An excerpt from Sex, Drugs, and Spirituality by Trevor Millar.


One day in ’02, bored and lazy at the office, I was surfing, a mysterious vault of information on different psychotropic substances with “trip reports” of people’s experiences. I was researching DMT.  I hadn’t looked up, or even really heard of DMT before this, although The Cosmic Serpent had mentioned that it was the active ingredient in Ayahuasca. Ayahuasca packs an orally active form of DMT, but these trip reports were describing a crystallized powder that was smoked, sending the user into an intense five minute trip.  The experiences sounded cosmically beautiful with tales of unity, peace and sacred geometry.

Pretty cool, I thought. I’d love to try that one day…

I shared an office with Alex who asked me in the early afternoon of this same day if the shop I knew on Commercial Drive had any cannabis for sale.  This shop, owned by my friend C, did keep a supply behind the counter for trusted friends and friends of friends, so we left a bit early; he could give me a ride home, and we would stop there on the way.

Arriving at the shop on the Drive, it was a hubbub of activity.  C was not there and a girl I’d never seen before took her place behind the counter.  A friend of mine was sitting on a beanbag chair in the lounge though, and I asked him if we could still buy weed from this new chick.  He said we could, but don’t bother, because there was another guy here who had some for sale super-cheap.

We stepped outside to buy from this hippie guy, who did have it for a low $20 an eighth, half of what you would normally pay, and in the course of chatting with him and his lady, I bragged about a homemade mixture I’d created and had with me.

At the mention of my homemade concoction they said they had some DMT and would I like to trade?  What?!  Before this, no part of our conversation had been about DMT.

Crazy eh?  Three hours before, for the first time in my life, I was researching DMT.  Now here I was on a tributary of Commercial Drive being handed a small glass vial of crystalline DMT.

He told me I should put just two or three points of it, that’s near the size of a few granules of sea salt, onto a bed of pot in a glass pipe and let ‘er rip.  He also mentioned I should have a sitter, someone watching over me.

Later that evening three guy’s ended up smoking DMT in a beanbag chair in this entheogenic shop.  Adam, who worked there, gave the thumbs up and we agreed to return at seven o’clock, when the store closed to make it happen.

The other two who partook were Mike, the friend who told me about the hippie with the cheap weed, and another guy the universe brought to us…

As I’m leaving from getting the go-ahead for our 7pm rendez-vous,  a guy was standing at the front door of the shop and he asked if I knew where to get some DMT.


Every year for the last three years, this dude had smoked DMT on his birthday, and today was his birthday.

WTF, right?

That made us three, and I went last.

Sitting down on the beanbag, I grabbed the pipe from the coffee table in front of me filled with a pinch of marijuana and three ‘salt granules’ of DMT.  The room was dark, the door locked, and my two compatriots had both gotten up from this same beanbag minutes before with mellow smiles on their faces.

Pipe to lips, flame to the pipe and the first thing I noticed was the taste, for three tiny crystals they packed a wallop of a taste: an acrid, oily, plastic taste.  I’ve learnt since that most burnt tryptamines have this quality.

Next it seemed that this smell gripped my body from the inside-out, first grabbing, then loosening, like a shrug, so that all I thought of as ‘Trevor’ was sluffed away.  It was the death of the ego–the fear-based, non-universal side of my existence–gone.

What was left after the ‘little me’ of my ego had vacated was fantastic.  I could suddenly feel that every molecule in my body was aware of my presence, and was working towards my existence.  That awareness then shifted so that I was aware of the whole cosmos and all the zillions of atoms in it, and they were aware of me, all perfectly working together to bring about my existence in this moment.  It was a perfect peaceful harmony.

I knew that every noise, every touch, every glance and every experience I’d ever had, had been orchestrated.  As if each mundane or grand thing I’d ever noticed, or not, had been sent to me as a well-thought-out gift, a present, sent with specific intention for me behind it.  The present moment we live in, is just that, intelligently PRE-SENT.

I could see that this was true for everyone.  We Are All the Children of the Universe, everyone Christ, everyone Buddha, the Prodigal Children, everyone Glorious and far from forgotten.

Time started creeping in again after spending a seeming eternity with this knowing.  Along with time, my ego was re-forming, that English speaking voice in my head asked, what does this all mean? To which a gentle Presence non-verbally shared something like, “It’s perfect, you cannot mess it up.  The universe is perfection built upon perfection, limitless in its power and peace.  The only reason you can even conceive a concept called imperfection is because First there is a Bed of Perfection from which ideas about imperfection may take root if you choose to plant them.  You are Christ, you are Buddha, the One Universal Child, safe where you belong, dreaming you’re something other than the only thing you can be in Reality.”

Whoa!  Cool!  Thank you.  Can I go back to ‘normal’ now?

“Yes” the Presence replied, “but this is your Heritage.  This is where you belong.  Work your way back here without external DMT so you can re-join Forever.”

With that, my eyes started to open and I could hear the bustle of the Drive outside.  As I looked around, it seemed everything I saw was a part of me.  There was a chess board on the table in front of me and I felt it might be possible to move the pieces with the slightest intention of a faithful mind.  I sat up, got to my feet, and started jumping around for joy, so thrilled at what I’d just been shown. I’ve been working my way back to that Divine State of Mind in some way, while helping the willing to do the same, ever since, expectant for a return to That Place We All Call Home.


Click this link to hear artist Alex Grey speak of (t)his piece, The Cosmic Christ: