antlion

Saturday, April 4, 2026

The PCP Trilogy: Introduction

     PCP is one of the most stigmatized and misunderstood drugs in the world. Its reputation precedes it in almost every context, it has turned into something so extraordinary and mythical that it is often simply a punchline. It is perceived by many to be the ultimate drug, an object of pure danger and destruction lurking only in the darkest most decayed corners of the inner city. The hardest, most dangerous, most insane drug, only consumed by the most hardest, most dangerous, and most insane people. I simply do not believe that this reputation is reflective of reality, and much of the negative perceptions of the drug is due to a mixture of propaganda and the contexts in which is it normally taken.

    It is not evil. No drug is evil, they are neutral substances that reflect the people that manufacture, sell, and use them. It is not a guarantor of violence or harm. No drug is, as far as we know. It is obviously not harmless either. It simply exists, for us to choose how to use it.

    PCP was originally developed as an anesthetic for humans, then later found use as an anesthetic for primates. It notably caused issues with human anesthesia as patients would sometimes recover in an agitated uncontrollable state. The drug soon hit the street, first available as tablets and powder (called angel dust), and eventually, sold as a freebase oil dissolved in solvent, in which cigarettes would be dipped and smoked. It built its own mythology, an edgy drug for the most violent fringes of broken societies. It seeped into police SOP’s and the evening news. It became widely seen as a scourge and a terror. It is referenced often in 90’s hip hop, often as a measure of insanity (“Crazier than a bag of dust” being a line dropped by both KMD and Biggie smalls). Two rappers even formed a short lived duo specifically dedicated to the drug called “Leak Bros.” putting out the single album ‘Waterworld”, where every song is explicitly about PCP (it’s pretty hit or miss but I love the hits). Its use peaked in the 80’s and 90’s and steadily declined. It is quite rare nowadays. It is only found deep in a bunch of unconnected cities in the U.S.A, with some isolated pockets of use in places like Australia and New Zealand. In cities where it is available one mostly only finds older people using it. But the market is still undeniably moving, and it seems to be a major source of income in some places. But it is nowhere near as prevalent as it used to be.

    What has given it its dark reputation? In part, a concerted campaign of propaganda that characterized it as something near-demonic, as one of the sickest and most depraved products of low-income black communities, yet another means of impressing the brutal drug war upon that population. The airwaves were blasted with a handful of high profile incidents of extreme violence and bizarre public behavior. A perception was created that it was a universal inducer of violent madness. This is of course, simply not the case. Millions of people use and have used PCP without incident. If every user turned into a naked berserker, surely there wouldn’t be anyone left to use it and no market to produce and sell it. Buoyed by these perceptions, PCP became a universal excuse for police to maximize violence against suspected users.

    Nevertheless, I am remiss to dismiss the very real violence and destructive behavior that has been inflicted by people using PCP. Many people in the neighborhoods of many cities where use is prevalent can share a story of a friend or neighbor or family member who did PCP and had some kind of outburst usually ending in violent police intervention. The extremely high profile incidents of violence cannot be ignored- people have assaulted and killed people or themselves while under the influence of PCP, people have stripped off their clothes and walked around in public, people have become extremely difficult to subdue when fighting police, this is undeniable.

    Why does this happen? Is it because the drug is evil? Per propaganda, there are often many elements that are simply left out of reporting these stories. Many of those implicated in violent incidents in PCP are people who already have a history of committing violence. They are people who may be violent while drunk, or on stimulants, it just so happens that one of their violent incidents was on PCP. McCardle and Fishbein 2002 suggests that the primary driver of aggression is underlying causes, not the drug itself. Disrobing is usually attributable to the drug raising body temperature. Perhaps the worst exacerbating factor though is how it is consumed- the aforementioned dipped cigarettes and before that powder. With both of these means, it was nearly impossible to know what dose was being ingested (even consumer mg scales have a hard time measuring doses that low), which is dangerous because PCP is incredibly potent, with a medium-high dose sitting around 10-12 mg. People were likely taking extreme doses of the drug which turned into full manic psychosis. These extremely high doses can induce visual hallucinations and a godlike delusions. Combined with a sense that one is dissociated from the consequences in the world and the fact that this drug was often being consumed in dangerous, high stress, and sometimes violent settings, there is a recipe for disaster. Someone taking a psychedelic in the kinds of settings where people commonly consume PCP would probably also have a bad trip.

    Clearly though, it is still enjoyed enough to feed a market. In 2015, it was estimated that 6.3 million Americans had used the drug at least once in their life. If it was such a universal predictor of aggression, if it so reliably induced harmful behavior, with numbers like that, would we not have seen a widely orgiastic bloodbath of violence in the populations that use it? While the incidents of violence due to PCP can appear more acute than those induced by other drugs, and while those on PCP are much harder to subdue by police than those on other drugs, it is simply a myth that is much more dangerous behaviorally than alcohol- which is not particularly safe! But it is certainly less stigmatized than poor PCP. Just as in alcohol, the vast majority of PCP users do so without causing problems.

 

    PCP is a completely standard manic dissociative- perhaps the baseline to define that class of drug. It makes one feel numb and floaty. It makes one feel lightheaded and dizzy. It makes one feel warm. It is stimulating. It induces a sort of mental dissociation from oneself and ones surroundings, turning existence into a sort of simulated solipsistic space. It burns with euphoria at times, furious and raging pleasantry. Most of all, it induces mania, a sense of personal grandeur, a feeling like one can do anything in the world, a feeling like one is the main character, with a mandate of destiny that gives one permission to do anything to realize their aspirations. Racing thoughts, endless ideas, the energy and stature to process all of it. This can sometimes be productive. This can also sometimes be extremely destructive.

    It’s a wonderful drug for socializing-I liken it to being slightly drunk with some cocaine in my system. It is disinhibiting and makes me feel so much more confident. It makes talking fun, it makes me articulate, but makes me annoying to others sometimes. It is great for just hanging out and playing video games. I often found myself using it simply to do chores around the house, as it gave me energy, motivation, focus, and an odd bit of dissociation that made the tasks seem less mundane. I think it is very fun, which I think is why people try it and enjoy it too.

