by Senor S.
It's no secret that I smoke salvia, but the story I tell you may be a secret if I don't tell you now. I have just taken this combination and am now getting over the feelings of insanity that were momentarily tearing my mind apart.
I am me, but who am I really? All of this was revealed not ten minutes ago when I finished my third bowl of salvia divinorum 10x extract.
I hung out with my friend tonight and I hooked him up with some DXM from the store; he promptly went into a deep sleep. While he was asleep, I decided to make myself some ayahuasca, because I had some syrian rue seeds and there's an acacia maidenii tree right next to my house. I had always wanted to try this. I came up with an interesting recipe based on what I knew: 3 g syrian rue (unground), 1 oz. tree bark (ground), and 1 coca cola. I had tasted the rue before, it's a horrid seed that made me puke, but as in a vision I saw that the bark and seeds tasted vaguely like coke and would complement it nicely. They did. I cooked the stew for about 20 minutes on medium heat. It was a bit syruppy, but definitely drinkable. I drank most of a cup I made and then played pool with my friend. He won.
He left, I was feeling good (despite defeat), but the stuff hadn't really kicked in. Ok, I didn't even grind the seeds, so I wasn't expecting much, but you know what would be great right now, I thought, salvia. So I smoked at least 3 bowls of this 10x stuff I had just bought. Under this influence I soon felt a push downwards, down into a nearby comforter, down past the chair by my desk, down past the canyon that was the world. By the way, I have no tolerance for drugs.
I was led into the salvia dimension. A dimension of aztec warriors, green, and yellow. I was trapped under pillars of the Aztec temple. It seemed like I was talking to somebody and laughing with them, but who were they? I must be insane. But such notions only brought on the laugh of a maniac. I was a maniac. Maybe I still am. The laughs that echoed forth were those of a crazed indian or those of an insane asylum patient doing an impression of woody woodpecker. And then a name came to me. Of course, Johnny Mexicano, he was the ruler of this land, he was the Mexican prince. But how would they (everyone I know) believe me, I cackled. It all sounded so absurd. But this was it my friends, a fantasy in my mind of what a salvia experience could be. I wanted to meet Johnny Mexicano today, maybe I didn't know it, maybe I didn't know his name, but deep down inside, the goofy bastard that is me was Johnny Mexicano. What does it all mean???
It seems that I always compare myself to people, that I always want to take on the traits of a certain stereotype. I think we all do this, hence we pigeonhole ourselves into a group that we can belong to. Well, not everyone, there are normal people out there, a select few, but I refer to the general, middle-class, socially-oppressed people that fill the starry-eyed homes of suburbia. With our measly hopes and aspirations. I have come to aspire to little, but insodoing I have aspired to Johnny Mexicano: the suave, gun-toting desperado. I smoke my cigars, I just smoked one, Optimo brand, featuring the stereotypical Columbian plantation owner on its front. Maybe I don't belong to any group in reality, I'm just a human animal, sent here to balance out the universe, but I know for damn sure that I'm not a cigar puffing plantation owner from South America with millions of dollars and hordes of women. It's all a fantasy, even for the real-life Johnny Mexicano.
The madness has subsided, and I come away a changed man. I'm reminded of the Mexico ride at Walt Disney World's Epcot. I think that salvia for me is like a trip down that, my favorite ride there. Anyway, I'm lucky I didn't run off and do something stupid, that I was plastered to the floor. And I just thought that this was an interesting experience that all should share.
During the salvia trip I was listening to Caravan: Canterbury Tales. I don't know about you, but this music immediately catches me as salvia music: upbeat, kind of trippy, I guess you could call it gypsy music, but then again, I was just talking about some guy in my head named Johnny Mexicano.
