I suppose the "facts" of DMT might as well be written in cunieform on our
breastbones for all the good it does to know about it, as opposed to "dwelling
in the know of it." And memory, of course, cannot serve, at least not in its
normative form. The moment you go back to bflbfzdxqitenamaton South of
sprshguiekefwom (sp?) your memory is again a living parchment and
complete, all events self-referencing, co-incident, current, and existing in
eternity. To be there is to be where "that" is and "this" isn't, except
metaphorically. We are metaphor, that is -- where it is almost painful to
write or say "is." Bumblebees, aerodynamically too heavy to fly, rise, it could
be, on the word "is" -- We don't take DMT; DMT takes us.

My personal take on the "secret" of DMT: it was long, hard work making this
world real. It was, and is, done for a purpose. To have others. To believe in
them fully in order to experience love. It goes against common sense to try
and see through it. Ignorance is the primary condition of Eden. But entropy is
at work and a world made for love is not satisfied with the transformational
edict "eat and be eaten" but kills and does not eat. A sense of ultimate unity
is lost and the delusion of fundamental diversity breeds alienation. This is not
Eden. Yet the monad doesn't face itself and subsume Its creation. The failing
would be eternal. Therefore, doors are opened and enough of the plot is
"made flesh" to allow orientation regarding the surface gist of the matter.
Collectivism is a wrong approach to nostalgia for the purity of the monad.
Healthy diversity perpetuates the rationale of the creation, such as it is.
Healthy men, women, races and nations evolving gladly to a recognition of
the source, rejoining it in a gradual and rejoicing manner, "bringing in the
sheaves," would be a better solution to the human aspect of this work, and is
the substance of sacred ceremonial.

My take could be way off base but anything more Gnostic is off-putting. Phil
Dick fell down that sink. And Lovecraft, I wouldn't doubt, though he
professed no belief in what he wrote.

In saying any or all of this, it's only sane to assume I'm dead wrong since I'm
speaking in polar terms. But it raises issues and generates metaphor. The
emperium is neither philosophical space nor information repository but a
nexus of rhythms. (nexi?) It's rhythm that transports us to the possibility of
xing tangential to eternity with no fixed point of reference, including " I am."
I say xing, rather than: being, moving, exisiting - because of wanting to be as
exact as possible. A lot of DMT lore can't be expounded because our verbs
and prepositions correspond to realities of four dimensions or less, gainsaid.
To catalogue conditions where one accelerates at warp speed to stand still in
one place / where transfer among interconnecting universes is instantaneous
/ where we connect, with full memory, into other lives we're in the process
of living, for example, the land of living armchairs and laughing sunshine (or
the heartbreaking Tuesday Afternoon Ballroom in the Rain at the end of time)
we must understand the nature and limitations of our grammar and be
self-motivated to think beyond it. To avoid the condition of pathological
meme-ing, we must not over-state our experiences, or mis-state them for
easier referentiality. We may, however, talk around them and establish
communication based on mutual recognitions. A language begins in this

If your calculations about Omega point are KoreKt, it should be a matter of
mere months before the language evolves, like a flu virus, to allow western
discussion of living items of eternity. I mean, we're doing it, aren't we? And,
if we feel mysteriously driven to do it, I presume it's because the time is
ripe for it. There was a time when I felt the DMT lore was critical
information. I don't entirely disbelieve it yet.

We need a few verbs and prepositions to explain ourselves. "Trip" & "farout"
aren't going to do it. Suggest "xing" as the verb of standing/moving in relation
to an eternal scenario from no fixed reference point, psychic or positional.
We could say "evolve" to a "transdimensional viewpoint" but it would be
clunky with accumulated baggage. I'd as soon say "xing to Unity One" to
describe the place of 360 degree spherical vision. The Visor, I call it, but that
would be private slang. The visor goes back and you see behind and above
you, where the sky is infinitely deep and Summer blue. Scientific language,
with its distaste for adjectives, is useless here. But not later, back home,
with a case of the post-extasis blues, having just conversed with Eve and
missing her already.