    If I had to compare it to other drugs, I would say it is most similar to 3-Me-PCP or 3-MeO-PCP. I find it is a little more insightful than 3-Me-PCP and longer lasting, but it is more hedonistic and less insightful than 3-MeO-PCP. It falls in a nice space in between the two, but I would say overall character still leans more towards 3-Me-PCP, with which it also shares a greater physical heaviness.

 

    I find it to be a fairly harmless substance in the controlled set and setting in which I use it. The stigma against it, nevertheless, does a lot of heavy lifting. The set and setting of many users does the drug an unfortunate disservice. It doesn’t have to be this way though. It could be sold in a way that is precisely dosed, where people can know exactly how much they are consuming and explore the wonder of lower and medium doses. People can use it in safe and controlled settings. It should perhaps be avoided by those prone to violence, by those who have had destructive episodes of mania, narcissists, and those who are prone to destructive psychosis. It has the power to boost me out of extreme destructive episodes, when combined with calm and intentioned meditation. It can allow one to open up and articulate at the right dose, it can help break down barriers and inhibition. It can allow one to step outside of their emotions and analyze them from another perspective. It left a pleasant afterglow of controlled hypomania for days after sometimes. Its biggest risk is that it can be unpredictable and the mania can be frightening to some. This can be mitigated by titrating doses up in a controlled setting. I firmly believe that in the right setting with the right supervision, PCP or a similar analogue can genuinely be therapeutic.

 

    I sought to write a report to characterize PCP in 3 different settings. I wanted to know it from every angle- sensory effects, physical effects, psychological effects, sociability, interaction with strangers, being in public, agility etc.

    The first report is taken at a baseline, in my preferred controlled setting- alone in my study, incense lit, my favorite music playing. I simply wanted to see the drug as it was, feel it in a comfortable space with different senses deprived, characterize the visuals and auditory effects.

    The second report is taken while doing urban exploration with a dear old friend, where I had to climb and navigate narrow walks and claustrophobic spaces wearing gear in the bitter cold, with warm conversation with my friend. I wanted to see how the drug affected my coordination in tricky settings, my tolerance for cold, and socializing with a comfortable familiar person.

    The third and final report is taken at my local art museum, a huge museum with a world class collection in a beautiful building. It was fruitful for thinking about the act of creation, in peaks of beautiful mania. I wanted to see how the drug affected being in public around strangers and to see how it affected my perception of art.

    Notably, I had the fortune of encountering extremely pure PCP HCl, as a granular crystalline substance. This meant that I could dose it accurately and consistently. This is notably, not the way the vast majority of people encounter this drug- and smoking dippers is its own interesting experience, with ritual and process and smell of the drug playing deeply into the trip. But I wanted to describe the drug on neutral terms, with a controlled dose, to see it deeply as it could offer. Every time I smoked dippers with the intention of writing a report, the experience was too weak. I only felt intensity in the times I smoked them in uncontrolled settings with friends with no intention of taking notes or writing a report.

The PCP Trilogy 1: Baseline

This first report is taken at baseline. I wanted to experience this purely and deeply as it was in a controlled setting. I am alone in my house, in my study- it is a room filled with bones, vials of insects, Warhammer miniatures, a microscope, dozens of specimens in jars, on the walls- bones and insects and feathers and posters and postcards and images and much of my art and my friends’ art covering every inch of wall. Sentimental trinkets and souvenirs litter every surface. Shelves of books, a couch, a huge CRT TV with old game consoles, and a grand mural I painted on one wall. There are dim lights, incense is lit, it is cozy and comfortable and familiar. I have no obligations tomorrow or for the rest of the night. I am generally in a good mood, I am experiencing baseline hypomania already.

 

NOTE: THE DOSES I TAKE ARE EXTREMELY HIGH FOR ANYONE. I HAVE A HIGH TOLERANCE TO DISSOCIATIVES, NECESSITATING I TAKE SUCH HIGH DOSES. AN EXPERIENCE LIKE THIS WOULD BE FOUND AT AROUND 10-12 MG FOR THE AVERAGE PERSON. DO NOT TAKE THE DOSES I TAKE IN THESE REPORTS.

 

Age: 30

Weight: 130 lbs

Dosage: 29 mg intranasal

Setting: My study

 

T0:00- Crush up cubic crystals of PCP HCl into a fine powder. The dose is taken intranasally, slight sting. I am feeling the beginnings of a cold, a slight malaise in my sinuses that would pervade this experience.

 

T0:10- First notes, a bit of numbness in my extremities, a bit of stimulation. A bit of tightness and lightness in my head. Listening to STOMACH BOOK to get hyped up. It is frenetic noisy transgender hyperpop-ish, genre bending and chaotic and theatrical. It fills me with chaotic colorful energy.

 

T0:20- There is suddenly an intense rush, like blowing into the genesis of a campfire. My head is swirling, effects are accelerating quickly. The mania is starting to trickle in. It’s a glow, a sense of possibility. I need to make sure to keep a level head and steer this ship through mania’s rocky straits.

 

T0:30- Developing quickly. I feel light overall. It is like there are tubes rushing and surging into the base of my skull and crashing into the backs of my eyes. Wires and pipes to pump me full of manic energy. The current infrastructure isn’t sufficient for this workload, we must construct more; They rush in, turning at right angles, plugging in exactly where they need to, like an Akira backdrop. It is a monumental time in history. I am scrolling social media and taking in information, I am doing it really fast, it feels like it is all going straight into my eyes, straight into this newfound infrastructure of pipes and wires; This is exciting, I feel like I can process faster, I feel like I can absorb information faster.

 

T0:40- Head is getting lighter, heart is getting faster! I have to pee. My extremities are mostly numb. I don’t feel too much loss of equilibrium. I am a little bit anxious. Why? I’ve used this compound several dozen times at this point in my life. It’s all familiar. I am at a critical and fragile moment in my life though, and perhaps I fear that this will disrupt that delicate place. The anxiety makes me a little nauseous.

It feels like I am swimming while sitting still, like there is water rippling around me, tickling my skin. I feel like I am buzzing. There are flashes of visuals on the walls, straight chains of hexagons and diamonds, flashing in blue and hot red and magenta. Waving and undulating like strings of kelp.

