by J D Arthur
In the months that followed, I would find this state occurring almost randomly, three or four times. Its intensity was such that it was becoming increasingly unpleasant, and I all but dreaded its appearance. This small cluster of occurrences, as it turns out, was almost an anomaly. I’ve only rarely experienced it subsequently and, even then, in varying degrees of intensity. Perhaps it could be “courted” in some manner and make its return—but, at any rate, has not manifested often of its own accord.
While this state was occurring regularly, I had the leisure to analyze my perceptions in depth. It reinforced the rather obvious fact that perhaps the most crucial element defining our general worldview, indeed our concept of reality itself, is the perception of our own physical body. Normally we perceive ourselves in the same manner. We look down through our eyes and see our arms and legs. We feel the sensations associated with our limbs, torso, and other body parts. We feel the touch of the chair on our back—our feet resting on the floor beneath us. We feel a comforting sense of scale. The floor is a few feet down. Our hand is perhaps a foot away holding the pen. This sense of scale is necessary to function in our physical body. We feel ourselves “in” our body. To walk, we simply use the muscles in our legs and back to stand up and walk across the room. When we stand, we find ourselves at the normal height to which we are accustomed. This combination of perception and three-dimensional movement in space solidifies our body image and our sense of scale.
This is necessary for survival. One needs to be able to move in a comfortable environment to stay alive. This is the most important sensory integration that we learn as infants. We learn about three-dimensional space itself through the use of our body and the movement of our body through space. This conglomerate of perceptions is the determining factor in our view of the world. This is what makes the world “real.” The world is out there, and we are inside our bodies—moving our limbs at will and maneuvering through what’s out there.
If we analyze the body image itself, we generally feel and sense that we reside in the head—specifically, in what we’ve learned to call the brain—even though, of course, we have no direct experience of our brain through any senses. We experience this as the seat of consciousness. We feel that we are in the head, behind the eyes—that the eyes are our windows out on the external world. When we stand, we tell the muscles in our legs to contract; we tell the muscles in our torso to propel us forward onto those limbs. We stand and look down from the vantage point of our head. Our sense of self is dependent on this habitual complex of perceptions.
There is, however, another complex of perceptions that can be reached and can radically alter the entire worldview as described above.
Instead of perceiving ourselves in scale, it is possible, both naturally and plant induced, to perceive ourselves in a different light.
Under certain conditions of repose, accompanied by lack of external reinforcers and a continuation and concentration of awareness, the sense of self to which we’re so accustomed can gradually become more concentrated and precise. It can begin to, in effect, withdraw from the external. The emphasis begins to shift from focusing on what we would normally consider outer elements to more abstract inner elements. As this process progresses in intensity, the normal sense of scale can begin to imperceptibly evaporate, as a new sense of scale begins to predominate. Whereas formerly we saw our body as “in here” and the world as “out there,” we now, by degrees, begin to see our own physical body as “out there.”
This is a gradual process in which we feel concentrated in the mind. We’re deep within the mind—increasingly; the head and face begin to be viewed as more and more distant, assuming the form of a remote shell. As this sense of self continues to concentrate and withdraw into itself, the body is seen to be immense; the limbs immeasurably distant, seemingly miles long. The arms become huge, heavy contrivances that grow larger and more unreachable. The idea that one could move such an enormous apparatus by the force of one’s will seems an absurdity.
As the shrinking of the self continues, the body becomes an infinite universe that becomes less differentiated. The concept of arms or legs has gradually vanished. There remains only the immensity of an increasingly formless universe that recedes more and more into the distance.
The self, on the other hand, is becoming more and more concentrated and, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, is becoming more precise and palpable. Not only is the perception of the self concentrating, but it seems as though awareness itself is becoming more intense and functional. The self has been reduced to a grain of sand in the immense ocean of the body.
As the self becomes more concentrated, all perceptions seem to surround it. The immense universe of the body has become spherical, with the minute grain of self at its innermost core. There is no up or down anymore. No right or left. There is only in and out. The self has become a magnificently precise point in space surrounded by the distant sphere of bodily perceptions.
Other gradations of this alteration of perception reinforce this distinction of the perceiver from the perceived. This centering of the self, it seems, can take various forms as one begins to descend into normal awareness. From my notes:
Upon returning, I was in a very deep state and felt that I’d gone very far. I felt as though I’d been taken out of my body and returned. As I came into normal awareness, I had a very strong sensation of shrinking of the self. This sensation consisted of feeling as though “I” consisted of a rod or channel that ran vertically below my “mind.” My physical body was only peripherally connected to this self. The physical was an addendum or a footnote to this central awareness. Although I was gradually becoming more aware of my ordinary surroundings, this clear, central perception was paramount.
To characterize this awareness as “inner” is not wholly accurate. It was as if this “channel” was my real “body”; my primary perceptual reference was this elongated “self.” It seemed as if this is always the real body, but due to a perceptual “mistake,” the normal physical body is taken as real.
