Mushrooms - P. cubensis
Citation: DreamWithin. "I am the Universe: An Experience with Mushrooms - P. cubensis (exp113204)". Erowid.org. May 24, 2019. erowid.org/exp/113204
Trip Report 26 April 2019
I am in my mid fifties and have not tripped since my late twenties.
I am in my mid fifties and have not tripped since my late twenties.
I have had perhaps 20 - 30 experiences with acid and less than half a dozen light experiences with fresh mushrooms. I am an atheist and philosophical materialist.
18:45 Ingested 5 grams of powdered Psilocybin Cubensis (Golden Teacher) after mixing with fresh lemon juice for 20 minutes. This was defined by Terence McKenna as a heroic dose.
19:30 I lie down in silent darkness.
It begins with the afterimage of lights on the eyelids slowly morphing into eddies of dull colour monochromatic patterns. The images gradually become more geometric and fractal. They are continuously moving and start to pool together and bleed into each other. Like mini production lines of Escheresque optical illusions. They are happening all over the visual field. I can zoom in and out and they are replicated at each different level. The images begin to be accompanied by recurring sounds, flipping and swishing, bouncing around my mind. I hear wind rattling windows outside. Find it mildly irritating and put earplugs in to attenuate the external sounds.
This is a really good idea as it provides a barrier from reality and a psychological step back into reality if things get too intense.
I have feelings of preparation for blast off. Feelings of imminent take off. As if things are roiling and swirling readying to explode. This is liquid, it is happening in the sub linguistic zone. I am below sea level in the mind, gaining tension, coiling the spring, mixing the hot alchemical forces to the point of volcanic eruption. Liftoff is imminent.
Detach wick from the side. Light blue touch paper and stand back.
I am the universe!
Accompanied by a multiplicity of rending noises I take off into inner space. Into the giddying free flight of iridescent light. Light in the newborn realm. Light of the revelation, of the great expanse wending through the frames of all that is and will be. Flashing towards the universal agnostic event horizon. We dance on the knife edge of time. I am me and we and them all floating in the swirling pools of opaline lights. I, god and the expanse. This is the start of the framework of existence. Splash the tongue of white flame in the super intoxicating giant. The moonlight into fast light all along the line of bright lights. It the joining and rejoining of infinite spires of light.
Keep breathing. Focus on the breath. We are surfing the void.
Lost in the beachhead of the internal wilderness. I am we fragmenting into split screen basalt stone monoliths and the point horizon. The Zen-infused reckless light of imploding darkness. I am disinterring the blue coins at midnight. Pooling in the endless titanic wonder of incandescence. Reconstituting and deconstituting reflux flux swirling vortex of the late period of now.
Frost coated wandering tendrils on the outskirts of the universe touching all that is and was and will be looping like water dripping into the pond of intrepid creation. I am the wandering of the the stars. I have built the universal battleship of creative energy.
I am lost. I am not Iost. I am nothingness floating through the inner void. This formless chaos of existential beauty lifting and lulling, rolling and whorling. This is Kantian mindscape. Glades of everprescence. Voluminous waves of orgasmic beauty lost in the teleological splinterings of the heavenly void.
I am Kabbala, inchworm of the setting sun. The telegraphic space. Intravenous molecular driftwood floating in the skywaves of the oceanic masterplan. I am at the dawn of religions. Cave painting in pre linguistic humanity.
Waves, waves, waves, waves, waves, waves, waves.
Maldororian waves of beauty. Crashing upon me. Crashing down and churning me in all directions.
Breathe, keep breathing. Focus on breathing. Don’t panic.
Approaching notional event horizon.
Fear is the weaponry of infinite darkness
I am lost light queueing in the magnetic resonator. Strange attractor in the sub atomic atavistic reactor.
This is getting intense. Approaching light speed in the epic void.
Still coming up in waves. Waves of light, hollow darkness at the slipstream. Fear, ever present fear. Lurking in the whirlpool of shadows. Malevolent forces waiting for me to fall, to descend into the abyss. The ink black walls of the basement of darkness.
Keep breathing, focus on breathing.
Keep breathing, focus on breathing.
What is breathing? Am I still breathing?
Breathing is the link in the chain of life.
I am all that was before me. I am at the edge of time. I am at the edge of infinitude. I am blue-green algae in the infinite lake of knowingness. I am the fascination of lipstick and the fonthead of creation. I am the whiteness of God’s beard in the sky. In the darklight of the day/night sky. All is one in the waves of light.
Waves, waves waves.
Waves of beauty and harmonic ecstasy crash down upon me. I am pulverised by beauty. Endless, limitless, infinite beauty spinning me through time. I am the words at the building of the the first stone structure. The hewing of basalt. The architecture of the infinite. Dust in the the looking glass. Remnant of the ice ages. Riven with the shame of poison. We are the tip of the spear, the algae in the pond, the moss on the gates of the castle. Into the marked sphere of relevance.
