Thursday, October 30, 2008

Divine Moments of Truth

A thousand years ago, deep in the darkest jungles of the Amazon, the ancient Incas discovered a mystical vine. They brew up a sacred, psychoactive, hallucinogenic drink - the holy Ayahuasca.

You enter a special, magical dimension. The dimension of the spirit world.
The drink takes you on a journey of inner discovery. You enter a special, magical dimension. The dimension of the spirit world.

Depending on how good your contact is, quality can range from stringy brown bark to blood red resin to white needle-like shards. Administration is your choice - Insufflation isn't as bad as some of it's phenethylamine cousins, but it's still pretty rough. Oral activity is slim to nil without a companion to hold back the bouncers while he goes through and causes havoc. And uptake on intravenous is so potent that unless you're dealing with optically pure analytical samples, you're probably going to die...

So, for the best compromise between comfort, bioavailability, and safety, we like to pip that shit. Now, personally, I prefer an electric vaporiser with a large plastic collection bag, but more commonly and more portably you'll just crack back that shit in a rose or oil pipe.

I still remember the very first time I smoked DMT.

The taste is like burning plastic, a little, and like chocolate, a little. It's not entirely unpleasant but it iss completely distinct, and memorable. For days afterwards you'll get flashes of the smell which will bring the rush of fear and glory and a few seconds of racing heartbeat.

Lie down in the undergrowth when you take the hit. You want nature around you, lots of intricate detail and things to loop out and warp and fractalise. Take the hit. Hold it. Hooooooooooold it. Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooold it. It's usually not too harsh, but you have got to hold that shit in as long as possible. Fight oxygen. oxygen is your foe and the smoke is jesus christ our saviour. Do not let him go until you keel over backwards.

Drugs have changed our lives, man. Drugs and computers are probably the two most important developments of our time. Drugs and computers, they're the language of the future.

You'll feel when it comes on, and you'll probably lost control of yourself. Ever tried nitrous? Salvia? The come-up is a similar timing. Now, I don't mean, have you ever smoked a bowl of 5x salvia extract when you didn't want to get caught smoking weed. I mean, have you ever vaporised a few nuggets of 25X extract and taken the biggest lungful you could and held it for a long fucking time. You'll know if you have. They call it 'breaking through', and much like with salvia, breaking through on DMT is a very special day. it's like your re-birthday. The first time you do acid. The first time you break through on DMT. These are important milestones in your mental development.

Your arm and legs will feel warm and soft. You'll try to sit up and your head will spin. Your muscles will contract and your toes will cramp up. This is going to happen in about... two seconds. it will feel like minutes.

And then you will be high for the next two days. Subjectively, that is. For ten years you will have endless hallucinations... rainbow-bricked paths to and from sanity, deconstructing your mysticism, laying to waste your ego and preconcieved personality and revealing your soul for who you really are. if you really want to test your relationship with someone, go smoke DMT with them and try to remember what you see and say.

It is impossible to describe what you will see. DMT strips bare the human mind and produces a mathematical precision in the chaos. It finds form and logic from emotion. And then it takes that logic and shits all over it, and then it skullfucks you with crazy. I have been to worlds entirely populated by strange mechanical elves, I have had my room dissolve into a candyland fantasy and been set upon by great sentient gummi bears. I have seen the universe rush up to greet me, a surging wave of darkness and stars, that forced it' way inside my ears and squeezed my brain until I exploded in a brillitant lancing moment of colour and sound.

Five to ten minutes later, depending on how much you smoked, you'll be sober enough to speak. Twenty minutes later you should be able to drive.

It will change your life.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

and she's buying the stairway to heaven

it makes me wonder, sometimes, about how much is worth it, and how much is unecessary clutter.

the smell of sassafras isn'tparticularly nice but you know it means you're about to make a lot of money. So that acrid, candyshop-burning-down fragrance releases a little endorphins and you feel your heart thump in your chest. Chemistry is riddled with leitmotifs of lost glory, fame and riches - You have to trade them sometimes for your continued freedom. Allow the batch to go to waste, flush the precursors and dust down the house while you wait for the forces of good(tm) to arrive and batter down your door.

if there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't panic. just clean house and have a good excuse for that little jar or ergotamine in your drawer.

remember the thunder child.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

indulge thyself..ret/CONN

selfless/selfish, rats whimper in the dark.

tomorrow never comes.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Burn for truth and fiend for reason. Addiction is a mindset.