The real self does not have arms or legs, only a central awareness. This awareness, however, does have perceptions of that which is “outside” of itself. One of the areas outside itself, that it can choose to perceive, is the complex of perceptions that arises through a physical body. It can also choose, under certain circumstances, to not experience those perceptions and can withdraw, the way a hand is withdrawn from a glove. Our characteristic miscalculation is that we perceive ourselves as the glove, rather than the owner of the hand.
It seems that if this state of shrinking of the self could be maintained, deepened, and entered at will, a whole new perceptual matrix would emerge.
And on another occasion:
Concurrent with these sensations was another experiencing, but of a more psychological nature. This same experience had been noted in the past few salvia sessions.
This sensation consisted in an unbroken awareness on entering and traversing the salviaic landscape. As the trance began to recede, this unbroken continuity persisted, presenting as a feeling of pure vigilant awareness coupled with an alternate awareness of a state that was similar to, if not identical with, normal sleep. This dual awareness of vigilance and sleep manifested as perception of an inner and outer aspect of awareness. It was as if the inner vigilant self was cloaked in a mantle of restful sleep, yet functioned independently.
The awareness was full, concentrated, and augmented—with no danger of cessation (as with normal sleep)—the outer shell was slowly and restfully receding into sleep.
This shrinking of the self, although distinct from the general salviaic trance, seems to offer a valuable insight into that world, both inner and outer, that we regard as real. Like so many aspects of salvia, it inevitably leads one, in a very real way, to examine the nature of what we would tend to call the self and its relation to the outer world. One is left with the conclusion that the balance between the two is actually quite fluid and that, with the slightest
nudge, the point of that balance can be shifted, leaving both concepts inexorably altered.
The effects of Salvia divinorum appear to be extremely variable from one person to another, and even for one person over the course of time. The experiences can be so disparate that it is hard to believe they could have originated from the same source. My attempts to chronicle my own experiences presuppose this subjective interpretation. I have no idea if the experiences of others might parallel my own or be of a radically different nature. Any attempt at comparison is compounded by the poverty of language to mirror the bizarre nature of the events in which one can find oneself immersed.
One such series of events in my own subjective case, that essentially eludes description, is a recurrent scenario that has often presented itself shortly after first entering the salviaic trance. After the rush of faces and feelings, there often appear scenes capturing people involved in seemingly mundane activities. These activities are, paradoxically, foreign yet familiar. Their apparently random nature belies their deceptively alien core. This involvement in activity is, in an indescribable way, linked with the almost imperceptible transformation of language. It’s as if the activities portrayed can only be described in the dream language. They are somehow intrinsically linked, in the same way our ordinary language is linked, through nouns and verbs, to our sphere of activity. These actions that can be witnessed in the salviaic state, as well as in the transformative processes that permit their perception, are so subtle as to be virtually unnoticeable. They seem to take place almost under the threshold of awareness.
On many occasions, while beholding these alien activities, I would find myself in the unusual position of recognizing a group of actions as inexplicably familiar, yet being at a total loss as to their reason or purpose. The elements or objects that would be intrinsic to the unfolding scene, as well, would be foreign in form and function, yet comfortingly recognizable. A strange intuitive game would ensue within my mind each time such a vision would present itself. I would attempt to categorize the action, on some primitive, almost animal level, as something either familiar or foreign. Since the descriptors upon which we rely to solidify our perceptions were no longer within reach, the task would be all but impossible. Even concepts such as “familiar” or “foreign” can seem worlds away when immersed in the state.
For years, I thought that the events I was witnessing were ordinary human occurrences that were seemingly suddenly incomprehensible due to the rapid evaporation of thought and concept. After all, what else could they be? What other forms of human activity could exist? It would seem that any action of a genuinely foreign nature would have to be totally incomprehensible. As time went on, however, there was an unsettling jolt that would occur whenever these scenes would reemerge. I had no choice but to leave all the options open.
In one of my later experiences, I had the opportunity to observe a group of these scenes, as I’d done so often before. This time something was different. I had the distinct perception that the events that were unfolding before me were of an unmistakably foreign order. Although there were seemingly ordinary people involved in the execution of these tasks, the nature of the tasks themselves, as well as the elements involved in their completion, was totally alien to what we know. To maintain such a vision is virtually impossible, since the elements within oneself that could recognize it as foreign were, themselves, already rapidly dissolving. Imperceptibly, the actions that had seemed so incomprehensible a moment before begin to be recognizable in the new context in which one finds oneself immersed.
What these activities are is beyond the realm of comprehension. They seem to be so intrinsically connected to an essentially alien form of awareness that any attempt at rational understanding would seem futile. The fleeting duration of their perception only serves to reinforce their elusive nature. They do seem, however, to herald modifications of awareness that seem to be unfathomable and limitless.
