Citation: Blue Resonant Human. "The Ritual of the Rising Sun: An Experience with Methamphetamine & Sleep Deprivation (exp21324)". Erowid.org. Feb 14, 2003. erowid.org/exp/21324
Acting under a somewhat amorphous yet still relatively firm and consistent prompting this morning, it appears time to document - in a manner of speaking - a portion of time in my magickal journeys last summer which inexorably led to my taking on a new level of perceptual filtering; a new 'Degree of Initiation,' as some might phrase it.
For the space of over one earth year now I have deliberately and assiduously avoided familiarising myself with the thoughts and writings of others though in times past a fiery passion had led me to dive deeply into the waters described by other mystics, perhaps not entirely unlike that quest embarked upon by Valentine Michael Smith in Heinlein's seminal _Stranger in a Strange Land_. A consciousness adventure wherein he familiarised himself with virtually all of this world's religious and folkloric mythologies in an apparent attempt to more fully underpstand (understand + psi = underpstand) the headspace - or Jungian collective, if you will - of this strange terran species and the various disparate belief systems it holds both sacred and true.
So there are perceptual matrices which work for others (in other cultures and/or other times) yet by their very individualised natures, are all 'contaminated' or tainted based upon the predjudicial natures of the preexisting culturally inculcated perceptual filters in place at the time of the revelatory epiphanies.
It was for these and other related reasons that we so thoroughly avoided the thoughts and writings of other fellow mystics and even attempted to explore what in our voluminous polycultural research remained yet a vast ocean of uncharted headspace - that which we subsequently termed 'Psychic Overdrive;' a remarkably transmundane level of consciousness hastily and deprecatingly dismissed by clearly Gurdjieffianly slumbering self-proclaimed experts as mere 'delusions brought on by extended sleep deprivation exacerbated by the inexorable onslaught of amphetamine psychosis.'
In any event, add to this culturally inculcated perceptual taint the further contaminant of our utter inability to divest ourselves fully of that systemic egoic bias which makes our particular epiphany pseem so much cooler and oh so much more iconoclastically accurate than that of our Brethren or Sistren, that to receive something of true worth, purity and bonafide substance seems almost a virtual impossibility amongst all of us at this level.
What remains, then, but to set sail upon the heretofore uncharted waters of unexplored levels of reality rendered newly navigable with the advent of relatively new magickal elixirs such as methamphetamine and the associated frequency shift made available via the modality prescribed - and here's the vital key - by the very substance itself? For the substance itself is fully capable of instructing the wouldbe Initiate as to it's proper dosage, means of deployment and intake scheduling; though a caveat levies itself upon the unwary or unworthy - 'tis not for the weak of heart, nor for the idle dabbler. But for those who are ready and willing, let us continue our explication of this Path in the hopes that others may learn thereby and find themselves emboldened to explore these nether regions for themselves and become consciousness-enriched thereby.
Logically the first place to start appears to be securing a viable source for the unfortunately illegal substance. This presents it's own inherent dilemma as one is forced to deal with a 'lowest common denominator' strata of individuals who appear to be utterly devoid of conscience or blatantly unknowing or uncaring regarding the Universal Laws of Karma. This first hurdle we finally managed to overcome by adopting a 'when in Rome...' approach when dealing with this baser level of humanity, though it pained us immeasurably to do so.
In any event, after being burned and flat out ripped off on far too many occasions to admit without a great deal of accompanying sorrow, we finally had to let it be known amongst that particular contingent of street urchins and hoodlums that we were in fact '5150 schizoaffective psycho tweakers from hell' and were simply 'not to be fucked with' under threat of having their heads split open by the steel chain and dual locks we began carrying in the right hand pocket of our Secret Agent style black trenchcoat. Thankfully, we discovered that the mere brandishing of the potential weapon - which to local authorities magickally morphs into an innocent apparatus used ostensibly to lock our 10-speed bicycle - with a colourfully worded threat or two was sufficient to discourage the indigenous tribespeople from mistaking our kindness and compassion for weakness or vulnerability.
