DMT and Salvia Divinorum Trips; Yes, Both

(Originally published 9/30/06.)

by Peter Eichenberger

First Trip: Dimitri

It was just another day when I walked to my usual joint, Sadlack’s, a dinged faux diner here in Raleigh dating from the Upper Devonian era, a dented aluminum box legendary for the range and diversity of clientele. I was just there for a beer. I stepped up to the patio, a concrete deck provided with shabby wooden picnic tables. As I made my way to the front door, a fella I know called to me.

“Hey Eichenberger, come here.” I knew the guy. He was sort of a mystery. Claimed to work for the communications industry. Ok, sure. He just had a funny way of showing up, looking for me, often with molecular compounds I had never heard of, which was odd. I have an extensive resume with drugs and have taken pride in my knowledge. I moved over to the guy. He held out a glass stem, the type used to smoke, well, whatever one happens to have to smoke.

“Take a hit of this.” I took the piece and examined the whitish powdery substance packed in the end. I knew it wasn’t crack. This guy wasn’t the type and, more, it didn’t look like crack.

“Ok. I’ll bite. Gimme a lighter and let’s fire it up.” He did. I flicked the Bic.

“Hit it slow, just heat it.” In general, good advice for smoking anything.

Burning the substance destroys a percentage of the molecules. Warming slowly ensures a better kick. I drew the lighter closer, keeping the flame some distance from the end. It had a yicky, plasticky taste, but I kept on.

Immediately, I felt a powerful surge rushing up my back. Five seconds later, the grain of the picnic table began to scroll hieroglyphics like on CNN. Problem was, I couldn't read them.

“I don’t know if I like this, Big boy . . .”

“You’ll be fine. Take a deep breath. You know what to do. It’s over in 20
minutes.”

“Ok,” I said to myself. After all, it wasn’t my first trip to the petting zoo. But lordy, whatever this shit was, it was the strongest drug reaction I’d ever encountered and that included big ole bell ringers of IV Cocaine.

Shoooo-wheeee. After time unknown, the world morphed into an angular monumental vision, resplendent with applied decoration: Mayan, Mesopotamian, that sort of flavor. The intersection of Hillsborough and Enterprise Streets became polished translucent sheets of semi-precious stone, lapis, tourmaline, and agate. The sheets of stone changed size, color and position to account for movement and lighting.

There were customers standing close to me. I had to conceal my state, taking care not to try to engage anyone in conversation, limiting my movement to belie my mangled mind. I stood, reeling from whatever this was.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Dimethyltryptamine, DMT, Dimitri.” I’d only heard of it and didn’t know anything. As I stood, trying to make myself a part of the landscape, there was a pop, a noise coinciding with the appearance of these—um—critters. They stood maybe 5 feet tall, these scaly, feathery Aztec—ee—things. They made a hissing sort of whine when they moved, as if their motions were resulting from hydroelectric servos. Whirr—a—click.

“I take it you guys aren’t from around here?”

Two of them looked at each other and make this sort of giggle, gesturing.
So we spoke for about two thousand years or so. They sure knew a lot about Ford
trucks, being from another dimension and all.

Subsequent reading led me to Rick Strassman’s groundbreaking work, The Spirit Molecule. Strassman, a researcher at The University of New Mexico, had done the first clinical trial of the psychedelic compound DMT since the sixties. He published papers and had collected the anecdotal material for the book. Strassman believes that DMT can put folks in touch with other dimensions.

After what I saw, I’d have to agree.

Next: Salvia Divinorum

When I heard that Salvia Divinorum was legal, my first reaction was, “horseshit.” My second reaction was to toddle over to the local headshop to check it out. Yup. Legal and sold to anyone. We picked a packet up and went back to Clark’s place. I’d forgotten the rules about enteogenics, that you should have one person to act as a “watcher.” We dragged Arkansas Bill’s bong out of from behind the couch and all took big ole hits.

Within seconds, I was gone. I lost all sense of external reality. The only thing I can recall is a thought, a voice, a sense that went like: “You’re never coming back, you’re never coming back, you’re never coming back. Do you want to never come back?” The world was rendered to toroidal—geodesic in structure—a lattice-like structure that unrolled one way or another, as if a inner tube was being grasped in two hands and being spun on itself, depending on how I felt about never coming back.

