38. Coda to the coda.

So, I have recently been watching a couple of episodes a day of The Sopranos. It is a particularly fascinating show from the point of view of psychology and psychotherapy. Before I went to study in San Francisco, I remember finding it psychologically unconvincing. I didn't believe that people who could be so loving in some areas of their lives, could also be so brutally violent in others. I have since reformed that view; I no longer find it psychologically unconvincing. That is something I learned through one of my patients last year.

I was working at a rehabilitation facility exclusively for ex convicts and parolees. In order to qualify for therapy, they had to be 'dually diagnosed' - ie have a mental health disorder as well as an addiction disorder. One of my patients was a South Sea Islander whom I shall call V.

V was born on an island with a proud heritage of producing excellent rugby players. He certainly looked the part: almost as wide as he was tall, enormous shoulders and a bull neck, only one tooth remaining, hands that could crush skulls, and a thick head of shorn hair for his 55 years. He had come to America in his late teens and had been an alcoholic for the last thirty years, of which twenty had been spent in and out of prison.

I was V's first ever therapist, and he was probably my tenth ever patient. When I was first introduced to him in the dank corridor of the facility where he was an inpatient, he looked rather frightened. We shook hands - he nearly crushed mine - and I asked him whether he had any interest in rugby. His face immediately lit up. Not many people in California are interested in rugby, least of all in the female-dominated, touchy-feely (not literally - the Ethics Code would frown...) mental health profession.

V smiled broadly, his single tooth glinting like the Matterhorn on a bright morning.

'Rugby's my game, man,' he stated proudly.

We spent the whole first session talking about rugby, something he hadn't been able to do for many years. I was able to reel out the names of his national heroes - Tana Umaga, Frank Bunce, Tuigamala - who were also the heroes of my childhood and adolescence. And thus, somewhat unconventionally, a solid therapeutic alliance was established.

Over the next few months, V told me about his drinking problems, his marital problems, and his sense of shame about having wasted his life. From the very beginning, I liked him enormously. He struck me as very gentle, conscientious, extremely honest, and clearly wracked by guilt on a deep level.

But the things he told me!

He had been arrested on numerous occasions for violence against every one of his three wives. He could never tell me very much about it since their arguments always happened when he was drunk.

He first went to prison following an altercation with a friend of his. V had joined the merchant marine in his early twenties. As a result, he was often away from his wife for months at a time. After one such absence, his wife informed him that while he had been away she had received anonymous phone calls from a stalker suggesting a sexual rendezvous. To celebrate his return, V hosted a bbq at his house and invited his best friends, many of whom his wife barely knew. However, in the kitchen she told him that she clearly recognized the voice of one of his friends, and that he was the anonymous stalker who kept propositioning her over the phone.

V drunk heavily at the bbq. He made sure that his friend stayed until the end, then he suggested going to a local bar. When V's friend went to the bathroom, V took the autographed baseball bat which was displayed on the wall, followed his friend, and proceeded to beat him to a pulp in the toilet. His friend died in hospital of his head injuries.

V was given a reduced sentence of 6 years, I think. However, this kept being extended since V frequently ended up in fights. He was in a high security, level-4 prison where gang culture dictates the norms. V was told that certain areas of the yard were for blacks, other areas of the yard were for Mexicans. 'That's bullshit,' thought V, 'I'm a South Sea Islander, so I'll go wherever I please.' Beef with the Mexicans soon followed.

It was arranged that V would fight the Mexican champ. The following day, V and the Mexican both went through the security gate into the yard with butterfly knives hidden up their rectums. The butterfly knife was attached to a piece of string for 'ease' of retrieval. While the other Mexicans created a diversion, V and the champ went at it. 'He shanked me in the ribs,' said V, 'but I got him in the neck.' Another 6 years.

