My Life With Psychedelics

"Dude, turn that shit off," I say to my roommate Peter. 

Peter turns the blasting drum and bass music down.  I can't understand why he'd want to play that stuff at this time, with my system reeling from ingesting 6 very potent Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds.  He should know, because he took an equal dose.  It's not that I dislike techno, but I like melody; this stuff is loaded with nothing but drums and throbbing bass.  And Peter, being a very brainy guy, has chosen some devilish hybrid of drum and bass with the fucked up time signatures of progressive rock or jazz fusion. 

"Maybe we should try to watch a movie," I suggest, pawing through my selection of films.  Though the titles are all things I've seen before, it's like I'm looking at them for the first time.  Blue Velvet and Big Lebowski seem like obvious choices to tether me to planet Earth, but I can't seem to put their plots together in my head.  Only shattered moments float to the surface.  I settle for Andrey Tarkovsky's Stalker.  Not the most easy to follow, but filled with lucious scenes of vegetation and ambient music. 

"Excellent choice,"  Peter says, sipping away at a Leinenkugel's.  "A true masterpiece."

We manage to get through the first fifteen minutes before I just can't take it.  I can't sit still.  Peter's turned off the lights and the living room of the flat is pitch black with the TV projecting light as harsh as gamma radiation into my eyes and tender sanity.  I jump up and head for the door. 

"What's with you, dude?" Peter asks. 

"I gotta get some fresh air," I say.  My stomach is no longer doing the somersaults it does after ingesting psychedelics, but my mind feels uncomfortable, like my bed on a sleepless night.  Psychedelics are a solo thing for me, a time to be away from life.  I feel the need to be away from people ever more acutely under their influence.  And I feel the need to sort out my thoughts.

My neighbour has piled a moutain of gravel to the side of the driveway, in preparation to paving it.  That's the only thing that is out of place on this warm August night.  The flat is the same as it's always been in the 7 years I've known it, and the three summers I've lived in it.  My neighbour's have always been the same; roommates are a revolving door. 

I crack open my beer and take a massive swig off of it.  It's ice cold, the same lovely Leinenkugel's Original that my family loves.  It feels more refreshing, colder, but more alien, like a spear of ice descending into my guts. 

There's something that's been bothering me lately, namely a lady.  I can visualize her, think of her name, and even smell her perfume.  But I can't put the pieces together.  The last time I crossed paths with her, I became James Bond on a bicycle...but that's another story.  And what's more, thinking about her does not bring the pang of rejection I normally associate with her. 

With all the pieces of X laid out in front of me, I see them for what they are, and not the idealistic concept that my warped mind has concocted. 

I feel some sort of convusion in my stomach and hope that it won't result in the rapid evacuation of my dinner.  I take a few more chugs off the beer, effectively finishing it before I pour the remainder onto the gravel between my feet.  It foams up for a brief second, then subsides into a mucky stain in the dirt. 

I think of X again, eager to call her from the depths of my memory.  I want to say here I am, hi, this is me, I'm not afraid of you I'm not mad at you I don't care about you I know what you are you aren't real.  I think of other people who have offended or hurt me in the past, and they appear as paper fantoms  floating on a distant sea.  I could almost laugh at them. 

The woodrose seeds are in full swing now, and I decide to go for a walk through the fields around the house, but only after I grab a couple more beers. 

"What are you doing?"  Peter asks.  "You want to smoke some weed?"

I think about that for a moment, but pass it up.  No, I want this experience all to myself.  Just the woodrose seeds and I.  I even feel bad about drinking the beer, but it doesn't seem to be affecting me as it normally would.  There's a sort of lucidity that psychedelics bring, but there's no fooling yourself; you are not sober.  You are not in a rational mindset, and you would never dream of hopping in a car or doing your taxes under this shit. 

I walk around the fields, my body humming from the woodrose seeds.  My stomach has settled down.  I look up at the moon, studying its craters.  I think of the kindergarten near here, where I went when I was 6, and the music that was popular then.  It never fails to bring nostalgia to the surface, but not under the effect of psychelics.  I can imagine the songs in minute detail, the gated drums of Genesis and Phil Collins.  I can smell the cheap soap and urinals of the kindgerarten bathroom.  All this I feel separately, without weepy nostalgia or disgust, but experience it as some sort of memory. 

