Reports of Contact with Entities in the DMT Space
This is a series of reports of DMT-smoking experiments which were conducted in 1996 by a woman about forty years of age with considerable previous experience of psychedelics but no previous experience of DMT (dimethyltryptamine).
The smoking method used was as follows: A wire screen was placed in an ordinary tobacco pipe and crushed mint leaves were placed over it. The DMT (crushed to a fine powder) was placed over the mint leaves. After taking up a comfortable seat and calming the mind the pipe was taken up, a flame was held over the bowl of the pipe and the hot air containing the vaporized DMT was inhaled in one breath or sometimes in two, being held in the lungs as long as possible.
On the first two occasions she had smoked about 20 mg of pure DMT, with some effect but no contact with the entities. For the remainder of the experiments she used DMT from a different batch, also pure, but inadvertently smoked about 50 mg each time rather than 20 mg. Some researchers advise that 20 mg is usually not enough for alien contact and that 50 mg is recommended. A lot depends on the efficiency of the smoking technique, since a certain amount of the material is usually lost. In this case the use of 50 mg proved to be very effective in establishing contact with the entities.
The experiments reported below were conducted over a period of about a month.
The first two trips were uneventful, with those ruined Austrian Jugendstil eyelid movies I could switch on and off so effortlessly. This time I noticed the difference immediately. First toke and there was no doubt about it: the singing (angelic herald of a real mind-bender) that started almost the moment the smoke hit my lungs, the tone rising, taking off …
I laid down the pipe, the objects before my eyes became brilliant in their cartoon-like clarity, still, absolutely static, nor were my pupils moving. The absolute stare.
It occurred to me to try closing my eyes, but what I saw wasn’t the gently decorative eyelid movie of yore: it was a fairground with ferris wheels, cotton candy and the whole works, including the employees in animated discussion, happily busy and involved in the business of communicating with each other, building and running this carnival world; no second without activity, no word without purpose. A clean, clear, open-eyed world. All this observed through a glass by me. I don’t recall any auditory phenomena.
Upon the question: What are they doing? the answer: Industriously creating living details, facts to live by. Upon the question: Why are they doing it? the answer: To create something whole out of the sum of these details. The details get thrown seemingly carelessly into the air, to cohere there into something moving, wheeling onwards, out of reach, something which the details alone are incapable of. The cohesion becomes more than the sum of its details.
I opened my eyes for a peek at the cartoon objects in my room and found them looking normal again. So I closed my eyes for phase 2: My parents, holding hands and walking together towards death. It’s a privilege to watch them, to accompany them. It’s a very serious thing taking place, not terrible — no matter how my mother views her impending death. We’re accompanied by death throughout our lives, but the quality of immediate pre-death is different: when death is the next impending event and nothing else is called for but preparation for it.
I can report progress and setback this time. I went (or was taken) much further much faster than the last time. They’re out there, those entities, and they would’ve let me in if I’d passed the test. But I didn’t.
To start from the beginning, my plants did their usual gig of rearing up against the light, nearly grim, nearly comical, in their fierce delineation. Till the filigree stylization that echoed their leaf design extended through the whole vista before my eyes, into my mind (meaning into my brain into each and every little gray cell).
There followed a series of tests: what the first ones were I can’t say anymore, only that I must’ve passed them to go onto (and fail) the test of courage. I was led to believe that They (i.e. the enemies of the beings, of enlightenment and relevation, of the meaningful secrets) had caught me, found me, broken into my apartment to question me (and to do even worse to me, of course, unless I was ready to name names…). Though I resisted believing that this could actually be happening right then during my trip, I finally became convinced that, yes, by nefarious coincidence or nefarious design they had invaded me with their threats of very real punishment right here and now during my trip, when I was least able to stand against them. And I immediately proceeded to turn everything over to them: Drugs, information, people: I saw the backs of the heads of my victims as they were led away. They (my betrayed victims) and They (the entities) were then so thoroughly gone and vanished that I doubted their former reality, but meanwhile I think that those backs of heads belonged to the beings filing out after the completion of the test.
I got up (amazingly easy to unbend my knees, nervelessly, but how light I was on my feet!) and walked through the dark blue veil between my living room and bedroom, numb with disbelief (still not certain of the reality or unreality of the test, and was wondering who and what I’d actually betrayed or if I’d done so at all). I felt disappointment (at having been so irrevocably unworthy, at having failed, at not being admitted, at not having known what was going on, at having misjudged both myself and the character of this matter), and resignation (because lack of courage is permanent or nearly so, and my weakness would exclude me from the secrets that I knew were there and thought could be mine, and this exclusion would not be subject to revision, just as the basic character of a coward is not subject to revision).
