Psychedelic journey : magic mushroom wisdom

On the profound wisdom which comes from a psychedelic journey

from the ingestion of the mighty magic mushroom.

  A book excerpt from the Iconoclast Press online library.

 

               

            About this time another episode in those tempestuous years was also playing itself out; it was a time when myself and three other energetic, unencumbered, inspired souls- an ex-minister, a musician, and a woman film maker- would come together and receive such a charge off of each other’s vibrations that an evening together would grow in force from a few social drinks to a climax that you’d think would tear the roof off, and because it didn’t, we tried to make it happen anyways. And so began an era of our separate and intimate lives commingling together, in which we would set the world aside for a day, or perhaps a weekend, so as to simply blend, and bond, and enjoy one another, and occasionally to tangle with the mighty mystic spore- the magic mushroom of mythic legend.

               

It was during these intimate soiree’s, that our certain select core of individuals- our essential quaternity- would gather together at the house of Mick, the musician, on the shore of Howe Sound, to drink, smoke, ingest the soma, and unearth the glory and fury bound up so tightly within all of us that you had to smash yourself over the head with a mountain of intoxicants so as to set the beast loose and let it roam free for a while.

                If you take such strides, be sure that the tsunamis and whirlwinds, the willywogs, will-o-the-wisps, specters, poltergeists, and gremlins will come bashing at your door, the fog will set in, the lights will go out, the heavy breath of a forgotten foe will resonate behind you, Mara will rear up her ugly head, the Gods will confuse you, the tricksters will dance about your stumbling form, and the only thing you can do is do nothing but let the maelstrom clammer on until it runs itself dry or devours you and moves on to its next host.

                We were raising up our own angel, and we were doing it our own way, on our own time, sitting on Mick’s patio overlooking the sea and watching the storms come in, and passing a bottle of hooch around, then going for a walk and losing each other, then reconnecting and sharing the universe which had befallen us in the meantime, and back to the patio to hear some music, or to sit in silent awe at the hidden majesty of the spirit-world writhing in delight before us.

                It was during these events that, in the silent, wordless mixing of close friends, I would come to sense how our spirits merged into each other, blended, and communicated in ways far beyond normal understandings; how, intoxicated or not, the body is but the nucleus of our much greater self, which sublimely extends out from each of us in less dense and invisible forms, and which converges, intermingles, exchanges, and stays together for extended periods, within other people’s greater self, just as waves come together, combining oscillations, and then flow apart, each still separate and yet now modified from before their intermixing.

                It is these subtle bodies of ours which are the hardest to get to know, and yet the ones which have the most effect on others, and on the world around us. It is the subtle body which can sense another truly, feel what they are carrying inside- regardless of what they are saying- and become elevated by their love and integrity, or contaminated by their hate and confusion.

                This was the beginning of my understanding of how there is no separation in life, that we are all connected, and that a person’s love or hate does not end inside their heads, in their thoughts, but is sent out into the world to ameliorate or exacerbate the plight of all those fortunate or unfortunate enough to be in its way.

               

Sometimes the nicest people have the most violent demons inside of them. Sometimes an angry man is a saint. You can’t tell until you mix inside of them, for the spirit behind the flesh is oft like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and rarely like a prince within a frog. You take others on often without choice, and so your I gets jumbled and grafted with other I’s, and then what you are is not what you’ve always been.

                These are matters of the spirit which I would experience but would not come to grasp and make my own until I had left the world of drugs and psychic crutches behind, and had, with a determined leap, walked into the truth and stillness of the self with nothing but my own peace to guide me.

                The mushroom had offered me the evanescent visions of an eternal place, but it could not take me there. Yet there were solo trips which I would take, ingesting the spore, and then opening up to the cosmic radiations, in which I would see the fabric of spirit behind the veil of matter and mind, and would receive many insights that were incredibly profound but which, in retrospect, were perhaps imbibed too early in my spiritual growth, and therefore, in a way, simply stunted the natural process which would have come about more smoothly anyway; I was like a youth taking a glance at a Playboy magazine, and upon seeing the full show, so to speak, destroying himself with a desire which need not have been there and would have been more rapturously fulfilled had it lay dormant until finally aroused at the time of his actual deflowering; I was no longer spiritually innocent, though neither was I mature, and that, if nothing more, merely added to the growing pains I was already being over-trodden and consumed with.

