by J D Arthur
Another area of psychological certitude that was beginning to strain under the weight of these increasingly bizarre impressions was the centering of the self in one’s own body. One extremely frightening concept began to make its appearance during this time, as well as in many times subsequently. I was becoming more involved in the reality of my visions, while at the same time relinquishing all memory of my former self. It was as if I might actually “awaken” in one of these realms, with no memory to serve as a way of returning. This feeling that one could slip so easily to the other side is quite terrifying, yet is so common, that it seems intrinsic to the journey:
E. present. Very strong direct experience. Taken by presences—had the distinct feeling that I could “wake up” over there—in very ordinary circumstances. It seemed as if they were encouraging me to do so.
It was as if I could awaken over there and this world would be a dream that would fade. It appeared that I was seated there and was wearing some sort of white coat. There might have been a tile floor. There were myriad associations or facets of affection that I seemed to be rapidly experiencing—none specifically, it seemed, from this or that world: very commonplace feelings swiftly moving past my awareness.
Again there was a difference of language or, more specifically, a range of alien memories or associations, which were familiar on a very deep level, but were at the same time foreign to another part of myself. As I felt myself returning, I knew I would have to relinquish them.
In another encounter:
I then began having the sensation that people were attempting to get through to me, as if I were unconscious, and they were trying to establish communication and rouse me. I had the frightening thought that I might “come to” in someone else’s body—in someone else’s life—and would have no memory of my other life. It seemed very plausible, in that state, that such occurrences could take place.
On another occasion:
At one point I felt as if I were being drawn in by a man sitting on the ground. As if he were “dreaming” me and I could wake up as him. He seemed to be a man known affectionately in the village—perhaps an uncle of the boys. It seemed that he could be a sorcerer—calling me into appearing there.
In a subsequent encounter, I had the distinct impression that I was lying on the ground in a semisleeping state. A group of people stood hovering over me, evidently attempting to rouse me from my torpor. As I was beginning to awaken, I looked around to view my surroundings. I saw a group of black men or, more specifically, a group of legs standing around me. The legs were thin, with bare feet. The men seemed to be wearing long white shorts. The scene seemed to almost allude to an African or Haitian village. The reality of the scene was such that I felt as if I could have easily awoken into that world. Of course, in the calm light of day, such an occurrence seems an absurdity; but in a state of timeless, thoughtless perception, such reassurances are meaningless.
Other instances of contact were of a less frightening nature, being more of the nature of a friendly beckoning:
In the next moment, I felt the presence of someone to my left, over my shoulder specifically, whispering into my ear. The presence was an older male, not really a fatherly figure, but not devoid of feeling. He reminded me of an uncle I’d had growing up—not that I thought it “was” him, but the feelings generated were not dissimilar to that type of connection. He was reassuring, yet impartial. He seemed to be trying to instruct me in a technique for leaving the body. The technique consisted of his coaxing me to let go and drift toward him. The scene was reminiscent of an adult teaching a child to swim. I trusted him, although there was no feeling of what one might describe as benevolence on his part.
As this coaxing continued, I was also analyzing my somatic state. I felt virtually no physical sensations, as in normal waking awareness. I felt disconnected from all sensation, and therefore from any sensation of my body. It seemed that it was precisely because of this state that I could indeed drift and let go. I allowed myself to respond to his instructions and could feel myself letting go. At this point, I have no recollection of what transpired, although this might have simply been an exercise, for my benefit, in relinquishing somatic control. Suffice it to say that I reemerged slowly into my normal awareness, within a normal time frame.
The feeling that I was gradually being instructed was exhilarating. The mode of that instruction was not words or thoughts but a type of organic, somatic knowledge. I perceived a range of physical sensations that was intimately connected with my ordinary system of defining the world. As my perceptions became more precise and fluid, my dogmatic bias concerning the physical world was beginning to lose its prestige.
One aspect of the salviaic experience that was becoming clearer to me as time went on was that the depth of the state to which I’d become accustomed was only reached after passing a certain threshold of “intoxication.” It was becoming apparent that there was a line of delineation below which, although under the effects of salvia, was, for me, ineffectual and ultimately without merit.
During this period, I experimented in the use of the tincture once again. Although the effects of the salvia were decidedly present, I was still primarily in my ordinary mode of awareness. I was aware of my surroundings and could have come out of the experience easily. My thought processes, although tinged with abstraction and captivated by light visions, were essentially unchanged. The gate hadn’t been crossed. Without knowing it, I had inadvertently become accustomed to the blissful relinquishing of thought. Without that functional element of the trance, it seemed that nothing could be achieved. This point of delineation, strangely, was a very precise point.