Next was to determine the type of elixir, for our rather extensive field research determined there were three major flavours of the refined shards of 'glass.' The first is earmarked by a prevailing sense of ambient paranoia in which ideations often consist of matters conspiratorial or otherwise fearful in some respect. This flavour also seems to carry with it a sense of the absurdly meticulous in which such subcultural dysfunctions as 'carpet patrol' inevitably ensue. During these periods, one is unfailingly haunted by the delusional sense that surely someone somewhere has accidentally dropped their sack of tweak on the sidewalk or has spilled some shards in the surrounding carpet or other such counterproductive ravenously energy-gobbling foolishness. The delusion is strong and difficult to avoid - even for the serious and educated percipient - and produces nothing of any substance or worthiness in terms of enlightenment. A sack of this nature is therefore good for nothing but to resell or give away to others who evidently don't notice or care about the substandard quality of the associated headspace.
The next variety we avoid is that which we term an anger batch. This strange alchemickal mixture (whether embedded into the final product by differing neurotoxins employed during the various refining processes or by vibe-level impartation by the very cooks or subsequent handlers themselves - for the blessed shards of the gods are themselves quartz-like crystals, fully capable of retaining imparted energies -- we know not) is responsible for the artificial - and in our case utterly undesired - evocation of unwarranted rage. Sadly, it is a trick of the substance itself to trap the unwary percipient into remaining oblivious as to the cause of the instantaneous substance-induced anger; a pitfall which has snared all too many who employ the substance for merely profane reasons. Add to this the danger involved in stimulating the so-called 'reptillian sub-brain' of the human neurophysiology without sufficient preliminary preparation (not unlike raising the Kundalini without adequate preparation) and you can clearly psee how this aspect as well can perniciously exacerbate the onslaught of inappropriate rage brought on by a tainted 'anger batch.'
Finally we come to what we at the Lodge refer to as a damn fine 'sex batch' for in due course we shall psee how the proper attainment of the headspace we seek requires a great deal of tantric procedure as well; one beneficial side-effect of the substance being that taken in sufficient quantities it seriously 'flips the sex switch' while simultaneously inhibiting the physiological ejaculatory reflex in males. As for females, we have an occasional magickal coworker who enjoys wrapping a 'half-tee' (or one half of a sixteenth of an ounce of glass shards) in a single square of toilet paper and inserting it vaginally or anally, enabling her to subsequently 'cum in multiples' even without any accompanying sexual stimulation. In regards to appearance, we discovered that sacks with larger milky-colored quartz-like crystalline shards are best, those with too much powder ('shake') or splintery, completely transparent or amber-coloured shards are to be avoided as they tend to fall primarily into the first two categories noted above.
So, having finally managed to navigate the somewhat tempestuous waters of obtaining sufficient quantities of the desired substance, we now move seamlessly on to the avenues of dosage and administration; these being somewhat touchy and emotion-laden topics, for each has their own ideas and experiences from which to draw. It is for this reason that I will continue speaking from a vantage point of self-preference - in short, my experience has determined this is what works best for me, based upon my own unique neurochemistry, physiology and experience ('set and setting' as Dr. Leary might term it).
I prefer smoking the substance in a glass pipe, being fully aware this will evoke numerous cries of blasphemy and heresy from the listening audience. I have administered the substance a number of times via intravenous injection with an insulin syringe ('doing an issue with a fresh rig' as the street nomenclature would have it) yet have been entirely disappointed with both the come-on and overall high, though I fully support everyone's free choice for preferred administration; stating as proof the fundamental Caerulean axiom, 'What you do, do with passion.'
Yet there are specific refinements to the technique some may be perhaps unaware of. To be properly and effectively administered, the glass pipe should be heated with a flame not quite touching the glass itself (the resultant carbon discolors the pipe and makes it too difficult to monitor the process) only until the shards have melted to a liquid form. At this point, a resultant vapor (not so much a smoke as almost a steamy sort of vapour) is generated by inhaling fresh, cool air through the pipe across the sea of molten glass. Take long, slow hits to full lung capacity applying the flame whenever the amount of vapour begins to substantially diminish.