 

T1:00- I am antsy, I can’t sit still, I get up and start pacing the house. I am focused, I am clearminded, I am declarative and decisive and the world is a big place that I can ferociously devour like a starved hound, I feel like my mind is a powerful weapon that will liberate the world, I feel like I am floating a bit off the ground when I move around, I am an electric ghost. I suppose you could really call this mania. An extreme embrace of the ego in an ironically dissociated state, it feels like stepping outside of myself and being my biggest fan. It is fierce arrogance, the kind that drives people to the most offputting or horrifying behaviors because it just feels oh so right in that moment. It feels good. Of course I would want to chase this forever.

My muscles are tense but my extremities feel numb and floaty, like there is electricity tingling at my fingertips. I am a little off balance now, but I still feel tight control of my momentum.

 

T1:20 – I smoke some cannabis. The energy accelerates like a shot of nitrous into a carburetor. The visuals shake and shimmer, the diamonds and hexagons dance and flash running down the walls like riffles of a stream with an increasingly furious tempo. There is a persistent visual snow and slight tracers around anything in motion. It all has a sharp edge, it all bites and chews, there are a lot of tight angles. It feels like my laptop screen is drifting further and further away as I type my notes.

 

T1:30- I decide to lean fully into the experience and lie down. I prepare my space, I light incense, I don my traveler mask, prepare soft blankets and pillows. I find myself having to urinate a lot. I drink some water. I return to my room.

 

T1:50- My choice of music is the soundtrack for Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, one of my favorite musical choices for holes, it truly feels like going on an adventure. And as provenance would have it, my beloved orange cat Luigi comes into the room and sits on my chest as I lie down. It feels like a stroke of serendipity from Allah, to which I am grateful.

I don’t expect to go into a dissociative hole. This is not the type of dissociative that lends itself to that. I close my eyes and lie down. The neutral setting to purely experience the drug in a synesthetic space can at least do something.

And that something is glory, beauty, the first mango-hued rays of a sunrise breaking into a deep magenta sky, wind blowing through verdant grass, the shadows on clouds, city lights reflecting off of rippling water. I am in a fast, rash, digital and electric space like a pixelated impressionist painting. I can still feel my body, tingling and buzzing, but I feel like I can inhabit the space directly in front of my tightly clenched eyes, exist as a dissociated ball of energy there draped in vitreous polychrome curtains that twist and bend and buzz along jagged edges to the music.

Mania and beauty are a delightful combination. I am stricken with a drive to proclaim the divine virtue of beauty to the heavens. I am stricken with a drive to fill the world with beauty. It all feels possible, it all feels monumental, I am fantasizing about the maximum outcomes of those drives, of creating things of such beauty that the entire world stands in awe of it; I am really really getting ahead of myself! And I just can’t sit still. Not on PCP. I last about 20 minutes of trying to lie still and listen to music.

 

T2:00- I have been sitting on a steady peak for about the last hour and 20 minutes and it still feels like it is raging. I feel hot, tense, tight. My mind is flowing so fast, there is so much at once. I don’t know what to do with all of it. I try to write but I can’t focus because so many thoughts are demanding my attention like a pack of hounds striking at me every chance they get. It feels like there is light shooting through my entire body and firing out of my eyes and fingertips. I don’t know what to do with all of this dissociative energy, I don’t know where to direct it, I feel like I am on fire. I also feel a deep cold. Like a fever. I am cold and sweat and my throat is tight. This was perhaps too large a dose. But I will just ride it out. Despite all of this dysfunctionality, I am still propelled by a manic euphoria. I am burdened by feeling too great and not knowing where to put it frankly. How terrible.

I decide to direct the energy into an activity, my favorite mindless bashing game, Dynasty Warriors 3 (which I am so so close to 100%ing) for the Playstation 2. This is a game where you play as the legendary heroes of the Chinese epic “Romance of the Three Kingdoms”. The gameplay mostly consists of bashing your way through hordes of rank and file soldiers and dueling with other legendary heroes.

I select the Battle of He Fei Castle, and go on the offensive as Sun Jian, progenitor of the mighty Sun Clan of Wu. It feels like I have bridged sparking wires. The energy flows from my spine to my fingertips to the controller down its wire into the PlayStation into the AV cords into the electron gun blasting beams of energy onto a phosphorescent screen that then shoots directly into my eyes, completing a circuit and cycling into a smooth flow that does genuinely calm and ground me. The game is visceral, the controller vibrates like crazy, I feel the impact of Sun Jian’s blade on hundreds of hundreds of faceless digital Three Kingdoms Era soldiers sending them to their digital demise. Who were they to think they could challenge the mighty Sun Jian?

As stated before, I have almost maxed out this game, so every character is now a jacked up superhero that can effortlessly hack his way through everything. There is little challenge and I have played this level dozens of times before, this is just dull familiarity. I know exactly where to go, I know exactly what path to take and when to do it and where all the hidden items are; this feeds into the mania, in this game, I am truly an omniscient, omnipotent war god-figure. Everything falls before me. It is so great to direct the manic energy into this and not like, trying to do these feats in real life, which felt like an absolute possibility if the need arose.

 

T2:30- I finish the level and notice that the overall energy of the experience is beginning to recede. There is still a lot of electricity and edge but there is no more of that urgency or haste. The motion of the visuals is slowing down. I can sit with this mania. I can still feel grand and aspire to grand things but on my own terms now. Perhaps this scheming can bear fruit in the sober world- the greatest danger however is setting them in motion while still in this state- it drives an urgency for one to hatch plans and ideas and immediately pursue them-but I set a rule, prominently printed on my door. No calling anyone. No contacting coworkers, family, political spaces, prominent figures. No making decisive plans and setting them in motion. Write it down, save it for later. And so I do.

 

T3:00- More down but still feeling lightheaded and dizzy, still feeling a sense of motion when I am still. I decide to take a warm shower. I feel heavy and tense. The shower was a clattery space, with the water making a metallic phasing and flanging sounds reverberating off the walls, interlacing themselves with the jagged visuals. It was so disorienting I had to sit down, when I closed my eyes there were explosions of ripples of light with each gunshot drumbeat of the falling water. I was on the inside of a metal drum being furiously pelted with rocks. I felt an accelerated sense of motion, an accelerated sense of being a floating consciousness as the mercy of great sweeping motions like a caustic flash flood. Despite the cacophonous noise, my internal monologue was loud and cutting and raged through the storm. I became fixated inwards, as usual- though I felt it quite grounding in this raging sensory space.

