Thread: (D. Stramonium/LSD/n2o/Cannabis/Various. pharms) - Experienced - A hazy recollection.

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    (D. Stramonium/LSD/n2o/Cannabis/Various. pharms) - Experienced - A hazy recollection. 
    Join Date
    Jun 2017
    It's cold here.
    "Wherever he goes, whatever he does, he will always see that word: murder?immortally inscribed upon the pediment of that vast slaughterhouse?humanity.?

    - Octave Mirbeau

    Doses/substances consumed:

    Datura: somwhere between 30 and 40, 45 seeds.
    LSD: 440ug
    Hash: 3-4 grams
    Nitrous Oxide: 16-20 cartridges
    Oxycodone: 40mg
    Diazepam: 20mg
    Alprazolam: 4mg (hard to estimate how much I got into my system, considering it was smoked)

    This is an experience from two or three years ago;
    I'm sorry if alot of the details are missing, if the timeline doesn't make sense, or if it just comes off as a madman reminiscing.
    I tried to keep it short, but intentions and results can sometimes but completely different.

    In my sweaty palm lay 20 seeds from Datura Stramonium. The Devils Weed.
    Where this would take me, I wasn't sure. It had been a tought few years, I knew that much at least.

    A week earlier, on the day and almost the strike of the clock, I stood naked in the bathroom.
    Hot water filling the tub.
    A bottle of rum and a shiny new razorblade.
    In my palm then, there were no deliriant-seeds.
    It was a cocktail of painkillers and sedatives, enough to put this whole block of concrete to sleep.

    I copped out, however. Standing at the brink, I took a step back.
    The thought of my father finding the bloated body of his son in a bathtub filled with blood, was a good enough reason not to proceed and execute.
    It struck me as although I thought I'd accepted death, I'd never given it the contemplation it deserves.
    I was awe struck and instead of craving it, I wanted to know it.
    This mangeled journal is a turning point, in which death took on a persona and I took on te desire for it.

    It seemed to me, that the same way LSD and MDMA is connected to love and all things bright and shiny, datura and it's tropane-alkaloids contained the shadows, the pitch-black tar-like qualitives of death itself.

    I'd been doing my research. By freak accident I found ron69's Datura overview at the DMT-Nexus.
    I read the appraised internet-shamans recommendations and this, 20 seeds, was twice as much as his recommended dosage if one is trying to avoid delirium.

    Here's a thread discussing the contents of seeds and the effects of Stramonium/Inoxia;

    For anyone remotely interested in these benevolent yet benign tropane-alkaloids, this should be read.

    Before this experience, I didn't believe in spirit of plants, nor did I perceive death as something living.

    My father was away for two days, and I was alone in the apartment.
    I knew my sister would be stopping by later, but she knew all about my drug-habits and my love for everything psychedelic and mind-altering.

    A leap of faith. Not a big dose, not by any means heroic. But these seeds were not the primary shuttle out into nothingness; it was merely digested as fuel and as a power-drive button, sort of.

    A mouthful of dirt grinding between the teeth. Not an unpleasant taste.
    I kept the chewed up ball of seeds under my tongue for as long as I could without swallowing any, or any saliva.
    Sublingual absorption seems to work faster with datura, as with many other drugs.

    Anytime I'd do datura, I'd have a moment of panic - like maybe this will finally push me over the edge.
    Maybe this will make me a Sid of a Pink Floyd I didn't have.
    Maybe this is what makes me a statistic, another one lost forever to the ether.

    These thoughts subsided quickly, though.
    I had one bottle of 2mg clonazepam, still sealed, with 100 of those bad boys;
    I had about 50 tiny blue alprazolams, the Ksalol ones; a handfull of swedish diazepam.
    Beside this, I had two green Oxy 80s, some 30's and a Suboxone.
    Shit, at this point I even had ten Seroquels, 50mg depot-pills that I had traded for a few grams of hasch earlier that summer.