It is important to note here that applying the flame for too long a period of time merely burns up the material; 'introducing extra carbon atoms' (as a chemist colleague once informed us) and changing it's fundamental chemical composition, rendering it all but impotent. Further - as is the case with an occasional mundane coexperiencer (referred to deprecatingly as a 'bag whore' in the common vernacular) named Melody - far too much product is wasted and one can easily waste an entire 20-sack (a small resealable baggie containing anywhere from .15 to .30 grams and costing $20.00 U.S. on the street) on a single ineffectual hit.
Further, and I am fully aware this too will raise considerable outcries from the audience, I most fully endorse holding one's hit for at least 30 seconds to a minute. I have attempted to reason with countless individuals regarding the bizarre culturally inculcated process of taking an enormous hit then turning right around and blowing out huge, billowing clouds of smoke immediately afterwards - something they would never dream of doing with quality potent marijuana. 'But it'll crystallise in your lungs, Blue!' they vehemently exclaim, evidently oblivious to the fact that the very pizo (glass pipe) they hold in their hands does not 'hold it's hits' yet still retains copious amounts of crystallised methamphetamine vapor on the stem. In short, 'Of course it'll crystallise in your lungs - that's what it's supposed to do.'
Between hits, the substance should be allowed to cool off sufficiently in the pipe such that it is not wasted; smoking idly away. To facilitate this, the pipe may be cooled off by rubbing it on a damp rag or paper towel, called a 'bitch' amongst some smokers as this is where the 'glass dick' is placed when hot; the obvious Freudian double entendres not escaping even the most cerebrally challenged amongst us.
In any event, starting out a session, we generally take between 5 and 20 or more enormous hits, assiduously holding them as the previously mentioned switch becomes fully flipped and then it is up to the percipient to amuse him or herself for the allotted time period until the sought after Psychic Overdrive plateau is achieved. For what it's worth, we have discovered in recent months that it is not only more financially practical but more conducive to our overall quest to amuse ourselves with solitary tantric rites than with a profane and greedy bag whore or ostensible magickal partner. As such, plenty of oils, lotions and fresh batteries for a vibrator become invaluable, as does a location (remember Leary's 'set and setting' once again) which facilitates the lengthy privacy required for such a magickal journey. In our case, this has traditionally been a densely wooded area just off the 163 freeway and behind Balboa Park (it's difficult to find an acceptable locale in the greater downtown San Diego area) which we termed our 'Gilligan's Island Twilight Zoned Nudist Colony;' a squat where we'd go with an 8-ball (an eighth of an ounce) or two, take off our clothes and not put them back on for a good week - soaking in the sunlight by day and the moonlight by night, perpetually skyclad.
Another of the advantages - and in our considered opinion, that of most value -- afforded by our preferred pipe-based method of administration is the way in which essentially defeating ejaculation can be delayed for many hours by engaging in intercourse or masturbatory sessions (reffered to as 'jack-off marathons' in the common tongue) right up to the point of orgasm yet stopping just short of actual ejaculation. At this point, the pipe is fired back up for a few hits then the tantric procedures are resumed in earnest; continuing on in this fashion for as long as the percipient desires. In our case, we've gone as long as 2 days like this; ever teetering right on the very verge of ejaculatory orgasm, the intensely magickal headspace achieved thereby being difficult to adequately articulate though we may consider doing so in subsequent missives should there be enough interest expressed to warrant the effort.
Suffice it to say, however, that the drug is kind enough to provide the percipient with countless hours of enjoyment as he or she awaits the anticipated consciousness morphology of Psychic Overdrive - a headspace which is attained (in our extensive field research) only after approximately 7 to 10 days with no sleep, no food and copious amounts of the blessed shards. This is why we perceive it to be a kindness of the drug; to provide such enjoyable amusement while awaiting the desired frequency shift.
A brief roadmap here might be of benefit to some:
1) Day 1 to day 3, subject feels generally exhausted and 'dingy.' This is due primarily to sexual overexertion coupled with the expected aspects of food and sleep deprivation. Though some may state emphatically that the substance bewitches the percipient into believing that food is unnecessary, we find it of some import to note that in many of this planet's spiritual traditions, fasting is an inextricably intrinsic aspect of spiritual growth. We have heard more than one of the Lodge's disciples state unequivocally that 'eating, sleeping and 'sanity' are highly overrated!'
