Citation: tyme. "Remember to Laugh: experience with DPT (ID 36389)". Erowid.org. Aug 10, 2005. erowid.org/exp/36389
||(powder / crystals)
This was my first time trying this substance. I consider myself a veteran psychonaut. Set and setting were both quite good Ė at home, alone, at night, good music, candlelight, smudging ceremony to begin, no real sitter but my wife and child sleeping peacefully in the bedroom. No effect for 10 to 15 minutes after snorting, and then wham-o: felt like the rollercoaster at the top of the first hill and Iím along for the very high velocity ride.
Before too long, I was a completely retarded wheel-chair bound spastic flitting through a hundred non-socially sanctioned nor understood ways of interpreting the strange flashes of perception racing through my racked system. I was a black female slave abducted and trying to survive on the ship taking her to her god-only-knows-too-damn-well new life in the new world. I was an ancient tribal shaman participating in an all male fertility rite centered around worshipping crocodiles. I was a drunk incest-born retard of a hillbilly listening to insects make music accompanying it with my own gibberish sounds and having more fun than most sophisticated souls probably dare to dream is possible. I was a very sophisticated Arabian prince, vain and jaded and ever-seeking a pleasure that always seemed to be just out of reach (if only he could have talked to the retard hillbilly). I was a country-boy whose humble shack had just been invaded by ruffians who were probably going to get the best of me in the end, and I was smart enough to be properly afraid of the possibility. I was the ruffian next, that was a bit more fun but man, will I respect myself in the morning?
I was a man who had just watched the storm blow down his house and kill his wife and child, clinging to life in the howling gale and wondering how he could be so stupid as to want to continue on. I was a powerful world leader with my hand on the button of a very big nuclear arsenal and some power-mad demon whispering in my ear that pushing it would seal my fate as the most significant human that had ever lived. I was a psychotic homicidal maniac, drowning in an ever-tightening spiral of negative emotion and strange twisted purpose encircling me like some pre-destined but self-tied noose. I was an honest man, grew up to be like my father and wed a nice-enough woman and raised my kids to be honest too, and lived a right safe and blessedly boring life, wondering geez, is this it? I was a skinny senile wisp of an old man, not really caring as his last tooth fell out and able on some level to giggle along with the universe at what a joke he had become in the end.
I was the mystical shaman-magician, crafting the cosmic forces of chaos into an internal elixir of power and transmutation, finally bored with the intricate esoteric labyrinths of knowledge that I ultimately came to see were just paths I was making up as I went along, pretending there was some worthwhile goal to make the whole thing meaningful, some final full comprehension of the inexplicable fact of existence itself which I knew in my heart could never be attained, and yet the striving for which could never be shut off. And I was this kinda kooky 40 year old hipster, wacked out on yet another chemical in a very strange mountain climb up the steep face of the poison path, wandering around the candle-lit living room wondering when itís gonna stop.
5-MeO-DMT makes ultra-sense out of my little life. I see it from a zillion perspectives and yet there is some integrated sense of bliss, of incredible wonder at the infinity that The I endlessly is creating, and of my interconnectedness with it all. DPT is like the mutant twin of this baby Ė something feels gummy about it, like my brain needs a lighter grade of lubricant than this to properly run and execute the higher die and be reborn patterns. Or maybe itís just that, on DPT the hyper-meanings of my life as seen from a zillion perspectives at once are not integrated by the relatively benign body-sensation of 5-MeO-DMT into a tasty bitter-sweet morsel of Foreverness, but rather quasi-integrated by a sort-of-upset body sensation into a gut-churning chunk of impossible to digest fire-and-grease existential rollercoaster definitely bound to jump its rails. Maybe itís all just a question of body-load multiplied into outrageously meaningful proportions by the hyper-sensitivity to all sensation brought on by DPT. Yet Ayahuasca with its much heavier nausea potential does not do this to me. Can your brain vomit? Take DPT and see! (Not intended as serious advice).
Remember mostly this: Normal reality is a most blessed state of consciousness, and quite rare actually. If I could simply remember to appreciate it for all that it is not Ė not any one of the umpteen-zillion ways it could be far weirder and in all likelihood much worse. DPT gives me a very substantial taste of the umpteen-zillion ways. A big ole gut- and brain-ful of them.
