Describing a DMT Trip

DMT is like loading the universe into a cannon, aiming it at your brain, and firing. Such is the otherworldly, essentially celestial fourth dimension it brings into play. Mere seconds after inhaling the vapor, earthly reality is gone and one’s field of vision becomes a kaleidoscope of colors and fractals which are a porthole to the real destination. Next is the bulk of the journey, which is remarkably intense for the first five minutes or so, followed by the user slowly returning to a non-psychedelic state.

I’ve found my fifty-some journeys to always be different as far as the visions and scenery go, while remaining fundamentally similar. Floating (or sometimes rocketing) through a high definition pastel-colored MC Escher drawing seems a common theme, along with brightly lit and bizarre cityscapes and carnival rides. Visuals of comely females are also standard, which I assume is my bachelor lifestyle subconscious talking. I’m usually fully aware during the process, even speaking (both out loud in my chair and in the dream state) to these and other human figures, but they prove elusive, their faces vanishing when I attempt to discern them.

The experience is very dream-like, yet I also sense my earthly surroundings. I know I’m seated in a chair with my eyes closed and music on, and I’m tripping my balls off. Along those lines, I’ve learned the trick is to surrender to the flow, i.e. relax despite being on a white-knuckle ride. Indeed, many times I’ve recognized that my whole body is tense from the “blast-off” stage, and actively relax, prompting the visuals I’m seeing to change — colors, scenes, etc. (A sonic equivalent may be the transition from “She’s So Heavy” to “Here Comes the Sun” on Abbey Road.)

Specific scenarios I recall include a baby on a pedestal in a sunny Greek Island Mediterranean scene. More remarkable were “snow globes,” held by attractive ladies. Inside the globe of one woman were impressive rave-like flashing colors, about which I commented favorably. This prompted a second hottie to emerge and say: “You like her globe? Check out my globe!” Sure enough, this globe was markedly more impressive. A particularly blatant nod from my subconscious came toward the end of a trip in a Las Vegas hotel room, when various casino icons appeared, i.e. a roulette wheel and gaming tables.

Other than the aforementioned tension during the blast off, a DMT-triggered reality is almost always a happy and pleasant place. I’m typically engulfed in a childlike wonder, as if in the happiest, most interesting dream (not even) imaginable. Many travelers report encounters with benevolent elves or other “beings,” although I’ve only experience the human-like. Once I was zipping along and overheard someone in the fourth dimension with me remark: “There goes another visitor, glad I don’t have to go back,” or something along those lines, probably in response to my look of wonderment and the fact he actually lives there. Which brings me to the “like death” part of a DMT odyssey. . .

Given the experience is so other-worldly, I believe these trips are visitation of the afterlife, or perhaps even of a waiting area (for lack of a better term) for a spirit’s next earthly vessel. Reports that DMT trips are fueled by the significant release of serotonin, as during birth and death, seem to support this theory. It’s a glimpse into where we came from and where we go. Whatever the case, I digress.

Seven or eight minutes after launch, the experience winds down, slowly and calmly. The first time I emerged from my revelation I could not stop laughing at the absurdity of it all. The fact someone figured out how to access this portion of my brain, and that not even one percent of human beings will ever experience it, even though it’s right there in their heads. I felt like one of the luckiest people in world history. And I also couldn’t stop thanking and hugging the dude who turned me on to it.

Fifteen minutes after inhaling the vapors I was dizzy but fully in charge of my faculties. A quarter hour after that I was back to perfectly normal (for me anyway, which may be not very). This powerful psychedelic is certainly not for everybody − specifically the high strung or those with anxiety issues − but taking this ride should be a bucket list item for you if you’re chill and naturally curious. Just remember to RELAX.

Twitter: @WitStream

Clothes House Pole-eece, (A Prison Story)

[This is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts (Prison Memoir of a Drug War Casualty), an often comical and also cautionary chronicle of a slacker’s misspent life and comeuppance. The following took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison. All names have been changed.]

While life at the prison processing camp relieved me of most of life’s pesky tasks, like work, cooking, and cleaning, the hassle of laundry remained. Twice a week I groggily trudged to an early morning line to exchange dirty clothing for clean, teeth chattering and exposed skin smarting from the wind chill for added punishment.