Interestingly, when V told me the stories of the fights he'd had, there was no showing off, no pride. There were other patients at the facility who walked with a cocky swagger, pumped iron, liked to brag about how tough they were, and whose ostentatious displays of jewelry and gold chains were intended to attest to that fact. V kept himself to himself and consistently sought to avoid trouble of any sort. And yet, even at 55 years of age, and with a pronounced limp, V could have torn the throat out of any one of them using just his single tooth.

However, what V was proud of was his garden. He had managed to requisition an overgrown corner of the parking area to turn into a small vegetable patch. By clearing away all the detritus and digging up the area, he had managed to win a little more ground. At the end of every weekly session, I would accompany him outside to see how his plants were coming along. He had sown tomatoes, carrots, herbs of all kinds, strawberries and sunflowers. He tended them everyday and the speed with which they grew bore testament to the care he lavished upon them.

On one of the first shy days of spring, while we were standing in the sunshine admiring the garden, V said: 'The tomatoes are struggling a bit. The birds keep eating them.'

I replied with a therapist's knee-jerk response, reflecting the emotion, or reflecting what I assumed to be the emotion: 'That must be very annoying,' I said.

V thought for a moment, then he said: 'Well, it is a little annoying, but I don't mind so long as they're not greedy. The birds have to eat too.'

Wow, I thought to myself. Who would have thought that a violent murderer could be capable of such moments of transcendent generosity of spirit, far beyond most enlightened souls, let alone most normal people.

What have I learnt from this? Well, firstly that I shouldn't be so quick to make assumptions. And secondly, that there is much less consistency in the world than I used to believe. Now I see that everywhere. America is the country of freedom, of liberal gun laws, of unrestricted commercialism. And yet it is illegal to sit on a beach after dark, or to sip a glass of wine in an empty park. Switzerland is a country of precision timekeeping, punitive speeding fines and women's suffrage only since 1971. And yet I remember a shop in Zurich where it was possible to buy most recreational drugs over the counter.

Consistency is something that humans endlessly expect. But in fact there is no reason why things should be consistent. We create ourselves and the world anew every moment. That, I think, is an existential perspective.

37. Coda

When I told Alliant that I planned to leave the program, they informed me that I would only have 10 days to move out of my apartment and leave the country before my visa was revoked and I became an illegal immigrant. Since Saybrook is primarily a distance learning university, it does not offer student visas to foreigners. However, I didn't think this would be a problem since I knew I could re-enter the country on a tourist visa, so long as I left at least once ever three months.

I don't want to go into the details since they are very boring, but despite doing everything by the book, it became increasingly difficult for me to stay in the US. Entering the country was becoming more of a hassle each time. In fact, the first time I tried to enter on a tourist visa, I was held in the immigration centre in Vancouver airport for four hours and forced to buy a $1000 one way ticket back to the UK, although I already had one (but hadn't brought it with me). Anyway, I could probably have stretched out my time in the US for longer had I really wanted to, but I actually started to get fed up of living (and spending money and - formerly - working for free) in a country where I felt that I wasn't welcome, at least not in the eyes of the state.

And, of course, the great benefit of distance learning is that you can do it from anywhere.

So, back in October last year, I applied to work for the Gaza Community Mental Health Project (GCMHP - a Palestinian NGO) based in Gaza City. The situation in Gaza is something I have felt strongly about for a long time. As far as I can tell, it demonstrates the humiliating, frequently brutal, and wholly illegal subjugation of one nation by another. I don't think I see Hamas through rose-tinted spectacles either - I don't condone any form of violence - but I do see them as responding to a historic injustice, rather than perpetrating it. For anyone who is confused about the beef between Palestinians and Israelis, I think that the following website offers a clear and concise summary of the history of the conflict:

http://www.ifamericansknew.org/history/

I applied to GCMHP to work in a therapeutic capacity since that is now something of which I have a little experience. GCMHP wrote back to say that they thought therapy would be difficult given that I don't speak Arabic but, having looked at my CV, would I be interested in working for their Public Relations department? They are looking for someone with language and writing skills who could raise the profile of their organisation in the West. I have never considered myself a PR person, chiefly because most PR people I have met have been vapid posh girls in fashion PR. However, given that the cause is one I believe in (ie the amelioration of mental health in Gaza), I thought to myself, why not? At the very least it could be a stepping stone to other roles in the area.

