The first tentative trials were small pinches of the powder on foil and chased like the dragon. One blast was sufficient to warm the world in a psychedelic glow. Two blasts and co fusion sets in, is this a real trip. Confusion curtails all higher purpose and the effects wears off after half an hour. One final time I took a lunch break and was very grateful I had no visitors that day.
I pushed it up during an evening of frustration and snorted a hefty line. I was lost. My partner tells me I didn't know where I was, who I was even. I have hardly any memory of this time. These Alexander shulgin designed psychedelic hit the right spots for colour and visual trickery but they don't hit that spiritual feeling we got from acid and mushrooms thirty years ago. Perhaps it is our age but I believe these designer psychedelics have had the dangers of total open mind removed thus making them safer, fewer acid casualties but also no religious experiences. No holding hands with god.
Today I got the dose right and took it orally. The sun was out and I had a wonderful walk with my dog. A fantastic light weather trip for those wanting a safe splash of colours.
Sunday, 30 March 2014
Friday, 28 March 2014
Psylocibin 2
Aged 13, 14, 15 I'd walk out to the various mushroom sites. Morris silvan school playing field was near where I lived and after school in those soggy months before the frosts come, I'd be out there on my knees till it got dark. Others would join me. Others had there own patches. In an hour you could have a thousand or so liberty caps together.
I'd head off home and me dad would pop in for a shave before heading off to the pub. If I timed it right I could boil up a mushroom tea and have it down me neck in the time before he came in. To start with we'd eat them raw but as time went by it became clear that you could synthesise an awful but hugely potent brew. Early eating trips were 30 to 50 but mushroom teas began to synthesise the psilocybin of 2, 3 even 4 or 5 hundred mushrooms. This sort of trip means communication with other people can be hard. Also, the ascent from eating shrooms is pretty slow. A high dose tea shoots you in space rocket style from normality to another dimension. If my timeing went wrong or my dad spent more than five minutes sluicing and shaving for the pub the wall paper patterns would begin to slip and slide. Fractal patterns and growing organics subsumed the furniture. My fathers eyes would warp and distort, his lips evolving through slug like changes. His conversation made little sense. Micro organisms and robotic life forms could enter the room.
Worst of all would be the other ends of trips as he returned a slurring bovine farmyard animal. I would be enlightened from future beings or inter dimensional creatures. Ina crisp condition. A state of spiritual wonder. The farmyard animal would proceed to explain how drugs would be my down fall, oblivious to the oblivion of alcohol.
I'd head off home and me dad would pop in for a shave before heading off to the pub. If I timed it right I could boil up a mushroom tea and have it down me neck in the time before he came in. To start with we'd eat them raw but as time went by it became clear that you could synthesise an awful but hugely potent brew. Early eating trips were 30 to 50 but mushroom teas began to synthesise the psilocybin of 2, 3 even 4 or 5 hundred mushrooms. This sort of trip means communication with other people can be hard. Also, the ascent from eating shrooms is pretty slow. A high dose tea shoots you in space rocket style from normality to another dimension. If my timeing went wrong or my dad spent more than five minutes sluicing and shaving for the pub the wall paper patterns would begin to slip and slide. Fractal patterns and growing organics subsumed the furniture. My fathers eyes would warp and distort, his lips evolving through slug like changes. His conversation made little sense. Micro organisms and robotic life forms could enter the room.
Worst of all would be the other ends of trips as he returned a slurring bovine farmyard animal. I would be enlightened from future beings or inter dimensional creatures. Ina crisp condition. A state of spiritual wonder. The farmyard animal would proceed to explain how drugs would be my down fall, oblivious to the oblivion of alcohol.
Wednesday, 26 March 2014
A little digression
Property ownership can bring a change in a persons attitude to land. I feel the suspicious eyes as I cross private land. There is also the stares of corporation housing tenants as strangers pass through. Where one feels at home or at least at ease is a measure of ones class. I grew up on the edge of a private suburb in north leeds called alwoodley. Nursery lane was the dividing line and below there were council houses and maisonettes. So we were perched twist one and the other. My school took in children from both estates. We were placed in to classes where the most working class took a quick path through towards hopefully working with their hands. This separation of work of the hand and work of the head perpetuates today despite the death of British manufacturing. The truth of the matter, as anyone who has built anything from a chair to a house or repaired anything from an old motorbike to an air rifle will know that the brain and body are not seperate fields of human existence. One simply won't work without the other. To even suggest there is a separation between the two is to miss the central nervous system and the whole point of how the human organism operates. Feelings, emotions take place in the body and no cognitive sense can be be made without them. Where this separation began lies way back in the mists of time though Descartes and his idea of dualism, a seperate mind or soul from the physical body. The entirety of what science has revealed suggests that Descartes myth is wrong.
