In the Defense of Hallucinogenic Drugs

You know that neural tickle you get when you smoke some really potent sativa? THC out the wazoo! The right hemisphere of your brain is just fucking FIRING at the perfect rate for creativity. You put a pencil to a blank piece of paper and just draw. You put your fingers to the strings of a guitar and you just play. 

You look out the window and you just see. Patterns. Patterns, EVERYWHERE.

You’re on mushrooms and you look at woodgrain and you see a river of ever-changing images; a wooden flip book. Every thing is stationary in these four dimensions of space and time, but you add the fucking dimension of your own mind and project it on to the outside world, and those stationary things start to fucking MOVE. They move in meaningful ways. It can be an elucidating experience for anybody with that feeling of ennui that’s so common in the western world.

“Hey look, there really IS more to this world than meets the eye!”

Yeah! And guess what it is, you fucking hippie? YOU. What you see/hear/smell/feel/taste on that shit is just a sensory manifestation of your own mind. The only thing “more” to the world is YOU, and you better realize that or else you’re going to go fucking insane. We’ll get back to that. 

We humans are problem solvers; it’s how we evolved. We look for relationships between things in an attempt to better make sense of the world around us. What relationships are really relevant to our survival, though? Surely not the relationship between Fred Flintstone chasing Barney and those anthropomorphic shapes on my dresser. Yet the last time I had psilocybin latching on to those 5-HT receptors in my noggin’, my whole dresser turned into Bedrock. It was pretty damn entertaining, but I certainly wasn’t curing cancer. My imagination was using the valuable glucose in my brain to mentally masturbate. It was ejaculating psychedelic imagery all over my god damn sensory organs! What a waste, right? Surely I could have used that imagination semen to impregnate some canvass somewhere with a beautiful painting. Surely I could have cum all over my guitar with my imagination and made a lovely little sonnet to serenade you with (so I could subsequently cum on you [lol jk {lol no I’m not}]). At least there was no harm; the connections I made were all disconnected from my core beliefs about how the world works, so my sanity wasn’t in jeopardy.

I love music; I play the guitar and the piano, and have made my own music on both. What’s most appalling to me is how unfair it is when you make a song; it’s almost effortless. It really is “cumming on a guitar with your imagination,” essentially. It’s “getting it up” that can be the problem… but once you “get it up”, it’s pretty easy to crank out a song. For a lot of people, cannabis is like Viagra for their imaginations; they use it to “get it up” so they can make works of art. This is great, and it oftentimes works without consequence. There is a caveat, though… and this is where we get back to you going fucking insane.  

So there you are, fucking blazed out of your mind… no guitar, no piano, no paper, no friends… you’re in a dark room. All you have are your thoughts. Your heart’s beating pretty fast, 115 bpm. It’s alright, though; cannabis causes tachycardia. It’s to be expected. What if you don’t know that, though? What possible connection could there be between your heart beating fast and your being stoned. You always thought cannabis chilled you out, so why’s your heart beating fast. Maybe your dealer laced your weed with crack. Maybe it’s “chronic.” No big deal; crack doesn’t kill most people the first time, may as well enjoy the ride, right? But what if your dealer really doesn’t like you. You know, looking back at it, you did kind of screw his girlfriend. They weren’t dating, but you knew he liked her… and you screwed her anyway. What if he’s SCREWING YOU, NOW? All those emergency medical shows on TV; what happens to the patients before they die? Lots of beeps on the heart monitor, right? That means their hearts are going pretty fast… just like yours.

He poisoned you and you are going to die. 

It’s ludicrous and probably not true, but there it is, in bold. A connection that’s very relevant to your survival because it could be the difference between life and death… so your brain makes it VERY HARD TO FORGET. 

He has been poisoning you ever since he was your dealer

The effects surely are cumulative. It has been 2 years since you fucked his girlfriend, after all.

It’s a conclusion you come to based not on its logical validity, but instead on its relevance to your survival. It’s paranoia. I’ve thankfully never had the experience of having it happen to me subjectively; you can thank metacognition for that… but I’ve seen it happen to people I care about. It gives cannabis a bad name. 

So please, only turn your imagination inward when you’re truly at peace. Otherwise, keep it occupied. Even though sometimes you can come come to the peaceful conclusion even if you start down the road to paranoia. Occam’s razor, man: The most simple answer is most often the most correct answer. Remember that the only thing more to the world is YOU. 

In the end, that’s what this song is about… Part II is that moment when you realize that you’re the only thing more to the world and that you can use that revelation to cultivate a very positive perspective by consciously altering that “5th dimension” (I’m including the 3 spatial dimensions + time, here) that projects itself onto the world as you see it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9UjtTDbABU   <—- Part II