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Vancouver Island shamanic magic mushroom journey, God laughter, creator, creation, and truth

excerpted from IN AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey, by Jack Haas



               It was a springtime venture which found Rick and I escaping the cosmopolitan sewer for a few days and driving out to the south-west coast of Vancouver Island, where another acquaintance of mine had constructed a wonderful little squatter’s cabin by the sea, complete with solarium, bunk beds, and wood stove. This little hide-away was a remarkable feat of energy in its own right- it was a structure which had required no less than one hundred arduous trips upon the half-mile of precipitous embankment along a hidden path leading to his building site, down which the fellow who had constructed the hut had carried all the materials and tools necessary to complete this splendid little chalet on government land along the coast.

                Anyway, the owner was away for a while, and so Rick and I made our way down to the hut and settled in for a few days of beer and gooseneck barnacles, wine and philosophizing, idleness and the ingestion of some of mother nature’s psychedelia- the magic mushroom; a combination of which would send me out into the ether on the mind of God, and bring God back home as me.

                I say this with absolute candor and humility. I say that it was under the bewildering influence of the intoxicants, and perhaps the proximity of Rick’s previously mentioned psychic predisposition, that I found myself one night sitting back with my eyes closed and witnessing what I could never truly describe but what I can best suggest as the dynamic, uncreated, convulsing, primordial energy of the universe; the fiery, orgiastic rippling cauldron of molten prima materia, cascading about within me, and then pouring out into the world as form; and it was upon opening my eyes that I recognized what I had never conceived as plausible- that I was carrying within myself this living, undulating, cosmic clay which I was projecting out and thus manufacturing the world; which is to say, I knew then that ...I was God, and that we are all God, effortlessly producing a world yet without a clue of how we are doing it. I was making everything that night. The whole thing. That is, I was making the world, but not the I who the world thought I was, not even the nobody who I was, but the I which lives before the me in all of us; the original self, casting out the glowing, red, swirling energy of creation, out of the core, out of the mind of God, out into the realm of form, figure, and content.

And let me tell you I was laughing. I was laughing a laugh I had never laughed before in my life. I was laughing God’s laugh- the God-laugh which has never known care, nor worry, nor entrapment; the God-laugh which sprays out the universe from the immanent, infinite, incomprehensible bliss of formless consciousness; the great, emancipating God-laugh of hilarious nonexpectation, disbelief, and ambitionless wonder at the impossibility and unavoidable realization that I, God, was creating the miracle of creation.

I had come to exist in the non-existent space. An infinite bridge across a finite chasm. A flame within an inferno. A drop inside the storm.

I was in the storm. I was the storm. And everything else sped up and catapulted through the living stasis of my soul. It was an exhilarating, innocent act of creation; I gave ground in the hollow of my wonder and the world grew through that infinite hole. The unworldly, horrible stillness in which I basked seemed impossibly to produce the song of everything else. How is that possible I haven’t a clue. Not one.

I can only presume that the whole shmeer about becoming what you are, or what you could be- but as yet you never have been- eventually comes right back to where it started- to you. But when it gets there- and let me tell you it gets there, with all the fire and brimstone of your day- there is no ‘you’ left to conceive of it. Because, instead, you conceive it, immaculately conceive it.

That night the prisoner and the warden had changed places. Good and Evil fused into one. And God leapt up for joy inside of me.

               The primitive understandings which had so embalmed me all my terrible and fabulous life instantly vaporized away, and the Creator’s eyes ...looked through me. The pulsing, primal, fluid medium flowed out of me, I did not know what I was making, nor how I was doing it, but to be sure it was me.

When finally you encounter the Great Soul, you will not hesitate to call it I. You are the source of all things. All of it. Like the root-stock of a great underground rhizome, when you stick your head finally out of the ether, whoever is around you you.

                That night the hut and the intoxicants had provided a vision of our most true, inward nature for me. And though the experience wore off, the underlying belief in our divinity and creatorship remained with me, and was to be confirmed in many much more sober ways in the years to come; in future years, I was to experience the infinite vastness within, out of which the motion-picture of life is projected; through the great, vast, dark space, the light shines onto a blue-screen within us, and that image is what we assume is the ‘out’. Yet there is no out, there is only the Self, God, I, spinning out the universe from the measureless dark space concealed behind the blinding white light.

                That evening had provided a unique shamanic experience, yet the mushroom is but a window, it is not a way in; it lets you see the manifold realm of spirit, but won’t let you enter. Its effect is like winning the opportunity to be Mayor for a day; you may sit in the mayor’s chair, eat lunch with the secretaries, attend a board meeting, and cut a ribbon or two, but you’re not really the mayor, could never run the celestial city, and you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting voted into power. The only thing you get out of the experience is a newfound desire to become a Mayor. And that road is long and hard if you choose to take it.


                After that trip with Rick the profound implausibility of our integral creatorship would occasionally congeal in my disordered thoughts, and the true gist of what I had come to see would make everything, including myself, take on a different appearance, a new and awkward slant, and with a sort of incredulous acceptance I’d look around at everything and softly declare- “So this is God.”

                To this day, however, years after that initiatory experience, I still do not understand how it is that this could be, but I know, for many other reasons now, that it is- that we are all God making this absurd, awful, agonizing, and perverse world, and somehow, somewhere deep inside, we are enjoying it with the delight of a child with a magic wand, and we are laughing a laugh that will never end, nor understand, nor care that the joy will go on and on and on.

                When the creator wakes up as the created, it is astonishing. When the created wakes up as the creator, it is unbelievable, for God cannot believe that he or she could be the person that they are. And not only that, even if God could believe it God cannot understand it. And that is a hard thing for God to accept.

                The closer you get to truth, the less it makes sense, for truth is created and not absolute, and therefore when you get to truth you have to go past it, to the absolute, which is beyond all reason and measure. If a single truth existed other than God the world would come to an end, for that truth would have harnessed the unapproachable absolute which emanates its formlessness without being capturable, and so to trap it in a truth would be like putting wind in a jar and then closing the lid. No more wind. So what we condense down and imprison with our systematized, conceptual effronteries simply creates a windless world of closed jars and everybody pointing at their own hermetically sealed insults and calling these reality.

But now God had unfolded before me, and I before God. The all had become nothing, the nothing had become the all. As I faded away, God remained. As God left, I returned. The God which broke me, also built me up. Through rack and ruin the ship I have sailed glides from unknown sea to unknown sea, is sunk and raised up within each ocean, the wind blows, the shore fades, and ...I accept. 


excerpted from:


author Jack Haas, west coast British Columbia wilderness, ocean forest island



IN AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey

by Jack Haas



















Mystical books, visionary art, and fine art photography by Jack Haas




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