The top two classes in each year were pupil led entirely from the private estate. These children studied o levels. The middle two classes took a mixture of o levels and CSE, a lesser qualification. Those from the council estates took CSEs. There fate was set. None would be going to university.
Under Margaret thatchers right to buy campaign, the better off working class people were offered to buy the houses they rented for a fraction of their value. The effect on these neighbourhoods was profound. Even the most ardent socialist would find it hard to see that the lawns were mowed. The joinery painted. Cars polished of a weekend. Within the ex council estates the better properties entered a new class of home ownership and neighbourhood pride.
Perched on the edge of the private estate my father had married above his station. He had done well at school and got a job in a bank. Later changing to sales for a stainless steel company. My mother was middle class and her family were disappointed with her marrying below herself. I think she liked our estate but my dad was a fish out of water. He walked the gauntlet of the lawn hosers and car polishers in his proudest suit, heading for the council estate pub. Once my mother had gone from cancer he found himself alone, severed from his peers through his aspirations and endeavours to provide a private middle class's home for his wife, and never accepted by the private neighbourhood.
As children I never knew where I fit in class wise. Mother middle, father working. Skinter than all the neighbours. Holy clothes, no car, no phone and frequently no power as the bills never got paid.
So Sunday arrived and I joined a small band of property owning locals. They a
L have views as to how the neighbourhood should develope. Social housing backs on to our private back street of traditional workers cottages. The two terraces end at a much larger house and the impetus for battle with the council is orchestrated by them. An archway that formed a natural path for all around here towards town was closed off, gated and keyed for new tenants. Because no complaint came in within four years this legally permits the alteration. Two on our terrace took the property to court but foolishly accepted an out of court bribe of a key to the gate and personal access. This has left a path behind Keyford heights old people's home. Personally I like this ginnel as we call them up north and the traffic is benefits people who live in the social housing. The solution to my mind involves a little vandalism but would bring the happiest result. If I get a hacksaw and cut a gate above our street entrance this would allow the commoners that our middle class neighbours find offensive. I shall try this guerrilla operation one dark, rainy night and see what happens. Personally I don't see why the two social classes shouldn't be forced to I tract through the organic spread of human pathways. Despite the best efforts of town planners with their regimented and researched footfall routes i am always fascinated and quietly celebratory at the unpredictable and natural human flow that forms natural pathways.
The alternative suggested is a steel barrier that will sit between two council borders. A horrible conception.
The top two classes in each year were pupil led entirely from the private estate. These children studied o levels. The middle two classes took a mixture of o levels and CSE, a lesser qualification. Those from the council estates took CSEs. There fate was set. None would be going to university.
Under Margaret thatchers right to buy campaign, the better off working class people were offered to buy the houses they rented for a fraction of their value. The effect on these neighbourhoods was profound. Even the most ardent socialist would find it hard to see that the lawns were mowed. The joinery painted. Cars polished of a weekend. Within the ex council estates the better properties entered a new class of home ownership and neighbourhood pride.
Perched on the edge of the private estate my father had married above his station. He had done well at school and got a job in a bank. Later changing to sales for a stainless steel company. My mother was middle class and her family were disappointed with her marrying below herself. I think she liked our estate but my dad was a fish out of water. He walked the gauntlet of the lawn hosers and car polishers in his proudest suit, heading for the council estate pub. Once my mother had gone from cancer he found himself alone, severed from his peers through his aspirations and endeavours to provide a private middle class's home for his wife, and never accepted by the private neighbourhood.
As children I never knew where I fit in class wise. Mother middle, father working. Skinter than all the neighbours. Holy clothes, no car, no phone and frequently no power as the bills never got paid.
So Sunday arrived and I joined a small band of property owning locals. They a
L have views as to how the neighbourhood should develope. Social housing backs on to our private back street of traditional workers cottages. The two terraces end at a much larger house and the impetus for battle with the council is orchestrated by them. An archway that formed a natural path for all around here towards town was closed off, gated and keyed for new tenants. Because no complaint came in within four years this legally permits the alteration. Two on our terrace took the property to court but foolishly accepted an out of court bribe of a key to the gate and personal access. This has left a path behind Keyford heights old people's home. Personally I like this ginnel as we call them up north and the traffic is benefits people who live in the social housing. The solution to my mind involves a little vandalism but would bring the happiest result. If I get a hacksaw and cut a gate above our street entrance this would allow the commoners that our middle class neighbours find offensive. I shall try this guerrilla operation one dark, rainy night and see what happens. Personally I don't see why the two social classes shouldn't be forced to I tract through the organic spread of human pathways. Despite the best efforts of town planners with their regimented and researched footfall routes i am always fascinated and quietly celebratory at the unpredictable and natural human flow that forms natural pathways.
The alternative suggested is a steel barrier that will sit between two council borders. A horrible conception.
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