I hear a car go by up ahead, its sound muffled by vegetation, and instantly think of the coyotes around here.  Yes, there are coyotes here.  My neighbour shot one not long ago.  This thought makes me uncomfortable, so I wander back to the house.  After all, my beers are now almost finished. 

My other roommate is home now, but he's in his bedroom with his latest girlfriend, some Barbie-esque blonde.  I hope that he's getting lucky.  The thought of that sends me into mad gales of laughter.  Peter's somewhere, probably asleep.  Though I'm not hungry, I fry up some chorizo and eggs, and make a big cheesy burrito out of it.  As I eat it, I realize that yes, I am actually hungry. 

I brush my teeth, a careful ritual I've observed every day of my adult life, knowing that I don't want to pass out with a mouth reeking of burrito.  I throw on some vintage Klaus Schulze, Timewind, because it reminds me of vast, snowy steepes and a 36 hour train ride to nowhere.  The woodrose is still running strong, making me feel restless, decidely not tired.  I shift and fuss in my bed like a baby, reveling in the sound of the Schulze's masterpiece, until the veil of sleep finally takes me away.

The next morning I wake up around 10.  It's my day off, I remember.  For some reason, I feel more rested than I have in a long time.  The summer sun outside is shining, but not in gentle way foreshadowing the approaching autumn.  I have the distinct impression that last night there was a great storm, but nowhere is there to be found any hint of climatic violence.  The only storm was the one raging in my head. 

I hop on my bike and ride to the beach, which is only two miles away, and find it abandonned; all the tourists are gone.  The water is cool and clear.  I haven't thought about X all day.  There is a childlike happiness, an innocence in everything.  I feel reborn...

A great deal has been written about the use of psychedelics in psychotherepy, and in my personal experience, it's well founded.  Every trip I've had has been a well deserved vacation from reality that has given me time to reflect and recouperate. 

Except that I wouldn't say that it's an escape from reality per se; I'd say that it is an escape, a self-inflicted exorcism upon the often malevolent whirlwind of thoughts charging through my head.  It is a separating of objective reality from the subjective reality we create by imposing our values upon the reality around us.

Let's take X for example.  Was she necessary to my survival on a basic level?  No.  Was she really that beautiful?  Not really; I had seen much better in far worse places, for whom I would have passed her by without a second thought.  And was she a really wonderful, nice person?  I can't say that she isn't, but nothing exceptional.  But whatever version of her that I had built up in my head occupied a lot of space, and became some sort of idol that failed to live up to my expectations. 

Taking a bunch of woodrose seeds (or mushrooms) may seem like a pretty stupid way to work through your problems.  But for me it works, at least for a while.  But then again, I'm just a fucked up guy, whacking down handfuls of it...I'd be really curious to see what could be done with real, scientific research given to discovering the correct doses and correct settings. 

In my personal experience, I noticed a lot of the negative emotions I had towards truely banal problems disappear.  Aggression vanishes almost entirely under the influence of these strange sustances, replaced by apathy, curiousity, or mild irritation.  Sure, I felt a natural loathing towards coyotes and my dislike for drum and bass became more acute, but there was not the usual kneejerk reaction.

Surprisingly, the most negative reaction to psychedelics is the reason that no one in their right mind could or should use them on a recreational basis: the nausea.  Every time I've used any type of psychedelic, my stomach is contorted in cramps right before the trip really starts kicking in.  The taste of woodrose seeds is another major drawback; image munching on a very bitter houseplant.  Just thinking of that taste is enough to kick in my gag reflex, and it's been over six years since I last enjoyed them. 

I've also experienced a great deal of exhuastion after using them.  The day after the trip I've described, I felt like I had just run a 5K race, and even skipped my usual exercise regime.  Though I could recall the previous night's trip with fondness, I had no energy or desire to do it again. 

I cannot recommend psychelics to everyone, and I do not find them to be a recreational drug in the common sense.  Most people would certainly think them harmful to the psyche.  But to me they've worked.  My life is far from a dream, but I certainly contribute a great deal of my present successes to those early trips.  My mind feels more flexible, more forgiving, and more creative.