    In other words, any bad trip could be avoided and terminated.
    I could put the entire building to sleep.

    Twenty minutes after chewing down the seeds I'm starting to feel Datura-stoned.
    Being Datura-stoned is similar to being stoned on cannabis.
    The body-high is a bit heavier, the visual distortions have a different and darker, yet non-hostile nature;
    occassionaly a few alien-thoughts invades the commentary-track in my head;
    it's more dreamlike, and as the minutes progressed, I could feel the trance-like state creeping up on me.

    Walking around, my hands felt heavy, my arms aswell and my head seemed to stretch itself towards the linoleum-floors, like flowers turning towards the sun.

    What also puts this apart from being stoned on cannabis, is the complete lack of paranoia.
    That THC-terror is annihilated and replaced by a weirdness words cannot explain, any more than one can explain the feeling of Lysergi-Land (the domain of LSD).
    It's a sensation that must be experienced, and 'weirdness' is the word in my vocabulary that best fit this peculiar emotion.
    Everything familiar is still so, yet dead objects seem animated though not moving.
    One is numbed and at the same time your nerves come out of your skin to feel the cold breath of the world.

    I had read about Datura for a long, long time, especially on erowid.
    People taking amounts of threehundred seeds, sixhundred; after experimenting with everything between 1-30 seeds in one session, these numbers did, and still do, appal me.
    People does huge quantitives of a plant of which they have little to no knowledge, with the primary basis of "getting fucked up".
    I surely wanted to get fucked up aswell, but I didn't want the three day delirium. Hospitalization. Self-harm, or even worse, doing harm unto others.

    I did, however, want to dip my pinky in the lake of madness, so I brought out a brick of quality hash.

    Almost an hour after digestion, I start to pack a bowl with 0.5g of that light, semi-hard pollem hashish, with 10 crushed seeds and a pinch tobacco. The best way to smoke datura seeds are, in my humble opinion, through a bong, torching the seeds, roasting them and sucking in the dry smoke.
    If it feels like bugs clawing at the inside of your throat upon inhalation, you're doing it right.

    Around this time of my life, I would say I did about 30-60 seed every month.
    It's not a huge amount, but it gives extra spark to cannabis, the Inoxia seeds are sedating and put me to sleep faster, while the Stramonium seeds have a "speedier" character.
    The alkaloids does however build up in ones system, so one has to be careful when dosing, always considering half-life and whatnot.

    Another strange thing was that even several weeks, dare I say months, after I ceased my casual use of these seeds, I couldn't get stoned without feeling datura-stoned.
    In the same manner some speak of cannabis after a trip on LSD; for several days after, smoking will be trippier than usual.

    I emptied the cup in two rounds.
    It left me feeling lightheaded and gave gravitation an extra pull.
    That subtle euphoria one can experience from as few as five or six seeds, even less, was growing stronger.
    I knew, however, that this euphoria would subside within the hour.
    I slumped down in the couch with a pack of cigarettes in my hand. It contained ten sugarcubes with LSD.
    I put two sugarcubes in my mouth, approximately 440ug of LSD, if my dealers numbers were in order.

    The sweet taste of sugar and the anticipation of what to come made me run for the bathroom.
    It always does. MDMA, speed, LSD, LSA, psilocybin; whenever I drop something, I have to take a shit.
    I once had to shit while peaking on acid, and it was a weird experience, not in a pleasant way.

    I gave birth to something smelly, and as I was washing my hands, I realised I was heavily stoned on Datura.

    I stumbled back into the living room and put the television on mute.
    I cranked up "I Am Itching" by Syndicate Sound Labs and relaxed in the couch.

    My mouth was dry, and for a second I thought 'fuck, this might not have been a great idea'.
    I closed my eyes and simple fractal patterns, barely saturated, was swirling beneath my eyelids.
    A couple of songs went on as I lay there, eyes closed, mouth dry and thoughts racing.

    I drifted off into that meditative tropane-trance..