My thoughts after passing through that blue veil were phase 2: just as the first real trip had two phases. Maybe I’d misjudged what courage is, just as I’ve misjudged so many things that I’ve seen as a game. But then, I’m sure I see pretty much everything as a game, and have mistaken adventurousness for courage.
Whether or not the consequences to which I deliver the persons or ideas exist or not, my betrayal is very real. Which in turn raises the question of whether secrecy can be called paranoia according to whether it’s justified by a visible threat or not. Where can the line can be drawn between caution and pathology?
And now, afterwards sitting here writing, I will continue trying. The reason I keep getting caught unprepared is because I don’t consider the seriousness of things until I’m confronted with it. I feel like Winston in Orwell’s 1984 who, when faced with torture, screamed, “Don’t do it to me, do it to her!”, which was exactly what Big Brother wanted, the breaking of sedition by betrayal. They let up on him because they no longer needed to sic the rats on him, they had achieved what they wanted, and he and Julia felt only shame and distaste upon meeting each other again. So … those beings out there are right to exclude me … because I’ve been a traitoress.
Having had some time to reflect on the trip, I’m going to take a short break from DMT to adjust myself to the Unexpected. This completely Unknown. And set myself for the further Unknown. I may have found the drug for me. Once I get over the terror of my mind being taken over, exploding toward … what? Is that hyperspace? No, I wouldn’t quite call it that; maybe more like: The mind(s) in outer space that connect with the minds on earth. Connect immediately, and are equally quickly on location (it only takes seconds!) when it/they find one. And this is the kind of contact that will change your life, you don’t come back the same, you come back something like them (if they let you, which they haven’t yet in my case). Acid is kid stuff, ketamine is anaesthesia, DMT is the center of life talking, talking, talking. Talking? Only in a figurative sense, because they haven’t really talked to me — in fact I only saw the backs of their heads.
But it’s where I want to go. That place out there. The center is the faraway, far out. The Original is the purest form, all the layers we’ve coated over it are increasingly corrupt and oppressive. Everything is the reverse of what I’ve thought, global conspiracy theory may be right after all; preventive caution is called for. Games are serious, and the allegedly serious is (usually) an evil game. It’s what you hide, not what you exhibit, that makes up your purpose in life, meaning that your purpose in life and what you’ll be remembered for are not identical.
So does DMT impart too much information? Information I can’t take? A whited-out brain next time I come back? The way those filigree prongs came out at me at the beginning of the last trip was really, greedily, merciless. What if I can’t survive DMT? Even if I were better prepared than the last time, you can’t genuinely expect the Unexpected, you can only expect that it might turn up, not how it’ll actually behave. And once I’m out there I can’t just throw up my hands and wish myself back home like I can with acid. This is probably too much for me and I should let it alone. But I won’t. I can’t wait for the next attempt, see if I can make it to the Other.
I’m considering which drug to take this evening — tonight would be more auspicious for LSD, actually: disco in the underground here, my neighbor with her sensitive ears not home, and I’d have tomorrow to recover from the all-night party. Yes, I’m jittery, scared, nervous prior to smoking DMT. It was a mere week ago I was catapulted (and repulsed) by the inhabitants of DMT space. And thought I had an inestimably long way to go before I could try it again. But I wanna do it; maybe, just maybe, the preparation for DMT space lies within the trip itself. I’ve got a better idea of what Walter Benjamin’s “waves of choc” are now — when wordless recognition of, for example, danger is recognition of my own courage and lack of it, wordless recognition of the Other is the way to myself, that darkened, falling feeling behind the eyes when recognition bounces off the object and reverberates back. If my worth as a human being leaves much to be desired, I can work with it. If I allow myself to get banged against the walls of the universe often enough, I might be able to see …
I should just leave the kid stuff behind, LSD is good for fucking, but I can play later. DMT = forward — terrifyingly forward! LSD = familiar, friendly.
I’m sitting here, writing away before smoking, screwing up my courage, trying to toughen my heart against fear — that’s what it was about the last time, wasn’t it? My quaking heart. Not quite up to the steelclad rules of DMT space. I’m used to picturing the wild place as being completely free of rules, a place experienced, even created by my own mind. But I didn’t know, didn’t expect this forced discarding of my own psychology. Though I don’t have to discard it in the sense of eliminating it, just have to (be able to) put it aside, then contemplate it coolly objectively during those two minutes of coming down before picking it up again on the way back. But changed, my God, how very changed.
