A Neophyte's Journey Into Entheogenic Experience

Written by Chloroboy

Tuesday, 12 August 1997

Disclaimer: ChloroBoy is a small-time rookie novice with no knowledge of anything, therefore he politely declines any responsibility for your foolishness should you unwisely attempt to emulate anything discussed in the following fictional essay. The word “entheogen” first appeared to me during a brief stop at The Lycaeum. It struck me as odd that anyone would bother with using one term--much less in the form of an odd-sounding one--to describe hallucinogens and the like. How useful could that be? Did the term “entheogen” represent anything more than some bullshit linguistic attempt to “legitimize” drug use? Who created it? I ruminated over these questions for a time but never reached any conclusions, and soon thereafter forgot the matter altogether. Then one day in late Spring, I ran across Gracie and Zarkhov 's writings on using harmaline and DMT. I found their experiences fascinating, and when I discovered that harmala/harmaline could be easily extracted from passionflower, I wasted no time in seeking one out. Going to the nursery, something I've done hundreds of times, was suddenly an odd experience as I tried to look casual while gawking at perfectly legal plants that could be used as hallucinogens. Even during adolescence, I had suspected there were multitudes of plants that could be used nefariously. How could it be otherwise? But actually learning about them, and acting on that knowledge, made me feel as though I was discovering Mother Earth's best kept secret. I was in luck. The nursery had a couple of passionflowers, both “Passiflora cerulea.” An earthy lady glided behind the cash register and gave me a sly look. She obviously approved of my choice. “This is a beautiful plant,” she said. I froze for just a second . “Did you know you can make a tea with the blooms? It's like a narcotic.” “No kidding?” I replied. Trying to restrain my enthusiasm over the two small vines on the counter, I groped for something innocuous to say. “Well that's...that's a nice, uh, little bonus, then,” I mumbled. Giddy with excitement, it was all I could do to not scream “Blooms, hell. The whole damn thing's psychoactive!” My dear, sweet wife, Jane, usually tolerant of my whims, rolled her eyes when I told her what I wanted to do. “What the hell is an intergenic garden?” she said, exasperated, wondering if I would ever grow up. Reluctant to correct her pronunciation, I did my best to explain. It was evident that she did not readily share my enthusiasm for the subject. Grasping at some new way of winning her heart and mind for the millionth time, I explained there would be other benefits from my newfound hobby. In addition to my “medicinal” herbs, there would be culinary ones as well. Jane is a wonderful cook, and the prospect of fresh rosemary, basil, thyme and oregano was enough, barely, to offset her initial reluctance. The next couple of weeks would be spent buying wood, hardware, pots, soil and building a couple of trellises and an herb stand. My precious plants would now be relatively safe from the daily swath of backyard destruction cut by my two seventy-five-pound, romping, roving canines. The vines quickly began to thrive once transplanted into large pots, scaling the trellises and revealing what must surely be some of the most beautiful blooms on earth. The flowers themselves are short-lived but new blooms appear daily, revealing their delicate features in the early morning hours and folding up as sunlight fades into evening. And then there are those tendrils, so incredibly alive. Reaching, stretching, curling around the dowels of the trellis while carefully clinging to other tendrils, stems and leaves. Anyone who witnesses the steady growth of Passiflora would be hard pressed to state unequivocally that there is no such thing as “plant consciousness.” And that's just from watching it. Think about that the next time you're picking peganum harmala seeds from between your teeth. Don't deprive yourself of a rich entheogenic experience by neglecting to cultivate this wondrous plant. Inspired by the sudden appearance of assorted butterflies, bees, insects and even lizards, I developed a surprisingly strong attachment to all of my plants. My patio was turning into an ecosystem of its own. Besides the improved aesthetic, other benefits soon became apparent. Suddenly, thanks to the herbs I'd raised to placate Jane, home cooking had gone from good to great as fresh pasta dishes and salad dressings exploded with flavor. And despite becoming tied--some would say chained--to a watering schedule, the morning time I allowed for gardening activities set a relaxed mood for the rest of my otherwise hectic day. But there was a flip side to the tranquility I experienced working the garden. I became obsessed with acquiring new entheogenic plants and seeds, gleaning catalog after catalog online. It pays to do this because prices--not to mention products, company policies, and customer service --vary wildly from one retailer to the next. And while reading catalogs is hardly a substitute for reading scientific (or even anecdotal) ethnobotanical literature, the entheogenic enthusiast can occasionally supplement his or her knowledge by doing so. When I wasn't working or gardening, I was obsessed with shopping for plants and seeds. Must order Justica pectoralis. Must order catha edulis. Must order Salvia divinorum. Must order acacia maidenii. Must order phalaris. And so on. All of you neophytes have been forewarned. Just Say No to obsessive-compulsive shopping. Back to the passionflower. I decided not to wait for the fall harvest and opted to order some dry herb. Using the Gracie & Zarkhov method, I dumped several ounces of passionflower and a large bottle of cheap vodka (it wasn't enough so I added water) in a crockpot, set it on low and let it simmer. “Yuk,” Jane said, her face gnarled with disgust. “Oh, it's not that bad,” I tried to tell her. “It smells like wet hay.” “Yeah, fifty bales of wet hay.” And we went on like this for the next seventy-two hours or so, me turning the crockpot on and her switching it off a few hours later. Eventually, however, the concoction turned into a thick, reddish-brown soup. I poured a few ladles into a Pyrex measuring cup and nuked it in the microwave until it was a thick brown goo, which I let cool before wadding it into a tarry ball. I considered this to be an extraction, but thankfully I didn't try any of it. “It can't be this easy,” I thought. And I was right. Shortly afterward, I learned my tar was full of impurities and that further extraction would be necessary. I dissolved the tarry ball in some vinegar and water, then added salt. Minutes later, light-colored particulates settled on the cloudy bottom of the glass. An couple of hours later, I siphoned off the top layer of liquid and repeated the procedure once more for good measure. I poured the harmaline-containing solution onto a plate, where it crystallized after several hours. Bearing in mind all the MAOI warnings regarding harmaline, I decided to do my homework thoroughly before ingestion. After I settled on a rather restricted diet I could feel comfortable with, it dawned on me I had forgotten something significant: I've taken a low dose of Elavil for several years to control migraine headaches, which means I would have to refer to the PDR (Physician's Desk Reference) and research any possible contraindications with Elavil and MAO inhibiting drugs. The text was grim and cautioned against starting MAOI therapy until three weeks after complete cessation of the drug, which was to be withdrawn in gradual dosages. Although I'm disappointed at the delay in experiencing the fruit of my efforts, my curiosity will prevail at some point. And I'll do what I have to do in hopes of seeing exactly what Passiflora caruela has to offer. One can only hope it is worth such sacrifice. In the meantime, however, there is much to be thankful for -- particularly that I am neither hypertensive, comatose, dead or divorced. And, yes, those are all good things. Incidentally, with a little assistance from Ska Maria Pastora, I finally reached some definitive conclusions about entheogens, but that's whole 'nother story...