Category Archives: Microdosing

Microdosing

The Secret Diary of A Microdoser #8

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I ripped open my shirt and bared my chest. My body immersed fully in dance. No holds barred. Loose. Wild. Free. Without any care as to what I looked like to the rest of the crowd who stopped and stared at this bearded old freak. Somehow, I knew in my heart that my father was dying at that very moment. His masculine energy rode the sound waves of a psychedelic guitar riff and penetrated my body. This was his parting gift to me, filling my mind and lifting my soul, as he journeyed through the ether on his final adventure. 

Psychedelics have been used throughout history to honour, remember and indeed communicate directly with our ancestors. Here I found myself vaping DMT in the moment of my father’s passing. Interacting with his spirit, perhaps by chance, perhaps by destiny, as he travelled through a psychedelic maelstrom, gifting me the energy that he no longer needed. One last selfless act, so characteristic of the man, or maybe his worldly energy was simply superfluous to his needs as a new type of wind now filled his sails. 

It was the last night of Shambala music festival 2024 and I was watching the mighty Ozric Tentacles, a band that I hadn’t seen since the Manchester Megadog in 1998. But I never could have predicted, never could have imagined that this would have been my experience of my father’s death. That I would meet my father’s spirit in a realm that I happened to be visiting at the same moment in time, unlocked by the DMT key. 

As I walked away from the gig, I received the call that confirmed what I already knew. I went with the flow of friends but hung back from the crowd. Let it land. I processed the power of the experience that he had been through and I had witnessed and acknowledged the gratitude, love and peace that formed my memory of him. 

A short while later, we arrived at our destination, an art installation called The Dancing Fountain, where it took me a few minutes to fathom that this rhythmic flow of water was the personification of my father’s spirit after he had survived inter-dimensional travel. The realisation dawned on me that he was using this medium to announce his arrival in a state of pure freedom. 

With the DMT pen never far from my lips, I stood amazed, stunned with wonder. I witnessed his joy in the explosion of droplets, pulsing and springing from the Fountain as he span, jumped and danced one last time. 

But how was all this possible? The answer is quite logical. Our consciousness is the fruit of the universe in the same way as a mushroom is the fruiting body of a mycelium. Our modern western culture tends to view the universe as brutal and unthinking, a product of chaos and the random interaction of forces, elements and energy. As religious structures lose credence, undermined as much by their own institutional fallibility as by our increasing intelligence and captured knowledge base, we’ve fallen into a habit of viewing our species as separate from the universe, an accident of evolution. Freud has a lot to answer for in that respect. But it is not the case. Life is the flower. Education is the pollination. Conscious thought is the fruit. If we follow the same pattern we see in nature and delve deeper, we see that the neurological pathways of the brain form the fibre of that fruiting body. Compounds such as tryptamines (which include neurotransmitters like serotonin, dopamine and melatonin alongside related agents such as dimethyltryptamine, psilocin and bufotenin) are the fructose, the sugars, the energy of our consciousness. 

By increasing those levels for brief moments in time, I’ve learned many lessons from psychedelics over the years. But Dimethyltryptamine has been the greatest teacher of them all. Through using it in meditational practice, I’ve realised what is the thing behind all the different thoughts we have on a daily basis. The answer? A Thought. I, like you, am a Thought. And, if you follow the same logic, it is those Thoughts, themselves from a Thought, that danced together in the spirit realm on the night when my father passed from this world to the next. 

Harnessing the medicinal power of DMT has allowed me to remotely view “Ray”, discuss with other Thoughts his attributes, his faults, his reasoning and his motivations. Those drivers have been distilled over the years, purified by psychedelics. I have aimed ridiculously high in the past and fallen way short as a result. Painfully short. In younger years, I was never happy to have reached the moon when aiming for the stars. And yet when it came to my spiritual goal, I could feel myself making the same mistake all over again, the writing was on the wall. But, for the record, here it is: I aspire to be an angel. I don’t mean this in the Christian sense of the word. Nor the financial. My definition of an angel is an “Agent of Positive Change”. I thought, once again, my name was on the dressing room to the stage of disappointment. However, what continually surprises me is that, strangely, I achieve this most days, and perhaps there’s a chance that I’ve just achieved this with you. 

Thanks for reading. 

With Love,

Ray, Brighton, 2025

For back issues visit Instagram.com/SDOAM.TheRayman or substack.com/@sdoamtherayman 

Microdosing

The secret diary of a microdoser #4

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We are in a dance. A cosmic dance of monumental proportions and majesty. But we are not alone. Once a month the full beauty our dance partner is revealed and the Moon basks in all her glory, calmly accepting the Sun’s spotlight. Even though we often take her name in vain, she is still prepared to take a hit for us, as she follows our celestial rhythm. 