In addition to the revelatory states described above, there are additional states in which one can find oneself that are seemingly barren and emotionally parched. Fortunately, these have been rare occurrences and are mentioned only for the sake of portraying the range of experience that salvia can engender.
In my own case, I had a series of sessions that might seem externally interesting due to the vividness of the visions, yet left me with a feeling of emptiness. This was due to the fact that, unlike other excursions, in these particular incidents I was not “taken.” In the first instance, there were vague, almost arbitrary images that failed to command my attention. In one scene, I was being “presented” to an Inuit girl, but the situation was murky and lacked any emotional context. In a subsequent trial, I found myself in the company of three people—two men and a woman, evidently British, and seemingly well to do. They had a haughty demeanor and appeared to be conversing about their travels. I was distinctly aware of their conversation but was uninterested. There was nothing particularly likeable about these people, and the experience felt futile and dry.
At first I was unable to pinpoint what, exactly, was missing, but I knew something was wrong. I had never had such emotionally flat experiences before. For a few days, I had the horrifying thought that my benefactors had deserted me—that perhaps it was over and that my magical forays had ended. I feared that perhaps the portal that had opened for me had only been there for a limited time, and I had somehow failed to grasp that fact and act accordingly.
These dark thoughts, luckily, were put to rest with my next session. I was, once again, vigorously taken, and was, reassuringly, in the company of my hosts—in this case, a black woman who seemed to masterfully facilitate my release. It was only after this series of events that I understood that the process of being taken is, in fact, a seminal factor in the transformative process to which I’d become accustomed. The visions themselves seemed to be of a secondary nature, and although they define and articulate the various nuances of meaning at the core of the trance, the primary transportive mechanism is the plunging into this “state of presence” that catapults one so rapidly and so deeply into the other awareness.
As far as the cause of this series of hollow events, I have my suspicions. During this period, I would occasionally experiment with the oceanic inebriant kava kava. I would make an infusion of the dried root powder from the island of Vanuatu, or from Fiji, and consume the resultant liquid. The effects were a mild relaxing stimulation that would, before long, evolve into a natural dream-laden sleep. I had consumed kava the night before my barren episodes and suspected there might have been some correlation, chemical or otherwise. I’ve never read of any disharmony between salvia and kava; in fact, many people have consumed them together, but the coincidence was significant enough that I’ve since essentially abandoned kava, and the empty episodes have never returned.
In addition to the occasional fruitless events, other occurrences were almost unbearably intense. Again, these situations were very rare but should be relayed as a cautionary note, if nothing else. I’ve always tended to stay on the conservative side with salvia dosage, yet these types of experiences still presented themselves.
In the first event, I had obtained some 5X salvia extract from a new source and was interested in trying it and comparing the results with those to which I’d become accustomed. Erring on the side of caution, I used a very small amount, perhaps two-thirds my usual dose. I settled back in the chair and lit the pipe. Within seconds, I was propelled so deeply into the other side that I lost all touch with everything even vaguely familiar and felt sure that I was somehow being trapped—there being no trace of any avenue of return.
A sensation of panic ensued, and I opened my eyes, hoping to curtail the overwhelming rush of images and feelings that were rapidly engulfing me. I grabbed the arm of the chair, but my sense of touch was part of the vision—the chair blurring into a sea of viscous sensations. I stood up, but there was no up or down, only the swirl of foreign images and their constant tactile comprehension. Throughout this ord
eal, there was a female personage with a mocking smile who seemed to say, “Go ahead, try it, but it won’t work.”
My next attempts led me to what I hoped would be the crisp edges of the door, the touch of which, frighteningly, also melted in a rubbery swirl. Evidently, I did, in fact, somehow make it outside and found myself surrounded by a surreal lunar landscape of moonlit snow. I began walking toward what I hoped was something familiar, and after what seemed like an eternity, I looked up and saw my car parked in front of the familiar silhouette of my house.
For the first time, I had the feeling that I would return, but it wasn’t until another eternity had passed that I found myself walking into my living room—my wife’s voice pulling me back into humanness. The entire event had lasted less than three minutes.
Looking back on the experience, I can’t really say that I’d done anything wrong. I was cautious with the amount I’d smoked and only moved when my instinct for survival took over. I’d initially thought a sitter might have simply compounded the confusion, since the onset of the disorientation was so rapid and was of such an interior, tactile nature. In retrospect, however, a sitter might have provided some type of primitive physical assurance that could have rapidly restored some sense of equilibrium to the encounter. I suspect this particular extract might have either been mislabeled 10X or was perhaps extracted using different, more aggressive solvents. In any event, I was given a glimpse of a potentially more hostile environment that served to redouble my respect for the power that salvia can exercise on the psyche.
Strangely, aside from the numerous remarkable psychological nuances resulting from salvia, there is one that, although rare, should still be mentioned. That nuance is humor. As odd as it might seem, on several occasions, I’ve encountered decidedly humorous comments from this abstract destination.