I can’t remember whether I got round to writing up my last mushroom experience or not – so apologies if you’ve been on this particular trip with me before – but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately so I’m writing about it now. Maybe again – who knows?
I’d had a pretty unpleasant time on 3.5g in my flat – after an unutterably beautiful al fresco trip on 3g wandering the cliffs – so I went out with 3g again and spent hours roaming around in a shifty fashion, putting it off, trying to find the ideal place to take it and then mooched off home, somewhat annoyed that I’d not taken the trip outside but determined to do so the second I got home. The instant I was thrgouh the door I squeezed a couple of lemons and poured the juice over the powdered shrooms, left it twenty minutes, glugged it down – fucking putrid – just a few throatfuls of chunks of musty dust in a base of absolute sourness – got in the shower, figuring hot water might help offset the usual tryptamine shivers. Twenty minutes after that, I was in clean, comfortable clothes, my expertly curated playlist doing its thang, smoking a cigarette, starting to feel like I sshould maybe lie down and close my eyes. A few moments in, I was ascending over a clifftop, above a cheerfully rendered two dimensional lanscape, like something from a vintage postcard – tyere was a couple playing tennis, a black kid on a bicycle, a black eyed seagull swoopnig over all of it, followed by an incrasing sense of dread and nausea.
I’d decided when compiling my playlist that some Faure’s Requiem would be nice – but the tracks sounded dismal and oppressive, wallowing in sufferinig, and then I completely misremembered where I firsr heard a track – actually found myself reliving a memory of listening to the music with someone who’d been dead long before I’D ever heard it but the memory was there – an impossible memory – of us listening to it together, and I realised that once my memories stopped making sense, once they couldn’t be reliably lined up and put in order, that I didn’t exist in any way that made any kind of sense.
I began struggling with the increasingly urgent need to vomit. I refused to let go of it – looking back, letting go of my lunch might have turned some kinda cosmic key to help me let go of my mind, man…but I just sat up and did loads of miserable little swallows and after about an hour and a half I actually thought I’d peaked and could start going about to my daily bullshit again – but of course I couldn’t and was back on the sofa again – dancing occassionally – as I chose to stand and endure the emotions that these songs that came from a past I didn’t remember engendered before becoming so convinced I was going to vomit that I staggered thrugh to the kitchen and splashed cold tap water ver my face, which made me feel I was drowning, then I felt I was dissolving and going mad and moght need to call an ambulance but they’d all be out doing bring out your dead shit woth covid 19 so I thought briefly about phoning a friend and getting them to bring me a trip killing dose of diazepam but decided that the second I called them I would feel like I’d irreversibly admitted to myself that I had lost my shit and needed outaide intervention to save me and that would be when things got TRULY terrifying. I knew I had to ride it out – I knew this was a panic attack – I knew that, I dunno, I looked at the utterly meangingless numerals written in felt pen on the bqck of my hand, the time I’d started my trip, had only a couple of REALLY rough hours left and that all I could do was sit with my head in my hands, so unsure of who I was that at one point I half opened my eyes to squint at those hands, because I was unsure as to whether I was still a white man or might now be a black woman.
I was still a white male – with several hours of not being able to see or think straight ahead of him…