This was written around 1963 – 1965. So, why I am dredging it up some 55 years later? Well, at my 50th high school reunion, (Oakland Technical High School, Oakland, California), my favorite high school teacher, Joe Tranchina, told me he had used this piece in his teacher education classes for years and years. I had only the vaguest memory of having written it. I think I originally wrote it for a journalism class at Berkeley. Sadly, before I got around to contacting him for a copy of the piece, he died. So I had to search to locate a copy in my files.

And, still, why am I doing it? Well, it should be out there, I guess. Mr. T liked it enough to have hundreds of students read it. For me, I am not proud of my preachy, know-it-all, mid-twenties self.  I am proud of how much I have grown.

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Much has been written about the psychic effects of LSD-25. Not one account, to my mind, gives a comprehensive understanding of the effects of the drug. The approach has, in the past, been either from a mystico-religious point of view, (c.f. Alan Watts) or from a psychotherapeutic or “insanity inducing” point of view. From my experience, the drug accentuates in the consciousness three fundamental manifestations of the same psychological phenomenon, mainly religious fervor, artistic creation and insanity. All three, I am convinced, exist in each individual, and stem from a common unconscious source. (I am not psychologist enough to say what this is.) One, some or none may, due to circumstances, crop up in an individual. Saint Francis, Van Gogh and Tom O’Bedlam are three people touched, I believe, by the same phenomenon.

I was fortunate enough to take the drug in normal, homelike surroundings, with a friend who had previously taken the drug himself and had been involved rather obliquely with research in it. (I say “fortunate” in this instance, for some of the clinical conditions LSD patients have been submitted to frankly overwhelm me, as well as does the lack of basic understanding of its effects by many of the experimenters. I will elaborate on this later.)

I will attempt to recount what happened. I place this short span of hours as undoubtedly the most impressive of my life, and unquestionably the most beautiful. It was a warm spring Saturday. And Saturday had been chosen specially so that I could ruminate on the saint-like after state of the drug. I had asked my friend if he honestly thought I could handle the effects of the drug. He said he felt I had nothing to worry about, and that he would always be present as a “control” in case I should take a nose dive into my dark unconscious.

So, like one getting on a roller coaster at an amusement park, I swallowed the innocuous looking clear capsule containing, I was told, 50 micrograms of this drug. He then asked me if I would like to take a walk until the drug began to take effect. I said no, and we sat down to talk. I was impatient after my big step had been taken. I asked him, for perhaps the 20th time, what to expect. He said, physiologically, practically nothing, perhaps a slight stretching sensation. He said I would notice pink and green halos around objects, that the drug, working through the endocrine system, somehow affected, they thought, the rods and cones in the eyes.