I don't want to sell this stuff, DMT. It's damned well not for everybody.
Fortunately, its abuse potential is rock bottom. I, who loved it, have only
taken it twice in the last 20 years and that was too much. It's like jumping
on or off a speeding train. Omni-dimensional fact finding is not a very high
priority among the "kicks" crowd; they're better off with gas and its infinite
fractals of memory, or airplane glue. DMT is for those with a desperate need
to know, and, among those, for only a small percentage whose neural wiring
happens to be heavy gauge with appropriate sheathing. Nobody ever got rich
peddling DMT. It was only always passed from hand to hand outside normal
"drug ring" circles. It is, to LSD, as 198 proof rum is to hot milk with a few
drops of brandy. I feel it's important to say this, since I don't want our
public discussion to be seen as advocacy. Nor do I say it shouldn't be tried.
For some, its the key to the lock. One good hit should tell you where you
stand with it. The fact that's it's generally unavailable indicates that demand
is wanting. I thoroughly understand your comment about the difficulty of
summoning the "raw courage" to experiment further with DMT.

DMT is self-selecting. It knows who it wants, for whatever reasons it wants
them, and scares the bejezus out of anyone else. Those who ought to have it
will find themselves in possession of it, like anything else. The human brain
secretes it. In miniscule natural quantities, it's the fuel of fantasy, dreams
and visions. The alien-ness of many of the realms of DMT is striking. The
mechanical "pixies" as you call them, for starters. I call them the klaxton
men, with their klik-klak box joints and inter-dimensional warp and woof,
though "men" they are not. Or the "firemen" those beings of fire who inhabit
one of the closer to home stations on the way "out." They seem entirely
unconscious of us. The "pixies" know we're there. They're not much
interested, though. And then there's those elemental forces that descend on
your room in a vortex and whirl all your property around your head, rattle
your windows, even set your curtains on fire and leave your nerves jangled
for days! Ah, the memories . . . And the critters, such as you pointed out,
who wonder what the hell you're doing in their room! There's no time to
explain, even if you could form words. And besides, who are you anyway?
Anyone who has been surprised by heavy surf, whirled helplessly and
slammed on the sand, has a reasonable metaphor for the power of DMT.
Control isn't even in question here. Who controlling what? Caveat emptor is
the byword for this empress of psychotropic substances.

Naw, you don't do "research" with DMT. You wrestle for your salvation with
Behemoth and sometimes receive an unpredictible vision of actual Heaven on
the dare, which makes you game to try such desperate measures again.
Religionists, with their guaranteed eventual paradise, of which they know
nothing, taking it all on "faith," can't be expected to understand or
sympathize with those with a yen to storm the Gate of Heaven and see for
themselves what all the praying's about!

I'll stop with this, ill-confident that I've moved slowly as might be into the
dialogue, but, considering how much remains to be spoken, what with the
eschaton and all, how slowly is it even possible to move?

23 skidoo,


29 May 1996 19:11:33 -1000


I like what you have to say about DMT, I agree with most of it, yet I am
aware that because the object of our discussion is so non-ordinary and
peculiar that when we think that we have said all that we can say we still
have not said enough. The experience is somehow able to hold within
itself both the sublime and the ridiculous, the awesome and the trivial in
one alchemical container.

So as I sit here reading your account I partially become it; I recover and
remember the experience through that lens. But I cannot forget that it has
made me laugh harder than anything ever has and that it has shown me a
candy lacquered form of sexy naughtiness that I else wise would not have
known existed. So I take it to be a kind of a pun. It both is what it is
and it mocks what it is by being many other things simultaneously. Its
nature is that it is many things, including contradictory things, at once,
that is what makes it impossible.

Borges, in that story in Labyrinths called the Sect of the Phoenix says
that to the initiated the secret seems slightly ridiculous. When I was a
kid, maybe you knew people like this too, I had playmates that were my own
age but so much less sophisticated than the rest of us that when we six
year olds were putting on Halloween masks and chasing each other and
shrieking and freaking out on sugar, there were a couple of kids who
couldn't get that it was not real, that it was a game, that it is fun to
scare the shit out yourself and your friends. I am not placing your
trepidation in that category. I feel the trepidation too, but I do feel,
and this may be the difference between doing it a couple of times and doing
it maybe thirty times, that as I sit here I can recapture the feeling of
the flash, not only the feeling but in some sense I would say "the
Perspective" And looking at it like that it seems like it is the edge of
meaning, that meaning is actually being made somewhere over the ordinary
horizon of experience, and that when the DMT kicks in one is moved to the
domain where meaning comes into existence. And the delight and surprise
that accompanies unfolding complicated puns has a very similar feeling.

I am beginning to feel as though I am not making meaning any more so I will
knock off for the evening. I am enjoying this, hope you are too.