The music that weaves through our universe is conducted by four virtuosos, according to our current scientific understanding. We call them “Forces”: Nuclear Fusion, Nuclear Fission, Electromagnetism and Gravity. It is those forces that carve the shape of our reality. 

Physicists can show you how the first three work. They know how they communicate their message. They can measure them, photograph and record their stories with minute sensors. We’ve all sprinkled iron filings on a blank page to see how a magnet writes its script. But no physicist can actually tell you how the Moon says to the oceans “Come to me”. We can see the effect of that message, sure. But in reality we’re as close to understanding gravity as a mechanic gauging the torque of an engine by sniffing the burnt rubber left behind by a wheel spin. As it stands, nobody can actually tell you how the Moon speaks to our seas, nor how our oceans obey its command. We can see and hear the opera, we just can’t tell you how it is played. 

We are all told that the chances of us existing on this perfectly positioned planet are a billion trillion to one, but the moon is an enigma. It is apparently travelling away from the Earth by two inches every year. What we are not told is that, just at the point when we achieve consciousness as a species, the moon is the perfect size and at the exact distance between us and our nearest star to occasionally create a total solar eclipse, producing a perfect corona. Another billion to one chance? Pure coincidence? It has nothing to do with anything, right? Unless, of course, it is Everything. Unless it is absolutely pivotal to our existence and our development as a species. Unless we wouldn’t have achieved our current level of sentience without it. We just haven’t fully understood its importance because that can only be attained once we have reached the end of that particular journey, and we’ve still got some way to go. 

Some journeys are waiting for us to determine their outcome. Others are a race. The one in which we have found ourselves is a race between natural resources on one axis, population growth and technology on the others. It’s a race we have to win if we are to survive as a species. 

The apple is falling from the tree. It needs to be caught before it hits the ground. 

Predicting a solar eclipse was the ultimate statement of power in ancient times. Greek sponge divers made a stunning discovery in the Mediterranean in 1900. Named after a nearby island, the Antkithera Mechanism, most likely created by Archimedes, was the technology which could deliver that prediction. Much as Alan Turing is credited for creating the first computer, it actually started two thousand years beforehand. It is around that time that the race began. The time when we became a super-predator. But we have reached the point where we need a new Archimedes. 

Is he Elon Musk? There could be a lot worse candidates for the position. A self-confessed high-functioning autist. I approve. I understand his fixation with rockets, but unfortunately his obsession is misplaced and badly timed. Aiming for Mars is fine, just fix the Earth first. Maybe I should post him some mushrooms. Retune his Hyperfocus. He’s already got a Duncan Fearnley. He just needs to be pushed out on to the right wicket. 

Recent revelations have brought the holy grail of Cold Fusion much closer as a promising ingredient, Deuterium Hydrogen (which critically contains an extra neutron), has been found in a stunningly abundant source: seawater… In theory, a gallon of seawater could produce the same amount of energy as 300 gallons of petrol. If only we could artificially create anywhere near the gravitational force of the sun, or harness the Earth’s magnetism… 

Like Newton, Einstein, Darwin, and many others, the new Archimedes will very likely be an autist, this is not an arena where a neurotypical will excel. However, Alan Turing’s reward for his brilliance was chemical castration. Archimedes’ ultimate conclusion was a thrust of a Roman sword delivered by a soldier who didn’t give a shit about “disturbing his circles”. Discrimination and ignorance persist. The current stance of the Australian government is not to issue a foreigner with a working visa if they are diagnosed with autism or ADHD, much to their loss. 

In order to win this race, it is essential to house the new Archimedes in a Bletchley Park appropriate for our age. Because the code of this enigma is far harder to crack and way more important. They will need the support of a nation who realises that we are the Steward, not the Owner, and that it is our duty to stand on the shoulders of our forefathers, save us from this lunacy, and reach for the sun.  

With love, Ray, Brighton, 2024

For back issues: https://www.instagram.com/sdoam.therayman/

Editor’s note: The Whistler does not condone Ray’s opinions. We chose to publish this as we know there are many microdosers in the city. But remember, what works for Ray may not work for anyone else. 

Microdosing, psilocybin, Psychedelics

The secret diary of a microdoser #3

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It all started with a Nordic Blond. She explained to me how the shamans in the north of her country, above the arctic circle, gave Fly Agaric mushrooms to the reindeer and then drank their urine. I felt my left eyebrow raise. The right one joined it shortly after. 