I had brought a collection of my favorite books, poetry, some philosophy, and art books, and some of my favorite records. The motley collection he referred to as “just in cases” to have “just in case” I wanted to look at them. I put Ernest Bloch’s Concerto Grosso on the stereo and figured by the time the two sides of the record had passed, I would start feeling the drug. My friend had deliberately hidden all the clocks in the house so that I would be more susceptible to the time-altering effects of LSD, which he said were very impressive. Nonetheless, I wanted to have some idea when things should start happening. We talked and I changed the record, with zero-hour approaching. We talked about Zen Buddhism, and he once again emphasized that my background in Oriental studies would have definite bearing on my experience – that I would soon understand what he, scientist turned eastern philosopher, meant. I noticed that I was hungry – he had also been kind enough to have a supply of various wines, cheeses and candies on hand for my amusement. I began to nibble, not ravish with my usual voracity, on a piece of cheddar cheese. I commented that it was extraordinarily good cheese, where have you gotten it? And he began to laugh. He told me to look at the ceiling of the room. It was a rough textured plaster ceiling, a pinkish beige in color. It had become a lovely ceiling. I had never seen a ceiling like that before. Faint pink and green designs seem to play amid the rough texture. I took a deep breath and sat on the floor in the very spot: “where did you ever get such a ceiling?” I questioned still nibbling on the cheese. I felt like I had just gotten up in the morning to discover the world such a place as I had never seen before, of unparalleled beauty and variability. I knew that I had been asleep all my life. He brought me a glass of wine and I tasted, not a drink, but a bare sip. This wine, a two-dollar Chianti, was the most resplendent elixir I had ever tasted. I could taste not just with my tongue but seemingly with my whole mouth, and as I tasted the aroma caught in my nostrils and accentuated the experience. The first feeling I categorized on LSD was this first feeling of initial astonishment, what I call the “profoundly moved” feeling.  This is a religious feeling in the ultimate sense of the word. Throughout the day this feeling came upon me from any number of stimuli, a passage in music, the sheer tonality of a singer’s voice or record, from the texture of the carpet, the flame on the kitchen stove, the play of leaves in the tree. The reaction was invariably the same: the experience was so intense that I could hardly bear it. It was so lovely that I couldn’t believe that I actually was a part of this phantasm of existence. I remember my first impression of LSD as a constant state of mental orgasm. I would go about the house experimenting with this new world. I felt like a small child and thought of Wordsworth’s “Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.” I knew that I was “trailing clouds of glory” and that this world had the shimmer and halo Wordsworth remembered as a child. The remarkable thing about this is that I really don’t like Wordsworth at all, but I knew he had been in on this secret and respected him for his observation. Everything fascinated me. This is an understatement. I couldn’t stop just looking, and went from object to object, exploring the infinite variety the world offered. I came back to the living room with the non-too observant comment, “you know, this is fun,” and I burst into unreserved laughter. I sat down and stretched, that feeling I came to call the “stretchies.” It was pleasant, like when you get up in the morning and stretch after a good night’s rest, and it feels good.

The thoughts were flying so quickly through my head that I wished there were some way to record them, but I knew it was impossible. Talking was grossly in adequate, words had such limitations, and I felt, in a smug way, that I was in on the big cosmic secret of things, right there in the middle, and whomever I try to communicate this to could not possibly understand. “If I talk, will you listen? You don’t have to understand, just listen and help me with these things.” “Yes,” he smiled, “I remember what it’s like.”

It was then that I started to solve the problems of the world. The interesting thing about thinking on LSD is that every concept seems to enter your head simultaneously with its opposite, plus all the implications. If you accept these apparent contradictions and realize that every proposition does intrinsically contain its opposite, no trouble will ensue. But if you stop to reason the thing out, not letting the thoughts flow, but jamming them up and letting a little through at a time, you’re in trouble. The ambiguities become devastating, the possibilities infinite, and you’re paralyzed as to which way to turn. The reaction is, there’s so much data here that I can’t possibly handle it all. Where shall I start at all? And this question is metaphysical in its implications, and pretty soon you’re proceeding backwards in infinity looking for a starting point knowing you will find none. The futility of this process, which takes a few seconds, is absurd in its hilarity and shattering in its impossibility. Then you’re struck by the all too obvious fact that it doesn’t really matter at all, which is again absurd and devastating.

The mind, further, seems to immediately associate models from reality with concepts. There is no need to search, as the poet does, for images; in a remarkable fashion one seems to be thinking in images very often, rather than words. At one point I was dwelling on an idea I can only vaguely articulate the state of humanity or perhaps the unconscious mind of humanity. I envisioned each individual as a bubble floating through space and I saw that only a small portion of the sphere is visible to all the other people, much as one only sees one seventh of an iceberg in the ocean. This concept is not original with me. I’m afraid I must give president to Dr. Sigmund Freud. I realized also that within each individual’s bubble, or psyche, a Miltonic battle was raging between monsters of the persons own making. I imagined the bubbles floating through space, constantly jostling each other, changing the battle slightly, renting, perhaps worst of all, tears in the bubbles, and laying bare a great chasm of the person’s soul. In view of this it seemed absolutely miraculous that everyone in the world didn’t just up and kill everyone else.