Back to the rules. Maybe that’s the very thing that keeps me wanting to come back. Merciless rules with undeniable justification — no, justification’s a rotten word for it — call them true rules. Don’t know yet how to apply them, but there’s surely a way. A psychedelicized life can take on manifold forms, I could even go insane from it. I could fail the test again. Then I’d try again, spend the meantime yearning, looking through my telescope at the place I wanna go. Time to start (22.30) … Well, maybe a few last words before departure. I’m not doing this for the sheer fun of it (not even acid is only fun), and the fact that I want to return to a path that holds a lot of terror for me proves my courage. Maybe not steadfastness — I’m sure I’ll never achieve that, I’m a fundamentally unstable, runaway soul — but courage and desire for knowledge, else I wouldn’t be doing this. I’ll do something else with this knowledge than worship it and pass it on as a sacrament, but I will use it. Don’t they want it applied? don’t they want it thrown into the world? aren’t they going to take over the world in the end? will they fry my brain in the process? Again, time to start (22:50)
23:25 — Back again, having shed a few vanities in the meantime. By the time I said to them “You can show me anything you like”, the 3-minute first phase was over. But they did show me something, very simple, only the carousel of oxygen-breathing animals. Very elementary (for them), but: I’m being groomed. I wrote (and believed) that I left my psychology behind when embarking upon the journey into DMT space, but I haven’t managed to do so yet. Fear and skepticism are the pillars on which I’ve built my perception of the world. I’ve elevated disbelief into a virtue. No wonder I can’t get to the bottom of anything, no wonder I can’t analyze: I don’t believe anything! Even if I see with my own eyes, or instinctively know of existing things, I still suspect them of being untrue.
I wordlessly recognize what they tell me, but what I recognize in myself has to be put into words. As if consciousness must necessarily be verbalized in order to be understood, and DMT space is not inhabited by consciousness, but rather by … no, fuck it, I’m grasping at straws, trying to identify something that hasn’t even presented itself to me yet.
I’m delighted — this is waiting and this is progress, this is activity without force. This is softness and openness to education. I can open my heart without opening myself up for injury; I can strategically withdraw and close myself up without making a life principle out of it.
Why do things keep getting in the way? First myself, then this time some celestial imp wanting to show off, showing me high-flying gorgeous pictures. Absolutely mind-bogglingly gorgeous pictures. Then a sharp withdrawal and curt apology when I asked what the sense of all this was. She (the imp was a lower celestial female being) hadn’t known I was being serious about it all. And maybe I’m not, maybe such diversions are just what I’m looking for. What kind of resistance, how many layers of resistance, do I have in me? I resolve to be soft and open, then playful ET’s turn up to get between me and the Big Question in the Sky. Someone or other is always turning their eyes away at the critical moment — is it really always me? Maybe not: Maybe DMT space secrets don’t have that much content after all, maybe everything’s lying on the surface; you can discover more by discovering the same things again and again, sifting them repeatedly through your fingers. Or you can discover everything in one fell swoop, getting disappointed when you go back for more. Or, or, or …
Nevertheless, miner for a heart of gold goes back. Tomorrow, if possible.
This is work, God forbid! At least I seem to approach it like work: excitement mingles with apprehension, I procastinate and yet it seems that the world turns, another day, amazingly fast. The putting off, looking forward, then the brevity of those three stoned minutes, the regret of coming back down, when another chance of surpassing those borders retreats, another not-quite, another time it’s over and I have to start this waiting cycle again, and again I feel eager reluctance, looking for excuses, holding back when I’m really straining forward.
So here I am again, writing before instead of after the fact. The pipe’s waiting for me. But that initial take-off is so excruciating! …
It was my seventh DMT trip. I think I’ve been permanently stung, I’ve got the infection and am endlessly thankful for it. Just a touch of epilepsy as the residue.