We’re an odd species, aren’t we? I pondered on how a human being might stumble across that one, what kind of story a shepherd would drum up as an excuse for arriving late for dinner. The perplexed expression on the face of his wife. Her husband looking more squiffy than usual, admitting it was all too intriguing, too tempting not to have a sip. A pattern began to form in my mind as I remembered Morocco and the revelation of how Argan oil is made. Fresh almond husks are “passed through” a goat’s digestive system which strips off the outer layers to reveal the gold inside, gold that is somewhat tarnished on exit, but brushes up well.

Human intrigue is the birth of invention. Mine led me to ask the question “What is the difference between a reindeer’s gastric tract and a human’s?” This triggered a familiar swell of hyperfocus which escalated through my torso and surged up my scalenes to become the tsunami of my mind. I had to know why the shamans chose this strategy to process the alkaloids of a psychedelic mushroom. Hundreds of hours of rabbit hole research followed. Minimal sleep. Many answers. But I can only give you the 7 inch version here.

The reason why fungi are regarded as an entirely separate kingdom by biologists is because the plant world is constructed with cellulose and the world of mushrooms is architected with chitin. When it comes to fungi, the difference between a reindeer’s digestive system and us humans is this: reindeer have a much higher level of chitinase, the enzyme specialises in breaking down the chitin cell wall. We have an abundance of cellulase in our bodies. Our level of chitinase however is minimal. The reindeers’ stomachs can also handle the toxic compounds in Fly Agaric that would make us vomit, but I digress… 

When you dose on mushrooms, your body gives it its best shot, but it will unfortunately only absorb around 35% of the psychedelic compounds they contain. The remaining percentage passes straight through. Sadly, your body is not very efficient at this game and, essentially, your money could go a lot further. 

If you have taken mushrooms, you will recognise the warmth of the cuddle, be stunned by the visuals, some of you may well see aliens. However, before all that kicks in, many of you will experience another more uncomfortable emotion, erring on anxiety, a stage which you’re told by your friends to “push through and you’ll be alright”. I have found, through my own obsessive experimentation, that that unnerving feeling is also connected to the lack of chitinase in your body. 

Now, you will find plenty on the web on how to make up for this shortfall, “Lemon Tek” tea being the most common. But you will not find what I’m about to tell you. In my research, I found that certain foods are particularly high in chitinase, for a completely different reason. They use chitinase as a defence mechanism for protecting their seeds against fungal pathogens and attacking insects (whose exoskeletons also happen to be made with the same chitin building blocks). Those foods include banana, avocado, chestnut and my two favourites: kiwifruit and papaya. Kiwifruit helps with the acidity. Papaya has wonderful anti-inflammatory properties, although avoid it if you are trying for a baby, it is an ancient contraceptive used in indigenous tribal medicine.

But I have different thoughts about the hot water element of Lemon Tekking. Us Brits do love serving up tea at boiling point, for some ungodly reason. However, something tells me that it distorts the psilocybin in the process. Because, when we cook anything, it physically changes, yes? Why should that be different for naturally-occurring psychedelics? I have found this cold enzymatic extraction method produces a cleaner high, that arrives quicker, and bypasses the anxiety, although it shortens the trip, lasting closer to 3 hours than 4.

Once blended, the mushroom-papaya-kiwi mix should be left to steep for no less than half an hour, to allow the chitinase to breach the cell walls which conceal the psychedelic alkaloids, and no longer than 45 minutes, otherwise your brew will lose potency. Best to keep the papaya seeds, they are packed with chitinase, and I’m a fan of their peppery flavour anyway. Season with a pinch of salt. And, importantly, remember to use three times less shrooms. We are talking about microdosing after all… 😉 

Might the arctic shamans ever realise they had inspired a cold enzymatic extraction process? I think they probably have other things on their minds. In the same way, the Argan oil producers of Morocco most likely spotted almonds poking out of their goats’ droppings and realised, with the entrepreneurial spirit so characteristic of their culture, that there’s money in shit. Either way, I love the human capacity for lateral thinking. Because, at the end of the day, you can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter…

Stay safe. 

Ray, Brighton, 2024. 