I understood further that the monsters in the bubbles (I saw them as serpents, prehistoric beasts, angels and devils), were the person’s psychological problems in symbolic form. These symbolic beasts had been caused by all the bumping around, (i.e. environment,) and the bubbles seemed somehow capable of generating their own new and original beasts.  The individual’s effort to quell one monster (or problem) very often created another of even greater proportions. Every individual seemed undeniably responsible for his own private battle of angels and devils, and it was incredibly clear that the only arbitrator of peace could be the individual, for all action originated with in the sphere, despite outside influences. You couldn’t try to help other people with their battles without popping the bubble or ripping its surface, and this became the most horrible intrusion upon an individual’s dignity possible. For who wants to have their monsters, like those horrible fish in the depths of the ocean, exposed to daylight? All one could do was try to communicate by drawing figures on the surface of the sphere, as if drawing pictures with your finger on a frosted window pane.

This led to an excursion in to my own bubble and my own private battlefield. This is the aspect of LSD I have often, and grossly inadequately, heard referred to as the stripping away of the conscious mind, or of the barriers between the conscious and unconscious parts of one’s personality. The terminology is accurate insofar as it goes, but it led me, previous to my LSD experience to a fear of parts of my personality unknown, and this is an error. I found, and again I must emphasize that I consider myself relatively normal, nothing I had not previously been aware of in one way or another. I can, in this respect see LSD’s therapeutic value for patients with extremely repressed experiences, and I can sympathize with the individual who has neglected his personality or has been dishonest with himself about himself, for LSD will definitely bring to the surface you’re in most parts. Due to the acceleration of perception in general, the ability to “energize” these things, and the deep profundity of conception when it comes home to you, I can see how this would be devastating to an unsuspecting person, but I can simultaneously see how it can be a very rewarding experience in self-understanding, as it was for me. Again also, attempting to rationalize these experiences as they flow leads to danger, for you cannot deal with your self-esteem and self-rationalization about shortcomings in the usual manner. The key here is not to run and hide, to try to destroy the truth, but to accept it and see how the parts fit together.

Without an excess of autobiography, I can give you some idea of this process. I saw three major contenders in my chaotic battleground. One was the little girl who wants security, her father, the protection and lack of responsibility of a child’s world. The second was the woman and mother who wants a universe of her own to run, children to rear, a husband to love, care for, and perhaps dominate in her home-like universe. The third was the creative artist striving for objectivity and understanding of the other two and for communication with the intellectual and emotional aspects of her being. I saw in my day-to-day life the alternating dominance and co-habitual ruling of one, two, or three of the parts. I saw that the little girl liked to be dominated and told what to do, and that the mother aspect fought her in this, and that the artist part had her own mind and just wanted to be left out of the squabble. But, at the same time, the artist had a fear of the mother instinct, a fear that children might compete with works of art, and both alternately strove for supremacy in this realm.

None of this is too very remarkable, save in relation to the vividness it was brought home to me. I saw that this conflict would continue, and that it was the way I am, and therefore just –  that trying to eliminate one of the partners or to keep one in dominance would only create bigger bogies. The reconciliation with myself which I felt following this particular thought process was quite powerful. Yes, I felt, that is indeed the way I am, and is that really so bad after all? Is it not, in a way only I can appreciate, the right and just order of things, for me? So, I believe again, acceptance of whatever imaginings or journeys of the soul that LSD is going to lead you on is the keyword.  Had I started mentally to try to change this triumvirate state of things, a fourth monster would already have been in operation, and the consequences might have been less gratifying.

I have been speaking much of images which may tend to connote hallucinations. This is not the case.  The hallucinative value of LSD seems to be in the thought processes themselves, not necessarily in any altering of reality. When you close your eyes, certainly, patterns appear on the lids as they do in everyday life when you rub your eyes or lay in the sun with your eyes closed. I may grant that with LSD they seem more imaginative, colorful and perhaps intense, but they are still patterns, not real objects. The images I have been thinking of are imaginative thought processes accentuated by lucid association with models or images which clarify the abstract thought, as poetry does. There is, however, a real hallucinative value of LSD.