Armed with a letter of invitation from GCMHP, I applied to the crossing between Israeli and Gaza (called Erez) for security clearance to permit me to cross into Gaza on March 1st. I was advised that the process usually takes 10 days. However, I thought it best to apply ahead of time, so I emailed all the relevant material to the Erez officials on December 14th last year. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, and tweaking of my application, they told me that everything was in order and that I should call them a day or two before I intended to travel. I called them at the end of February, as instructed. They informed me that they had still not received my security clearance. For the last three weeks, I have been phoning Erez every couple of days. They have now had over three months to give me clearance, and still no joy.

Fortunately, I don't think this is personal. I have a friend who works for the UN in Gaza. He tells me that a lot of the foreigners who work in Gaza have experienced long delays recently. What right do the Israelis have to deny me entry to territory which doesn't belong to them? I suspect this is just the first of many frustrations.

I recently spoke to the Egyptian embassy in London who were extremely friendly. I asked whether I would be able to cross into Gaza from Egypt at the Rafah crossing. They have forwarded my request to Cairo. I am hopeful that something will give before the end of the month.

In the meantime, I have been biding my time in the English countryside. I have been working on a new painting, which is a pleasant way to relax. I have been studying and have come to the conclusion that pretty much everything I believe about therapy can be found somewhere in Irvin Yalom's magnificent tome, Existential Psychotherapy. And I have been proofreading my new novel - To Greet the Sun - which finally comes out in June this year.

I have also been watching a couple of episodes per day of the last few series of The Sopranos . That is actually what I wanted to write this post about, but I got carried away. I will save it for my next post.

36. May your journey be long.

I know I have not posted on this blog for quite a while, and in fact I think I will be laying it to rest quite shortly. There is a new one in the offing.

I quit my PsyD in Clinical Psychology last summer. I transferred to an MA in Humanistic and Transpersonal Psychology at Saybrook University. From the outside, and from a careerist perspective, that might seem like a knight's step sideways and backwards. However, from my point of view, it has turned out to be a great move.

Saybrook University used to be called The Humanistic Psychology Institute. The administrative offices are in San Francisco, although the university itself operates primarily by distance learning. That suits me very well. In fact, it reminds me of my undergraduate degree - I download a reading list, do the readings, then write a few essays which I email to my professors all round the country. If you are interested in a subject, and sufficiently disciplined to do the work, then it's great. I don't need to waste any more time sitting in tedious classrooms with second rate professors droning on, as at Alliant. I really think that distance learning is ideal for postgraduate degrees. The undergraduate/campus experience is great to have, and an interesting learning process in itself, but you only need to do it once.

Furthermore, Humanistic and Transpersonal Psychology is a fascinating area. I have completed papers in the Psychology of Shamanism, Eastern Psychology, the Psychology of Conflict Resolution (actually that was not so illuminating), and Existential Psychotherapies. What I particularly appreciate about the Humanistic/Transpersonal perspective is:

1. The interest in human potential. Clinical Psychology only concentrates on the negative - on mental illness and on what happens when things go wrong. I concede that is part of the definition of 'clinical', but I don't think you can have a robust concept of mental illness without also investigating mental health. For my money, mental health is not just the absence of mental illness; that is a depressingly negative way of looking at it. Rather, mental health is something to be achieved, something that can constantly be improved. To me, it signifies the realization of an individual's potential, 'self-actualization', the capacity to find satisfaction in work, the ability to love, to find meaning in life, to 'flow', to transcend our 'skin-encapsulated egos', perhaps even to engage with a spiritual dimension (however you choose to define that).