busy fuckin bees this is me they are in me in my skin under my skin inside my flesh inside my head buzz fuckin buzz

burn with me - i need a smoke; but more then anything i need a new soxhlet

no scratch that

more then anything i need someone to come and trepan open my skull to let these bees out.

i'm grilling and looping and burning and bleeding and all I can do is beg, becasue i don't know what i need. i want to sleep, i want to run a mile, the nicotine makes me want something but i can't fucking PLACE it, i can't put my finger on it because one finger's on the syringe and the other's on the trigger

god fucking damn this is the london underground of drugs. i'm digging for some change from behind the couch at the same time as I jump in my car and drive south, way south, till I hit the cliffs and plunge into the ocean.

fuck. sharpen my knife. ride the snake. this bit will pass soon - but do I want it to? I'm never quite so happy as when i hit the misery. because this bit I know is real. THIS bit is real; the rest is washed in bleach and hot water because i want my cd4 sites unmolested, thankyouverymuch.

glaciers of ice, verbal intercourse. wu-gambinos. heaven and hell. liquid swords and the duel of the iron mike. the sound... it only makes the bees angrier.

The internet is shit. Or: "Fuck you Theodore Sturgeon, fuck you in your piscine ass."

And of this running faecal river, 90% of it is crap, so thank god for my bookmarks which allow me to filter through it. "But Lo!" Says Mister Sturgeon, 90% of your bookmarks are crap! I nod, concede the point that relativistically speaking, ninety percent of my bookmarks are, indeed, crap. I momentarily consider stripping down to the 10& good, but all that does is increase my resolution, because of that remaining 10%, 90% will be crap. It's a circle of crap that never ceases to confound and frustrate. So I keep my bookmarks, and move onto individual sites. hello, gaia. Ninety percent of you is crap. Resolve. Hello, G.D. Ninety percent of you is crap. Resolve. Hello, thread. Ninety percent of your responses are crap.

On and on it continues until I'm down to counting the pixels that make up the letters that make up the words that make up the posts that make up the thread - ad nauseam.

So! We simplify, but at the same time we introduce complexity. We tell sturgeon to get fucked, and introduce a littler creative editing. "Ninety percent of the definable present object is crap." Better. Simpler in terms of practice, more complex in terms of thw law itself.

But that's what science is like, and physics especially. The cat is/is not dead, all that bullshit. In all honesty, the only physics I care about is ballistic trajectories, impact patterns, terminal velocity and shrapnel distribution spreads. f(living) = BOOM HEADSHOT! where headshot is equivalent to the number of tangoes divided by the number of rounds in my magazine, and boom is equal to the number of magazines I'm carrying. If the number is positive, I live. If it's negative, I die. very simple.

The biggest issue facing mankind today is that extreme reluctance of numbers to do what they are told.

Buzz buzz, motherfuckers.

instinct: bees are bad. knowledge: honey is good

instinct vs knowledge decries the basic human struggle. We know it is bad to rape the defenseless young girl while she walks alone at night, but instinct wishes it. We know it is bad to invade that country for it's oil money, but instinct is greedy, and money is money.

Sometimes there is only a modicum of instinct, and we are forces to rely on knowledge. we know there should be a higgs boson, but damned if we can find it.

instinct: being happy is good. knowledge: meth is bad

instinct vs knowledge is the root of all suffering. Animal vs man, feeling vs thought. Heart vs head. the blood that pumps wrapped/rapt by the nerves which pulse. see the pun?

or does the pun see you?

instinct vs knowledge. instinct: I sound like a madman, raving wildy. knowledge: I am a madman, raving wildly.

Of course, it makes sense to me. But isn't that the crux of it? The true madman is the one who understands that he acts in a manner contrary to all reason, and yet continues to do so.

