Another cold day. I made French toast for breakfast and had a cup of coffee. The rest of the morning I indexed while listening to music. I made a sandwich for lunch then went out to get more shrooms. I rode my bike to Conscious Dreams on Kerkstraat. I wanted to go to the shop in the Oude Zijde, but I didn’t want to fuck around in the cold. I also wanted to get more work done in the afternoon.
As I rode to the smart shop, I thought about how often I might shroom this visit. More often than I didn’t shroom, that much was clear. Doing it every day or night seemed like the best idea. That first week, shrooming almost every night, had a significant impact on my well-being. Why fuck with a good thing? Was I on a vision quest as I had planned? Perhaps, but my experiences weren’t matching my preconceived notions of transformation. If I knew what was to come then I wouldn’t change at all. Riding into the unknown was the way. All of the conceptions of shrooms and other psychedelics as “recreational drugs” missed the mark. New thought, expanded creativity, the development of virtue, the appreciation of being, and then being: They were the hallmarks of shrooming.
I parked my bike, locked it, and went into the store. A pleasant young man worked behind the counter. I chose a dose of Hawaiian, McKennaii, and Colombian. The Colombians weren’t considered as strong, but I wanted to try them, anyway. I wasn’t sure if I would want a deep trip or not. The length of the trips differed with each dose as well. My experience with the Hawaiians was about eight hours, with four to six hours being most intense. The McKennaii seemed to last around six to eight hours with about four hours involving the most profound effects. The Colombian? I would find out. I didn’t plan on taking three doses, but if the weather kept up like this I didn’t want to have to go out every day to purchase mushrooms, either.
Openness to what comes was the best approach to shrooming. My bad trips during the first visit in the fall were marked by preconceived notions and taking the experiences too lightly at the start. During each of my trips this visit I had been open to any experience. I believed that was why I had not only a wide variety of experiences but also deeply enriching expansions. When I took two doses I went further; they were so far beyond my typical state of being that I couldn't process them at all. Yet, those trips seemed to create the most profound internal changes. The changes occurred, though, without my conscious awareness of what was changed or how the changes took place. It was like being under anesthesia during surgery: I came out of the experiences repaired with a stronger heart and mind as well as greater sensory integrity.
I wanted to roam outdoors while shrooming, but I needed to wait until the weather changed. Freezing my ass off while booming wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t think so, anyway. I could have been wrong, but I had no plans to test this possibility. I didn’t know what would happen once I started shrooming, though. Of course, that was the beauty of it. In a world structured in an effort to make everything predictable, the opportunity to experience genuine moment-to-moment uncertainty was a siren song.
Having shrooms available at will filled me with such a sense of playful excitement and deep peace that I sometimes wanted to fall to my knees in gratitude. My gratitude was for the shrooms, yes, but for the country that made them so easily accessible. There was no way for me to convey how much inner security permeated throughout my being because of the constant option of shrooming. Even the availability of cannabis couldn’t compete. When I was in the U.S. I felt like a Soviet in the 1930s standing in a bread line. It was worse than that, though, because there was no bread line. Instead there was an army of DEA agents ready to attack simply because I wanted to experience freedom from the oppressive reality created by institutional structures and mass developments that stifled my being. It wasn’t possible to reach the heights of my potential within such a suffocating legal and cultural environment. I couldn’t understand why there were so few Americans unwilling to revolt. Did I have higher standards than they did, did they not understand how much they were missing, had they simply given up out of fear, were they just trying to make the best of a bad situation? I didn’t know, not with certainty. I had speculated plenty and even asked directly in the past, but I learned very little.
I locked my bike outside of my apartment when I returned. As I walked upstairs I shook many of those thoughts from my head. The point was how wonderful it was to have easy access to shrooms. It was a vital ingredient that had been missing from my diet, the nutritional link I needed to become whole as a being. Bad trips were advertised as the reason not to shroom, but there was nothing more humbling than having a bad trip. They provided opportunities to correct bad thinking and poor action in ways nothing else did. Learning to be attentive to subtleties allowed for greater flow. Shrooming was teaching me how to live when I wasn’t shrooming. My awareness of sensations, emotions, thoughts, and the external environment was becoming more and more nuanced.
