Citation: Johnny Z.. "The Angel and the Tree: An Experience with H.B. Woodrose (exp25205)". Erowid.org. Dec 1, 2006. erowid.org/exp/25205
I thought that my first experience with LSA would be a comfortable night of tripping in a friend's dorm- it was only going to be my second trip ever, my first being on DXM a few months prior- and so after R and I had eaten some H.B. Woodrose seeds (her four and I nine) and I was suddenly informed we were going to a punk rock show, I was somewhat nervous. We had been waiting for weeks to eat these seeds, waiting for a time when everything would be right- a place to be, a quiet night in. And now that was in jeopardy, after already ingesting the stuff. Although I hear tell that LSA takes about two hours to start going, I was already feeling weird an half hour after ingestion- a sort of warmness all through my body, almost to the point of discomfort, but not quite. Soon our friend K arrived, and off we were, apparently, me starting to lose reality just a small bit. I wasn't experiencing anything particular; everything just sort of struck my fancy as we walked to the venue. I would notice it was cold, and this would be terrifingly funny, and I would laugh. I don't know how much of this was the LSA and how much of it was my nerves, but it wasn't a sinister feeling- just one of somewhat confusion.
We arrived at the show, and apparently R or K had paid for me because I sort of just waltzed in like I owned the joint, partially because the basic functions of hand-money-to-bouncer seemed inscrutable to me. Once in the club, I started to get downright scared. The sarcasm and anger of the music was completely and utterly wrong for me to be hearing while on this drug; every shrieked vocal grated on the tranquility I was very nearly failing to feel, and every bass note hit me in the gut like a championship boxer who had just learned his car had been totalled and had some things to say on the finer points of the situation.
In a word, I was in rough shape. My mind was reeling, and my stomach was joining it; I rushed to the toilet, certain I was going to be sick. I wasn't, despite my best efforts to force it just to get it over with, but in the bathroom, where the music was still assaulting me, I decided enough was enough- I could not take it anymore. This was not the place to be doing what I was doing, the atmosphere was too hostile, too crowded, too lacking of quiet. I tried to explain this to R and K, but they just told me to stop acting so weird. Leaving a bewildered R and K behind me, I made my way to the quieter world outside.
And . . . it was more than quiet. It was silent. While I had been desperately attempting to avoid sonic death inside, a near blizzard had come to town, and the streets and sidewalks of the city had been deserted to make way for the just-audible whisper of falling snow- piles of it. This is when my trip really started hitting me full-on . . . the snow was beautiful. Every bit of terror I had felt in the club washed away instantly, so that while I was still in front of the door, I could barely remember even being inside; all there was, was the snow-covered street. It glittered and danced and fell on my face; it was beautiful. I decided I wanted to hug my friend E, and set off to do so.
On my way to E's dorm I got it in my head that I was an angel, and this was a terribly nice feeling, but I got so wrapped up in the moment that I started to believe I had wings- could feel them flapping- and I could have sworn I saw the snow fluttering in the air currents caused by my wings. It still feels, in memory, like I almost started floating off without warning that night- on wings made of dream and frost.
Soon I arrived at E's, gave her the hug I wanted to give her, and went off to my friend S's room, only S wasn't home, so I hung out with his roommate B instead. He was most interested in my state, being a person who does not ingest drugs but who is infinitely fascinated by people who do, and so he asked a lot of questions which I had the hardest time answering- my language skills had deteriorated so that I talked a hell of a lot but said very little. He put on the movie Half-Baked, which I watched with interest, not because I had one clue what was going on, but because things on the screen were doing impossible things, such as commercials carrying over into the movie so that Dave Chappelle was trying to sell me Charmin and such nonsense. I tried to explain this confusion to B, but to no avail. He went to bed and I sat down and watched the news, which made even less sense than Half-Baked, so I turned it all off and leaned against a window.
Outside their window was a very tall pine tree, the branches of which brushed up against the glass. Leaning there, looking down at the snow (reflecting a sickly orange light), I started to see through the eyes of the tree. I became the tree- felt my age and my history- saw things through my multi-faceted tree eyes. This was fine and dandy, until I looked down- and saw not the ground but some sort of vast mirror, a reflection of my tree-self . . . only it dawned on me that this wasn't a reflection, it was my root-system- I could see every part of me, as if the ground wasn't there. This seemed utterly profound to me, so much so that I nearly reeled, and had to disengage from the window.
For awhile I played with blankets and remote controls, mostly tasting them. Eventually I started to come down and went home and to bed, where I slept a peaceful, if unnoteworthy, sleep.
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