One experience that occurred years later, while experimenting with a less potent batch of salvia, detailed this “crossing point”:
Interesting experiment today. Since the “shrinking of the self”*2 was such a central theme the last time, I thought that perhaps, if I smoked a small amount of native leaf, this state could be accessed without the full-fledged shifting of awareness that happens with the 5X. The Wasson clone leaf had precisely that effect when I’d first sampled it years ago. At the time, I’d smoked one pipeful and experienced the shrinking of the self to a marked degree. I remember thinking then that, if nothing else, this leaf would be good for accessing that particular state. I might have smoked it once since then, but had thought it too weak for my normal excursions.
I loaded the bowl and smoked. The leaf seemed much harsher than either the Mazatecan or the Oaxacan leaf I’d used in the past. After exhaling, I got a few of the familiar signs of the salviaic trance—fluid kaleidoscopic manifestations—some fleeting emotionally tinged images of people—but nothing strong enough to “take” me. The experience was short lived, and I thought that perhaps the leaf was even weaker than I’d recalled. I thought that it was more evident than ever that the leaf simply lacked enough strength to be usable. There was no shrinking of the self, for which I’d been hoping.
After a few minutes had passed, I thought that perhaps, if I smoked another bowl, the salvia might have a bit of a cumulative effect, since I could still feel the afterglow and thought that I might have more access to the shrinking awareness. I loaded the pipe again with a small amount, hoping that I could gently ease my way up with this second pipe.
After exhaling the smoke, I was amazed to find myself slipping, blissfully, to the other side. This happened so gently that it seemed as though I had time to analyze the process of the shift. From the first effects, it felt as though I was entering a deeper state than I’d anticipated. At some juncture, it seemed that I had encountered a point of no return. I began to feel myself sliding upward, as if I had no control, and unwittingly found myself in the other realm.
There were the others there, and I was almost in an apologetic frame of mind, as if to say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cross over, it was an accident.” I had the feeling that they, for their part, didn’t care. It almost seemed as though they passed the word along to others as I went deep
er into the other side. I also had the feeling that I was perfectly welcome there, at one point getting the feeling (not sure if someone said this) that it was good for me to just be in their presence, as if these contacts would have a cumulative effect: all in all, a very blissful, enjoyable, if accidental, meeting.
One small detail that I took note of this time occurred just as I was beginning to slide upward. It seemed as if some part of myself was gently shutting, almost the way one’s eyes shut when falling asleep—although this seemed more pronounced and definite—akin to swallowing rather than a gradual closing of the eyes. It was almost as if a part of myself closed to the normal world so that I would be able to traverse the other. The aspect that struck me as interesting was that it was of the nature of a gate that was either open or shut to the world at large. After returning to normal awareness, it also gave the impression of being analogous to the valves in the heart that will shut to prevent blood from flowing backward. It appeared somehow significant that this gate seemed to have such a physical, organic structure. Although I didn’t actually see it, but only felt or sensed it, again, like swallowing, it was evidently controlling the shifting or movement of awareness itself—almost as if it were preventing that awareness from flowing back into the ordinary world.
Although there was a very pronounced afterglow, there was still no shrinking of self. Perhaps this is determined by other factors and may not be as easily elicited as I’d hoped.
Such experiences almost seemed to add an air of precision to the process of transition and reinforced the seemingly organic substructure that defined such abstract psychological nuances.
3
AUGMENTATION
During the first two years of my salvia explorations, additional aspects of the experiences were becoming more and more apparent with the passage of time. What at first appeared to be peripheral occurrences, with time, deepened, and began to evince a more central role in the trance.
Perhaps the most significant of these aspects was the gradual realization that, at a certain point in the initial entering of the state, there occurred a unique transformation in the area of language. This was so subtle that only with repeated trials, as well as a deliberate focus on the actual mode of perceptual transformation, did it become apparent that it held, not a peripheral role, but a central one.
At a certain point after entering the state, the language that would normally describe, in an internal, almost unconscious way, the scenes, thoughts, and images that arrive through the senses would change. It would cease to be English. This apparent absurdity proved to be not only what might be perceived as an arbitrary adjunct to the experience, but an essential component of the change of awareness that entailed so many incomprehensible facets. It was as if the language itself was inexorably linked to the perceptual changes intrinsic to the state. It almost seemed as though the rapidity and depth of the experiences necessitated its own mode of communication.
Since the defining modality of these experiences was proving to be the cessation of thought, it follows that the normal process of language would also have to undergo a radical change. It goes without saying that normal language depends wholly on memory for every aspect of its functioning. If the memory itself ceases to function, as was becoming apparent in the salviaic state, language, as we know it, must also cease. It’s as if the feather-light swiftness of the state can’t bear the slow weight of words, or at least normal words.