 

T3:30- I feel clean, and ending that intense stimulus makes me feel like even further down than when I started. Still a bit numb and tingly and wavy but clearheaded and guided. Still tense, but much less so. I feel more of a sense of calm, my thoughts aren’t racing loudly and fighting each other for attention anymore, though the internal voice is still chattering away. I can take a deep breath and it feels like my heart is slowing down a bit.

 

T4:00- Lingering stimulation and mania but less numbness in extremities now. Physical sensations are overall decreased. I am able to eat again and have some instant noodles. I don’t have a ton of appetite but I hadn’t eaten in a while and forced myself to. It wasn’t particularly pleasant.

 

T5:00- Go back to playing videogames, now playing a mod for Attila: Total War. The game is immersive and tactical and fun, it is easy to roleplay myself as some sort of magic medieval general who could have a bird’s eye view of the earth. I just play a battle against the computer.



T6:00- I am mostly back to baseline.

 

T8:00- Feel entirely back to normal. The sun is coming up, I lie down to sleep but have a hard time actually falling asleep. It seems like the internal narration in my head does not want to shut up, and it speaks loudly and confidently and declaratively. How annoying. I don’t know how long I laid awake for but it seemed well into the morning.

 

Conclusion: PCP is just true ultrapure mania, distilled to its finest active dissociative form. I understand how one could damage their life, but I had the constitution in the moment to rein that in. I definitely can see how at higher doses, one may lose that constitution and fall victim to the urgent depredations of mania induced psychosis. I felt like I could do anything. I felt like I was meant to do anything. I felt like doing all of those things would bring me to prominence, would make me respected and revered by wide swaths of people. It felt like destiny. It is pure megalomania. At best it can be obnoxious and make one arrogant. At worst, one immediately pursues those ambitions and quickly finds out the hard way that they are not realistic. But ultimately it is a lot of fun, it makes me feel confident and good about myself. It makes activities engaging and offers a unique perspective for meditation. It makes a wide variety of activities more interesting or adds a new edge to them. It is beautiful, there are delightful visuals and a pleasant warm buzzing numb dizzy physical sensation. I think it’s a great deal of fun. Like most manic dissociatives, there is no hole, but with a portion of cannabis there is some dark visual space I can immerse myself in, though I am always acutely aware of my body.

The PCP Trilogy 2: Urbex

 This experience was planned for weeks. On a free night, I finally met up with a dear old friend who I describe in the report. We go back to high school and have always loved exploring abandoned buildings together. In this report, we explore an abandoned trash incineration plant. It was always a delightful youthful activity, and this experience hearkened to a lot of nostalgia, it had been a while since I had last done this. It is a brutal cold dark January night. I wanted to see how the drug affected being in potentially scary spaces, there’s always an inherent eeriness and tension in abandoned buildings. I wanted to see how it affected being in claustrophobic spaces, on narrow spaces; I wanted to see how it affected my ability to climb and navigate with agility as abandoned buildings often demand. I wanted to see how it interacted with a focused, intentional activity, and how it interacted with a sense of adventure and danger.

 

NOTE: THE DOSES I TAKE ARE EXTREMELY HIGH FOR ANYONE. I HAVE A HIGH TOLERANCE TO DISSOCIATIVES, NECESSITATING I TAKE SUCH HIGH DOSES. AN EXPERIENCE LIKE THIS WOULD BE FOUND AT AROUND 10-12 MG FOR THE AVERAGE PERSON. DO NOT TAKE THE DOSES I TAKE IN THESE REPORTS.

Age: 30

Weight: 130 lbs

Dosage: 29 mg intranasal

Setting: Abandoned trash incineration plant, my house

 

T0:00- Dose quietly snorted- cubic crystals with a slight odor of ether crushed down into a powder and snorted into a line that stings and slightly numbs the mucous membranes. A toothy little tingle.

 

T0:15- First notes of the experience as my fingertips go numb and my heart starts to race.

 

T0:20- I am currently in my house, but I am preparing to go explore an abandoned industrial waste incineration facility with a friend. I love urban exploration. It’s a hobby I have been committed to since I was a teenager. My accomplice was a friend from high school; We had done urbex together since we were teens, they also feature in many of my older reports. A lifelong friend and artist who I have grown with and trust dearly.

I am starting to feel a little numb in my extremities and lightheaded. I am getting my bag together- gloves, respirator, a balaclava, bandanas, Baofeng radios, knives and multi tools, water, multiple lights, sturdy steel toe boots, a first aid kit, a joint. I am definitely overpacking for how simple of a run this will be but it’s fun to prepare for everything and feel like I’m on a mission; it is fun to get geared up. I am buoyed by anticipation. I feel most of my upper body still, but my lower body is drifting and skating. I feel like a ghost drifting and floating through my house as it builds and leaving trails behind. My vision is starting to slightly strobe as I bounce from task to task.

 

T0:30- I smoke a bit of cannabis, rushing dissociation going through my limbs and into my extremities. Pulsing down. I am jittery and stimulated. I feel very bouncy.

 

T1:20- My friend picks me up, it is a whirlwind of cold and dark. We are in the car, we are committed to the mission, we are doing this. It feels cool. I am just swept up into this. It feels odd to transfer from one space to another, it feels like I am wrapped in saran wrap this entire time. I am socializing normally, stumbling on words a bit and getting a bit into manic rants, where I talk with attack. But I am able to restrain myself a bit.

 

T1:43- We arrive on site and gear up. We smoke a joint. I am able to walk normally, there is a bit of bounce in my step. The cannabis kicks things up into a higher gear as textures and colors begin to bleed into the edges of my vision, tickling and tracing like rivulets of water running down from a flash flood of static. It is such a bitter cold January night, but I don’t feel it at all.

 

T1:45- I am warm and floaty and buzzy, bumbling along. We parked in an empty stretch of industrial road and we make a quiet approach to the building- it is completely open, no fences or boarding. It is a simple affair to just walk right in. As I walk into the open yawning doorway, it feels like the building swallows me, it’s entire dark opaque silhouette frames me and cracks me in. Writhing pulsing lines in dark navy and teal thrash like ropes around my form and push me forwards into the dark portal. The air changes when I step in- still and musty and ladened with a steady rain of dust. My skin is tingling- There were huge boilers and deep concrete hoppers and pits for waste disposal. The main attraction of this building are immense incinerator furnaces that we sought to climb and explore eventually.