For me, I found this particular phenomenon demanded concentration – and one of the last things one is inclined to do under the influence of the drug is to concentrate readily; it is much more fun to take things as they flow, and not bog down with self-assertion and projection on the marvelous aspects of reality you seem to have stumbled upon. In this way LSD tends to make one a passive participant, receiver, not a changer. But the hallucinations are there if one is so inclined. As I have mentioned before, the accentuation of all aspects of reality is astounding, but I found that if I concentrated my attention (mostly in the form of staring) at an object or area, it would take different qualities upon itself. To clarify, at one juncture, I was intrigued by the tiny flecks of color in the kitchen linoleum, and as I watched it the floor seemed to come alive and breathe. It welled ever so slightly in waves and points of dominance, and, even more stirring, was the fact that it was doing this in time to a Brandenburg Concerto which was on the stereo. The leaves on trees outside, on occasion, also kept time to the music, and the fact that they were also being blown about by wind also contributed to this. LSD evidently induces a facility to establish harmony and coincidence in the world, or, perhaps, makes one aware of the harmony already there. All objects of external reality participate in this harmony. And, just as concepts enter your mind coupled with their opposites, each object is a part of the totality and yet individual in what Huxley calls its “Istigkeit” or is-ness. I simply chose at the time to say that every object, a car, a vase, a flame from a match, had its own “ness” which was it’s essential. This is not, to me, a Platonic concept of “forms” wherein each object partakes of an essential form, but rather, each object has its very own “ness.” That is, every table does not partake of “tableness” in the sense that all tables resemble some external table form, but every table has its very own “ness” or essence, and one table’s “ness” is no more like any other table’s “ness” than it is like, say, the “ness” of a dish sitting on it. Further, every object, since it exists, is being and has its being-ness, (this idea is closer to Huxley’s “Istigkeit”), and every object within your environment is just existing there, being what it is nothing more, nothing less. In this discovery was a very basic insight about reality and truth; for truth, it was obviously clear to me, consisted in everything being what it was and not pretending to something it wasn’t. This all sounds very platitudinous now, but I was impressed with the fact that reality couldn’t lie: for every object, even individuals, would be shown up for what they were — in the same way that it is impossible for a chair to impersonate a bookcase.

It is quite difficult for me to examine and try to elucidate these concepts at length now, for one of the distinct effects of LSD is that the answers to the ethical, aesthetic, moral, and metaphysical questions which had bothered you most of your life are quite obvious. The reaction I had was, “that’s funny, I never thought of that before; the whole thing’s really quite simple.” This sense of simplicity must be confusing to the reader – solutions don’t pop out in 25 words or less, as it were. But rather the mind attaches itself to explanatory catch phrases, utterly mundane, trite, and often contradictory, such as “THEN is then and now is now,” Or “music is the greatest art form. It’s obvious why.” Reality is made deceptively simple and if phenomena are not easily reducible to these terms, they are discarded as irrelevant. Thus it is that I must honestly say in retrospect that LSD produces an illusion of the simplicity, even absurdity, most human intellectual endeavor.

When I dwelt upon art, the phrase that occurred to me was that art is something that goes-on-going-on. At that time this was all that need to be said. My statement was totally comprehensible and obvious to me, but now it takes a little effort to capture exactly what I meant.

The concept I had in mind, I believe, was something to the effect that art in its purest sense becomes an essential part of reality. It partakes of the “ness” of whatever it is expressing (but these two are inseparable, for the expression is the object and vice versa,” and the creation of “art” “goes-on” with every other object, thing and person, which are all, if they are honest and true to their “ness,” due to the nature of reality, “goes-on.” But because art is created, i.e. it needs an agent, it undergoes a state of becoming. It is in this process that the separation of the true from the false takes place. Any creation that is phony or false or fake or untrue to its “ness” just keeps on in the state of “becoming,” striving to be what it isn’t and cannot be. The creation that is honest, true to its essence, achieves a state of perpetuity, assimilates itself with reality (all the things already going-on) and itself “goes-on-going-on.”

This division of the honest from the dishonest broadens one’s ordinary concept of what constitutes art; for there is art throughout the natural world which is just as honest as something which came into being with the help of an artist. It’s simply a difference in the manner which something achieved its expression. The question which plagues me now is how one discriminates the true expressions from the phonies. On LSD this was quite easy: a painting, a piece of music, a passage of a poem was either “going-on” or “becoming.” The decision was immediate, almost instinctual, and there were no after-thoughts. The falsity showed through in art as it did in people. There was a disharmony, or an unquiet, or you could tell the artist didn’t believe what he was saying, that he was coming on for the benefit of the public, or his country, or money— or anything he didn’t really feel. Without antagonizing anyone, I’d like to explore two examples, one from painting, the other from music.

