Shamanic: A Psychedelic High Sans Substance; Supersonic Supernova, Says I.
Goodness gracious guys; a twisted melon tripping with the aid of neither chemicals, cacti nor fungi? Sign me up, said I.
Last night I read, watched and learned about “Shamanic breathing.”
It seemed like a bizarre, abstract notion; the theory that you could somehow trick the medial prefrontal cortices in your brain into reduced blood flow and thence, to be launched into a psychedelic trip much like psilocybin (the key component in hallucinogenic magic mushrooms), LSD, mescaline, any of the entheogen phenethylamine/tryptamine families and the “sister” group – often chemically incestuous – The Empathogen Family; MDMA (psychedelic in crystallised form in large doses) mesc, 2CB, 2CI, methedrone, methylone and the gang.
Why not, I eventually surmised. The Lionheart and I were seekers who saw beyond the decades of devious corporate propaganda. He was a professional prize-fighter, a doer, a chancer; he wanted more. I was an eccentric malcontent, a hippy, half-blagger/half-winner, a curious boy; I wanted more. We wanted to connect to the spiritual world, in our strange molecular existence; jungle habitat in the mountains of Phuket, Thailand. If the extended psychedelic-phenethylamines-tryptamine-empathogen family was a gateway to God, we were in the right place to do it. Much like my Yorkshire homeland; This Is God’s Country.
Granted, in this case – sans substance – the enterprise seemed doomed from the get-go. Only our mutual trust to not pull a malicious burn on the other, standing smirking while the other poor fool sat hyperventilating for an hour, wheezing, burst blood vessels popping, sweating profusely in the humidity, heart beating violently against the ribcage and glowing evil red… Thankfully, the Lionheart & myself were both Committed To Consciousness Expansion; outdated concept or not. If ever there was a place where such tomfoolery wasn’t pretentious, it was here; living in a mountain treehouse. Also, the dichotomy of the country; beautiful and deadly in equal measure. This is Thailand, you shysters; Darwin’s law applies. Anything goes. There are only winners and losers here.
So, on shaky foundations reinforced by firm belief; we set out to trip sans our usual heroic dose of psilocybin.
The premise was, hyperventilate for “15 minutes” (I wish) and the carbon dioxide in your blood will trigger your PH levels to rise exponentially, and whatever it is that triggers your “inner eye” at the point of death will be released, along with dizziness – plus the aforementioned prefrontal cortices neuro-jolt of trippery – and disaster notwithstanding, a psychedelic high will be duly experienced. That was part research, part the word of a strange man and his bizarre description of the process. The man in question describing it detailed how for the first time – including use of DMT, LSD and ‘shrooms – he saw his own Godhead, or spirit self, with a clear focus. Considering the potency of all those hallucinogens and psychedelic entheogens listed, that’s quite an impressive feat by simply breathing in oxygen fast and heavy for a while…
So, intensely stoned and with mutually masked cynicism, my pal/de facto housemate and I took up position, and – after getting the initial laughs and giggles out of the way (ufff-pfff uffff-pffff… you look and sound ridiculous bro… fuck you peasant… ok, this time let’s go) we set to work on tripping out without the aid of drugs.
Our breathing got rhythmic, almost hypnotic. On the five minute mark we started breathing differently, switching our speeds up, and it occurred to me that to our neighbour Andrea it could quite possibly appear that we were fornicating. Frolicking. Copulating. Mid-coitus. Pulsating flesh in a whirling dervish of homosexual pleasure.
I wondered if the thought would excite or disturb her.
Ten minutes in, I got the “claw” sensation that had been promised. The same sensory annoyance that occurs on amphetamines such as meth and speed, and occasionally on other stimulants when you get the bog-standard “rush of blood”; pins and needles in the face and arms, blood or gas trapped in the brain, and your hands naturally clench or at least feel an uncomfortable sensation upon stretching your fingers out. Push through it, our de facto internet guide had said. Ride on.