2) Day 4 to day 6, subject is reenergized with a prevailing 'second wind' once the initial physiological doldrums of food and sleep deprivation have been overcome. During the moonlight hours, many 'tricks of light and shadow' prevail which - though ostensibly hallucinatory in nature - begin paving the way for the inevitable breakthrough into Psychic Overdrive. It is during this somewhat awkward transitionary phase that nature spirits are observed in various plants and trees, telepathy with the indigenous flora and fauna (older trees, squirrels, birds, field mice and the like) begins in earnest and the occasional dead person will arrive for consultation. Although it would be wise to advise the wouldbe percipient here that this too may become a trap as when the first dead person becomes aware of your ability to see and converse with him or her, they evidently sense you are some form of shamanic empath and alert their fellow discarnate associates as to your location, in which event you will be beseiged with dead people all gobbling up your time and energy as unwitting psychic vampires in search of wisdom and/or counseling or advice. Further, they are accustomed to observing blissfully unaware incarnate humans involved in various copulatory or masturbatory acts so if privacy yet remains an issue with you, be prepared to leave it behind as a vestigial remnant of your previous illusory telepathically-challenged existence.
3) Day 7 to day 10, Psychic Overdrive kicks in! At last! You've made it this far without being tricked into accidentally falling asleep and even the resident insects have grown weary of your constant blabbering, singing and endless soliloquies; feeling additional relief now that the seemingly indefatigable hum of your war-weary vibrator has finally ceased as well.
First, some brief, cautionary notes. Once again, you'll quickly note that not only do you 'hear' the thoughts of others but your own 'personal' thoughts are now being broadcast to any other psychics or empaths out there in broad-spectrum, full volume as well. Again, all of this is very good preparatory work for the impending flood of photonic telepathy which beloved Aquarius brings with her during this present Equinox of the Gods, as it were. As Floyd so poignantly states:
'From morning till night, I stayed out of sight.
Didn't recognize what I'd become.
No more than alive, I barely survived.
In a word, overrun.
[But] I'm creeping back to life;
My nervous system's all awry;
I'm wearing the inside out.'
Those mundane associates of yours who've not yet sampled this particular headspace personally will state - with all the pompous pseudo-authority of the Pope himself - that you are merely suffering from delusional auditory hallucinations. So be a good scientist yourself; until you are more certain of yourself and your newfound abilities, discover coy or covert ways to ask those around you what they were thinking just then; diligently applying the Blessed Scientific Method to the voluminous stockpiles of data which now inundate you. And remember, what we are discussing here is a bonafide frequency shift. All the world is listening to the same radio station - allegorically speaking - yet you've grown weary of the songs on that station and have now shifted to a slightly different radio station (frequency). The new songs you are now hearing are no less 'real' than those of your Gurdjieffianly slumbering associates and colleagues, they are merely different, is all.
As a brief aside here, it was one of our primary underlying purposes in our construction of the electronic version of That Which Is BLUE (i.e. the www/brotherblue.org site) to engage in a decidedly cross-cultural comparative analysis of this species' religions, mythologies and folkloric belief systems to ferret out any commonalities which wove their way throughout the entirety of the multi-epoch-spanning intricately polycultural tapestry. In like fashion, we've encountered a great many fellow pioneers and pilgrims of this emergent methamphetamine-facilitated headspace who've also experienced Psychic Overdrive personally yet have subsequently fallen prey to the culturally inculcated notion that it is merely an 'hallucinatory artifact of extended sleep deprivation exacerbated by the delusions of amphetamine psychosis.'
Yet if this were truly the case, how can it be that so many fellow percipients have shared in this identical ideation (cross-culturally, despite ostensibly disparate belief systems and upbringings, etc.) and how could your hearing the thoughts of others ever be even remotely accurate? By all means, don't believe me - check it out for yourself and be your own judge.