For back issues visit http://www.instagram.com/sdoam.therayman

Editor’s note: The Whistler does not condone Ray’s opinions. We chose to publish this as we know there are many microdosers in the city. But remember, what works for Ray may not work for anyone else. BH

Microdosing, psilocybin, Psychedelics

The secret diary of a microdoser #2

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My psychiatrist looks straight at me. His body completely still, his eyes piercing with total concentration. I précis the last hour, “So, basically, I’ve given up drinking and taken up mushrooms and DMT…” And his answer?… “Great!”… Seriously. Hand on heart. I shit you not. He closes his notebook, wrapping up the session and repeats, “Great.”… If ever I needed validation, that was the moment. I could have kissed him.

I float out to his reception desk and am less bothered by his astronomical fees than usual. I wave a plastic card over a plastic box to make a plastic sound. I ponder whether that “friendly” beep has been acoustically engineered to hide the laugh of bankers. But I shrug it off. Sometimes you get fleeced. Sometimes it’s worth it.

I didn’t get the chance for him to expand on why he thought psychedelics were better for me than alcohol. But do I need to? Who am I kidding? How many trippers do you meet in A&E on a Saturday night, nursing their smashed up heads or broken arms? Zero. Zip. Nadda.

Booze was just the best thing we could come up with at the time. Liquid bread. Goes well with a fag. Something to throw in the air when England score a goal… The thing is that the world isn’t that simple anymore. The world has changed, and our needs have changed with it. And it’s not going back because reversing isn’t an option offered by its gear box. It can only travel in one direction. 

Evolution is a journey towards complexity. It is inexorable. Relentless. It started with simple cell division and it ends with?… Well, I guess that’s the million dollar question… Telepathy? Teleporting? Inter-dimensional travel? Perhaps we become the gods. Wherever we’re going, whether you lubricate the wheels with psychedelics or not, it will undoubtedly blow our minds.

Often when I dose on psilocybin, I think of a coral reef in The Red Sea called Ras Mohammed. The metaphor is as simple as it is beautiful. A giant figure of Mohammed is standing with his feet planted on the Earth’s core, and the top of his head (specifically his scalp or “Ras”, the most spiritual part of the brain according to Islamic scriptures, being “closest to God”) is a huge coral reef, bursting with life and exploding with colour. 

But you don’t need to have scuba-dived off the Sinai Peninsula and witnessed the intricacy and symbiosis of a coral reef to bathe in the beauty of natural psychedelia. You can experience the same complexity and harmony by walking through the stunning woods and countryside that surround our city. You only need to open your eyes a little wider and study a leaf whose veins divide and divide again until you enter the mesh of its photosynthesising cells. Follow the light that refracts through a droplet of dew on a bed of moss; marvel at its suspension in space and time by the perfection of surface tension; allow your mind to bend with its lens. Enable your senses to reach into the roots of a vine winding round its host with will and intent, and grasp its strength, yoke its power. 

What I’m trying to say is that, if you dive into the detail and increase your true connection with nature, you will find your nirvana. In a world where our food is sterilised in cylinders of tin, wrapped in plastic or presented in polystyrene, (none of which exist in the natural world), we are often barred from quenching our thirst for spiritual grounding. Earthing is not a paradox, it is a human requirement. Whether you believe in the ionic exchange between your body and the Earth’s magnetism, whether you consciously bridge that gap with psychedelics or you’ve developed your own method, modern society’s hellbent determination to contain us with concrete, cover us with plastic and encase us with metal, leads to a schism with the natural environment and that … makes … you … sad… Why? Well, this is the hilarious secret. Hilarious, because it’s so obvious: You Are Nature. 

Nature is not something separate to you. You are not simply the Observer. Nature is not something you only watch on TV. Yes, it is out there, sure, but it is also within. It is You. It is Me. It exists in each and every exchange of our breath. In our beauty. In our faults and mistakes. In our skills and talents. In our empathy. In our senses, our thoughts, our beliefs and our emotions. In our smiles. In our tears. Even in our dreams… If you can’t see that, at our finest, we are the coral reef, then maybe it’s time to take off your mask. 

With love. 

Ray, Brighton, 2024

Editor’s note: The Whistler does not condone Ray’s opinions. We chose to publish this as we know there are many microdosers in the city. But remember, what works for Ray may not work for anyone else. 

Microdosing

The secret diary of a microdoser

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Microdosing. You’ve probably heard the word, but what is it? And what does it mean? One of our readers, who we’re going to call Ray, tells his story 

I hold my breath. The blindfold fits comfortably over my eyes. Electronica plays in my ears and flows through my mind. And in the darkness, there’s something there, something’s stirring in the distance, I look more closely. Shapes begin to form, patterns start to morph and travel towards me. And then the colours, oh my god, the colours… And I exhale. 