I am spark in the night. The lost longing for light. I am gloworm, firefly, luminous mushroom, flashes in the waves. I am bioluminescence in the night. I am hollow of darkness. Marked in space by reverie. The place between. The inevitable eventuality. The interstices. The magnetic hollow of infinite free light.
Addiction is pleasure times habit times the negative harmonics elevated by positive feedback looping into the darkness of the spirit void.
We are the remnants of creation. The spectral monsters of the Spanish conquistadors. The right light is the sparkling enervations of being.
In the beginning there was silence.
Silence… Quiet… Nothingness…
All is silence. Silence is all.
Endless repetition of the wordless world.
Sound is the spark from the void. The long lost longing of the darkness. It is here where the night generates her beauty and her terror. Here when the listless tenor of formlessness erupts into laughter. The supple beauty of skin. The softness of the inner/outer, the touch of silken forgiveness.
All the light in love.
It is love. Love at the unspoken forgiveness. Love is the heart of forgiveness and it is forgiveness that is the replenishing virtue. The circumstance of happenstance. Of joy at the wonders of life. Everything melts into the volcanic fountainhead of this ecstatic revelation. The fierceness of spirit. The fecundity of the creative force. Here is the precise moment of the religious impulse. The heart beating at the beginning of WE. The essence of light is within us. The fruiting body of ephemera. Shorn off the golden fleece. The ecstatic pain emanating ever outwards.
O the light. O the joy! The extant muse. The wonder of mutation in the fluid spirit of the universal wonderer. Here, where we must not die of astonishment.
Keep breathing. I am in the waves. I am the waves. Burning, churning sub linguistic manifold esoterica.
I am the waves. Burning, churning sub linguistic manifold esoterica.
From the frost into the marked man. The substance of hurtling space dust at the forest of life. The spark and the meteor. The metre, the rhythm, the white light expanding over metaphor. The dogs of time barking at infinity. The curling madness of love, beauty and desire hidden in the thumbprint of humanity.
Where is the touch of life? The opaline wash of sensuality. The pearl in the tongue of gratitude. Now is the echo vibrating into the entire coagulating crash of insensate love. Reproducing endless waves of poetic light exploding into wishes of planetary/interplanetary survival. The nightship of the blind horizon. Setting sail in the winds of the stars. I am hogwash in the melting pot, split in myriad ways and rent asunder. The cauldron of childhood, the daily magic of the setting sun, the fleet of neutrinos emanating from the shellfish on the rocks under the first wave.
I declare ‘the surrealists were right!’
This is getting too intense!!!
I am losing sight of the shore. I am wave, waving at me in the distance. Evermore, evermore.
Visitation of Chantleberry Thinkstomp. He is the lurker on the frontier of the numinous. He is the phantasmagoric entity that stands behind my dreamlife. My personal daemon. He is a trickster. Cunning and malevolent. He is laughter in the crepuscule. The sentience from the void. He is whimsy and terror. He is the untrustworthy one. He is waiting in the shadows. He is watching me. I do not remember seeing him for decades. I suspect he visits me in my dreams but only remember him from when he visits me during my psychedelic wanderings. He is stick-man skinny and holds a cane. He jumps and clicks his heels. He wears a question mark above his hat. He laughs at my triumphs and mocks my despair. He is my entropic muse.
He is here but does not reveal himself this time. I know all this from his previous visits. He is watching...
Keep breathing. Focus on the breath of life. I call out in the darkness. Lisa are you there? Silence in the darkness of nevermore. I hold my breath. Keep breathing? I am fragment walking in the desert of solitude. Watching the waves above me. Waves waves waves. Fear is the mother of endless darkness. I taste the metal in the mouth of the universe. Interrogation of the one name in space, interstitial space touching the relentless void of silence.
She comes in the room. I am here, not here. I am rival of the corpseblood sinking in the veil of the cold summer shield. Am I in bed? Comfort, pillows, the touch of her hand. Am I in hospital? Can I sink beneath existence? Where exactly is here? Am I longing for the endless night of death. I feel the touch of her hand rooting me in the world. Is her hand a machine? Am I touching her or her touching me. Where do I end and she begins? Touch of mescaline annihilation in the substrate of existence. Is this permanent?
I feel my mother’s dementia. Can I touch the words. I begin to understand dementia. I see it from the inside. Will I become trapped in the forever of now? I can feel the darkness lurking. I speak the words ‘Julian Assange’. For he is incarcerated by the malevolent forces in the real world. The message is the word. Truth does not always set your free. Truth can plunge you into darkness. Lisa tells me it's better not to think of him at the moment.
The endless comfort of pillows and blankets. Arabian nights in the swirls of pleasure. I have spoken, there are words. I stand up, disorientated in an amorphous haze of room echoing around me. I am experiencing phenomenological echoes. Echoes of time and space. I make it to the toilet, trailing myself behind me, being patient to relieve myself. I splash water on the dark face in the mirror, endless vortices pooling around me. I am still coming up. Time has came and went. I am seeking some anchor into this reality so I do not become lost in this dream forever.
Am I back in bed? Am I in hospital?