    I opened my eyes to discover thirty minutes had gone by and the entire room was already in ripples, wavy and the colors were starting to pop.
    This was going to be a heavy one. My body felt sweaty and buzzing.
    That lysergic-buzz was rising in power. Thanks to the THC-Tropane concoction, all come-up nasuea was eliminated.
    The light euphoria grew into something massive as I stumbled out on the balcony with a pre-rolled joint.

    I saw the sun set, crawling down behind the trees like bug afraid to get stepped on.
    A sky the color of carmosine and vaginal-flesh, pink and varm, faded into a dark blue, like an ocean with no bottom, full of life I couldn't perceive with sober eyes.
    As darkness ascended upon me, I felt some primitive instincts come to life.

    I looked at my watch, the last time I would do so and remotely comprehend what time it was.
    It had been close to an hour since digesting the LSD. It was past ten, and night was coming.

    The concrete buildings rose from the ground, and from space our colonies surely must look like scabs on the skin of our host. I pondered what god, if such entity did exist, would think of our morbid theater.
    In god-time, between Jesus being nailed to a wooden cross and now, he probably just went to take a piss, and came back to our dissarray and disorder.
    Like leaving your two year old in the living room with permanent markers while you take a shit.
    You'd come back and there would be shaky, colorful lines on the walls and smiling faces on the couch.
    You'd laugh, cry or scream.
    My thoughts were that god slowly would back away, step by step, before turning 180 degrees and running like hell.
    God's the father who went out for cigarettes and never came back.
    God is Nelsons father, from the Simpsons.

    My thoughts continued in this silly manner for a while. My bodily euphoria was uncanny.
    The vasoconstriction that LSD usually inflicts was contradicted and fought off by the tropanes.

    I ventured inside, into my room, where I had installed LED-lights that slowly went from green to blue to purple to pink to red to white to yellow and all over again, forever - endlessly.. I lost myself for a while in pure astonishment.

    It must've been two or three hours in when I pulled out my whippets.
    I sat down on my bed, and filled a balloon with two cartridges of nitrous oxide.
    My thoughts were irrational and entertaining, and I felt no psychedelic-anxiety, no matter where I went, mentally.

    Huge breath. Hold it in.
    The world shook to pieces. The music became metallic. It transformed into a single tone, a high-frequent ringing that made me think my ears were bleeding. Before I fell back on my bed, I filled a balloon with two cartridges more.

    My entire sight of perception was covered in breathing, pulsating patterns, eyes, and faces.
    The faces wore something diabolical, something rancid, like corpses pulled from their graves and hung on the walls of my room; they were watching me and laughing.
    They were tormented and their screams were silenced by the electronic ecstasy produced by N'to.

    I moved about the rooms, roaming, searching for something, after finishing about eight or nine balloons.
    My shadow seemed to take on it's own life, until I began to think that what is lurking on the walls and moving around me is not my shadow. It's the shadow of Her; it is Her, as close to flesh as She can transform.
    The Spirit of the Plant, named after Atropos, who in ancient greek texts was the one who cut the thread of life.

    During this time, I began to ponder my almost-suicide from the week before.
    What drove me there? Why was I so fascinated by death, by the end of life?
    My life was by no means undurable. But I expected more from life, like expecting a red crayon to leave green trails.
    Perhaps because nothing beside the concept of death is more ominous, more malicious, and yet seem to be serene and peaceful?
    Like life itself, and humans in particular, death is a great paradox that's hard to comprehend, if it's even possible to do so.

    I thought about buddhists. How they reject life, and decline the invitation of death.
    How, above anything, they seemed more shit-scared than any of us - too afraid too live, and too afraid too die.
    Which is probably as far from the truth as one can come.

    In Lotus-position on the kitchen-floor, I could feel Her watching me.
    Life seemed to me at that point to be very masculine in it's raw power, in it's lack of mercy.
    In all it's gory glory, life seemed a He and death, with it's mystery and cunning manipulation of life itself, seemed to share the same feminine traits as a She.