Should I just lie down and regress into a rebirthing trauma release thing? (I actually did this as I was coasting into what is turning out to be a very nice landing, and had a ďprimal coughĒ Ė a brief period of struggling to breathe when I didnít really know what breathing is, or would be, and then suddenly succeeding in booting up my breathing with a big first cough of spewing stuck fluid/energy out of my throat, and being basically delighted but so worn out and humbled by the big struggle for existence I just went through that I couldnít manage more than a few gurgles of weak relief after the initial primal eruption of phlegm-spew.)
Anyway, Iím getting way ahead of myself and destroying the spastic chaotic ambiance Iím trying to re-create here for you. Back to my existential crisis at the peak: Where is the fucking off switch? Why didnít I wire one in when I set this whole existence thing up? Is it too late to re-engineer and install one now? What happens if I succeed in shutting it off?
There is a trans-sane sobriety that Iíve encountered in these realms: there is no way out of existence Ė for those of us on this side of the existence/inexistence boundary, weíre lifers. And mortal death is no escape, not when it is clear that all consciousness is interconnected, generic: when it slips from the grip of my individual body/brain/identity, it's just going to recoagulate in some other form on some level or another. The one unexplainable thing about consciousness is that it wonít shut off. And the Holy Grail seems to be nothing more the off switch. But thereís no off switch. Thatís the bottomless bottom line: thereís no bottom. And no end to it. Trapped ever so tidily up in infinity, and yet daring to dream of even more space. And the final joke: this is no joke. No, seriously. They ainít laughing in hell. Especially at that tired-ass joke. But it is a bit funny that here, as ďfucked up on drugsĒ as Iíve arguably ever been in my life (and that, for me, relatively intrepid explorer of the poison path that I am, is saying something), I feel like Iíve attained a hopeless and truly awful sobriety Ė there is truly no way out of this wall-less prison of awareness.
We spend most of lives successfully deluding ourselves that we live in a universe that makes some bit of sense. Waking up and smelling the coffee of cosmic insanity, well, it takes its toll. Sure itís fun. Itís all fun and games until someone loses an I. Or finds that there is only one eye, and I am a cosmic comic Cyclops tripping through a world thatís just a little more dimensional than my one eye will show me.
Spinning through a zillion worlds and ways of worlds being and incarnations and speciations and alienations and multidudenous dimensions that canít even be organized so trying is going to just bust down your bio-computer and you can hear it popping electrically: pitz pitz splatter. You can have that identity that reality that mode of being, I wasnít using it, I mean I was using it, but you can have it, no Iím tired of that now anyway, even if I didnít really understand the first thing about it: I did understand the second thing Ė that it wonít sit still enough to let me figure out now what the hell it is and I think itís just me looking at myself looking at myself looking at myselfÖ.
Insane epiphany: I am mystically blissfully interconnectly One with a Universe that is totally fucking certifiably insane, and thereís nothing I (nor any temporary illusion of ďother identityĒ) can do about it. And there is no Other to blame, or save me, or kill me and take me out of my fucking inexplicable torment Ė I canít turn myself off. I canít even say that I donít love it. I mean I love it, I hate it, it bores me to tears, it amazes the fuck out of me, every possible reaction you name it Iíve had it. I invented it. I am it. Yeah baby that was me. I get every first prize in the Olympic race in a field of One (count them again) participants that canít be won. You might think it was you, but hey, that was me too, just trying to fool myself. And failing. But I canít face my own failure. Is that the off switch. If I turn the switch off, and it goes back on, then what? Does that prove Iím not alone? Or just on automatic reboot?
I kept coming back to this image, of approaching the core of my existence, of all existence, and there It was, this incredibly bright speck of light and heat and kinetic energy that was too intense to look at, too fast to catch, too hot to hold, too wild to control, and much too strong to extinguish. I recognized this intuitively as some ultimate or divine principle, but rather than the blissful co-mingling with the Source that I have been graced with experiencing on other entheogenic journeys, this was uncomfortable. More like unendurable. Think of Job when he finally meets Jehovah to ask him why all the suffering, and God just answers by blowing Job's mind with how huge and powerful He is. I always thought Job copped out a bit by not pressing for a more reasonable explanation, but I have much more sympathy for him now. There was little I could do but turn tail and run too, but there was no losing It. It was in me, after all, the light illuminating all my experience, consciousness itself, mine and otherwise.