 

T1:54- I trickily navigate a ladder- I am a little wobbly but my coordination is still intact enough for me to do so safely. We explore a smashed up bathroom, remarking on seeing the tags of someone we were friends with in high school. It’s cool to know other people I know have been in here too, completely independently. Another ascent up a collapsing metal staircase and we come into a massive open space with holes in the roof. The dissociation starts to hit me like a blast of warm air, tracing around my body and swirling my essence on pulsing sine waves. I can tighten my muscles and make my balance more precise if I focus, but otherwise I find myself  more unsteady on my feet. We walk through the space, watching for the holes in the floor, appreciating all of the colorful graffiti. I can’t tell if I am inside or outside- and perhaps with the roof so collapsed I am technically both. But the air feels heavy like it is enclosing and covering me, casting a shadow on me in the darkness of the night. The rubble and intricate tags are clear in beams of our headlamps but in the enclosing darkness around them, subtle flashing textures drift in like tree roots. When I close my eyes I see similar patterns flowing with successive pulses of dull, dense light tracing them in low reds and oranges.

 

T2:20- Reaching an outdoor portion, my friend traverses a rickety balcony. I suppose I still have enough of my head about me to forgo this. Not with my level of balance right now. We traverse piles of some unknown granulated materials and poke around an external building covered in vines, barren for the winter they just appear as a dense tangle of ropes. I feel like I am in a video game, I feel like I should have a rifle leveled and a HUD as I move around. There is danger in this, in that I can already notice that it insulates me from a sense of consequence. This can inspire recklessness but I was able to consciously suppress such impulses- in this kind of setting, stupid decisions only accumulate. For now I can enjoy that the grainy-static of the sky and the diffused and blunted lights and shadows make the whole setting appear low-poly lo-fidelity buzzing like an old PS2 game in the glow of a CRT television. Despite being outside on such a cold night I still don’t really feel cold at all. Not even in my extremities. But that was clearly not my default state.

 

T2:40- I feel less and less sure of my limbs just walking as we pick around the main space that contained several large furnaces. This ultimately leads to climbing through a small doorway then across the ladders and catwalks of the furnaces to access a crumbling staircase that led to the underground depths of the facility, where a labyrinth of tunnels was accessed by crawling through another small portal. Despite my unsteadiness, for brief moments I was able to sharply focus and attain what felt like even greater control of my limbs and extremities than normal.

In the depths of the tunnels we put on our respirators. The air was thick with dust- at the time we had no idea what the place was used for, so in retrospect it was a great decision to not breathe in decades old burnt trash dust. Donning the respirator reoriented my relation to my body and the space around it- I suddenly felt enclosed, like I was wearing some kind of special suit- it felt like it was some external layer that was propelling my limbs forward, keeping my skin warm and numb, and pulsing electricity through my bones. It was like I was piloting a mech suit of myself. This made the exploration of these tunnels all the more thrilling and exciting.

Twisting diverging paths of all different sizes, in uniform brick and concrete, the graffiti slowly becoming less and less as it plumbed deeper to where people figured no one would see their name. It felt like a place to shelter and hide, an insect burrowing away into the most obscure crevasse of a rotten log so it could never be found. Perhaps it was massaging against the manic paranoia fomented by the drug; my spouse always likened me to a prey animal, alert and ready to dart away at any moment. Those instincts felt like they were being amplified in full force- by the PCP, by the setting I was in; the anxiety was lush and intensely fanged. In the throes of the mania, however, it was revelrous and thrilling like a horror movie.

I normally pride myself on my ability to navigate, but the dissociation severely interfered with that. The inhibition of short term memory keeps me from memorizing landmarks. I feel lost in these tunnels, familiar spaces already appear unfamiliar; though the space is small enough that there are eventually only so many directions one can go, there is still a deep sense of being completely and totally lost. We do easily make it out though, climbing back over the furnaces and out into the main space.

 

T3:30- We are satisfied with what we have seen- I think at this point we had visited every room in the building. The numbness and warmth of the drug are beginning to wear off and the cold is starting to seep in through my layers. Icy fingers driving through my flesh like black fungal mycelium. A chill runs down my spine. I am glad we didn’t run into any trouble at any point during the outing from police or hostile people. I am relieved that I didn’t lose my balance and fall off of anything high. I am glad that we did not get lost in the basement. I am glad I didn’t cut myself on rusty metal or glass caked in the ashes of incinerated trash. It feels like a successful journey.

I take off my balaclava and take a deep breath of the relatively fresh, crisp, cool air. It is sharp and I cough as it pierces my lungs. Having my head out in the open cold feels like being in a dark box and having the lid ripped off and being blinded as it floods with light- I wasn’t blinded by light seeing as it was late at night, but the sudden sensation of cold air on my naked head was a disorienting sensory overload that almost made me lose balance on my feet. The kiss of the cold on my skin sent ripples and chills through my entire body. I quickly throw on a beanie and put my hood up and it feels like sinking back into a warm bath.

Despite the mania and racing thoughts I am quiet as we walk back. I don’t know what I was so absorbed in, maybe nothing at all, maybe my mind was just blank. But this is a very old friend who I feel comfortable around, it doesn’t feel like an awkward silence, and even if I sound awkward and disjointed when I do talk, it doesn’t bother me or make me anxious.

 

3:40 -We get in their car and set out for my house. I am well past the peak but being in the passenger seat is exhilarating and feels like it accelerates the experience as the world rushes past me. It feels like being in a spaceship, not that I know what that feels like. Probably something like this. They get McDonalds on the ride home. The fries smell delicious and it feels like it stimulates my appetite a bit but I don’t feel much desire to eat at all. They are listening to Billy Woods. It is intense and serious and bleak but creates a soundscape that matches the cold run-down industrial zone we drive through.