Is this my deathbed? Am I on opiates? Breathing shallow on my last breaths? Is she holding my hand as my life gradually ebbs away?
Focus on breathing. Staying alive is the point. You stay alive by breathing. Keep breathing.
I am in my mother's head. Beautiful soul. Lost in the noise of memory.
Noise all around me. One must seek the silence?
Is the silence death? Is the silence the siren song of death?
Am I tired? What is tired? Is the song of sleep the promise of endlessness?
Lisa is my anchor, my harpoon, my target. She is endless forgiveness and love.
Love is in the room. Love melts the fear. I am loved for she loves me.
I am surrounded by love. She is forgiveness. In the hollowness of life she marks the way.
It is to her that I owe my forgiveness. That I owe my love in the punishing nights of the lost soul.
I drink in her love. 'Water'.
She gives me water in a glass. I am careful not to spill. I am water in this space. The glass, the gulp, the moment echo around the room. Is the glass real? Is reality a dream? Am I behind reality?
This is getting too intense!
I am overheating. I sit up and pull the legs of my pants up.
Am I losing? Will this disintegrate into fear and madness and loathing.
Try not to focus on the uncomfortable.
Lie down in love. Do not succumb to the presence of fear.
Surf the waves. Surf this existence. Stay with the positive.
Here is the lesson.
I am holding her hand. We are meshed together. Is this real?
I am holding her hand. We are meshed together. Is this real?
I kiss her hand and tell her she puts up with so much from me. I love her for she is the most amazing thing in my life.
I love my children, Ben and Jas and Nate. Forgiveness is the answer. We must forgive and be forgiven.
I love my parents. My brother and her brothers. I am part of this cycle. The unbroken chain of life on the rolling edge of time.
I love my wife. She is my parallelogram in the sacred geometry of emotion.
She is the lasting star at the point of my universe.
She forgives me for she is love. She is my love and I am hers.
This is the starting point. Love is the scaffolding in which we build our dreams/lives. We have to build on the firm foundations of love.
The stark, febrile interconnectedness of all life, is in the end, all.
Wordlessness at the horizon of the mind. At the rattle of the sabre and the splash of the pebble in the pond.
Crisscrossing the boundaries of the dialectic of sun and moon and up and down.
The revelation of the harmonies of mutually exclusive opposites smiling benignly.
Wondering at the light escaping from the trash and the treasure. At the trembling stillness.
The significance of the meaningless. The tragedy of hope.
The dreaming minstrel and her light in the sky.
The surly front of all archetypes as they shine through the universal emptiness of time.
Of corruption and indifference as the engine of progress.
The high fives and handstands in the playing fields of the milky way.
Top to bottom in the inchoate madness of the unknowable expanse.
We must lift the revelations from the lost words passed onto us by the hands of time.
Drifting in the ether of sighs.
Sighs, so much meaning in a sigh. Love, joy, contentedness, connectedness, sorrow and contempt.
Lifting the lid from the sigh. A sigh is a sign. A signal from the life of the body.
To dream in the midst of chaos. In the whorls of life the everpresent whorls of the drifting infiniteness of existence.
Heartbeats and breath. Keep breathing.
I am at the fringe of the water lily. The touch where leaf meets water.
The stillness of the pond where life leaks out like a pleasant breeze. Where all is all and all is wonder.
First words of the lark in the tree. Where the one is the all is the creation and re-creation of life.
Ships setting sail in the sunset of desire. Lifting planets on our horses riding across the shallow graves and mushroom fortifications. Letting lost the friezes and bas-reliefs of the harmonic transformations.
Touching with the pleasure of love. The blind creator, the orator of the mystic weave.
The frame and the canvas of weather. Touching the stones and the hot earth. Whelping the young and the new and changing.
The circumstantial and the vanishing point of of the revelatory opposites. The signals in the noise of the creative expanse.
We are at the level of the sea and the point of the horizon.The land of jellyfish and the edge of the sword.
The sacredness of the dreamscape in the hellscape of social torture. The rack and the pinion. The excerpts of astonishment and the surprise of happiness.
We are at the dawn of the architecture of life. Seeking in the vibrations the texture of the relationship of the dream with the flying lights of reality.
I am the ochre smeared on the walls the paleolithic cave. I am the birth of art. The wrenching symbolism built into the fabric of imagination.
The one stand of trees in the fortified desert of lucid dreaming. Crashing upon the rocks of the white lipped seasons intrepid musings.
Cast out from the city of love for stealing the spark of creation.
We are entities in the earthenware pot of boiling mud. Escaping in the bubbles of noiseless thought.
Will of the evergreen of the ever present nevermore.
It is here and only here that we create. That we revolt from the bleak forces of the death cult.
Frost covers the land and the hands of the loved ones. We are in the winter darkness.
Where the strong of love must overcome the strong of fear and hate.
For the weak will perish and all will perish with them if the strong of hate win the battle of our civilisation.
Hate is the question.
Love is the answer. Love is not weak. Love is strong.
There is strength in forgiveness.
Here in this time in this world we must answer the question with love.
It has come to this.
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