Worse, the process interrupted post-breakfast sleep time, so I was cranky before mindless fellow felons disturbed me again. I handed in three pairs of boxers at the exchange window, but in my sleepiness I didn't notice I received none in my return stack of clothing. I explained this to the CO on duty, who was a colossal asshole.  He laughed derisively: “Tough shit, get back in line.”

Ten minutes later I was at the front of the line again, merely trying to get the boxers and return to my warm bed. Then suddenly, the same dickhead CO halted the operation, for no apparent reason. After a couple minutes passed I asked a clothes dispensing inmate WTF, and he quietly explained the cop halted the line because it was too loud. Trying to be helpful, I turned around and yelled to no one in particular: "Yo, quiet down or the line won't move!"

Unfortunately this only increased the volume, particularly among a contingent of mostly dreadlocked African-Americans, who loudly complained. They apparently thought I singled them out, which I suppose was true since they were the cause of the ruckus. Honestly, I didn’t care who was talking, I wanted to get my fucking clothes and escape the frigid dawn.

The CO stood smirking and amused, unconcerned with the line moving again. He enjoyed fucking with the inmates. A couple more minutes passed, but the invasive, obnoxious chatter had yet to cease. So I turned around again, this time yelling directly at the offending crew: "Yo, if you don't shut up, the line isn't going to move!"

Not surprisingly, this shortsighted move only created tension. The disruptors started screaming at me, as if I was the problem. They called me the "pole-eece" and disparaged my race while other pale faces stood slack-jawed, like I’d punched the CO or something. The guard then stepped up and happily ejected the shit-talkers from the line, pointed them out. “You, you . . . you, you, and you. Get lost. Better luck next week.”

This meant five or six of them didn’t get fresh clothes, and they were slightly perturbed about it. They threatened to see me in the yard later and wandered off to contemplate wearing dirty clothes for a few days, but certainly not thinking this was their own fault. In the meantime the line started again and I finally scored the boxers I missed the first time. I might as well have asked if they had any shirts with a bullseye on the back while I was at it.

Cloudy morning mind aside, my annoyance at the clothes line hassle soon gave way to worry about retribution from dudes wearing dirty threads. I returned to my barracks, greeted by glares from a couple guys who were kicked out of the line. I reached my bunk, quickly joined by my buddy Kaz, a middle-aged guy with many prison years behind him. He laughed in my face.

"Man!" he managed. "You don't fucking do that!"

"I didn't mean to do anything. I thought I was helping!" I protested.

"No, man," Kaz explained. "All you did was tell those brothers to shut up. They knew what was up with the line, they just didn't give a shit. You gotta learn their bullshit is part of prison, don’t try to fight it."

"Great! So now I’m getting shanked?” I asked, with real worry.

"Maybe, maybe not," Kaz reassured. "I'd watch my back for a couple days if I were you. Do you have any friends bigger and younger than me?" He thought this was hilarious.

Right about then the heavily-tattooed main troublemaker from the line stormed in, pissed off and long dreadlocks flailing. (He was also notable for doing flips while walking along in the yard, just for the hell of it. We had actually pleasantly interacted around the basketball court previously, but he didn’t seem to care at the moment.) I moved to stand up from my bunk, but he stopped me short.

"Don't stand up like you gonna do somethin'!" he barked. I settled right back down and listened to him rant. I wanted no trouble with this guy, mostly because I’d get a write-up for fighting go straight to medium security to start my bid. Also, I like my teeth and don’t like scars. And sadly, no Scorpio Eyes bluff was forthcoming, either, as I lacked the balls to employ my county jail training. Besides, even if I got through “Dreadlock,” I'd have five others after me anyway. Diplomacy was the only real solution.

 I offered that I meant no disrespect to anyone, let alone wanted any motherfuckers kicked out of line. I also explained this was my first time down (in prison), and as such I knew not what I did. I expressed profound regret, and asked for forgiveness. Dreadlock was initially unpersuaded, but simmered down after some well-timed personal endorsements.