The first is a portrait by Goya of Manuel Osorio, a small 16th century boy. The portrait contains the boy in a red outfit. The background is entirely green. There are three cats and a bird cage on either side of the child. In the foreground is a minah bird which the child is holding by a leash. The boy is a beautifully rendered and sad looking child, but he didn’t interest me. The three cats in the lower left corner are eyeing the minah bird. They don’t exactly look ready to pounce, but they are surely speculating on the subject. The boy was done justice in the painting, but I couldn’t help feeling that Goya too was more interested in the cats. They were something, unlike the probably commissioned portrait of the child, that he was interested in doing, most of all, something that amused him. There was strained reserve, slight infidelity, in the child, but Goya shouted at you from the three cats and the minah bird; there was no restraining the truth of that corner of the painting.

And to the instance from music: I have long been a near-lone admirer of the Danish composer Karl Nielsen. I had with me his third and fifth Symphonies. The third, a pastorale programmed the “espansiva” thoroughly delighted in me. Then, later, listening to his fifth which is untitled, I became slightly bothered, unquiet, restless and finally frightened. I had always liked the symphony, and even now I find it listenable, but this day it instigated, for me, and unusual set of reactions. The symphony, as is most of Nielsen’s work, is programmatic even though untitled. This fifth symphony is much in the genre of Beethoven’s Third Symphony and Prokofiev’s Fifth Symphony, i.e. the individual confronting the universe, the hostility of the conflict between man and society, and man and his environment. My fear generated from the militant snare drum of the first movement– the symphony was attempting unification through force. It was a battle for the supremacy of the soul. The stark recognition of this terrified me: man shouldn’t fight or confront the universe. He’s as much an integrated part of it as anything else. The symphony was the epitome of the state of “becoming,” and though the thorough futility of this attempt frightened me, I had to at least respect it for what it was: it had truly expressed what it had set out to do. But more interesting than the immediate question of whether not it fell into my new classifications of art, (there was no doubt but that it did), was the question of what it was expressing.

The symphony was the true expression of man attempting to be other than he was, human and mortal. Nothing struck me as more futile and tragic than this attempt at individual assertion, but at the same time I couldn’t get it out of my feelings that this was a rather beautiful way to go. The effects of LSD convinced me that it was quite enough for man simply to be himself, to be at one in a state of harmony with the universe, but I couldn’t help but respect the attempt at transcendence. I also knew, however, that what they were trying to transcend was right on their very own doorstep, or “in the hedge at the bottom of the garden” as a Zen Koan would put it. I saw at once that if my hypothetical individual in the symphony just sat down and looked around himself, he’d be aware that he had gotten bogged down in the “becoming phase of things,” that he was looking outside of himself for something in himself, and had gotten all enmeshed in trying instead of just being. At once, in the fusion and flurry of LSD-thinking, the external confrontation of man shaking his fist at a malevolent deity or hostile universe, became once again the internal battle in the bubble— of the serpents fighting for possession of the soul. The malevolent deity and hostile universe were actually only a variation of the serpents, angels and devils. It was the same battle on a different battleground with the warriors clad in deceptive array. External and internal became synonymous, as the infinitely large and infinitely small had been earlier.  I had once again made the full circle and arrived exactly back where I had started.

In all things LSD seemed to at once objectify and subjectivize my view of reality. It was like looking through a crystal ball at yourself from both sides at once. On one side was the tiny (infinitesimally tiny, I felt,) subjective individual trying grotesquely to encompass the whole of reality in its own puny and petty terms, very frightened, very alone in its insignificance. On the other side was the individual totally in tune with reality to the extent of being an inseparable part of it, trying not to encompass, but merely participating, for there was no line of division between it and all that lay outside.

