Psilocybin
This was inspired by a lot of stuff I've been reading about mushrooms, and an honors presentation I heard on Friday. Does it work? Is the story pointlessly hard to follow? Hopefully I'll be adding more, bringing the whole thing back to the inward path stuff referenced in the story's first sentence. Also, if you've actually used mushrooms, advice and anecdotes would be appreciated.
It's been said that Communism is the most painful path between Capitalism and Capitalism, Jake thought, as his stomach stepped inward and the mushrooms took hold. He'd heard it in an economics class, a history class - different professors, same joke. That's how it was though, everything was the same, really, when you got right down to it. I mean, you could tell, just by looking at the brick walls around us. All the same color, all worn by years, only about three feet high, this little corner of the park I mean, but all the same a part of this world. And the drugs just made you more of a part. Not made you. Helped you regain that part, thought Jake, as I watched him begin to trip.
I was sitting on the bird crap white icinged wall, back humming against a dim park light. I hummed, too. It was the mushrooms that did it, the mushrooms we - I - had taken yesterday and today. I didn't remember if Jake had eaten one last morning, looked at him, and he answered
"You bastard."
Jake's father cursed, so Jake cursed. Jake knew it and sometimes hated it but now he thought the affection so appropriate. You could see the questioning look in the bastard's eye, the little lip thing (smirk - I remember that from yesterday), he always analyzed and even when he tripped he couldn't just let go, let himself fall. This ground is so cold. I feel as if I'm coming apart. I wish I could push myself through, make it happen faster if only the bastard could help.
"Hey. Get down here. Like this." Jake was the same, talked the same, drunk or tripping. He would try to describe the changes later, but we only really saw them in the sketches he made sometimes. I slid down onto my heels, brick scraping against me as the old t-shirt was pushed high onto my shoulders past empty spots were wings could have grown, and I could feel a scattering of rough particles tickle against my back, moving closer, pulling the shirt down.
Maybe it's the ground that does it - start the trip. I drew my hand across my stomach, fast, I think, skin pulled taught by the first kick of psilocybin and psilocin. Words that connect me with Jake, make me say "Can you feel that? Like I'm a fucking drum... I can still feel the humming". He feels it but doesn't give me the satisfaction of nodding.
Jake let his hand trace half remembered patterns from piano lessons taken in his teens. The drumming... the drumming... drums... earth and plates.
"Did you remember that redneck kid who was always talking about geology and shit?" Jake felt his voice leave, looked at me, saw the fragments golden in dim lantern glow.
"This grass feels like it's growing through me." And, it did, really. I wondered what it would be like to be pick pocketed terrarium grown into, become a terrarium or something, a person shaped garden.
Jake didn't wonder, he was busy with his own trip, doing his own time.
It's been said that Communism is the most painful path between Capitalism and Capitalism, Jake thought, as his stomach stepped inward and the mushrooms took hold. He'd heard it in an economics class, a history class - different professors, same joke. That's how it was though, everything was the same, really, when you got right down to it. I mean, you could tell, just by looking at the brick walls around us. All the same color, all worn by years, only about three feet high, this little corner of the park I mean, but all the same a part of this world. And the drugs just made you more of a part. Not made you. Helped you regain that part, thought Jake, as I watched him begin to trip.
I was sitting on the bird crap white icinged wall, back humming against a dim park light. I hummed, too. It was the mushrooms that did it, the mushrooms we - I - had taken yesterday and today. I didn't remember if Jake had eaten one last morning, looked at him, and he answered
"You bastard."
Jake's father cursed, so Jake cursed. Jake knew it and sometimes hated it but now he thought the affection so appropriate. You could see the questioning look in the bastard's eye, the little lip thing (smirk - I remember that from yesterday), he always analyzed and even when he tripped he couldn't just let go, let himself fall. This ground is so cold. I feel as if I'm coming apart. I wish I could push myself through, make it happen faster if only the bastard could help.
"Hey. Get down here. Like this." Jake was the same, talked the same, drunk or tripping. He would try to describe the changes later, but we only really saw them in the sketches he made sometimes. I slid down onto my heels, brick scraping against me as the old t-shirt was pushed high onto my shoulders past empty spots were wings could have grown, and I could feel a scattering of rough particles tickle against my back, moving closer, pulling the shirt down.
Maybe it's the ground that does it - start the trip. I drew my hand across my stomach, fast, I think, skin pulled taught by the first kick of psilocybin and psilocin. Words that connect me with Jake, make me say "Can you feel that? Like I'm a fucking drum... I can still feel the humming". He feels it but doesn't give me the satisfaction of nodding.
Jake let his hand trace half remembered patterns from piano lessons taken in his teens. The drumming... the drumming... drums... earth and plates.
"Did you remember that redneck kid who was always talking about geology and shit?" Jake felt his voice leave, looked at me, saw the fragments golden in dim lantern glow.
"This grass feels like it's growing through me." And, it did, really. I wondered what it would be like to be pick pocketed terrarium grown into, become a terrarium or something, a person shaped garden.
Jake didn't wonder, he was busy with his own trip, doing his own time.
posted by Fifth at 12:22 AM
3 Comments:
I spent my highschool years eating mushrooms and acid. I've done both in excess of 25 times apiece.
What do you want to know?
Fucking everything. Specifically - how closely does the story match your own experiences?
Well, for me, I always knew it was starting when my hands started tingling, kinda an electrical thing. Then the first phase normally just involves everyone laughing hysterically, tripping out on words and puns and phrases that suddenly seem bizarre. That's one of the most defining characteristics of the whole thing: language seems to become more elastic and slippery, you pay much more attention to the linguistic devices themselves. Everyone chain-smokes cigarettes and shakes their heads looking blown away.
Then, after a couple hours, if you did enough, you kinda break through the craziness/absurdity of the first part, and that's when some really intense shit can go down.
It looks good to me so far. I might avoid using the word 'trip' much, just because it kinda makes it seem more generic.
THe whole thing is kinda hard to summarize, especially since my own experiences have been drastically different, ranging from beautiful to terrifying.
Does any of that help? I'll answer whatever you want to konw.
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