None too soon, “Trip” and “Q.C,” African-American neighbors of mine, stopped by and vouched for me. Trip casually professed: "Yo, he straight. He don't know shit, but he aight." I blushed with pride at the hardy validation.

Kaz, who shared an adjacent barracks with Dreadlock, offered words to the same effect: "Yeah, he's just a dumbass. He doesn't know any better, but he don't mean no harm.” I resisted an urge to defend my intellect, as diffusing the tension seemed more important.

Dreadlock calmed noticeably, although he vented a bit further and then tabled his demands for amends for my offense. He wanted some of the clean clothes I had, and a honey bun or equivalent snack from the canteen to be named later. This was fine with me, as I was physically unscathed, and avoid medium custody in my immediate future, at least from this incident. Dreadlock and I didn’t exactly bump fists as he left, but a bullet dodged sufficed for me.

Trip later explained that Dreadlock confronting me displayed respect, otherwise I would've taken a sucker punch, a shanking, or a beatdown when I least expected it − no discussion involved. Others, however, weren’t sure the danger had passed so easily.

The whole barracks were aware of the drama by this time, and a couple of crusty veterans pulled me aside and laid out my new reality. Despite Dreadlock making peace, I was now perceived as a potential snitch, seen as doing the police's job by trying to silence the clothes line. They told me to watch my back on the yard and avoid hanging solo like usual, because anyone could be after me. It was also suggested that I shut the fuck up and follow what the experienced cons did. And also: shut the fuck up.

As a newly marked man, I was increasingly distressed as the next hours passed. My goal to get through prison unscathed was in jeopardy, and I wasn’t even a month into my sentence. I was more out of my element than Al Gore at a Chris Brown concert.

The long walk to the chow hall and back marked my first daunting episode as a target I needed a security phalanx. So I placed myself right in the middle of a group of friendlies for the trek. This did not go unnoticed, of course, and I endured cracks like: "You hot, bro. Stay the fuck away from me!" I assumed they were kidding, but all bets were off in this strange new world.

Besides a few leers − possibly imagined − the first trip was uneventful. My next hurdle was the afternoon yard session, towards which time truly flew with intense dread. I could have simply waited it out on my bunk, but looked like a pussy in the process. I was surprised I actually cared about my reputation among ne’er-do-wells I’d soon likely never see again, but such is human nature. I also preferred to face the music and learn my outcome so I could relax again. I’m a big fan of relaxing.

My plan was to go out and shoot baskets as usual. The court was in a wide open area, and the single CO on the yard always in sight of it. The prominent space also might help me to see it coming, since I was unsure who exactly wanted a piece of me. I headed out directly after the yard opened and basically shot nervous air balls by myself, but not for long. Soon Dreadlock arrived, along with his huge sidekick and a couple of others who I recognized from the line.

At first they pretended I wasn't there, including not returning the ball to me after I made a shot, which indicates major disrespect on a basketball court.  Things soon literally came to a head as I sought a rebound under the basket: a thrown ball hit me square in the back of my noggin. I staggered away dazed, but stayed on my feet. I instinctively covered my head to defend against a barrage, but instead heard laughter and jeers. "Yo, don't hit the pole-eece!"

This was nice. If they were laughing instead of jumping me I wouldn’t die.

My bearings slowly returned and I wobbled up to Dreadlock’s sidekick, intending to talk it out while taking care not to sound too white. "Yo, I wasn't trying to get anybody kicked out of line, and I ain't no snitch"

Sidekick merely looked towards his boys as if he didn’t hear, but still listened.

"This is my first time down . I didn't know what was up. I didn't mean no disrespect, " I said, head throbbing .

This got my adversary verbal.

"Man, that's some of that bullshit! You tryin' tell a nigga to 'shut up?’ What the fuck you call it?”

"Man, I thought I was helping get the line moving, that's all."

This comment brought two more dudes close and yelling at me, which beat the hell out of swinging at me. They let me have it.

"It ain't your job to fuck with the line, that's the pole-eece, snitch-bitch!" was one of the lines I recall, along with proposals of physical harm. “And you don’t tell a man to shut up!”

