Strategic Suicide: The Birth of the Modern American Drug War - Buy on Amazon

Shamanism and the Drug Propaganda: Patriarchy and the Drug War - Buy on Amazon

Buy on Amazon
Buy on Amazon

There's No Stamping Out This Magick
No matter how hard they try

By Preston Peet
For the November issue
of the New York Waste

posted at
October 22, 2003

Ketamine molecule

Thomas rings the downstairs bell, the door clicks open, and he bounds up the stairs to the second floor. The apartment door opens just as he reaches the landing, and he slips through into the warm apartment.

"Hey, you wanna get high?" Thomas grins at Kelly, the owner of the apartment, as she pushes shut the door. It's a rhetorical question because Kelly is always ready to get high. Her roommate is out for the evening, doing a number on some rich gay white guy on the Upper West Side who's into getting tied up and beaten by a strapping young black man.

Thomas breaks out his bags of coke and dope and they set up their works on her bed. Outside the snow is coming down hard, with the wind making a howling through the windows, making the inside of the room feel even more comfortably warm and dry. Thomas loves getting high here, enjoying the respite from ducking into doorways and stairwells to shoot up his much needed and repeated fixes.

It doesn't take them long to shoot their way through both $20 bags of cocaine, and 5 of the 6 bags of heroin. Nearly one hundred dollars in just over an hour, right in their veins. As Thomas tweaks out on the bedspread, the rush still overpowering and debilitating, he's already thinking about having to go back out into the Winter night air, and not at all relishing the prospect. But his jones for cocaine overrides almost all thought once he runs dry. He doesn't have to go on a mission quite yet though. Even if he'd wanted to immediately he's unable to, the ringing in his ears and the trembling of his knees from the massive influx of coke nailing him to the bed.

Kelly is thinking along the same lines though, knowing there isn't any more coke. She makes a suggestion that Thomas will always remember.

"Ever done Ketamine?" She asks through her coke-clenched teeth.

"Nope, never."

Kelly climbs off the bed and goes to her closet. Reaching up onto the shelf, she pulls out a small white box with printing on it.

"I got this yesterday from a friend. It's straight from the vet's office."

Bottled, injectable Ketamine

Sure enough, when she puts the box on the bed, Thomas can see that it is full of little vials of liquid Ketamine. He's never seen it before, much less tried it, but it doesn't matter as the printing all over the box and on the vials themselves lets him know these are the real deal.

"Not like that, that will dull the needle." He's getting ready to stick the needle tip right through the rubber stopper on the top of the vial as he's seen done in the hospital and on tv many times, but Kelly stops him. "Do it like this." She breaks off the top of the vial with a snapping sound, then sticks the tip of the needle unimpeded into the solution inside. Drawing up 30 mils, she hands him the rig. "Here you go."

Having exactly zero idea of what to expect, Thomas leans back against the pillows and ties off. His veins are at this point in time still fairly cooperative, so he has no trouble registering a hit. He watches the ribbon of blood spurt up inside the set, then loosens the tie, leaving the needle sticking out of his arm. Then he carefully takes the needle, gently bracing it as he pushes in the plunger, not wanting to push through his vein and into the muscle. He's totally unprepared for what comes next.

Thomas is about to take off

He barely has time to pull the rig out of his arm before hearing an approaching roar, as though the wind outside has gotten into his head, filling his ears with the sound, completely overriding any sensation of cocaine or heroin in him. The sound gets louder and louder, filling him up completely until he think he must be about to explode, but before he can panic he hears a giant ripping sound and he's out of his body, seeing himself and Kelly on the bed beneath him, both lying in a stupor. This is surprising to say the least, but he has no time to dwell upon the weirdness.

This view lasts but seconds before the air around him grows dark, and he finds himself now surrounded by what look like giant amebas, gesturing with appendages that protrude larger and smaller from the writhing mass of colors that make up their core. He can hear them communicating with one another. He cannot understand what they're saying, and while he's not even sure whether it's about him or not, he's not at all frightened. He feels like he has returned somewhere he vaguely remembers being before, but can't put his finger on when. So enthralled is he with what he's seeing he doesn't consider at the time the "where" of his situation. In hindsight he decides it looked a lot like far outer space, with millions of stars or light nodes of some kind glittering all around him as far as he can see in all directions and dimensions with these creatures floating as though underwater.

Finally blinking after what feels like hours, he can make out something new beneath him, some sort of design growing large, likes it's rising to meet him or he's descending towards it. He can't be sure which it is. As he, or it, draws closer, he realizes he looking at a timeline, just like something in his junior high school books. It has his past, present, and future all marked out with different colored arrows signifying which is which. He can see where he's been, where he is now, and where he's going, plain as day. An unsettled feeling comes over him as he sees where he is going, but it is still an awe inspiring event. Who made this? Why is he being shown this? How long as he been here? None of this occurs to him to wonder at the time, only later do these questions come to mind. He's locked into a total state of NOW, simply taking in all he sees. The sense of actual time passing is nowhere to be found.

Then he's suddenly back in his body with no awareness of movement, only that he is now back inside his shell, still very high and unable to move but conscious of the skin between his bones and the bedspread beneath him. Both he and Kelly slowly start to move at almost the same moment, gaining control over their limbs once again, sitting up in the bed and staring groggily at one another.

"What the fuck was that?" Thomas gasps. He might sound upset, but it's excitement, not anxiety that forces his words out in an explosion of breath. Kelly shakes her head, still fogged by the drug. Thomas is only immobilized for a few minutes. As soon as he is able, he reaches out for the box and sets himself and Kelly up another couple of shots, and off they go again.

Three or four times in the span of about two hours they do this, mainlining 30 mils of pure, liquid Ketamine, and rushing off to wherever it is that the drug takes them. Because Thomas is forever convinced that the drug definitely does take him somewhere, as near as he can tell to another dimension entirely. While he can remember these basic events, he knows there is a lot more he cannot remember clearly but that he is still aware of, fleeting images which occasionally race across the backs of his eyes in odd moments.

That was the night he decided that there is still magick in the world, magick that the Rush Limbaughs and the George W. Bushes and the Dick Cheneys and all the prohibitionists and moralists and greed-headed fear mongering war pigs of the world want to stamp out and deny. There's a lot more to the universe that these types don't want people like Thomas to know and access, a lot more knowledge decreed sinful and banned but which is really gnosis, self-awareness, love, the apple, the fruit of the tree of life. Drugs might not be THE way to attain this magick, but sometimes they sure as hell can do the trick.

Buy on Amazon
Buy on Amazon
Editor     Webmaster     Copyright/Disclaimer     Privacy Policy