp-chair. My heart is heavy and the crown of my head burns like a hot coal was placed there.

'What did you see?' My lover has been waiting for me, her hand on my knee the whole time. I slowly open my gluey mouth, and I receive my last vision--the sun setting on her beautiful face.

'Things... I should-- appreciate, more often,' I stumble, glancing over my shoulder at the silently shuddering holly.

Exp Year: 2011	ExpID: 90354
Gender: Female
Age at time of experience: 20
Published: Mar 25, 2018	Views: 980
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DMT (18) : Entities / Beings (37), General (1), Alone (16)