Instinct suggests that cooking illegal drugs is a bad idea. Knowledge argues that If I'm smart enough to cook, I should be smart enough not to get caught. Practice, so far, has suggested the latter to be accurate, but the future holds much and I am only young.

look at every 'evil' man you can - They all have one things in common - they act on human instinct (note; not animal instinct. human instincts are greedy, hedonistic and selfish rather then raw catecholamine flushes of the animal fight-or-flight instincts) - xenophobia, lust, greed and intolerance. They see something strange, they want to kill it. They see a girl they want, and they take her. They want money, and they trample others to get it.

from this, we can derive that knowledge - the application of rational thought, control and empathy - decries a base intelligence uncommon to most people. No self-rationalising 'intelligent' sentient being could condone taking the life of another indiscriminately. Imagine what you have accomplished in your lifespan. What have they done? you have no idea. What will you do for the rest of your life? They have no idea. neither of you can kill the other with any real conviction; [i]unless[/i] the other poses a direct threat to your continued existence - Because, elt's face it. Being selfish isn't evil. Self preservation isn't evil. it might be narrow minded, and an automatic violent response might be reactioanry and not the best course of action - but anyone who says violence doesn't solve anything clearly wasn't trying hard enough.

So bring your spoon and spike. Sit on a park bench beside me. We'll share a cigarette, spit heroin and be mad together.

[i]Bring back the bees! [/i]

Thursday, October 16, 2008

please, someone pick me up out of the dust

i am the sharp tip of the world's claw - must look the part. it is a terrible insult to kill someone while poorly dressed. Look like a weapon, look like the law of the land. law of the jungle. Look the part, watch the crowd. Uniforms are a red rag to bombers and dissidents, avoid them. Know that the green will bring 'em on us.Fuck the politicians. The economists. The daily grind commuters, office workers, hard day at the salt mines eh comrade? Fuck you, your nerves aren't as ragged as this soldier.

The weather takes a turn towards winter (in november). It feels like everybody's got a chip on their shoulder. What if today's the day my luck leaves me? Normally... Normally I'm bulletproof. So why should it be different this evening?

These days, I think that every night, as I lay in bed and hide from the storms. It's sunny outside, but I can hear the lightning.

but still they come. still they line up, outstretched palm and clenched teeth that are tightening screws. to control what we see. What we say. this is what the bastards are making us do.

alone except for these tablets that go straight to my head, and jump on, holding the scruff of the neck of the country, so much blood. Police checkpoint is deep in guns, bristles with overpowered underinformed outsourced psychopaths with a scrap of shiny tin and a chunk of black steel. to hear their requests and cries denied, for peace, for bliss... You could almost believe them. Almost. if we had peace they wouldn't have a job. What we call peacekeepers are more accurately called peace modulators. They keep the peace where there are lots of cameras - And make war in the dark corners.

I hate the fucking look in their eye

i don't wanna live like this.

This great southern land - we'll let you in, but not your wife and kids, who may or may not aspire to be martyrs. the state clamps down hard nontheless - No labour potential out of them you see, and the kid will cost tax money to put through school. You, though. You can drive a taxi. We can use you.

pre-emption is self defence, live rounds are deterrence and local residents... collateral.

and even the children throw stones
that's why I can't wait to go home.

skin burnt raw, they still build fences while their families wait somewhere off the coast.


Fuck all of you. Fuck you with a brick. Give me your drugs and fuck off. I hate you all. You only really realise how much you hate every human being around you once they're bouncing around in your crosshairs. All women are treacherous lying whores.

Give me your drugs and don't ever speak to me again. I hope you all catch ebola.

Actually, fuck that, I'm going to [i]give[/i] you all ebola.

Everyone sleepwalks while awake and wakewalks through sleep.

Sound that resounds, rebounds; sound that abounds in space and underground; sounds of life and sounding rods that drive deep into the bones of society. Sounds pulses, sound drives. Sound crashes and cries. Sound struts and sound swaggers, sound crawls in the gutter and begs for change.

Sound is the energy that can touch you. That can strike you down. That can reach into your ear, push through your eyes and rattle your teeth.

Sound is power. Sound is raw and brutal. Sound is gentle. All at once, sound is loud and soft, harsh and smooth. Sound is schroedinger's nightmare; impossible to tell if there is no sound or just equal sound rotated through 180 degrees until destructive interference creates a mean wave pattern of nil... Psytrance is sound. Hypnotic, colourful. it gets you locked in loops, trapped in beats. You dance, because it's the natural thing to do. right? Wrong. Wright? Babbage, actually.


Psytrance is sound for the masses. Sound for parties and doofs and clubs and raves because there you get a cluster of hive minds, malleable minds, minds all thinking the same thing, to greater or lesser extent - let's have fun. Let's get fucked up. Let's [i]dance![/i]

Throw into the mix the knowledge that most of the people there will be from relatively similar backrounds or at least social demographics - They were raised similarly, at least macroscopically. Obviously there will be grave individual variations, but on the whole they have quite close morals and value systems... Most of them, at least.