                Still in all, the four of us had great times together, offering a rare episode of communal friendship the likes of which I had never encountered before, and may never again, along the solitary trail of wandering I have accepted as a large part of my self-chosen life. And yet I remain close to those dear ones and a few others who walked right inside of me back then, during our dance upon the same page of life for a while.

                In fact, a year later Mick decided to join me out on Flores Island, after I had been out there alone for a few days, relinquishing my contact with the empire, and disgorging my soul as per usual. He came out and brought with him his guitar and sang sweet melodies to me for three days straight while I sat back in the sun, watching the sundog covenants emerge overhead, and soaking up his tunes in the rapture of the wilds. Nights we’d spend chomping down mouthfuls of limpets in garlic, gooseneck barnacles and fried onions, and an assortment of other epicurean delights, all washed down with litres of red wine and followed by the bliss of brotherhood and song.

                It was a splendid treat to have a comrade finally out on the coast with me, walking my favorite beaches, exploring the hidden alcoves and intertidal islands which had, over the years, grown to be my friends as well, and so it felt as if I was introducing them to Mick and enjoying the meeting of these two.

                It was a heartwarming few days- the kind which almost brought me to tears at its closure- so much so that a couple of years later Mick and I planned a sequel to that trip, but unfortunately when the time came around he was unable to attend.

                So what? So I’d be out there alone again, nothing new in that, I thought. I decided to go anyway and had only a short, two-week, biological contract to fulfill before leaving. I was to serve as a pack-mule and secretary for a few guys climbing old-growth trees on the coast, looking for the working nests of endangered Marbled Murrelets, so that the environmental community could use these finds as a reason to lobby the forestry industry for the preservation of those enormous and diminishing trees. We didn’t find any nests, but it was a fruitful stint of employment anyway, meeting some genuinely good lads, and providing me not only with essential funds but also with the ontological data necessary to confirm another secret pattern in the universe which I was slowly awakening to, and that is, simply: a void must be filled.

                What happened is that on this contract prior to my Flores trip, a young fellow from Australia was working as another of the slaves along with me; a young man who looked uncannily like Mick and played guitar brilliantly as well.

                Well what do you know but after our work was finished I gave this Australian bloke directions out to the secret beach I usually camped upon- though he said he doubted if he’d make it there- and after I had been camped out there for a few days he did show up and suddenly I was on the beach Mick and I had planned to have our reunion on, listening to his look-a-like play guitar and eating limpets, and gooseneck barnacles, and drinking wine and wondering how much of this came about because a thought planted in the ether must come to fruition.

                To be sure, the recognition that we are integral elements to the creation of the cosmos was becoming clearer to me. This was simply one more piece of evidence in the case I was building in my mind- the case which suggests that the drama requires certain characters at certain times for the fulfillment of its mysterious agenda, and if one character happens to leave the stage, a similar one is pulled into the vacuum.

                I have seen this occurrence now time and time again. It is as if God is creating the same stew in many different parts of the earth, and each spice must be included in each separate batch, according to God’s taste at the time, and the spices are the sublime archetypes carried in the spirits of subtly similar individuals.

                Everywhere on earth this is attempting to happen, and a similar cast of characters is operating on different stages, in different costumes, with different scripts, and yet with one consistent intention- to complete the show.

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Thus I found that there were patterns of spiritual archetypes running as threads through my life; individuals playing certain roles, in certain aspects, at certain times of my existence, and when one went off in a different direction from mine, another of their strain stepped in- another person carrying the same spirit, who was there to replace their predecessor, perhaps years or even decades later, but sooner or later the whole must be sealed again and all the missing parts must appear. These parts are the types of the archetypes from which we draw out our completeness; the separate rooms by which we build and come to live in our own illustrious castles.

(excerpted from In and Of: memoirs of a mystic journey, by Jack Haas)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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