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Anonym bruker
"Flygende Jinn"
Generert avatar for denne anonyme brukeren
Hei alle sammen.

Her er en triprapport fra en opplevelse jeg hadde på San Pedro for en stund siden. Jeg skrev rapporten i utgangspunktet for min egen del på engelsk, så beklager at det ikke er på norsk. Men siden det ikke er så mange rapporter på Meskalin tenkte jeg det kunne være fint å bidra med et datapunkt.

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Upon receiving the cacti, I planted all but the largest one, which I stripped it of its outer waxy skin and sliced it into thin pieces. The cactus was roughly 30cm long and 6-7cm in diameter. Its weight was approximately 1070g, although that doesn’t say much as a cactus's weight changes dramatically during drying.

I cooked these pieces 4 x 25 minutes in a pressure cooker with fresh distilled water every time. Then I collected all the water in a big pot, filtrated it through a t-shirt, and squeezed the remaining cactus pulp. The remaining process of evaporating the liquid to a drinkable amount was postponed for the next day.

The following morning I reduced the liquid down to roughly one liter. I should have reduced more, but it was already getting close to noon. I was mindful of the very long trip durations sometimes reported on San Pedro.

After consuming the disgusting tea on an empty stomach, I went into the garden and assembled a hammock between two trees. I was prepared to bond with nature, but nature wanted it otherwise. With a temperature of 15C and a shade blocking the sun, I gave up after half an hour and retreated to my warm bedroom. Except being cold to the bone, I still felt nothing and so decided that my cactus probably was too weak. This was going to be an ordinary day. Nevertheless, I was content lying in bed in the middle of the day, which I despise sober. I turned on a documentary and munched some dry crackers with unusual fervor.

About 2.5 hours after consumption, my girlfriend came to check if I was okay.
She is a beautiful woman, yet everything I could see were her imperfections. A cracked lip and a small patch of unclean skin. She also seemed much paler than usual, and she reminded me more of a skeleton than a human. It became viscerally clear that she was going to die one day and that this was not going to be just another day.

As she left the room I directed my attention towards the ceiling. Subtle white Aztec-esque figures, several of them reminiscent of skeletons, were dancing across the ceiling. This was becoming too deathy for me, so I decided to put on some music to try to change the mood. I had prepared three playlists in advance, yet for some reason, I bypassed them without hesitation and turned on “Shpongle - Are You Shpongled?”. I only listened to their music once before, yet the choice was easy.

I closed my eyes as the opening track kicked off. My visuals were weak, but the same cannot be said for my bodily sensations. No position was comfortable. I felt like a shell-fish being pried open and placed on a wooden stick. Then I became aware of my inner narrator trying to tell a coherent story about what was happening to me. It was making judgments like “Yes, this makes sense, this is consistent with your knowledge of how psychedelics should work“. This suddenly felt extremely limiting. Why do I constantly need to spin some narrative or literal description of what is happening? What reason do I have to think that my inner voice has the power to make sense of, or even describe, what is happening to me? Then I noticed that I was telling a story about my inner storyteller, and everything went full meta. I kept jumping one level out, observing my previous inner voice from afar and describing it with, of course, my inner voice. It felt as if my inner narrator was put in an arena, with some vague, undefined entities poking fun at it from the tribunes, trying to show me how pathetic and paradoxical it was. Gradually stronger and stronger challenges were thrown at it until I suddenly reached a transition. I became a canvas.

Rather, I became the instrument that the music played on, presumably by these entities toying with me earlier. My toes started to shake and twitch rhythmically with the music, but I felt as I was not in control at all. I tried to relax as much as possible, but my toes were still being used as drumsticks by whoever was playing the music. I was being played on, and soon my feet were shaking violently. The only word I can think of to describe how I felt is “possessed”.

When the album ended, I felt relieved that it was over and went outside to sit in the hammock for a bit. I brought chocolate whose taste was unbelievably intense, and I stuffed it in my face with no restraint. When only a few pieces were left, I realized the chocolate tasted like shit. My visuals were still very weak, and things looked normal. However, they did not feel normal, and I sensed that the large trees around me were sentient but indifferent to humans. They found our short timescales ridiculous and had better things to do for the coming century, like stretching for the sun.

I went back in and settled on the couch, ready for another music session. I turned on a symphony I love - it is a piece I listen to perhaps every two years. It is one of the saddest pieces I know. Of course, I was soon crying more than I can remember having ever done before. Again death was the subject. I felt I was listening to the requiem for my girlfriend, my family, and my friends back home. I realized how dismal life would be if I were the only one left.

When the piece ended, it felt like a huge burden off my chest. I had already mourned the deaths of my loved ones, so now I should spend whatever time I have loving them. At this point, the trip was calming down, and I couldn’t stomach any more music. With my newfound (highly mundane) insight wanted to spend time with my girlfriend. We ended up watching “AlphaGo - The Movie”, a documentary about Google DeepMind's victorious match against top Go player Lee Sedol. I felt unusually emotional and sad for Lee Sedol, but the world was returning to normal.

So, what did I learn? One thing was clear: I could not control where the trip was going. I have not been thinking about death lately, and I had planned to engage some other personal subjects bothering me lately. Yet, these subjects never entered my mind. Death became main theme, together with the inadequacy of my inner narrator. Perhaps this experience can make me more mindful of the constant attempt of my mind to spin some narrative explaining whatever is going on at the moment.
Anonym bruker
"Varsom Føniks"
Generert avatar for denne anonyme brukeren
Hei, hvorfor kokte du i trykkoker?
Anonym bruker
"Flygende Jinn"
Generert avatar for denne anonyme brukeren
Trådstarter
Fulgte en guide fra DMT-nexus for kjapp ekstrahering av virkestoffene fra kaktusen. Standard prosedyre er å koke kaktusen i mange timer, men folk rapporterte om en betydelig forkortet prossess ved bruk av trykkoker. Hadde en stående, så hvorfor ikke.
Valgfri brukertittel
meaculpaUIO's Avatar
Hvis virkestoff tåler 120* grader så er jo trykkoker en genial måte å speede opp "mosetiden"
Sitat av meaculpaUIO Vis innlegg
Hvis virkestoff tåler 120* grader så er jo trykkoker en genial måte å speede opp "mosetiden"
Vis hele sitatet...
Kokepunktet til meskalin er over 180grader så det går helt fint ja.