The wasp (Their wasp) came to me this time, stung me while I was senseless. Insects are the blind keepers of secrets on this earth. At first I though this meant that the study of insects — something I’ve always loved — would reveal … But no, it’s the infection by insects that reveals, letting them into your body, i.e. the malarial, the Indian with life-long dysentery, that half of the world’s population with some kind of amoebae swimming around inside them, these are the ones with more of the secret. Health, letting light in, is letting uniformity and foreign control in. What? — isn’t reason and enlightenment the key to conciousness? isn’t illness misery and unconciousness? Maybe such infections aren’t always illness. Maybe they don’t necessarily lead to pain and deformation, maybe it’s the therapy, the forceful disparaging of such infection that causes the real outbreak: The infestation with other life forms (infestation with secrets) resists therapy and strikes out against it in the form of a violent disease (as opposed to discrete infection). Still, it’s lip-curling horrible to contemplate doing it; even while receiving this knowledge I just couldn’t agree to actually let bugs … ick. I felt ungrateful, guilty about participating in this revelation and refusing to surrender to it. Isn’t there any other way I can honor it while still remaining outside? If I write about it, if I devote my writing to it (I promise, I promise), isn’t that witness enough? Just as infection with secrets doesn’t necessarily lead to awareness of them, isn’t it possible to be aware of them from a distance? To see their outlines without delving into them in the sense of allowing them to delve into oneself, might they not divulge themselves anyway? I’m sure they take their toll in any case, investing one with non-conformity or epilepsy, the holy disease.
I can’t get over it: I’ve been stung by an alien wasp. Chilling. Now I have to figure out how I’m gonna live with this.
Full contact. They landed and took parts out of me and/or put parts in. Or — another possibility — they showed me the performance of such an act, whether it was physically carried out on me or not. But being shown something is equivalent to its happening. The whole of our experience is a long-flung fireball illumination of what’s shown to us. This is a UFO landing: when someone is open for contact (through DMT or whatever). I wonder if anybody else saw them. I wonder if they put things into me (those insects they were talking about last time). I wonder if they can now contact me at any time now or just when I’m high. I wonder if they actually take people with them, I wonder if they’ll take me with them.
There were sloppy serpentine parts hanging out of buckets — revolting, although I felt oddly calm about it, considering they were parts of myself. Mildly interested in the process, despite the fact that I felt I was being victimized, no matter how you look at it: lying there amidst a mass of extraterrestrial thighs, being operated on.
UFO phenomenon, electrically buzzed and illuminated by my own pulse, all the while coming of its own volition, each and every time and as often as possible, instant response to the invitation. Maybe even when not summoned? Now that’s the edge of fear that I feel: That I’m way out of my depth, that I haven’t got a clue as to what I’m doing, that these beings have thus far avoided fully exposing themselves to me — so far I’ve seen backs of heads, thighs and the wasp they sent ahead — while they are subjecting me to their tests and operations.
Who knows where it’ll go next? We’re travelling faster every time; this is the eighth trip and the leaps and bounds towards DMT space increase between each one. When I say DMT space, this is not a contradiction of the fact that this apparent operation took place in my room, as my surroundings were transported toward DMT space.
Scarier and scarier, but I wouldn’t dream of stopping now.
My transformation continues, meaning the operations. This time: I was filled up, meaning the insides were replaced. The skin was left: first time I looked, these marks were shining through my translucent skin, pale rectangles with round, freckle-colored centers. The second time I looked, the marks had faded, the dermis showing through was a little uneven in color (or maybe in consistency, not having “set” yet), the skin a bit crinkly and waxy, like a new plant or an emerging locust — but probably more insectoid than plant-like.
Going back to the operation: When I returned to my body (I don’t know how many minutes into the trip) the operation was already underway. An ET was speaking with me, answering questions, soothing my doubts. Once I realized what was happening, I wanted my companion in the room with me, to leave — please, no eyewitnesses to this ugliness, or possible ugliness. I was aware that he wouldn’t be seeing the physical operation, but I didn’t want him watching me in such an unguarded moment, when the neck isn’t stretched to smooth out the wrinkles and saliva drips out the corners of the mouth. But she (the female entity working on me) said that they had no problem with that, that it was my problem and an illusory one at that. When someone is there for reasons of good will, there’s no reason to hide, to act as if he’s watching for you to slip up. And in fact, when I looked, he did appear good-willed, surrounded by a light blue aura.
I saw their faces for the first time. As they were going, the last one lifted the trapdoor through which they were leaving and peeked back at me, obviously to satisfy my curiosity and to allay my concern about never seeing their faces. He had a small, very triangular, face, dark with enormous almond-shaped eyes, black and opaque. An imp and looking very much like one. Not really insectoid, despite the triangular face, and without any plates. His face looked fairly immobile, yet somehow still managed to appear kindly, teasing despite the opaque eyes and unmoving features.
This time I feel less dubious of their motives — up to now I’d had the feeling that they might be up to no good with me, since I had no way of knowing what was going on. But this time I have the feeling that this transformation is a positive development. A very positive one — they’re making me into one of them.