This feeling of inseparability generated several interesting phenomena especially during the later stages in the drug. One particularly was the desire to dissolve into another object. The feeling of totality and participation became so strong that it manifested itself in wanting, very deeply and sincerely, to do things like dive into a neon sign far over your head or to dissolve (in my case) into a blue goblet in a shop window. During the waning stages of the drug my friend took me for a walk to a semi-downtown area. It was Saturday night, the restaurants were crowded, the shop windows alit, and the theaters crowded. I remember particularly the fascination the windows, with their colors, glassware, apparel, held for me. It was all I could do to leave one and go on to another. A neon sign over a restaurant was so bright, sparkly, and warm that I wanted to dive into the warm light and swim around as one does in a swimming pool. Later I was so entranced by a tall, royal blue, translucent goblet that I wanted to stay right there, and the height of pleasure at that moment would have been to be able to participate in the “ness” of that glass. It may be wondered, what with the intensity of these urges, whether I actually considered smashing, for instance, the shop window to achieve my desire. No; I was constantly aware of the proprieties of the world around me. I knew the difference between right and wrong, and I got a smug satisfaction from being more law-abiding than usual.

I insisted that my friend wait with me until the WALK light came on before crossing the street. For Saturday night, we were in quite a minority. This smugness carried over to the feeling that I was at that time definitely one-up on all the other people on the street. Again, it was this feeling of being in on the great cosmic secret and joke of things. Although uninhibited in my flights of fancy and imagination, while on the street I’m not sure I looked too different from any Saturday evening stroller and browser.

It was interesting to me to note the actual physicality of the senses or wave-lengths I picked up from people present on the street. There was a quick, and unfortunately I cannot tell how accurate, perception and insight about each person who passed me. It was astounding how actually, psychologically, I seemed to sense these things. Emotions, as from a young couple strolling hand in hand in front of us, were actual physical sensations, much akin to the physical effects deeply felt emotion can sometimes generate. On this walk I also felt paranoia: a car approaching unseen behind me, a person stalking down the street– these begat the same physical fear, the trembling wonder whether or not one of them might be particularly out to get you.

I often felt like a child born fully grown into the world. I had been there before, and yet I had never been there before. The question– metaphysical and ethical– of a stoplight dumbfounded me. I was confused by the implications and the fact that this mechanism controlled the movements, hopefully, of those great hurdling beasts of automobiles. For a moment the whole world consisted of the stoplight game. It was a question of wits, of survival of the fittest; it was me and the cars and the chief justice stoplight in a duel to the death: the universe of an intersection.

I do not think I can possibly emphasize the effect environment has upon the person under the influence of LSD. I cannot possibly imagine what might have happened had I been in clinical conditions, among strangers asking what would surely seem to the person on LSD, stupid questions. My surroundings were congenial; I was among trusted friends. I am positive that this is in a large part responsible for the success of my experience. Also to be noted is the fact that my friend had had experience, (successful too, I might add), with the drug.

Does LSD produce insanity? Yes, in a certain way I believe it does. But I must insist that this is not necessarily a phenomenon to be avoided, if handled properly. For example, many psychiatrists will agree that Van Gogh was what we call “insane” during a good portion of his artistic career, but the strikingly different way in which he viewed the world was, at least in part, responsible for the magnificent works of art he left us, as well as his own deep personal suffering. The so called feelings of insanity I experienced under LSD opened to me recesses of the mind I hadn’t known to exist. Perhaps further qualification of my use of the word “insanity” is in order. The mental unbalance called insanity manifests itself in numerous schematic designs which the technicians variously term schizophrenia, paranoia, megalomania, and so forth. As articulately as I can put it, LSD opens your sensibilities so that you feel what it is like to be paranoid or schizophrenic. Never was I genuinely in a state of one of these psychic disorders, but my empathy with them was as real, I believe, as it could be without my being actually immersed. Perhaps everyone who has seriously contemplated suicide knows the last minute panic when you realize what you are about to do, and don’t. Or perhaps you have become so involved in a motion picture or a play that for a brief second you are about to jump up and participate in the action, but soon, once again aware of social restraints, you resign yourself to being but a watcher.

Thus it is with the insanity experience under LSD. The most impressive of these experiences for me was the understanding of the fear a paranoid must feel. Under LSD you are so remarkably perceptive to other persons that they seem to be giving off vibrations, wave-lengths of their own. And every individual vibrates differently, emanating their own peculiar personality and problems. The consequence of this is that not all people give off positive vibrations, and, whereas you are likely to succumb to the warmth of one person, and bask in it, you are just as likely to fall under the influence of a person who is generating fear and hostility. Your keen insight into the phoniness of another person can be both profound and frightening.

