I’m admittedly a weird person. I seem to have been born that way, for reasons unclear; but it seems certain that I got a lot weirder after taking psychedelics. And the question has always followed me: how can the one-time administration of a chemical compound produce such lasting effects? It’s weird.
Many others have reported similar experiences with psychedelics, so it’s not my imagination. In his essay, The Doors of Perception, Aldous Huxley suggests that the brain is essentially a “reducing valve”, limiting our neural input to a manageable stream, and that these drugs work by disabling this throttle, causing us to temporarily experience the full magnitude of our existence. In addition to the direct value of this experience, there’s also the happy discovery that we can control this valve, closing it to a pinpoint aperture when we need to “focus”, or opening it wide when we desire to perceive.
Near as I can tell, we’re all born with this valve wide-open, but basic survival requires that we close the throttle to reduce this overwhelming information stream. Many of us eventually forget that the valve is even there; and the most joyous moment of my life was its rediscovery. Long after the effects of the drug dissipated, that knowledge remained.
While psychedelic use is still somewhat rare, alcohol actually has a similar, if messier, effect. And to be clear, these opening doors of perception pertain not only to physical senses, but also to psychic ones. It’s perhaps no coincidence that so many artists and writers are fond of alcohol: it helps them connect with their “muse”.
So who are these muses? Great question! We rarely know their names, but most artists will readily attest to their existence – as will athletes, mathematicians, and anyone else who has aspired to the spark of inspiration they provide. When we connect with our muse, we channel their vision, wisdom, and expertise into whatever we’re attempting. And, whoever they are, if we want their help, we may need to open that valve.
There are undoubtably many ways to learn about and manipulate the reducing valve that is our brain – various drugs, meditation techniques, fasting, therapies, etc. – but it seems many folks don’t even realize that their doors of perception have hinges. Psychedelics made me profoundly aware of this variable, and made me wish everyone knew about it. To go through life experiencing reality through a pinhole can lead to all sorts of sad outcomes.
In the past, I’d held back on full-throated praise of psychedelics, knowing that some would conclude I was a kook and/or drug addict; but I finally realized that this stigma was the result of brainwashing. From 1947 to 1968, LSD was regarded with enthused fascination by researchers, film stars, and even Time magazine, whose publishers had personally experienced its benefits. It’s probable that LSD was a contributing factor in the widespread refusal to fight in the Vietnam War, which, from the government’s view, made it a threat. The ensuing propaganda campaign was quite successful, and to this day most people see LSD as something dangerous and evil. It’s not.
Attitudes are changing, and not a moment too soon. We, as a race, often seem to be sleepwalking – running on habit, instinct, and societal programming, not really noticing where we’re going. We need to open our eyes as wide as we can, to think deeply about what we’re seeing, and to make some courageous decisions. “Mind-expanding” substances shouldn’t be used frivolously, but in the right settings, with the right intentions, can be truly revelatory. And if that results in a society where people are unwilling to march off to the next useless war, I say hallelujah.
Living is easy with eyes closed, they say; being weird is definitely harder, but there are rewards. More pixels on the screen, you might say. More confusion, but also more clarity. And, hopefully, more wise muses to help guide us through this elaborate mystery called life.
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