 

T4:00- Home. Once again a change of scenery breathes life back into the experience that felt it was fading. Perhaps habituation to my surroundings became a habituation to the sensation of the drug, reset to its maximum power when I shift to a new place, a new amount of light, a new temperature. Being back in my warm bright house feels like it blasts heat waves through my field of vision, with cascades of angular shapes breathing up and off of them like stray flickering embers from a wood fire. Shapes like feathers or fronds of ferns catch the fire’s glow and reflect it back in every which direction. The physical dissociation and tension wells up in my and runs down my limbs into my extremities. We smoke a bowl together as soon as we get inside.

 

T4:30- The cannabis breathes some life back into the experience but it is clearly on its way out now. We play Super Smash Bros. 64 together. We are just rotating through all the characters and messing around with items and playing against computers. Nothing too serious. We talk about art and life and our many mutual friends. My friend is a professional painter, we have made art together since we were teenagers. I love their works and its always so fascinating to hear them talk about their method, their inspirations, what they seek to express with their work, semi-abstract pieces that tap deep into their identity with streams of recurring motifs. It’s a lovely subject for conversation, I notice I am much more sociable on the comedown of the experience, more articulate and less inhibited.

 

T5:00- I am coming down faster, still feeling it a bit but it’s more subtle now. Most of the physical dissociation has left but the mania and stimulation rages on. My friend leaves for home and I am just alone in the house now. I smoke more and try to play video games but end up just caught in loops of thought. Manic dissociatives make one extremely self absorbed and self centered. I am thinking so much about how I will be perceived when I write this report- am I too old to be taking PCP and exploring abandoned buildings? Is one ever too old for that? Am I just a circus animal doing tricks by taking drugs for an audience of voyeurs online who encourage and enable me? Does this make me look like an edgelord? Am I just too old to be doing this in general? I should be mature, I should have my shit together. But also who cares? I don’t think it’s that deep at all. I don’t think anyone gives me that much thought or energy other than the person that writes a lot of reports. I don’t think anyone is thinking about me long enough to pass judgments on me like that, and if they do so what? Why should I care? Maybe it is embarrassing to be acting like an edgy teenager at this age, but fuck there’s much worse things I could be doing. Why am I wasting so much time and energy thinking about this? I should be thinking about the people I love, the world at large, the starry night sky and the bugs in the grass and the warmth of the sun my skin and my career and employment and my hobbies and what I was going to eat next. And that’s the cool thing about mania, is I can think about all of that, at the same time, consistently and thoroughly, everything feels possible, I have the energy for everything, I can do whatever I want and seem however I want.

 

T6:00- My mind is racing less at this point, all that remains is some muscle tension and stimulation. Maybe a sort of exhausted mental dissociation but I am for the most part back to baseline.

 

T7:00- Feel completely back to normal now.

 

T9:00- Lie down for bed. Lying in the dark with no stimulus seems to bring the experience back form the dead. I am kept awake by loud racing thoughts, colored by anxiety and paranoia for some indeterminate amount of time. I eventually fall into a restless sleep.

 

Conclusion: There’s really something to PCP and dingy decaying buildings. A combination made in heaven. I don’t recommend doing this. Like I said in the report, I’m lucky I didn’t lose my balance and fall from high places or scrape myself on something nasty. The risk was certainly there. Oddly enough, despite baseline feeling numb and dizzy, if I really focused I could lock in and it felt like I had almost perfect control of my limbs, that I could perfectly compensate for their momentum for tight, precise movements. I notice this property with many other manic dissociatives too. This drug is warming. I barely felt the cold until I had been out in it for a few hours and the peak began to wear off. Engaging in some kind of activity, being up and moving around, all seem to suppress the intensity of the drug, as this felt weaker than an identical dose in the neutral setting. I felt extremely mindful and present while I was engaged in an activity. It wasn’t until I was home alone that my mind began ruminating, restless and paranoid. This drug doesn’t always feel great and when I start feeling bad it is really easy for it to amplify and spiral. I cannot urge enough to be mindful of mindset, conditions, stressors when taking this drug. I can force one to confront them in a disorienting way that can sometimes be productive but can also be quite destructive.

The PCP Trilogy 3: Museum

This is an experience I had planned for a while. What kind of setting would be a good foil for the deranged intensity of urban exploration? Dirty and physical. I needed something clean and cerebral, and the art museum fit the bill perfectly.

Many may be familiar with the “Museum Dose” coined by Daniel Tumbleweed, who published a collection of experiences with taking low dose psychedelics for various artistic spaces. Well, this is admittedly much higher than any museum dose by his standards. This was an insane dose to take in public frankly, that is a reckless thing to do that I very strongly say others should not do. But I wanted to experience the interaction between this drug and this space, this art, to its maximum. My schedule was very full and I only had one shot at this. I was really curious about how this would handle in public, especially such a tense and quiet and slow space. I was excited to see how the cognitive effects of the drug interacted with a wide variety of art- this museum was host to many world famous iconic pieces: Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase and Bride Stripped Bare, Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Brancusi’s Bird in Flight, Eakin’s The Gross Clinic, Picasso’s Three Musicians, the list goes on! It all made for a fun adventure that I was eager to embark on.

 

NOTE: THE DOSES I TAKE ARE EXTREMELY HIGH FOR ANYONE. I HAVE A HIGH TOLERANCE TO DISSOCIATIVES, NECESSITATING I TAKE SUCH HIGH DOSES. AN EXPERIENCE LIKE THIS WOULD BE FOUND AT AROUND 10-12 MG FOR THE AVERAGE PERSON. DO NOT TAKE THE DOSES I TAKE IN THESE REPORTS.

CW: Self harm

Age: 30

Weight: 130 lbs

Dosage: 28 mg intranasal

Setting: Philadelphia Museum of Art, My house

 

T0:00- Crushed up crystals and dosed intranasally. Sting slightly with an etherous odor. Makes me sneeze. I spend the next few minutes gathering things together to leave the house. My intention today is to go to our local art museum, a world renowned collection in za grandiose iconic neoclassical building.

 

T0:30- Leave my house, feeling a little lightheaded. And a little numb in my extremities. It is a sunny winter day, though still chilly, it is a welcome respite from a previous month of brutal cold and snow.

 

0:40- I feel tense, all of my muscles feel shorter and tighter. I am waiting for the subway now, immersed in the sickening damp stink of station, drenched in filthy snowmelt. The lights seem to glow especially bright and strobe. I am dizzy and feel a slight loss of equilibrium.