During the early stages of the drug I was conversing quite casually, and to both our amusement, with a close friend of mine. I was impressed by the genuine, unselfish warmth she emanated. She was like a kind, furry, mother cat, in constant vigilant attendance upon her kittens. Everything about her coincided. Her movements followed her words, and, being at ease, she seemed to be in perfect harmony with the room. These are the essential qualities she projects in everyday life, only more accentuated and easier to anticipate due to the heightened perceptivity which LSD induces. A little later another woman entered the room and my immediate reaction was that the harmony had been thrown all ajar. She asked how I felt, and I could tell that her question was in curiosity, not concern. She was disturbed by my blatant stares, and tried consequently not to be herself, which I was interested in, but to impress me. Her movements were not in harmony with her words because, quite simply, she was faking it. I sensed that she was afraid of me sitting quietly, looking at her, and I “picked up” her fear. The incongruities in her personality scared me because I couldn’t understand any reason for a person to be other than what they are– be it good or bad. The idea of a human being out of tune with their environment was confusing, and, in a profound way, singularly appalling. But above all it was simply falsity, untrue.

During this incident I felt something of what a paranoid feels when he views the world as out of joint and plotting against him, when he apprehends the fears of all the people around him and arrives at the conclusion that they all have it in for him.

This enlarged scope and sensitivity projects in all directions. While one can understand how the paranoid views the world, one can also understand with equal and in interesting profundity how the mystic, artist, schizophrenic, and mundane neurotic must look at the world. The consequences of this sort of experience on human understanding, tolerance in general, and understanding yourself, cannot the lauded enough.

One of the first questions I was asked afterwards was: would I go back? Yes, most emphatically, with the qualification, however, that this is a very special experience and, at least for me, not to be indulged in as one would a 5 o’clock martini. I am still remembering things which came to me during this first experience. These pages have just barely scratched the surface of those extraordinary 12 hours. I want to remember more, to think about more. I want this thoroughly digested before I venture again into this realm.

I sincerely believe that there are unimaginable vistas of the human personality to be explored by receptive persons prepared for the experience of LSD and undertaken with the right attitude in at least unhostile surroundings. LSD, to my mind, should not be treated as a joyride, a depth to dive into horror or a curious adventure. It was, for me, and education, and should be treated as such. No professor would ask you to read Shakespeare without briefing you on the language and the Elizabethan Theatre: this applies to LSD. Similarly, no one would expect you to appreciate a Shakespearean play without the proper setting, environment, and perhaps, educated companionship. This again applies. Unfortunate circumstances are bound to ensue until psychologists realize LSD participants (not patients) cannot be treated as ordinary experimental guinea pigs. They are individuals in a profound emotional, perceptive, and intellectual state. They simply cannot be expected to be hustled around antiseptic hospital corridors and shoved into rooms similarly populated with LSD-sensitized people, and have anything but mediocre, if not disastrous results from the drug. It is remarkable to me that more serious incidents have not occurred during experimentation with this drug.

For the receptive human being, the benefits of the LSD experience are not even beginning to be realized. The responsibility for its administration must of necessity remain with those who have some idea how the drug works, and who can handle it, and I do not see how a psychologist who has not taken LSD himself could possibly profess to know this.

I do not think that the drug is dangerous, except in the hands of the untutored (as is a revolver) and when it is administered haphazardly without proper attention to surroundings, the individual involved, and the attitude of the individual.

The potentialities of this drug and the experience it induces are too important to risk being thrown away by slap-dash methods and a desire to get as much data recorded as fast as possible. I know that I was bettered by the experience, and I know of other individuals who would likewise benefit from it. LSD should not be treated as a religious rite, but neither should it be treated as a penicillin shot.

It is possible that the damage has already been done to LSD experimentation in the United States. In a society and world where people need all the understanding and compassion they can muster to cope with existence, LSD is a significant step toward this goal. Herein lies the greatest tragedy of all.

Formatted and posted October 30, 2018.