    I had read 'The Torture Garden' by Octave Mirbeau a few weeks before, and the book begins with a discussion among men of wisdom and knowledge. A passage that stuck with me, together with that quote at the top of the report, was;

    "Woman possesses the cosmic force of an element, an invincible force of destruction, like nature's. She is, in herself alone, all nature! Being the matrix of life, she is by that very fact the matrix of death - since it is from death that life is perpetually reborn, and since to annihilate death would be to kill life at its only fertile source.?

    And by allowing myself to think of Her, I seemingly invited her.
    She'd been stalking me for all of my life, and now I turned around to greet her with a smile.

    This is a very blurry and confused part of the trip.
    Slight delirium. I remember making another bowl of hash and datura.
    Two whippets and closed eyes on the bed; worlds unfolding, fractals pulsating into complex structures just to cave in on itself.

    Beauty created just so it can be ground down to dust.


    Smoking a cigarette in the kitchen, watching the outside world break down into holes, holes fucking everywhere;
    in the streets, the buildings, the cars; in people walking around down there, great holes opened up in their chests, and consumed them.

    I stood in front of the large mirror in my room, sweating in just a pair of shorts.
    A monkey convincing itself of it's decency by a shred of clothing.
    A monkey contemplating the contemplation, reflecting a reflection that may or may not be accurate.

    I saw my body age, grow, shrink - my face aswell. My own eyes were mesmerizing with their utter madness spilling out, bleeding insanity unto my chest, where the tattos were crawling with life.
    I have a broken bottle tattoed on my stomach, and I watched it shatter over and over again.

    I fell into myself, into the mydriasis of the skinny man infront of the mirror, with his sketchy, homemade tattoos.

    The red hue from the LED-lights seemed to stay, forever. At first, I thought that the switch had simply gone to shit.
    Then I thought, the actual switch upon this electronic device spewing neon haze into the room, or the switch inside me?
    As red hue got brighter but showed no sign of caving into any other color, I thought I had crawled to a stop, in time itself.

    Still glowing red, I'm thinking, do some animals perceive time in this sluggish and feverish matter, along with sixhundred other thoughts, all slicing through my consciousness like razorblades.

    I was still standing in front of the mirror, perplexed by myself. The shadows danced around me, praising me for my debauchery. The shadows were chanting in a language I couldn't comprehend and haven't heard since.

    I saw her creep up behind me, right above my right shoulder. Her green eyes like emeralds, her grin a death trap and her tongue a switchblade gently stroking my at my neck, whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
    I felt that I, a human, the apex of the planet, was standing beside a real predator.
    A true, cosmic apex.

    I think I blacked out for a few minutes. Maybe an hour.
    I come to when the doorbell rang and panic stirred up inside me, bringing my blood to a boil and my thoughts to a frenzy;
    I grab my brassknuckles and a baseballbat as I moved towards the doors. Shoved in my backpocket, my stiletto.
    The music was blaring. The wooden floors were soft, like layers upon layers of blankets and duvets.

    Staring through the looking-glass, I saw a person standing upside down.
    This was tremendously hilarious, and frightening at the same time.

    It kept on ringing, and a heavy fist, the size of wrecking ball, seemed to beat on the door.
    The wolves are here. They've come for me. That rush of adrenaline when unlocking and feeling the cold steel of the doorknob in my hand made my knees tremble.

    I opened the door, clutching the bat like Babe Ruth, and there stood my baby-sister.
    Of course. She'd told me she'd drop by to crash on the couch.

    She looked at the bat, then at my eyes, my brass-knuckles and back to my eyes.
    She burst out laughing, which I did aswell, when I saw the situation from outside my own body.
    She simply stepped inside, not at all terrified by her older brother opening the door halfnaked, armed to the teeth and with pupils that could swallow the planet if it was a metaphysical possibility.