- Nagging Doubts
Truthfully, I was beginning to have doubts – thoughts forced their way into my consciousness. How could a breathing exercise affect my moral compass and impart the same feelings that the likes of psilo-shrooms, mescaline and LSD do, in such vivid and intense form? How could this be a transcendent experience through mere oxygen deprivation and silly noises? Are we just a pair of pretentious psychedelic wannabes conforming to every scornful stereotype of the insufferable ‘seeker’ in a stupid, Quixotic naivety and idiotic idealism about the world?
And then you intend to WRITE about it? What kind of pretentious idealistic madness is this? You think some ludicrous mountaintop experiment – sans drugs – and a few feverishly typed words at the keyboard could have any discernible effect on anyone else’s life? And more to the point; doesn’t it defeat the object of a personal journey and transcendence?
Who knows. But either way – do or don’t; the beat goes on. Behave with good quality of intent, and you’re above the critique of less-than reasonable people.
Thirteen minutes, he went into his room and took the bed. I stretched out. Two minutes more. I was dizzy.
Fifteen minutes. I let the timer go on a little bit. Beyond dizziness, I wasn’t there. I regretted checking the time.
“You high yet?” I almost croaked. At least not being able to speak properly is probably a good indicator, I decided. Impaired speech, in the realm of self-destruction and paradoxically, neurological expansion is generally A Good Thing. “No”, he forced back at me from the other room. By now my resolve was set. “Keep going”!
I still had the claw, and then all of a sudden, the claw subsided. Bizarrely, I remembered “The Claw” from Liar Liar, and that the Jim Carrey character in question was called “Fletcher”. In retrospect, perhaps I was more affected than I thought. At the time I was beginning to worry this was a huge troll job; I sped up the breathing – in through the nose, out through the mouth. One minute later, nothing. I wasn’t sure if I’d just lost the sensation in the same way you can lose an orgasm – via bad timing or focus; never is wise taking eyes off the prize.
“I’m getting nothing”, I groaned again, in genuine pique; this time I felt a bit of the dizziness subside. A warning from The Entheogen Gods. I obeyed. It taught me to not talk. Talking was bad. This whole experience is meant to be escapism and unlocking inner recesses and parts of your brain that are dormant. Mind expansion. Flicking switches that don’t turn off. Sending neurotransmitters haywire. Conversing with your pal is normal-world stuff; it fucks your concentration and efforts without, and cockblocks the journey within.
The experiment had lasted more than twice its allotted time limit by now, and I still hadn’t experienced the psychedelic high that had been promised. Still, there were definite bodily reactions; I wondered if synesthesia was about to begin. Various tingles forced themselves into my concentration as the rhythmic breathing continued. I changed it up; expelled all the air out of my body and pressed down on my heart and lungs. At the point of passing out, I began hyperventilating again with all the blood in my body seemingly trapped in my brain. Nothing. After a few minutes the sensation passsed, my head cleared, and I was no different than I was five minutes into the experiment. Even Claw Hand had passed.
Thirty five minutes. Fuck you, internet guide. You are not my fellow DJ. Ignorant philistine. May the plagues be upon you.
By this stage, I was alternating between dizzy and clear-headed, hyperventilating, and one line that somehow forces its way through the fog of memory is the hazy recollection of hearing, with sudden volume, “are you close”? One male asks another intently if he’s “close”, while he loudly hyperventilates; poor neighbours. Actually, scratch that; I’m sure Andrea appreciated it; more than likely crept onto our porch to eavesdrop. That “close” line is indeed aimed towards the millions… AND MILLIONS (/TheRock) of gay Samurai Life fans out there. Enjoy. Disfruta.
In the meantime, I kept the breathing pattern up then with a sudden rush of blood to the head, decided to hold my breath for a while, almost passed out, then hyperventilated again with huge effort. Smoking 30-45 cigarettes per dia from the start of November into the later stages of January probably didn’t help my composure during the hellacious respiratory ordeal of this massive breathing exercise.
However, slight progress.
This time I retained it a bit more. I opened my eyes afterwards to see if it had any effect; nothing. I was seeing – or thinking – clearly, just dizzily. The blurred vision was nothing more than being stoned and furthermore, dizzy from what was legitimately almost forty-minutes of hyperventilating and recent self-asphyxiation.