DPT? I wouldnít if I were you. And I am. You. And I speak from experience. But do I listen to myself? Who else is there it listen to? Well the echoes. Yeah, very cool echoes. When you can spin through every form of life, human or otherwise, that has graced this and many an other planet all without leaving your couch, who needs Others anyway? Of course this could just be a big rationalization for the outrageous-to-consider possibility that there is an Other (maybe even more than one?) and their intentions may not be honorable. Oh, storms of war rage through me in archetypal strokes of meaning and intensity, and the hurricane blows, and I am lost without hope or even will to want to regain it: nothing but the pain of loss. But no rest, no, into the ground and up with the worms and evolve into animal again and up up up to this quintessence of consciousness where I can preen like a peacock until my balls are bluer than my feathers Iím so turned on by myself and there is no release that doesnít turn into a plateau rising toward yet another peak which is one more endless wave in the endless dance of vibration that is not even holy because there is no unhole to compare it to.
If I werenít so vain Iíd die of boredom anyway. Itís all fun and games, yes yes but I could do without the encounters with my evil twin, who lurks inside of me plotting to psychotically murder all those whom I truly love in this life. Who wants to gain ultimate power in the world just so he can blow it all up. Who will eat everything and turn it all to shit and then choke trying to eat that too. Yeah, meeting him was not fun. Like doing an exorcism on yourself, and the demon you pull out of your butt has your own (hideously twisted) face on it. That ainít no joke. Yes yes enjoy your snide little laughter now baby, cause they ainít laughing in hell. Especially at that tired old joke.
Yes, the lack of laughter in hell is no joke at all, but most of the rest of this is. I think if nothing else I extracted from this journey a serious sharpening of my funny bone, and an enhanced awareness of what a powerful tool this is to have in my life and on my entheogenic explorations. My ass might be the only smart part of me, but I think my sense of humor was enough to save me tonight. I went to The-Place-Of-No-Laughter hell down many different roads, but didnít get stuck in there because I kept remembering that there is no laughter in hell, and someone (was it me?) somehow found that or something else blowing through my mind funny, and I laughed myself free (again and again) of the many demons clutching at my bones with intent to crunch them. Keep giggling my friends. All of yaís! Yeah, you too, bone-crunching demons all wearing my face Ė giggle your butts right out of hell and turn into angels ready to shit on your bossesí heads and tear down the hierarchyÖ
Okay, starting to come down a little. Remembering some of my basic notions of psychedelic psychotherapy, yes, the tool belt is strapped on, yup. I think I need to complete this birth perinatal matrix now and shift it up a notch. Yes, thanks, thatís much better.
'Donít do DPT without a very good trip sitter.' One that I would trust completely because they could probably get me to believe anything they wanted when I'm on this shit baby - this is a truly weird lens on the world, and I cannot recommend it and have almost no idea if Iíll ever be in a mood to try it again. The best thing I can say about it is that I came down in three or four hours, but when I'm in the hyper-dimensional geeko realm of DPT, time takes on hideously horribly new shades of meaning.
I have this short story idea about a future society in which electronic drugs have been perfected: direct wires into your brain to stimulate whatever pleasure and excitation or relaxation knobs you care to twiddle with. Turns out all the pleasant electro-drugs are hopelessly addictive and rot the lives of whoever tries them. But some crazed explorers of the far reaches of experience create a hell-box, a frequency pattern of electrical brain stimulation that mimics their idea of hell Ė every sense registering awful or extremely painful, emotions twisted into fight/flight panic confusion, cognition just a cruel certitude that there is no escape from this torment, it is forever. Just one quarter second of this hell-box juice and wham-o, your ordinary life suddenly appears so so sweet by comparison, you kiss the earth for not being lava and bless the birds singing or the car horns blaring because they are sooo much better than that jet engine howl that was just ripping your ear drums into little bloody pieces, and kiss your wife even though before you did the hell-box you could barely stand her but wow she is a much better partner than the crocodile alien who was anally raping you with a red-hot poker back there in the hell-box quarter second that wouldnít end (but it did, oh it did, sweet relief).
I donít know how to weave a plot line or a good ending into this set-up, but anyway: DPT is kind of like that for me. A hell-box, and typing here now in beautifully unweird mundane ordinary consciousness seems like a very real and potent blessing. Anyway, it all probably says a lot more about me than DPT, but you knew that already. I must have a thing for crocodiles, gotta go meditate on that one. But for now meditating on ďThank youĒ and sending it to all I behold and the mysterious I that is beholding it, that is doing me much better.
Experience Reports are the writings and opinions of the individual authors who submit them.
Some of the activities described are dangerous and/or illegal and none are recommended by Erowid.