 

T0:50- Disembark from the subway and begin walking to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, a grand building reminiscent of a Greek Acropolis on a hill at the end of a long boulevard lined with trees and monuments. The experience seems to fade to the physicality of walking. I notice I have a bit of an uneven gait and wonder if I look slightly drunk to passerby, which may seem a little off for 3 in the afternoon. As I walk I become very immersed in my thoughts, in fantasies and grandiose plans in the arc of my life, drifting in a sort of autopilot as I grow disengaged from my surroundings and senses. PCP mania can make anyone feel grandiose. All one can think about is themself. A tense stimulation propels me forward with a bit of extra spring in my step.

 

T1:20- Arrive at the museum. I ascend the world-famous grand staircase easily, hardly feeling winded. Our art museum is spectacular one to behold- one of the archetypes of neoclassical architecture, a prominent temple replete with fluted Corinthian columns. I sit off to the side from the entrance and smoke a joint and gaze out over the skyline of the city. The sky is huge and blue and deep and cloudless, yawning over me as streamers of static and visual snow bubble up from the glass buildings, subtly flashing. Every form against the deep blue sky seems to be emitting waves and tracers into its abyss, with flashes of navy and green and terra cotta orange, flickering like translucent flames or riffles in a stream, all shimmering and pulsing and reverberating. The cannabis breathes a vivid life into these visuals and propels numbness through my fingers.

 

T1:30- I check in and am given admission without any issue. I am able to talk and communicate with strangers normally. I feel physically warm and floaty, there’s electricity in my limbs and anxiety in my nerves. Voices and sounds are echoing a lot around me, it makes the space cavernous and imposing and makes me feel very small. I feel the weight of all the human efforts to build and maintain this space. The echoes of hallowed halls.

 

T1:40- I need to orient myself with being indoors and around others. Wearing a mask makes me feel a little more secure and anonymous. At first I feel like a caged dog-perhaps this is still just leftover momentum from walking, but there is  motivation and energy in my bones, I have to get up, I have to go! -but I don’t. I’m in an art museum.

The first gallery I enter is for modern and contemporary art, starting from the mid 1800s’s. The ceilings are high, the space is tense and silent, and it weights, hefty and papery. I note how I feel so hot and constrained-was it wise to direct such a fast-paced drug to such a slow paced activity? But I stopped and I breathed. I looked deeply at one of my favorite paintings, Eduard Charlemonts “The Moorish Chief” – A stunning and stark piece on canvas, such stark points of white, such glowing, simmering color. These were paints that Charlemont placed on this canvas nearly 150 years ago. To feel the weight of dimension across time and space was like a lazy wind weaving me throughout the rest of the room. I pressed on, each step growing acutely aware of the space I was taking up and interacting on the rest of the world. It was a deafening silence, with my ears gripping the tiniest traces of scenes they could latch on to. While it was initially hard to break the general sense of social anxiety, it was good to remind myself, no one here cares about you. Dissociatives tend to lock one into a solipsistic navigation of their surroundings but it was good to consciously ground and remind myself that everyone is just here for the art. I could dissociate, and render myself anonymous, a sort of golem for the world’s gaze to project upon, and that was okay. Sounds reverberated and bounced around in zig-zag staccatos, trailing and bouncing and weirding, but it was no bother to me. I was piloting the ship, with lush eyes, eager to take in the creative efforts of humanity.

 

T2:20- I am navigating confidently. I am pleasing myself with the visuals and tracers framing each piece. I am delighted by the epic of each display, all surrounded by so much empty space, so stark and heavy and well composed, perfectly encompassing itself and the room around it. It feels alive and in balance.

I come to one of my favorite rooms- Cy Twombly’s Masterpiece, 50 days at Iliam, a. This is one of my favorite works of art in the world, I remember the awe of seeing it on my first bicycle day celebration on LSD, now almost 12 years ago. In current with its placement in this neoclassical palace, this is truly something to behold, the Iliad, laid out with the vibrancy and energy of the first Homeric tellings of the tale around a grand fire, burning through eternity. The energy burnished through my bones and propelled into me mania, brassy and grand and golden. It felt glorious and divine, as it always had. Mania is a crazy thing. I sat down and just took several deep breaths. And continued to take deep breaths. It was glorious and energizing. And I am glad I could recognize the deluded magnanimity of that and like, chill, and take a step back. I am just a person at the art museum on PCP, and this was just very cool.

 

T2:35- I continued outwards through the rest of the modern wing. I became wrapped up in the throes of manically constructing the trajectory of my life and fantasizing about the heights I could achieve. I can no longer be present or mindful, I am sucked into this self centered daze where I am just so inwardly focused that I am only paying the most cursory attention to the art as I drift by it. The thoughts are almost entirely consumed with my ego. Real “I’m the protagonist” Megalomaniacal kind of thinking. Arrogance and deluded senses of grandeur. It’s a good thing no one could read my thoughts. But I was excited, confident, and euphoric.

I Saw Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. His struggles with his mental illness were intimately familiar to me, I had in fact once written a term paper on the matter for an art history class a lifetime ago. I felt reflective on my own travails with despair, desperation, and drastic self harm. I had admittedly drastically harmed myself recently the violent throes of a bipolar episode. I wondered what he was thinking when he cut off his ear. I wonder how similar it was to what I was thinking when I did this. I wondered about the drive to push past ones own reasonable boundaries to create, about sacrificing one’s own wellbeing for the act and devotion of creation, about the heavy costs of creation and the existential struggle to properly express oneself and be understood and appreciated. I miss creating things, I miss making art and painting-maybe it would just be more pain and suffering, maybe it would be liberating-It is always hard to be present. The dissociated mind tends to wander. All variety of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings I walk past glitter and simmer as I drift about enveloped in myself.

 

T3:00- I feel like the peak of the experience is beginning to recede. It’s losing some of its edge, its depth. I feel less like a mind adrift, now more like the rays of sun laid flat on the walls. Grounded. I am more aware of my body. I feel thirsty. I become caught in an odd sort of loop of half-committedly attempting to navigate across the museum to the water fountains-deciding I feel fine- going back- deciding no- I am anxious I am dehydrated what if I faint in public- anxiety pulses and I do indeed feel faint! I pace about the museum and finally get a big drink of water and carry on. I wonder how the staff must perceive me, nervously and redundantly jetting about. Whatever. There is serenity in the madness.