“No fucking way”, I told myself, and focused on just breathing heavily. Even if it took another thirty minutes, I resolved to just reach that psychedelia without any other tricks than hyperventilation alone, as had been advised. Losing consciousness wasn’t what I had signed up for; I wanted mind expansion, not brain cells starved of oxygen and dying by the million while I heroically passed out like a teenage girl in a horror film.
Forty-five minutes. My friend brought the Molino glass bong over, and I took one huge hit while hyperventilating, greedily sucking the smoke fumes into what must by now be all-but collapsing, blackened and pitifully contracting lungs; this act brought on coughing and more dizziness. I could sense a small change in it now, but I was convinced this was the extent of it. I’d lost faith in the experiment.
After several minutes of standing hyperventilation, I almost fell. Equilibrium was nil; I had the balance and poise of a drunk in an 18th century backstreet London pub, surrounded by Dickensian villains and Bill Sykes characters, a lost child staggering around with the chancers, the shysters and filth. Noticing the slight difference I sat back down, hyperventilated for another minute, and as some almost-imperceptible change occurred, I suddenly stopped and lay down. Looked up. The ceiling was patterned. It was glowing; not with electricity, but more like something natural and primal, like – as best as I can inadequately describe it – when you see sperm cells enter eggs on a screen, or watching the workings of the inner body. Or cells being synthesised in laboratories; that bizarre glow of natural energy, the vital force that sustains us all and of which we comprise. It looked like it was moving. Then the patterns – all equal in size, fitting together like a jigsaw – started buzzing and rotating relentlessly. The whole ceiling kept its strange structure intact, but somehow I could sense the patterned shapes were endlessly moving and rotating at the speed of light.
This certainly wasn’t the norm for a weed high. There was something of the visual of a phenethylamine; like the very first stages of the onset of Mescaline or 2CB, or that moment when forty-five post-shroom shake minutes of waiting for psilocybin to take effect, you suddenly notice when you’ve all but forgotten you’d taken anything that the dull colours of the wall were more brightly coloured, and the plants and tree leaves outside – all seven billion of them, in our case – were reverberating with a strange glow in the nigh on visible breeze.
Thank Christ, I’ve done it.
“Hang on mate I might be there”, I blurted out. In retrospect I don’t know what I managed to say; it may well have been a Raoul-Duke-at-the-counter moment. Please, Lionheart, tell me about the fucking wrestling shoes. Suddenly my pal was a distraction and an irritant. He shouldn’t be there. I wanted solitude. Much like drinking at home, alone; it would feel like redundant wastage otherwise; a self-sabotaged enterprise with no positives gleaned. Alone. Lay down on the sofa. Ah.
Bad Psychedelic Experience from the Past
I’ve always been wary of psychedelia and hallucinogenic experiences, despite engaging in them as much as it was in my power to do so.
On November 1, 2011, in the aftermath of the Ibiza “Summer Season’s” Twilight and an ongoing narcotic celebration of being present at “winter’s” onset; I had a bad trip which lasted all of 12hrs, and included disembodiment, strange and malevolent creature shapes swooping at my face (perhaps, as a writer, a psychedelic act of self-mockery, my internal Sermon on the Mount, a Commandment; be it in journalism or drug-speak, thou must never plagiarise Fear&Loathing! Plausible; my inner self poking fun at my conscious self?) as well as ominous visions in my periphery, and worst of all, hearing internal voices supposedly from every other guest at the end of season pool party I was attending, all of them plotting to kill me. “Let’s kill him who is he he doesn’t belong here he’s not even talking to us” (I’d lay down on the grass) “look he’s not looking let’s kill him now let’s hit him in the head with a baseball bat we can bury him in the woods” (I’d sit up in panic – on the edge of said woods – and look over to the pool to see if they were coming) “now he’s staring at us who is he he’s evil he’s plotting against us look he’s staring” (I’d look away, try to breathe and calm down) “he’s looking away again, let’s kill him let’s finish him he doesn’t belong here”… etc… hour after hour. Thank God I didn’t have a gun.