In the West, I think we grow up with the belief that we reach our mental and cognitive peak in our late teens, and that the most we can hope for after that is to maintain a plateau until the inevitable decline into mindless senility. But I now believe that a healthy person should continue to learn and to develop and to grow in depth and understanding and wisdom throughout life. That view is much more prevalent in Eastern cultures/religions/psychologies/philosophies (the distinctions are often blurred), and it is a tragedy that many people in the west are still unaware of the concept of their own human potential.

I don't want to sound trite or predictable, but the developed, civilized world can seem a depressing place. Material and commercial values are inescapable. The fascination with celebrity is ubiquitous. Our dreams have become so tawdry - frequently they consist of no more than the furtive snatching of frotted pleasure between enseamed sheets, and even that leaves us cold. What passes for entertainment is, in most cases, an insult to the meanest intelligence. We drink and drug ourselves to anaesthetise ourselves to the groundlessness and the emptiness. I increasingly find myself in agreement with the prescient analyst R D Laing; he argued that psychopathology was a sane response to an insane world. Humanistic psychology may not have all the answers, but at least it addresses these questions.

2. I also like Humanistic Psychology because it doesn't endlessly try to keep up the tiresome pretense of being a strict science. In fact, it believes that any method of accessing human experience is worthy of serious investigation. Humanistic psychology is interested in literature, art, philosophy, biography, mythology, anthropology, meditation and altered states of consciousness, shamanism, parapsychology, phenomenology...anything that sheds some light on the experience of being human. It doesn't restrict itself to experimental data in the way that clinical psychology would like to (yawn).

Anyway, I think I needed to go through two years of Clinical Psychology at Alliant in order to come to these personal realisations. At times it was hard - it was not pleasant to feel myself in the role of the nay-sayer, the disbeliever, the doubting Thomas, especially when many of my peers seemed to be such zealous believers. I don't think that I even want to be a therapist anymore - at least not right now - despite the fact that in Existential Psychotherapy I have finally found the modality that truly resonates with my most fundamental convictions. But maybe it's about the journey rather than the destination.

In 1911, the Greek poet Constantine Cavafy wrote the poem Ithaca, about Odysseus' return home. But Cavafy does not urge haste. Quite the opposite, he tells Odysseus to take his time and hopes that his journey will be a long one:

Πάντα στον νου σου νάχεις την Ιθάκη.
Το φθάσιμον εκεί είν' ο προορισμός σου.
Αλλά μη βιάζεις το ταξίδι διόλου.
Καλλίτερα χρόνια πολλά να διαρκέσει·
και γέρος πια ν' αράξεις στο νησί,
πλούσιος με όσα κέρδισες στον δρόμο,
μη προσδοκώντας πλούτη να σε δώσει η Ιθάκη.


Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your final destination.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better for it to last many years,
and when old to rest in the island,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to offer you wealth.

35. Psychopomp

Psy´cho`pomp = n. (Myth.) A conductor of souls to the underworld.


At Burning Man this year, I spent some time with my friend Josh. We used to study together, until I moved to my new university. I saw Josh for a drink in San Francisco recently. He told me a story which I found amusing, if also a little dark. I asked him whether he would consider posting it on my blog – a sort of guest blog. He agreed. This is Josh’s guest post:



I’m not a writer, though there was a time when I dreamt of becoming one. But now I’m training to be a clinical psychologist. That is already seen as a risky career choice in my family – they would have preferred me to be a doctor. Even in San Francisco, Jews are conservative. But I’ve never been much of a scientist: dissection and internal organs and so on make me feel nauseous. There is a volunteer group in Israel called ZAKA who go around after a suicide bombing and pick up body parts. They have to reassemble the bodies as dictated by Halakha – Jewish law. That would be my ultimate nightmare.