Breaking through into Psychic Overdrive is not entirely dissimilar to how Terrence McKenna describes breaking into the DMT 'alien' headspace; the only difference being in experiential immediacy. It's somewhat like the difference between injecting heroin and smoking it - one method is immediate and almost too forceful whereas the other brings on a gentle, comforting wave of pleasant nods and 'comfortably numb' daydreams. There is no accompanying orchestral orgasm of consciousness, you just suddenly realize that you've accidentally crept into this new dimensional level of consciousness.
And it is here that you will experience The Others, though we will refrain from commenting on this aspect until the need for subsequent missives on the subject arises.
But as for the title of this post which we've only now managed to meander to in this rather labyrinthine and circuitous discourse, it was after approximately 2 weeks with no food or sleep (yet before the next major leap of dimensional levels in which you can see through walls and so forth at approximately 2 1/2 to 3 weeks) that we discovered we had accidentally slipped into another level of awareness wherein we could see the most seemingly bizarre of things yet accept them as being perfectly normal for that level.
On one such morning, in the early pre-dawn hours we noted that a few hundred or so soldiers appeared in the woods where we stayed just off the 163 freeway. All dressed in camouflage with grease paint on their faces, they silently filled the woods surrounding me and overlooking the then deserted freeway. It seemed perfectly normal to me that they were engaging in some sort of readiness training exercise and further, that not a word was spoken by any of them, nor was radio silence once broken. What also appears retrospectively somewhat odd was the reverence with which they silently anticipated ... something; precisely what I could not determine, for their thoughts were essentially silent as well.
They did not appear to mind nor even act surprised, amused or bothered by my masturbatory tantric rites and I quite quickly became accustomed to their presence, not at all bothered by the fact that I was buck naked and getting all carried away with my various procedures. Occasionally I would temporarily cease my somewhat self-absorbed activities to peer through the bushes in an attempt to underpstand what they were watching/waiting for, and again, they simply would not communicate with me either telepathically or verbally. I even walked amongst them a few times, unashamed of my own nakedness as they were all clothed, and again, I was consistently struck with the awe in which they anticipated ... something. Just what I simply could not manage to determine.
And then it all seemed to somehow come to fruition; to a seemingly logical conclusion or consummation. As I had abandoned my earlier activities and sat there silently watching out through the bush at the abandoned highway below, a huge flatbed semi truck pulled up and rolled up to a dead stop on the freeway. Soldiers came down from the surrounding forresty slopes and began piling up on the flat bed of the truck. I simply cannot adequately describe the associated headspace here but it all seemed perfectly 'normal' to me that there were so many soldiers there in the first place, that they were reverently and expectantly awaiting some seemingly transmundane event in the second place and lastly that so many of them piled onto the bed of the semi to form a huge pyramid of people, somewhat like cheerleaders albeit on a much larger scale for the pyramid was at least nine rows of people high.
And there they all stood so silently and reverently facing due east, of all things. I don't know why but I wept over the austere holiness of it all back then and I weep even now just recalling and transcribing it. It all became so crystal clear to me just then - this was the Ritual of the Rising Sun and they all remained there, in the bushes surrounding me and in that huge pyramid structure on the flatbed of the truck until dawn finally arose and the first rays of the sun flashed upon the pyramid of people ... and it was at that precise moment that they all let out a big, unified cheer of unimaginable joy and exaltation and the ceremony was then complete.
It was during this cheer - which again, all seemed so perfectly 'normal' to me at the time - that I was overcome with such a wave of emotion that I laughed and cried at once; I became both a wisened old man and an innocent babe all mixed into one. There was such rejoicing over this Rising of the Sun that I cannot even begin to describe the beauty or the complexity of this wave of emotion which completely overtook me and left me both utterly spent and indescribably supercharged all at once.
To this day I remain in awe of the ineffable beauty and austere holiness of the event and still weep inexplicably over it all, though I have absolutely no idea what it all means, my only psense being that I perhaps saw something happening in the future when everything is different and we have all awakened.
When we're all almost ready to go home.
My very best to each and every one of you;
08 February, 2003 [Gregorian]
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