After that savage experience, cannabis would send me into minor-trips for a while, whereas 2cb and 2ci usage was an ordeal and a half; a mixed bag of phenethylamine pills and 2cb smuggled from Morocco led to 20 pills shared between three of us – in reality, 17 between two of us – and the state I was in managed to harsh the buzz for the others, in its floor-tile reading, window defenestrating, rambling, foetal-ball curling manner. This was enough to veer me away from the chemical entheogens, including Christmas, although I soon came to realise that crystallised MDMA in an-eight crystal dosage instead of one single crystal per time led to similarly hallucinogen journeys. In retrospect, it’s a miracle I managed to leave the house, let alone fly to Barcelona (with farewell crystal stash in tow) surviving a quite, in retrospect, ludicrous empathogenic weekend reading Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia in the same streets he was detailing. Tears were shed. Bars and nightclubs were staggered into, and pirouetted across. Somehow, days later I thence flew East via brief home stopover in England (and predictable customs search) but still, completely twisted.
Even five months down the line and by now in Thailand, I found it impossible to communicate with others when stoned. Hallucinogenic experience thenceforth was rather tentative; in the villa I’d called home at the time – leaving months later after finishing a film script entitled Jackboot Britain and fleeing East – experimentation with 2CB, 2CI, combining stimulants such as cocaine with the aforementioned and with ketamine and methylone, and my personal favourite, crystal MDMA had left its mark. It shouldn’t have, but being mostly in the wake of a serious bad trip, over eight weeks, it left a mark. Not exactly Shulgin material, but it was better formative experience after a pre-Spain diet of methedrone and dimethocaine, very much in the self-destructive bracket, with no plausible argument whatsoever for consciousness expansion and less still in the way of entheogen qualities.
However, I’ll admit it; several times – in fact, on everything other than just pure MDMA from November ’11-March ’12, even with the more empathogen-centric chemical components – I got the F.E.A.R.
Months of smoking the evil, and later benevolent bong with the Lionheart, that neurological fragility was a thing of the past; hands no longer shook, furtive glances were no longer cast, and foetal balls were no longer curled into – company be damned. Psilocybin – ironically enough, with shrooms being the “gentlest” of the out-and-out psychedelics, had been the catalyst that sent me into nightmare-world – was retested, and this time greatly enjoyed. Soon after moving up the mountain, over a year after I’d left Ibiza, and it became a part of our weekly routine.
The Shamanic Breathing Trip
In the present, I was there. No plant, no cactus powder, no chemical, just breathing.
This time was calm as it comes. Calm as a calm person studying composure and calmness at the University of Calm in County Calm, Composure-ville. Obviously, having no actual 2cb, mescaline, acid, DMT, ‘shroooms or anything else in my system was a great help in not succumbing to thoughts of paranoia, fear and negativity.
Opening my eyes was immediately disastrous, as I clearly saw the ceiling (sans patterns) and inevitably felt sober again, and questioned the effects. Nearly fifty minutes wasted? I closed them again, and thankfully, remembered an old mantra; “just let go. Give in to it”. This time through the darkness of my closed eyelids, faces and shapes began to form, and lights started flashing. (Knowing me knowing you,) Aha!
“I need to lay down”, I repeated, and this time got up and commandeered his darkened bedroom without permission. Lay back on the bed. Closed my eyes. It began.
Closed-eye visuals. Some prefer lucid hallucinations combined with synaesthesia when they’re conscious; the full she-bang. Personally, I don’t mind tripping alone at all; and closed-eye films with an introspective or reflective thought pattern juxtaposed with visuals is fine by me. Bizarrely; no matter how intense, dark or even grisly they get, I find them easier to deal with than being open-eyed and seeing reality change in grim ways. So, to generalise that; give me a closed-eye visual of Freddy Kruger or some ghoul, over being mid-conversation and seeing my pal’s face turn into the hook-nosed melted-face demon, a trippy visual immortalised in a Prodigy music video.