    It was closer to four, in the morning.
    As soon as I got company, I seemed to sober up a bit.
    My mistress took a step back, and as me and my sister smoked and talked, She returned to the shadows.
    Back to being a splinter in the back of my head. I supposed I could've left Her, then and there.
    Conclude that there was nothing to death, until it becomes everything.
    One can self-manipulate oneself into thinking the most extraordinary things.

    At first she tread carefully, never having done psychedelics, but having me describe what a few words can do to a person deep in a trip. As soon as she sensed that I was coming down and not going higher, our conversation turned rowdy, in the most pleasant and entertaining of ways.

    She rolled a joint, and I made another bowl of datura-madness.

    We talked violence, about our childhoods and the skin that's been scraped from our knuckles as kids and teenagers; she is one year younger than me, but was bigger than me until I turned seven or eight. Up until that point, she'd be my protector; she'd beat anyone who picked on me. As I grew bigger, I took over her role.
    We had quite a rumor in our school and town; the siblings of mayhem. You fuck with one of us, you'll get both our fists.
    Highly "inappropriate" to talk about such things on acid; but this was more the datura talking.

    The history of murder and man seemed to stroke my mind in a way that was ecstatic.
    A pound of flesh. Lady Justice, blindfolded, gagged, raped and stabbed; this was grimy.

    That violent streak every man and woman carry inside them; the track-marks of evolution, with our skulls formed by beating fists, our minds the products of savage behaviors and fierce, ruthless actions.

    Then we listened to music. She'd pick a song, we'd listen, and discuss, and then I'd do the same.
    She'd play reggae and hiphop - I'd play grunge and psychedelic rock.

    I did some more balloons, offering some to my sister, who declined.
    Her eyes were two slits with pinned pupils. She was already on Tramadol. She asked me, did I have any downers, and I showed her my shoebox of illicit substances. She took two Oxy 30's back to the living-room.
    I made a joint while she railed the oxys. We shared it, and I felt a great love for my sister, deeper than ever before.
    She knew me, still does, better than anyone, and she accepts me. She even looks up to me, after all these years and all my fuck-ups.

    My sister fell asleep at six-something. I railed half of an 80 and took 20mg of diazepam.

    Around seven-thirty in the morning, getting tired but still wired, I decided to smoke some Ksalol on tinfoil in the kitchen; very unhealthy, yes - the mere thought of something so dirty, especially on LSD, turns many people off.
    The small, blue pills melted like planets, evaporated and I inhaled the toxic fumes, which made me gag, but had a hammer-effect on me.
    The oxy was kicking really hard and I made another bong with seeds and hash.
    There's something called Twilight Sleep, induced by opiates and scopolamine.
    I had tried it before, with morphine and seeds, but never with LSD thrown into the mix.

    I was nodding in and out with Comedy Central on the television, a re-run of a South Park-episode.

    At times I'd think we were talking, only to find myself mumbling to myself as I pryed my eyes open.
    The atypical nodding dreams, but bigger and more intense.

    My sister slept beside me, and on the other side, I felt Her prescence.
    I kept nodding, feeling the comedown coming faster and faster.

    Eventually I fell asleep. My dreams were vivid but turned black as soon as I woke up and tried recalling them.

    After this trip, my LSD endeavours takes me to the shadows, to the valleys where the monsters dwell.
    But it's never scary, or scary past exhiliration.

    Some people always overstay their welcome, and at times I feel She is that kind of bitch.
    But then again, she was aways there, before me and she will be here after me.
    If anyone is a guest, it's me.

    This organic decomposition we call home is Her earthly garden where She reaps the fleshy fruits she feeds upon.

    We're the children of death, born to bear witness to her beauty and fright.

    Thank you for reading.

    Feel free to ask me anything.

    Stay safe, people of BL.

    /Jesus of Koeping
    Last edited by pulverstaden; 25-05-2018 at 21:47. Reason: Because.
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