Then you take all these like-minded people with similar neurochemistry and similar wishes and wants and similar thoughts and desires and you put them all on the same drug - Or at least, most of them. They'll all be on various different things, but it's a safe bet that the majority will all have one thing in common, substance wise - MDMA. Which is cool, because MDMA, as opposed to say, coke (which is what we were all taking back in the disco days) is particularly good for building the hive mind - Love thy neighbour, empath. PLUR up in hurr, and all that.

So we have all these people - They want the same thing. They think the same thing. They take the same thing. They do the same thing.

We need to take advantage of this. Skew the pills, add a little modinafil, piracetam and sodium pentothal to the mixture. And then weave subliminal messages into the music. Generate nega-waves and broadcast subsonic frequencies. We won't have precise instructions, but we can control their emotions. The DJ, lord puppetmaster, keeps the crowd on the strings. Then, once we're sure everyone's pretty much at the peak of their roll, we start pounding fear. Sound the alarms. Shift gears, and turn the vibes nasty.

Then we alert the police to the rave's existence and watch the riot unfold. A thousand able-bodied, amphetamine fuelled soldiers acting as one. The hive versus the great spider of government. They want a war on drugs - We will show them a [i]war[/i].

Grow soldiers and with them, burn the world.

Monday, October 13, 2008


The flask has cooled. Sawdust, filtered and boiled, dripped and refluxed in drain cleaner. The good bits - distileld, seperated and purified. Dealt with correctly. Strap on your gas mask, here comes the fun bit. Greeny-yellow haze flows through aquarium tubing into the bottom of the reaction vessel. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling. Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, pouring it into the buchner funnel and starting the vacuum, rinsing the last little residue out with ice-cold anhydrous acetone. Then a few hours in the dessicator to bring it all back to needle-like white shards, long slender crystals that threaten to impale sanity and spear conciousness on a point of white-hot phenethylamine bliss. Good mescaline comes on slow. The first hour iss all waiting. Halfway through the second hour you start cursing the creep that burned you. Then... Zang! The kaleidoscope drills into my mind.

Trigonometric precision in chaos. Mescaline is wonderful for the mathematically inclined mind. Patterns emerge from signal noise. Hydraulics drive long, slow equations deep into your brain. A blank white wall becomes an exercise in destructive addition - Topology is poetry, and sledgehammers are fountain pens. Hour four. Now we see the violence inherent in the system. Brilliant lances of truth abuse your occipital lobe as complicated receptor ligands give up their trapped prey, like a spider interrupted in the middle of vorophilic coitus in exchange for a little mental stability. Serotonin floods and dopamine pulses. Blood hammers. Pulse races. Cars crash and sanity flusters. The world warps and betrays its true nature. The clearly defined patterns and equations of the third hour are overwhelmed by the fear created by aztec gods, great swooping reptilian birds with spiralling fire for eyes and great spiked iron dicks. Men and bears rape girls and bats, and a holy trifecta of neurotransmitters swell the brain. Increased intracranial pressure leads to fever. Fever brings a cold sweat. The sensation of liquid wrapping the body evokes memories of childbirth. A grave rolling nausea grips the bowels with pliers and twists and yanks with every fetid-breathed step you take towards the gutter, the bathroom, or the corner of your cell.

Eventually you feel yourself overcome. This ancient south american devil drug, holy flesh of the cactus gods and synthetic residue of a thousand milled trees. First of the chemical love story, and last to be understood. The birds, bane of prometheus and quetzacoatl continue to pluck and hunt. They circle overhead, and when they get brave enough, they drive into your body long talons and wickedly hooked beaks. Acidic tongues lash the wounds, rasp at your exposed skin as the clothes are torn from your body. They loathe the smell of marijuana, so burning cannabis incense or a nice fat blunt will keep them away, for a while at least. But either way the damage has been done, and you will puke maggots for hours while the eggs they laid under your skin fester and boil. They burst and with them comes sobriety - Cold albumin clings to your hair, cerebro-spinal fluid leaks from your pores and your bones tingle and creak while sanity slowly climbs out of the hole it was hiding in as the birds subside, beaten for another day.

Sorry officer, I thought that pigeon was an ancient mexican demon bird. No, I will not stop eating it's insides. Otherwise it will get me. Those businessmen are watching from their cafe ow fuck no piss off