Darkness softened, faces and shapes formed, outlined. Shapes twisted and amalgamated with each other, people. Faces. Indistinct, I couldn’t work it out. Some smiled, some scowled. One was evil; skull shaped, the face resembled an old pagan God of Death; slit eyes, a an evil, lipless gash for a mouth, jagged teeth. But it wasn’t scary, for whatever reason and it wasn’t the F.E.A.R; I simply accepted it moving towards me, and then it changed. I suppose the relative lack of intensity, that sense that the trip could be broken just as it had been self-induced (though with far less effort to nix than to create, I daresay!)
The next face was beautiful. Patterns formed on the ceiling… only it wasn’t. My eyes were still closed, and I felt them to see. I could barely feel my fingers on the eyelids. Yeah… thank fuck for that. Now I can enjoy it. I let go.
With a last vestige of unwilling awareness, I called out “Leave me to it mate. I’m tripping”. I couldn’t hear his response. It didn’t matter; he understood the significance. We had an hour of our lives invested in this. He had to respect it.
The absence of The F.E.A.R during closed eye visuals can be explained in part by a personal advancement in maturity – not an immensely difficult task, one admits – and what Orwell might term ‘doublethink’ – the ability to concurrently think two separate things, through a sort of unconscious self-deception. Unlike with chemical or natural (mescaline from the cactus, psilocybin from mushrooms) entheogens and empathogens, there was no sense of losing the distinction between altered perception and ‘reality’ – with shamanic breathing and its effects, I felt part of the somewhat gentle trip, yet never at a point where self-awareness or acknowledgement that it was a trip was lost.
That’s why the experiment had, and has, worth. Chem-cocktails or simply not being ready can result in pure mental savagery. Altered perception is no place for half-arsed, mentally weak chancers. A full-blown psychedelic trip on any one or combination of 2cb/i, mescaline, acid, DMT or psilo-shrooms in the wrong place – spiritually or circumstantially – and/or wrong dosage, can chew you up and spit you out. Granted, it’s far less likely/brutal on the naturals, such as mescaline of the peyote or San Pedro cacti, or psilocybin of magic mushrooms, but hey; the latter had been the cause of my own bad trip and its lingering, ugly effects, and the former had been part of the mixed bag of pellets – 2c fam & phene’ - of which 17 were shared between two of us via insufflation, and swallowing both crushed (powdered) and whole, which led to some serious buzz-harshing behaviour all round. Foetal Top Team. Floor Tiles Fletcher. The Shulgins would have despised me; an alternate-version of their tale; PiHkal 2: Phenethylamines I Have Known And Loathed. Shamanic breathing offered a gentle alternative, however much ungodly effort it took.
The following notes are derived from inane cliffnotes that I was able to take after this pseudo-trip; and yes, I will refer to it, however dubiously, as a trip. Lights, visions, voices, introspection… albeit unlike with actual hallucinogenics such as LSD, 2cb, 2ci, Mescaline etc – on their own, in a decent dose, I’m pretty sure I could have by and large recovered quickly if needed and put forth the effort to converse, perhaps even pass myself off as normal without anyone noticing. It was a sort of trance-like state, almost – a voluntary psychedelic state which could be broken, I felt, at any time; unlike when the hardcore psych-phenethlyamine-tryptamine (etc) get their claws into your frontal lobe. That being said; the sensory experience I gave into after nothing but a few tokes of Thai weed and fifty minutes of hyperventilating was indeed, to all intents and purposes, a trip.
Fireworks, lights, spinning glows, “you will see the fireworks”, eventually fiery constellations and then the cosmos itself, the mysteries of the cosmos, unravelled and unlocked, travelling headfirst down the rotating tunnel of lights, beams and transmitters, the cosmos, focus on its mysteries and the big matters of life not the pettiness of small dramas and triviality of small brains and how they behave towards and around you,
Lights and stars, a slideshow of the cosmos, out of the tunnel and into a spinning show, installations and structures of light turning and spinning on an axis like the world, sending powerful beams out in all directions, illuminating everything, faces form, remembering the friends emotionally invested in the year before, relax, you know deep down that they’re unhappy or just unsatisfied with their own lives if they still wish you ill, there is regret there, they miss you as you miss them, all have said that, they just cannot help their own bad traits and negativity, not worth worrying about, either forgive and allow them into your life again or keep them on the sidelines or out of your life altogether, it doesn’t really matter, you are going where you’re going, you’re on a journey, it’s a ride, it’s a ride
Judging from the notes and the tempo change in my trip, it was at this point, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes in and in the depths of a sort of shallow introspection (relative to current situations and headspace) but with visuals and some synesthesia, that the other young grasshopper in the living room took it upon himself to call out to me. Outrageous behaviour; what the fuck, ninja? You’re jacking my buzz. So much is invested in this. You buzz-harshing, peasant wanker.