I am, however, very interested in neuroscience. It is the greatest mystery to me how the material processes of the brain can result in consciousness. Or, if consciousness and neurochemical processes are not identical, then how do the two relate to each other? How is it possible for the material and the non-material to interact? I find this area so fascinating that I didn’t even feel nauseous when our instructor brought a real human brain into class earlier this semester. In recent years, this fascination has also pointed me in the direction of psychedelics, an interest which I share with icanseealcatraz.



There may be some West Coast families who discuss psychedelics over the dinner table, but my family is not like that. My father teaches International Relations at a prestigious West Coast school. In many ways, his success as an academic is related to his openmindedness and willingness to engage seriously with different points of view. However, he came to this country as a young man determined to make the most of the opportunities available to him. The idea that his son might jeopardize his own future by experimenting with drugs would horrify him. Even here on the West Coast, the definition of success is fairly narrow in the Jewish community. Success, at least in the world in which I grew up, is not necessarily about money or materialism, but nor is it about exploring consciousness. How many Jewish hippies do you know?



Having said that, my father did enjoy talking to me about Burning Man. I told him about the art, and the desert, and the absence of money. He likes to think that he’s been there and done that – got the t-shirt – because he spent six months on a kibbutz after he graduated. Maybe there are some similarities. However, I did not tell him that, a week before going to Burning Man, I met a friend of a friend who sold me a 0.5 oz eye drop bottle containing one hundred trips of lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD) in liquid form.



Such a harmless looking little bottle, and yet what galaxies it contains! I spent a day sitting in the middle of the white desert with icanseealcatraz. There was a period when it seemed that we were having the same thoughts. If consciousness is the foundation of everything – a universal quality which is not only instantiated in individual minds but also transcends them – then surely it ought, in principle, to be possible to know each other’s thoughts? And, according to Eastern thought (at least as explained to me by icanseealcatraz), the illusion is not that we know each other’s thoughts, rather that there is such a thing as ‘each other’. Personal identity, individuation – that is the illusion.



One other thing about LSD – tolerance builds up very fast. By the middle of the week, the effects of even four or five trips were barely noticeable. I put the bottle away for another day and enjoyed the remainder of Burning Man without psychedelics. You really don’t have to be high to enjoy the craziness.



One month later, I was once again struggling to stay afloat in the turbulent waters of graduate school. The pressure was all the more intense since I had to keep a week free for my annual visit to Israel. This is a tradition with which I have grown up, and which I do not feel I can break. Ever since I can remember, I have flown to Tel Aviv with my grandmother for the last week of October. We celebrate my grandmother’s sister’s – my great aunt Hanna’s – birthday, but really it’s just a big family reunion. When I was a baby and we all lived in New York, my grandmother would take me. Now the tables have turned – my grandmother needs a wheelchair most of the time and I have to look after her. She still lives in New York, so I fly there first to pick her up, then we continue together. To be honest, it’s really not a lot of fun, but I think it would break her heart if I refused. There are some things you just have to do.



My grandmother is called Bubby. Well, that means ‘granny’, I don’t actually know what her real name is. Bubby is 88 years old, small, shriveled, acerbic and tenacious. She survived the war by hiding with her sister Hanna in a pitch black, rat-infested cellar in Krakow for six months. She lives in an apartment on West 14th Street, one block down from the Beth Israel hospital. She never switches the lights off, not even on sunny days. She has never talked about her time in the cellar. She is growing forgetful with age, though her ability to process information is as impressive as ever. Bubby has always been a competent woman with her feet firmly planted in the real world. Unlike many of her generation, she has never sought refuge in imaginary worlds or fantasies. However, in recent years I have noticed the development of a certain childlike candor which is quite charming.