Within minutes, the sense began to fade, just in time to hear the smashing of glass and women screaming. I tried to get a hold of myself.

It was time to get professional, for the sake of journalism to note what was happening.

The bong lay shattered on the floor. Three women who had been hanging out, drinking and smoking weed, fled the house in screams.

Back enough to consensual reality, Arkansas Bill was standing over Joe who had been sitting on the couch. “Don’t go, Joe! Don’t go!” Bill hollered as he took Joe’s hands. The tops of Joe’s thighs had become almost level with the tops of the cushions, as if he was literally becoming one with the couch. From what I saw, Joe seemed to be sinking into the cheap couch cushions of foam rubber covered with a dull plaid.

A terrified expression on his face, Bill gave a mighty tug. Joe pulled up and out of the cushion with a wet slurping sound like the sound one would hear pulling a flat rock partially buried in the muddy bottom of a shallow stream—schulurrrrrp—and broke free of whatever seemed to be holding him.

I made my way, as best as I could on the downhill of the stuff, outside to where the gals had fled in terror.

“What did you see?” I asked. “What happened?”

The women clutched each other, sobbing with fear and confusion. “I saw, I saw, I saw, he was—uh—oh God, I saw him sink, something, oh my lord,” was about all I could get out of them. I went back inside to see how things were going. Bill and I were in agreement.

In my typical fashion, as in after I ruined something by not reading the instructions, I went online the next day, I checked out the Salvia Divinorum User’s Guide. At level five, where we apparently were, the substance can cause actual or perceived merging with solid objects.

Weeks later, I ran into one of the gals. I’d been unable to pry out of her what she had seen. I asked her again. She gave a description of what Bill and I saw: Forget one with the cosmos, Joe was becoming one with a cheap piece of salvaged furniture.

You want more?

Peter Eichenberger is an Opinion Writer for the Independent Weekly in North Carolina.

(Photo of the Sistine Chapel by Andrew Bast.)

Comments

[Dunn]

woahhhhhhhh. that is heavy.

[Aaron]

A good book about this is The Archaic Revival by Terence McKenna. He took DMT and related substances all his life and theorizes about them in the book, which is charming, sensible, and insane all at the same time. McKenna's opinion is that meditation and all that are fine, but DMT is the real deal. He describes talking to aliens, feeling certain that he's died and -- interestingly -- ancient imagery, kind of like what you saw I think, Peter.

[Eric]

Ranging from a doped up writer's reruns, to eating a frogs beating heart, miss usa's inappropriate usage, crotch shots, nicole richie dui and bisexual leanings, garbage chic, hotty trains, bi's kissings, creamaster. Who needs a circus? Barnum had it right.

[Peter eichenberger]

Hey Eric, couldn't help notice you're the sucker who took the time to write in.

'Sides, everyone knows "dope" means Heroin.

[Eric]

I wasn't using the term to describe heroin, I was using the term to describe you.

[Peter eichenberger]

Ooochy ow-wow. Waaaaaaa. Boy that some snappy sixth grade level repartee. Why is it guys like you stand out in the rain and complain about being wet? Don't like TV, don't watch it. THis nation has succumbed to busybodies and crybabies. That's you, dood. Boo hoo hoo.
As far as that smack with a lily, wrong, as well, Grad Degree and a 190 on the verbal part of an (WAIS)Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale (I peeked) What is your excuse? Dissing someone anonymously on the Net? What a loser.

[peter eichenberger]

Yo Aaron. Sorry I didn't respond to you. Yeah. I've read a bit of McKenna. Another excellent resource on DMT is The Spirit Molecule by Rick Stassman, U of NM. There is a lot to this, including a Supreme Court case, a freedom of religion issue.
Stassman suggested a potential for contact with other dimensions. From what I have seen, I wouldn't automatically say no. Never do with this kind of stuff. It is as much of an article of faith to dismiss as it is to believe reflexively. I've seen some other really, really spooky shit stone cold sober.
My instincts and intuition and research aim toward Quantum events. These days, I am digging into the mid-continental gravitational anomaly and some very solid ghost sighting in academic settings in Lincoln Nebraska. I think there may be a connection.
Look into it and tell me what you find. I have much, much more on this.

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