I quickly got up, knowing eventually he’d need his room back and wanting solitude, and, resenting the re-entry into the real world I ran dizzily to the front door, in the process giving some kind of quick disclaimer as an excuse to fuck off, along the lines of “just one minute mate”. I ran into my own casa, turned the lights off and lay on the bed.
Fuck. Is the high gone? That fucking American.
Then with eyes closed, thankfully, it resumed. Strangely enough, it was dark shapes that formed. I tried to visualise the colour green. Tried hard, with every fibre of my being, my forehead and eyebrows bunched and fists clenched in effort, but I couldn’t visualise any green, or even bright colour at all – a marked shift from the red, bright yellow, bright orange, burning sun of lights that were forming installations and God knows what else in my early stages of the trip. Now the shapes were all grey.
Grey shapes, twisted figures. Dead trees, dead leaves, decay. Can’t visualise colour
Familiar faces, friends from years ago, more recent friends, former friends, everyone in the past. No contact. Transient nature, the passenger.
Even recently, emotional investment in people and then no longer part of your life. The nature of life; life’s own transience. Inter-personal relationships mirror that. Accept. But don’t go with the flow, make the flow
Face of former lovers form into younger and more beautiful faces, play it cool and keep developing, you will see much better out there, there is much better out there, you will have much better, you will enjoy much more, tomorrow never knows, you are young, there’s a lot left to experience, constancy and consistency, never get complacent or lose passion, never give in to the indulgence of misery, ride on and keep going down that tunnel, high is better than low, love hurts but it will never hurt again that badly, experience brings wisdom, wisdom brings judgement, judgement brings happiness, good experiences bring happiness, good experiences come from good judgement and wisdom while still retaining youth and fire, don’t ever get jaded, don’t ever give up, don’t ever quit on life
Faces form, a succession of women, you are going places, dark and light, the faces are dark and light, smiling and scowling, it represents the good and bad that will happen, the duality of the people you’ll meet, everyone is a walking dichotomy
Whatever the trip was trying to give me in the way of introspection (much in the same vein as earlier – relevant to current situation and varied insecurities, priorities and the like), I was nevertheless bothered by the inability to visualise a bright, pretty colour. In a jungle habitat up a mountain, a beautiful dream world, my visuals were dull; of decay and death.
At this point, I turned my face towards the bathroom and the only light turned on in the place, and what little of it penetrated my closed eyelids was enough to turn the shapes brighter colours. And at last, I got my desired green.
Green lights; “Life is not so bad. It is dark and light. Every person is a dichotomy. Every month will bring highs and lows. Appreciate all, it is all part of the ride“.
My high started to focus on the light. Beams and structures again, but not a tunnel, just bright shapes twisting. Something within told me “Light is Important. Light is Everything”. So I let go again.
Light is important, light is everything, taught that by the changed position to look towards the electric light in the bathroom to bring green light into the high, that shows that sometimes you have to change your position on things to adapt and move on through life, it makes sense, be liquid, be adaptable, but also retain yourself and your true spirit, also light is everything, understand and appreciate light and sound and sight, the main sensory necessities in life and the necessary ingredients of this world
The world is one big organic life form – a living, evolving thing. Its micro-organisms reproducing themselves, the water and vegetation a constant, always replenished, its surface scarred by the concrete and constructions of humanity. It is the entity we all live on
Are we parasites sucking the life and vitality out of this earth? The planet we’ve defaced.