This was good. However crudely, we were working it out and headed toward smoking the peace pipe. More importantly, I didn’t endure further physical pain in the process. "Let it all out!" I felt like saying. "This is productive. I'm sensing some real growth here!"

After another minute of them bitching and throwing insults, Dreadlock again spoke of reparations.

"Whatchoo gonna buy us, Pole-eece?"

I resisted the urge to reiterate that I was in fact not the police. Instead, I chose to be happy to soon be leaving a place where my new nickname was "Pole-eece." I offered to get them each a honey bun as soon as my money hit my canteen account, as Dreadlock had earlier proposed.

"You mean a hun-bun and a drank?" Sidekick helpfully suggested.

"Yeah, that's fine. Listen, like I said, I didn't mean to fuck anything up." I replied. "Are we straight now?

"I ain't eating no hun-bun yet, so fuck no we ain't straight!" someone offered, to much laughter.

While it was clear no handshakes were coming, the crisis had passed. Most importantly, it blew over without me absorbing blows other than to my dignity. I headed back to my bunk with relief, looking for some aspirin and a well-earned, post-stress nap. I had faced down my first prison crisis and come out okay. I never bought those fuckers shit, either, as I shipped out the next morning before money posted to my account. I think I'm far away enough now to safely say: Suck it, bitches!

Review of Don DeLillo's "Underworld"

If you have decided to dip into some Don DeLillo, you may want to start with White Noise for a more succinct sample of his prose, and to save seemingly six months of your life. I wish I had done so multiple times in the course of lurching through the seemingly endless Underworld – a whopping 826 pages that feels like double that. I came upon DeLillo via David Foster Wallace’s list of favorite authors, and turns out the two are similar in both good and bad ways.

As with Infinite Jest, this book has no driving plot line to keep the reader’s interest and the pages turning. Promising plotlines are established early on, only to be utterly abandoned, barely referred to again, and then only in a clumsy effort to tie the book together at the end. Occasional − perhaps even frequent − passages of brilliant writing can be found, and there are many wonderful phrases coined and descriptions made, “Crisp little men aswagger with assets,” and “The lure, the enticement of a life defined by its remoteness from the daily drudge of world complaint,” chief among them.

My quarrel with Underworld is its dozens of stories that start and fizzle, some in under a mere page. Some may consider this style brilliantly unique, but I find it lazy, as if the author couldn’t be bothered to, or was incapable of, putting together a story that fit together. This choppiness is frustrating, especially when references are made to an easily forgotten character or incident swarmed under two or three hundred pages earlier, virtually impossible to find again for a refresher. There are indeed thoughtful ruminations about the working class, gritty city life, and a (poorly explained) big picture, but they are delivered in a distracting fashion.  

I forged ahead anyway, occasionally enchanted by an interesting observation or brilliant passage of prose, but divorced from the idea that any of the multiple story threads would ever connect. I did, however, expect the final fifth of this seemingly endless tome to present some sort of payoff. That perhaps the best writing would be delivered on the back end – a reward for slogging through the rest of the head-scratching format.

Instead, with the book waning, there are passages like: “Did she eat anything?” “I made a little soup.” “Did she eat it?” Ate some, spilled some . . .” All seemingly apropos of nothing, because the ailing elderly person referred to was never truly introduced, so I had no reason to care about her plight. And again, none of this was in service to any discernible or compelling plot line. The only reason to turn a page was to finally, mercifully make it end and be able to say I didn’t skim to get there.

David Foster Wallace cited DeLillo as a major influence, but I wonder if it was the other way around in this instance, since Infitnite Jest was published two years before Underworld. It sure seems like DeLillo read the former and realized storylines are overrated and nothing has to fit together in the end after all. It’s all in the journey – the overly verbose, pointless detail-ridden journey. This is not to say great writing can’t be found here, but what exists could fit into a book the size of White Noise. If you must mark DeLillo off of your must-read author list, you may want to begin and end with Noise instead of this bloated, overly “clever” behemoth.

 I can’t say I necessarily regret reading this book, but I suspect the three I could’ve knocked off of my reading list in the same time frame would’ve been far more fun and entertaining.