Let’s do a little time jump, first back to Belize, back to the Botanical Garden and the morning in the tower with Taylor, that winding walk down those stairs when I started thinking about some other very bizarre experiences I’d had, my very first adventures in channel surfing, perhaps.
The first one was something that I’d always thought of as a time jump. It was only after I met the Cosmic Science Guy that I came to think of that episode as catching a wave.
For it, we’ll need to jump back to the 1990’s, back when I was married. My ex and I had hit the yard sales that morning, and I’d scored a $2 bread machine. The instructions were clear cut enough, I had the ingredients, so I loaded that baby up and hit the go button. It started doing its funny little rocking about thing that it does, and I shifted.
Suddenly I was a very old woman, standing in front of that shaking machine thinking “I’ve had this silly thing forever, I really should get rid of it.” Then boom, I was back to being me again at thirty something, with a brand new to me bread machine dancing on the counter in front of me.
It was quite odd. Given that there aren’t many reasonable responses to such an experience (call the men in the white coats?), I gave it one of my old standards, and filed it away.
I told my ex about it.
“Huh.” He wasn’t very verbose.
I no longer have the bread machine, didn’t use it so much any more, and besides, I’ve used it many times since I’ve been old enough to have relived my experience, and since I can’t possibly not remember the experience when I use it, there’s just no telling the truth of it. It’s like the physicists with their effects on particles or like Robin Hitchcock says, looking for infinity between two mirrors, you know it’s there, but the head gets in the way of seeing it.
“You channeled the energy of the previous owner. Some little old lady died and you got her bread machine and her energy was still in it.” It was child’s play in the world of the Cosmic Science Guy, so obvious. But as I’ve considered it further, bread machines hadn’t been around for all that long in the 1990’s, it would’ve been tough to have had it as forever as I’d felt like I’d had it. But I’m getting way ahead of myself introducing the CSG, let’s not rush too boldly into the near present, now past.
If I had been channel surfing, that would tend to rule out the Mayans and cave spirits and malaria and spores and all sorts of alternative hypotheses I’d come up with for what had happened, what is still happening. Even though the Shaman Ayahuasca had opened up some interesting new wavelengths for my consideration, it hadn’t really convinced me that I hadn’t lost my fucking mind. While Goldilocks and Jason had helped, I still needed to meet quite a few more souls along the yellow brick road to the place there’s no other like to fully convince me that, instead, I’ve found it. My fucking mind that is. The Cosmic Science Guy was among them, rest his soul, or keep it busy, I think he'd prefer that. It’s out there, his soul.
If the time jump led to ruling out Belize as the starting point of my getting tuned in, the other very bizarre incident that had crossed my mind during that trip out of the tower provided another twist of the antenna of channel surfing. It happened after the time jump with the appliance, but a couple of years before Belize.
We’ll have to jump to 2011 for this one, the year before the world ended. It happened over Memorial Day weekend.
At least I’m pretty sure I did. I don’t much care for doctors, and since I stood up and walked away from the experience and didn’t feel all that much the worse for wear, I decided just to count my blessings and move on, so I can’t swear that the out of body experience after physical distress adequate to the task of snuffing a person out was death. In fact, the experience was pretty otherworldly in and of itself, the physical distress beyond what the laws of conservation of mass and energy would seem to allow for.
Hyperemesis is what it’s called, a name that’s come to be since that time.
Overall, what happened is that I became so uncontrollably nauseated that I vomited about half my body mass in chunky funk that came from I know not where. It was early morning, I’d had only coffee and cigarettes thus far that day and not a whole lot the evening before, finger foods. I’d not drunk to excess, a couple of glasses of wine. I’d had my coffee and a couple of smokes, and had just taken a big hit of some weed, a tiny little sample in a special little container that had been mailed to me from afar. It made me feel a little woozy, at first.
Then woozy got to be sick. I felt like I was going to puke, so made haste to the bathroom.
I hugged the commode for almost an hour. I don’t mean that I knelt before it, I mean it was all I could do to hang on to the edge of it and puke. Occasionally I’d reach up and flush, only because I so was desperately dehydrated I needed to scoop water out of the toilet bowl to drink or die, and the chunky mess within wasn’t exactly liquid. I couldn’t stand. All I could do was puke, and it just kept coming, not little dry heaves, not bilious liquid, massive near solid effluvia from the pits of the abyss, something the consistency of molten lava.
Eventually I couldn’t even hold on, and I fell to the floor, unable to move, paralyzed, my arms involuntarily curling inward, like a spider on its back in death.
Consciousness raced through me, so acutely aware of my condition, my complete paralysis and transitional status, that it took infinite pause to consider.
Ah, so this is death. No bright light, perhaps I’m damned. Damn. Well, I was if I did and I was if I didn’t, so what the hell, I did. Damn. It wasn’t a very nice death. In fact, it sucked. This is going to ruin the weekend for the family, Fran’s going to be irritated as crap at me. Crap, I don’t want to be dead.
And so I wasn’t any more. I stood up, braced myself against the counter, turned on the sink, and started gulping down water. I called my aunt to beg off the afternoon’s activities, saying I thought perhaps I’d gotten a touch of some bug. I couldn’t claim food poisoning, we’d all dined together the previous evening.
I hunkered down for the rest of that day and considered my mortality. I tossed the rest of that tiny little weed sample into the trash, thought maybe it had some nasty pesticide or something on it, that I’d had some wild hallucination.
But I hadn’t, I knew I hadn’t. The two or three people I shared the experience with gave me the look, wanted me to see a doctor, perhaps one specializing in mental disorders, so I quit sharing it.
The coincidental meeting of the DMT researcher through an online dating service a month or so later got me thinking along other lines.
How much luck are you having meeting Buddhists in Oklahoma City? was his email inquiry to me through the site. I didn’t usually reply to people outside my local area, as I still had a year’s worth of hoop jumping to do to earn tenure at my job there.
His profile was very interesting, so we e-chatted for a while. He was smart and fun, but it clearly wasn’t going anywhere. He suggested that I might be interested in his research into psychedelics; I didn’t give much thought, especially when he started referring to his then current interest into ET encounters. It wasn’t until years later that it all came together, the connection between ETs and NDEs and LSD and DMT and all sorts of wondrous realities. At the time, I figure the guy was a nutcase. Not so much, turns out, he’s pretty famous for his work with psychedelics these days.
So along the way, I’ve learned there’s no such thing as a nut case. Every story is true, all of them, and I heard plenty. At any rate, by the time the Winter Solstice of 2014 rolled around and I sobered up and had jumped through time and lived through death and found a new connection to the world around me, I had alternative hypothesis galore to work with in my quest for understanding my place in the cosmos. It was time for some research.
Linda Brooke Stabler, Ph.D.