The language that characterizes the trance state is, like so many other aspects of the salviaic state, at once totally foreign, yet somehow utterly familiar. After I began suspecting that there was indeed a change of language, I endeavored to observe the exact point of the shift, to observe the nuances of this change. What I found was that there occurred an all but unnoticeable transition into this new mode of communication. It was as if the vignettes that would present themselves would have a certain “flavor” of foreignness. As this foreign nature would become more obvious, it seemed there would come a point at which I would question, in some very primitive, immediate manner, whether the scene I was witnessing was disturbingly alien or secure and familiar.
At the same time, as these foreign occurrences would begin to manifest, this new language, as well, would begin to make its appearance. As I mentioned above, this alien language would begin to enter the context of the vignettes in an essentially seamless fashion. I would find myself witnessing a scene that was, in effect, being described in this new language. As a result of this change of conceptual matrix, the scene would then transform, in a most subtle fashion, into something comprehensible. The fact that I was so focused on this point of change also reinforced my observation that this language is a genuine auditory process—that it is actually “heard,” in effect, with the ear, although, of course, this is an inner process.
I can think of no parallels in our ordinary experience, with the exception, perhaps of those circumstances where one hears one’s name being called just after falling asleep. The latter can be an experience startling to the point of wakefulness. While the salviaic voices are merely part of the progressing vision, the distinct auditory nature is not dissimilar. The paradoxical nature of this new language was such that, although recognizable initially as foreign, it was also totally comprehensible. One would scarcely even notice the transition, since this other language is completely understandable and dovetails so appropriately with the new state in which one finds oneself. At this point, I’m not certain that I’ve spoken this language, although on a few rare occasions I have spoken a word or phrase. I can only surmise that it was through this medium, since normal words would be unbearably cumbersome and irretrievably out of reach.
On one occasion, after this language shift became more apparent, I attempted to “bring back a word.” My notes, written the next day, can illustrate the experience:
On this occasion, after entering, I was told by someone that I “had something there” (the word something, of course, was not actually used); what it was, was unclear. The meaning, though, was that I had some type of essentially “physical” connection to this other world. That connection consisted in this “something.” At that point, I made the decision to attempt to remember or “take back” the word that described my connection with them. I, in effect, “held on” to this word, holding it to my chest. The form of this word was like a bowl—the open end being pressed to my chest, my arms wrapping around the bottom of the bowl. The sensation that ensued was not unlike traveling upward through water, clutching the treasure I’d retrieved from the depths. When I surfaced and began to reintegrate, I understood the word to be “name.” I had succeeded in bringing back a word from the other world. Although the word, over there, was not in our language, the concept it represented seemed to translate to a concept in our language, namely the concept of “name.”
I felt that the import of the experience was that I, in effect, had a “name” there and that this somehow insured my connection with that world. The concept of name was not concerned with appellation, but more with some primitive type of signature.
One of the features that seems to predominate in this language is a sense of “weighted” words or phrases. More often than not, a single phrase can contain, apart from the actual words themselves, a whole spectrum of affiliated meaning. It’s as if the word or phrase is merely a vehicle for an entire constellation of images and meanings that is complex, yet completely understandable.
Aside from the flavor of foreignness, there is also the feeling of a nagging familiarity. I’ve found that this feeling of familiarity stems from the fact that this language, which is so distinct and alien, is very similar to, if not identical with, the language of dreams. Until my experimentation with salvia, I was never aware that such a dream language existed. I’m now convinced that it does, since so many of these salviaic episodes mimic the aura of deep dreams, only allowing one to maintain a focused and uninterrupted awareness that normally recedes during sleep. The similarity between the two is not as stran
ge as might appear on the surface.
With the onset of sleep, the mind begins to relax, dream images first begin to make their appearance, and the descent into increasingly abstract mentation commences. Within a few moments, the burden of thought begins to lift, and one begins to lose consciousness. Thought has essentially stopped at this point. In deep dreamless sleep, there is no remembrance of the self—no memory, no words. There are no concepts to be upheld. There is no time. After what seems only moments, one becomes aware of the first inklings of awakening. The cumbersome chore of donning thought begins. The oppressive mental armor that had been shed now has to be lifted and put in place once again. One awakens.
In the midst of this seemingly timeless state, dreams can come. Of course, the majority of dreams are what might be characterized as “surface dreams” that replay events or concerns of the day. They can be almost annoying at times—repetitive, exhausting. They seem to occur just under the mantle of sleep and seem to be a mixture of sleep and waking. There can be other, deeper dreams as well. These are the dreams that seem richer and fuller. These are the types that appear to parallel, in some ways, the salviaic state. Although these dreams are peopled with those we know, often those people shift, combine with, or are transformed into other people. Sometimes our companions are a mere voice or a presence, sometimes merely a feeling. Total strangers can make an appearance as well— sometimes with remarkably memorable features.