I put the shrooms in the fridge and sat down at my MacBook to start indexing. My mind was still whirring, though. I was coming from a mindset not long past that did not value living. I was making a concerted effort not just to live, but to live well, for myself and others. Shrooming was a participatory act of living and creating myself. By expanding my consciousness I was expanding my sense of responsibility in the world because I was an integral part of the world, as essential as everything else that existed while it existed. When I died, I would no longer be an integral part of the world except as memories others had of me or impacts I had made that might never be attributed to me. These lessons I was learning were always subject to change according to new discoveries. Nothing I learned or believed was set in stone as dogma or doctrine. Learning could be unendingly expansive … as long shrooms were readily accessible.
I indexed the rest of the afternoon. One thing I had learned was that I tended to be more relaxed before shrooming if I had accomplished something necessary, tended to responsibilities, and eliminated as many potential sources of anxiety that might negatively impact the nature of the experience. There was no need to create unnecessary stress over things left undone. I was still fascinated by my indexing abilities while shrooming on the Hawaiians. I wanted to continue stretching my horizons, discover and overcome more fears and anxieties, and live life as fully as possible. I wanted this process to become my way of life.
I stopped indexing and made pasta early in the evening. I went through a ritual of object placement. On the coffee table, I placed my pipe, lighter, cigarettes, container of Super Lemon Haze, ashtray, stereo remote, CDs, writing pad, drawings pads, pens, colored pencils, and sharpener on the kitchen table. I put a small bag for trash underneath the table as well. I put my keys, wallet, phone, laptop, and umbrella on the dining room table. My coat was on the back of a dining room chair and my winter hat was in one of the pockets. On a separate writing pad on the dining room table I wrote “scarf” and “gloves,” two items that would improve my quality of life significantly. I changed into comfortable clothing, opened a bottle of wine, and poured a glass. I placed the wine bottle and two glass bottles of sparkling water on the coffee table. I had purchased a nectarine from Albert Heijn, among other items, while out for shrooms; I put it on the coffee table on top of a small kitchen towel.
I ate the dose of Hawaiian after finishing my ritualized preparations. I adjusted the lights in the living room, found a trance station, and sat down to have a cigarette. I opened the window and felt the cold as I blew smoke outside. I looked at the table and laughed. “Okay, that might have been a little anal, but I suppose all rituals are.” I might not use a single item or I might use them all. I had no idea and that was the point. I looked out at the street. There were few outside. Everyone I saw was bundled tightly, the wind still a demon, the cold ever biting.
I loaded a bud of Super Lemon and had a couple puffs from my pipe. Intermittingly, I drank water and wine. I closed the window and lied down on the couch. No thoughts. I felt neither good nor bad. I closed my eyes and noticed only breathing. I sat up after a few minutes and put on a Phish concert CD. I cycled through songs until I came to a version of “Harry Hood.” I wanted a jam but one with bubbly guitar riffs, creative synth/piano, and body-soothing rhythms from bass and drums. I lied down again and closed my eyes.
I sat up quickly when I heard the shrooms marching in. The CD had played out and there was little sound other than giggling in my ears. I looked at the coffee table, the glorious spread laid out in front of me. “That was very kind of me to do that for myself. Thank you, little me, for attempting to be helpful. You needn’t have bothered, though, as I could have done this for myself. Nevertheless, thank you.” About the room was soft light emanating from the lamps. The tall glass case of figurines in the far corner pleased me. The plant in the corner added a wonderful splash of color. I grabbed the writing pad and wrote, “Water plants tomorrow.” I shook my head. “I think so much more clearly while shrooming.”
It was more than that, though. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Which was which? One thing occurred to me: I was more fully conscious while shrooming than when I wasn’t. I was amazed that the difference was so stark. “The person I am when not shrooming is a poor sap trapped from himself. I am the integration of categorization. I move freely throughout thought, emotion, body, and into the wilds of externality. That pitiful little me running the show when I’m not integrated, he tries so hard to do the right things, to figure things out, to understand, to help himself and others, but he is so fucking inept. He’s improving, but the pace is slow.”