As I lay down, I remember that gravity is my friend. A wave of relaxation washes over my body and I sink into the mattress. Am I in a different reality? I don’t think so. Am I “astral planning”? Much as I love the poetry of the description, born from the same hippy roots of my youth, unfortunately, I have to say No. Have I achieved a higher state of consciousness? Oh, stop it. (Sorry, but I give short shrift to spiritual narcissism). Very simply, I am stimulating every single Serotonin 5-HT2A receptor in my brain. And, in doing so, this stunning visualisation of geometrically-shaped tunnels and spaces (often called the “Waiting Room” in DMT circles) is the mind’s expression of that neurological activity. 

Did I think that I would ever revisit the psychedelic experiences of my youth? Good god, no. I thought I was done and dusted with that. I have a senior role in an international business. I manage staff. I have a family. A mortgage to pay. If I’m honest, I also feared that I would do the same amount of damage as I did to the teenager in Round 1. And yet, now in my mid-Fifties, and only recently been diagnosed with autism, I’ve stumbled across a psychedelic, Dimethyltryptamine, or DMT as it’s commonly known, a key constituent in potions such as Ayahuasca, used in shamanic ceremonies in South America and Indonesia alike, and found that, for my mental health, and at low dosage levels, it is singularly the most effective medicine I have ever taken to manage the effects of “hyperfocus” (a spectrum condition which has its advantages, but is also utterly exhausting). 

Aside from being visually stunning, it’s the only drug I’ve taken where I feel better afterwards. Sometimes, depending on my work / life stress levels, the level of burnout at the time of the session, the alleviation I experience after the trip, the clarity of thinking can last for hours, days or even weeks. 

With the pressures and responsibility that inevitably mount up as we progress through life, time becomes more precious. The ability to take some time out, and even 15 minutes will do, to meditate in the present, to reset your mind, clean out the complex mechanic of the brain (give the engine some fresh oil, if you like) is a hugely valuable exercise. Being present, truly present, is a rare and precious thing. And trust me, if you wash out your mind with DMT, and release the stale thoughts that are stuck in those receptors, you can be nothing but present.  

I find most people I meet live in the past, often with regret, or live in the future with hopes and ambition at best, or pressure and anxiety at worse. Very few people actually live in the present. It takes bravery to be present. But if you value your existence, whether you choose the same path as me, or you find your own, please just give yourself the permission, the space, the moment, the vulnerability and the belief in yourself, to be present, to love yourself, and do so in a safe physical and mental environment. Because, believe me, your grey matter is not grey. Far from it. 

I

f our recent experience of the aurora borealis demonstrates anything, it shows us that We are the Witness. When, after one session, I realised that simple fact was the meaning of life, or at least my purpose for existence, so much societal pressure (you know, the definitions of success that are often impressed on us, generally from marketeers trying to sell us something) was lifted from my shoulders. We are the Witness. We are the Consciousness of the Universe. Perhaps even the Multiverse. (Well, why on earth should the Big Bang have occurred just the once, that’s crazy thinking, no?)

Astrophysicists across the world are now leaning towards the idea that actually there are billions of other life forms out there. So where are they? The answer may be that we’re looking in the wrong place, or rather, with the wrong telescope. When I realised the irony of trying to see these geometric shapes with my eyes while blindfolded, and used what some cultures called The Third Eye, suddenly the sphere of consciousness that is “Ray” travelled further back in the physical space that is my grey matter, expanded to the size of a field of corn. I could even see behind me. And that begs the question, is DMT the telescope that we’ve been seeking? Or is it just shits and giggles? I don’t know, but as I travel down this road, I’ll keep an open mind. 

While I’m passionate about psychedelics and regard them as a therapeutical medicine rather than a party drug, I’m very aware that the Government does not agree with me and you should be aware of this. 

But there are other downsides of an unregulated black market economy. Good quality DMT is hard to find. If your DMT is dark in colour, is harsh on the throat, or smells “of the countryside”, let alone plastic or rubber, then it is not pure enough for microdosing, or for any dosing for that matter. I have found that the vaping fluid should look like a lager in colour. If it looks like a bitter or, even worse, a stout, then please respect yourself and steer well clear. The good stuff is a blonde, not a brunette. 

Be safe. Ray, Brighton, 2024. 

Editor’s note: The Whistler does not condone Ray’s thoughts and opinions. We chose to publish this article as we know there are many microdosers in the city, probably in our readership. But remember, what works for Ray may not work for anyone else.