I go now through the arms and armor exhibit. Always one of my favorites. I love military history. I find the material history of weaponry to be fascinating. I had seen this exhibit so many times before and admittedly drifted through It fairly quickly. These objects spoke to me as craft, craft to be battered down, cleaving through flesh and bone, severed vessels suckering to cold steel, intricately engraved with florets and flutations, channels for blood to flow down, elegantly. That these objects of beauty would be dented and twisted and subject to desperate throes of force and hatred. I was glad that I was not doing medieval warfare, as much as I liked to engage in it in digital form, but it was stark and timeless to behold. I quickly shot out of this exhibit into the echoing lobby where they were setting up for some nighttime event.

 

T3:23- The golem is crumbling, I am definitely on a downturn of effects. The locked in confidence that propelled me through the museum before has collapsed and fallen away. Suddenly I am again very aware of the space I’m taking up. I’m aware of the tension of silence in every room. I am terrified of breaking it with the tiniest noises of motion and humanity. I am feeling a bit anxious. But I want to press on. I go to the middle-European gallery. I chose this one because this is the one visit the least when I come to this museum. There were beautiful replicated spaces here, it is exciting to feel dissociated and feel like you can travel through time in those exhibits. I felt myself aimlessly wandering, perceiving things very materially as they were, looking mostly at the craft more than the intention in every bit of art I’m looking at. I guess I am dissociated from the humanity of it a little bit, perhaps in this state, dissociated from humanity, the vast expressions of humanity clatter like rain on a tin roof on my wearying anxious eyes and it feels perhaps unfortunate? That I could see these things and feel them through time but only as material, and miss the deeper sublime connection to the human who created it, their passion and spirit. It is truly dissociation.

 

T:3:45- I am getting kinda exhausted. I am a bit anxious, and a bit thirsty. I think I just want to go home.  The Museum was still open for another few hours for a big public event. It was going to grow more crowded. I was growing more anxious and aware of myself. I wish I could’ve visited the Asian Galleries and stood in the mockups of the sacred and utilitarian spaces of various cultures that this Museum has as an immersive experience; Perhaps that is an adventure for another time*.

 

T:4:00- I pass a normal interaction getting my coat from the coat check and step outside into the February cold. It’s getting dark. There’s a dull orange glow over the city. I was on autopilot as I drifted back to the subway station.

 

T4:30- I have to purchase crickets to feed my pet arachnids on the way home. My interaction with the clerks at the pet store feels completely normal if a little awkward. I think I come off as wild-eyed and off balance. They probably just think I’m drunk.

I then wait for the subway. I am looking on my phone, catching up on the day’s news. The big story of the day was a public spat between AI company Anthropic and the Secretary of Defense over the implementation of autonomous weapons and AI mass surveillance. It felt like monumental news at the time- like one of the most consequential moments in modern history- taking a stand to avert what could be a potential existential threat, perhaps the first major cracks beginning to show between the technofascist elite and the presidency they had helped propel into existence. Everything feels like the biggest most important news story ever on PCP though, and of course, this decision would likely end up being inconsequential with the tightening grip of the coming Iran war. I was engrossed in my phone for much of the subway ride and don’t recall much about my surroundings at the time.

 

T5:00- Home now, still a little numb and lightheaded with some mania and stimulation lingering with force. It got much colder after the sun set.

 

T:6:00- I take a hot shower, It feels wonderful. Auditory effects which I thought had faded came out in full force in the shower, the sound of water clattering around me twanging and flanging off the walls, similar to the soundscape of a good hit of nitrous. It felt like having my head in a metal can that someone was drumming on, the sounds reverberating through my skull and pulsing through my eyes. It was stimulating and delightful. I step out feeling refreshed and warm. I realize after that I should’ve been careful with this- a hot shower could raise my body temperature even higher and the lingering numbness could’ve made me unaware that I was burning myself with too-hot water. But I was ok.

 

T6:30- Eat dinner. It’s just some leftover pasta and pesto. I don’t have a ton of appetite but I did feel pangs of hunger. Despite that I can only eat a little before feeling full.

 

T7:00- Lingering stimulation and mania, but the physical dissociation aspect has mostly worn off. All that’s left of bodily sensations is some muscle tension. There is still a sense of awkward mental dissociation but it might also just be fatigue from having my brain run on hot and high for so many hours.

 

T8:00- Feel back to baseline more or less.  

 

T14:00- Go to sleep. Despite feeling back to normal it was even more difficult than normal to fall asleep, with thoughts racing and my internal monologue now. Sleep came eventually after some restless tossing and turning.

 

 *This possibility would unfortunately be precluded as I am no longer using dissociatives.


Conclusion: Wow. Wow is all I can say. This may not be a common experience, as this drug is often consumed in tense, stressful and filthy situations, but PCP fills me with such a sense of beauty and wonder. What better place to indulge in beauty and wonder than a world class art museum! But I found myself disappointed. The beauty of PCP is deeply isolated and at times exclusive. It doesn’t always enmesh well with external beauty. And certainly much of what I saw was truly beautiful in a resonant way that embraced deeper meaning, but something was missing, I felt like I was seeing many pieces for what they simply were physically, without feeling any connection to the human, the humans that sought to express themselves in this way, the emotions and subtext underlying each piece. I just couldn’t find it. A psychedelic would allow me to do so in spades. But it was wonderful for appreciating craftsmanship, like in the arms and armor exhibit, or in seeing every precisely placed brushstroke in each painting. Disappointingly, I also found it hard to stay mindful and present and really engage with and focus on the art to the degree I wanted to. I kept getting caught in manic loops and fantasies of grandeur, and kind of wandered the galleries in a solipsistic daze where I was so inwardly focused I just barely glossed over the art. I am not sure if dissociatives are really meant for art museums except perhaps for some historical exhibits. Perhaps visiting an anthropology museum that taps into the imagination would be more fruitful. Nevertheless, I thought this would be a fun spin on the museum dose, and most of all I wanted to demonstrate that a person can be on PCP in a very formal, peaceful public setting and not cause a scene or freak out and attack people. When taken in a controlled manner, it is merely another way to enhance and alter the way one experiences the world around them.