I sat back against the couch and thought. “How can I help him be more like I am now each moment of his life? What will it take for him to be able to be free and aware when he isn’t shrooming? He has to be more actively creative each moment, to engage life more fully. He’s getting better, but he doesn’t know why. It’s like he wakes each day without really remembering what he experienced.” It didn’t seem at all strange to refer to myself in the third person. That guy not shrooming was not me, not the me shrooming. “The issue is the predictable nature of his thoughts and actions. Setting up the table for shrooming is indicative of his problems, too often trying to control situations rather than live them. He’s still afraid; he is less afraid than he used to be, less trapped by anxiety, and there can be no questioning his courage. He has so far to go, though, to really live his life. There is no map I can give him, no plan of action, no presentation of the facts. The opposite is necessary. He has to always wonder what will happen next, to really not know what even he will do next. Only then will he break down the walls separating him for the rest of himself ... from me.”
I took a drink of wine and pulled out a cigarette. I cranked open the window and lit up. There was a single woman walking down the street away from the Magere Brug, a distant figure, a shroud. I puffed and blew smoke out the window. “That guy, he’s not even here now. He hardly ever participates while shrooming. Whenever he does, the trip goes bad. He was fucking brave when he forced himself to go into the Melkweg in the fall, but he hadn’t learned how to let go yet. At least he’s learned to let go while shrooming now, to let the whole of me run the show. If only there was a way to keep him from hiding while shrooming, to witness at least if not fully participate. He’s obviously figured out that he needs shrooms at this stage of his life and I guess that could be called wisdom since he doesn’t understand why. As long as he continues on this path he might escape his self-created suffering. He’s still too concerned with the world writ large, too much anger that the civilized world has failed so miserably. He’s not wrong in his analysis; he’s wrong to be emotionally invested. There’s nothing he can do about it, but he can do something about his own life. To his credit, he is. He’s increasingly letting other possibilities within himself to come to the fore. But, fuck, he keeps trying to take the lead back again. He’s not a leader. I am.”
I closed the window, grabbed a bottle of water, and took several drinks. I twisted the cap back on then rose from the couch. I could feel all of my muscles working together as I walked. My eyes scanned the room as I did, peripheral vision as much a conscious part of seeing as direct sight. My ears were attuned. I heard my breath even as I felt it, a communication between two senses that enhanced the experience of breathing. I noticed no smells other than the faintness of cigarette smoke. I didn’t like it so I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and face. The soap and water felt slick, slippery, neither here nor there, simply different sensations. I dried off and walked back into the living room. I looked around as I breathed and listened. I felt the whole of my body pulsating, all of the muscles at attention whether flexed, stretched, or relaxed. I experienced myself as being, my thought entirely sensory, more panther than human.
I felt no fear, no anxiety, nothing but alertness. Heightened alertness, that of a predator rather than prey. I hungered for nothing, though, merely attentive to my kingdom. If I had evolved from anything it was undoubtedly from the family of big cats: Leopard, panther, lion, tiger. Top of the food chain, the god status of the world. I sat on the hardwood floor cross-legged, put my hands on my knees, straightened my back, closed my eyes, and breathed.
Time went on endlessly, but the only measure of it was through inhalation and exhalation. Occasional discomforts arose that brought me back into time, but I shifted my consciousness to account for them and slipped back into the timelessness of breathing. Everything that needed to happen happened.
For no reason other than to create change, I rose. I opened my eyes and everything around me had a vibrancy typically lacking when I looked. The rhythmic breathing aided in this change. I looked at the table and saw the magnificence of the nectarine. I felt my facial muscles widen into a smile. I exuded laughter, my head thrown back, eyes closed. Within my mind’s eye, I saw me as laughing pharaoh. The moment felt entirely Egyptian. When I opened my eyes I was surprised there were no pyramids, no sphinx, no Nile. More laughter, but this time with my mouth closed, a fat smiling Buddha tickled to be. I took several deep breaths to become I again. The panther reasserted itself, picked up the nectarine, and took a bite. A delirium of taste, pores widening, an eye orgasm, quivering limbs, juice gushing down my chin, dribbling down my neck, and onto my chest.
I swallowed and took a huge breath of air, my chest expanding widely. Thunder from my throat, “I am!” From one bite my entire body synthesized and energized. The fierceness within my eyes was total, but not remotely malicious. I was power, the embodiment of power. Neither good nor bad, such judgments ridiculous and obsolete, roared out of existence by “I AM!”
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