Enjoy the slideshow, tapering down – grey shapes, the darkness present, but also positively; the light always follows, there is more light for sure, there is more in the way of positivity, you are a chosen one, one of life’s winners, the lightness in your own world
Certainly – judging from the notes and memory alike – the thought process was somewhat more banal than the more incise, intense, hard-hitting ‘universal truths’ that can occur on acid and mescaline – for which obviously I take responsibility, as well as the shamanic exercise. That being said; I daresay the majority of hardcore trips on phenethylamines and tryptamines would result in a more transcendental thought process for just about anyone than my own ‘light/parasitic humans/be positive’ theme.
But still, interesting – to me at least – to read after, in the warm light of a new morning. Lights, the cosmos… early focus on hugely bright, flashing “installations” of light, a reflection that I as with every single human amongst us, is on a journey? “Tunnel” – travelling on that journey, down that tunnel, the ride of life?
In some ways; this pseudo-introspective trip was actually much more limited than with the use of actual psychedelic drugs; LSD, Mescaline, Psilocybin Mushrooms and the empathogen & phenethylamine/tryptamine families (notably 2CB, 2CI and crystal MDMA) all produce deeper introspection and external reflections on life than merely “light”, and help the brain delve deeper into “the personal journey”.
That being said, it was nevertheless interesting to purposefully trick the brain into reproducing the effects needed to create a psychedelic trip-like state, without the aid of any chemical or natural component to stimulate it.
So… in looking at bright lights and structures of beaming light, that would have to be positivity? “A future so bright I need shades“, old cocky comment I stole from the legendary Paragon of Virtue that is Sir Chris Jericho. Perhaps it is something along those lines. OR, possibly a reminder to appreciate the beauty of life, the beauty of the cosmos. And a reminder to try to understand more of it.
Keep learning, keep understanding, you will get there. The cosmos and its mysteries. A Champagne Supernova in the sky.
Then, inter-personal relationships.
That one is a piece of piss; it couldn’t be easier to work out. A succession of faces forming, some scowling, some smiling. People in whom “the tripper” invested in emotionally and who are no longer part of his life = the transience of life manifested in the transience of relationships with other people – and the people yet to meet, who are waiting at another juncture down the road of life. People to meet further down the ride.
Old faces replaced by new. It is “nature of the beast”. Ride on with new passengers. Everyone has a story. “Wish former friends well, and move on” is one thought that persists post-high. So, while not a hellishly intense introspection a la 2cb on a bad day, more a gentle chiding of self. ‘Do things right – be positive!’ Hardly the stuff of revelations – nothing revolutionary – but certainly not a bad vibe to encounter.
The “don’t quit on life, always appreciate beauty” part speaks for itself. Doesn’t need a breakdown; just listen to John Lennon’s “Instant Karma”, and that sums up it with a bingo, bango, bongo, whoomp – der it is.
The subsequent focus on light was more interesting. Obviously just the potentially confused ravings of a warped and twisted mind, but for the mind in question, intriguing as to why such focus was on that. At one point I tried changing the direction of my thought process and – much like the refusal to visualise green – my trip kept bringing light up, voices speaking to me about its importance and to focus on it, understand it (yeah – sounds like the ultimate druggie talk, “understand light, man”) and one allegory that was of particular interest was “light can be channelled. It’s interchangeable”.
“Changing position to stare at the light represents life; change position, be interchangeable, be adaptable, be liquid; liquid thinking, liquid approach to life, be pragmatic and impractical, be disciplined and passionate, be calm and wild.”
Food for thought…
The rest I’ll keep to myself. Some of it was banal, some of it was ‘everyday’ and bland, some was interesting and intriguing – the usual Quixotic Peace Love Unity Respect idealism and We Are All One empathogenic warmth – most of it was detailed here in this article, and some of it possibly carried no resonance or meaning but was simply beautiful imagery; a reminder to appreciate beauty in all its forms.
One step closer to a champagne supernova in the cosmos. And all without either toxins or fungi; cacti or blotter paper. Shamanic breathing, brothers and sisters, it was merely heavy breathing and the green that took me there. The ends justified the means – just barely.
Invest in beauty so that your life and mind be not impoverished, but inspiring and inspired.
“The Infamous” ~Daniel S.Fletcher