I left San Francisco’s balmy Indian summer and landed in cold, wet New York. The rush hour traffic clogged the city’s arteries and it was dark by the time I arrived at Bubby’s apartment. I was immediately engulfed by the humid air from the kitchen and the characteristic smell of cabbage. Bubby welcomed me with the habitual fussing which makes me feel like a little boy and very soon breeds a sense of irritation of which I am ashamed, and which consequently only serves to make me feel more irritated. Despite her advanced years and diminishing mobility, Bubby - with the help of a maid - prepares a feast for me every year. Well, a feast for the eyes at least. Jewish, Polish and Austro-Hungarian culinary traditions come together in her cooking to produce a stodgy, malleable mountain of matter – dumplings, matzah balls, knishes, pirogge and the like. I feel like a toothpaste tube which is laboriously having the paste forced back into it. My favorite food is sashimi.



The following morning we took a taxi to the airport. As soon as we got out of the taxi, we were met by JFK’s wheelchair assistance – an astonishingly efficient service. Bubby likes to sit in the wheelchair and brandish her walking stick; she does not hesitate to use it if her path is blocked. It is often quite embarrassing, but our progress through the airport is rapid.



We ‘preboard’ our flight to Ben Gurion. I am happy to see that we have been given seats at the very front of the plane. There is plenty of leg room for me and Bubby just needs to rock forwards if she wants to stand up or go to the restroom. These days Bubby always takes the window seat, though I am sure that used to be my prerogative. Interesting - that must have been the point at which the balance tipped.



Bubby does not like flying. She is not terrified by it, but it certainly makes her nervous. I know from experience that she will be very talkative for the first half hour, then she’ll doze for the rest.



‘Joshua, please tell your father to visit me. He neglects me. You know I could sue him for that. Lottie Baumberger sued her son, and she won.’



‘Yes Bubby.’



My father does not neglect her. He visits as often as his teaching permits, and he pays for Bubby’s maid. There is no need for him to do that – she is a wealthy woman, though you wouldn’t know it. But Bubby is also a kvetch, to use a word of hers.



The other passengers begin to file in. Some of the older ones give me an approving smile. The dutiful grandson escorting his grandmother back to the homeland – it pleases them. And I play my part well – I hold Bubby’s dry hand, although the ferocity of her grip is far from comfortable.



A girl with the sculpted back of a dancer or a yoga instructor steps lithely into the plane. She is wearing a black tank top and has freckles on her nose. She sees me holding Bubby’s hand and briefly our eyes connect. I feel a sudden thrill. She is smoking hot. Then she puts her bag down on the seat across the aisle from me and installs herself.



‘Joshua, it is time you were married,’ announces Bubby. ‘How old are you?’



‘Twenty-six.’



‘Twenty-six! Your grandfather had produced three children by the time he was twenty-six. What have you produced?’



I am unpleasantly aware of the way that Bubby’s voice carries. It is not a loud voice, but it has tenacity.



‘Even your father was married by twenty-six, and he was very bad with girls. But there are many suitable girls here. They tell me that it is not like that on the West Coast.’ Bubby lowers her voice conspiratorially, but still it carries. ‘There are only goyim on the West Coast,’ she says.


Out of the corner of my eye, I think I detect movement from the girl across the aisle. I sneak a look. She appears engrossed in her in-flight magazine – a little too engrossed? Is there a slight tweak of amusement at the corner of her mouth?


A voluminous figure interposes itself between the smoking hottie and myself. I look up and see a woman in her fifties with tight curls plastered close to her scalp. There is an astonishing severity to her features and an intimidating massivity to her limbs. She looks as if she could have been a nurse in a sadistic psychiatric ward in the 50s.


‘My name is Angelina. I will be your purser for the flight today. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.’



Angelina!


I nod and thank her. She turns in the aisle with all the ease and elegance of an oil tanker in the Panama Canal.


Bubby is staring at the flight attendant call button, directly above.


‘Joshua, please turn off the fan. The air is drying my eyes.’


I have a momentary sinking feeling. This is Bubby’s obsession – dry eyes. In fact, anything to do with her eyes and her eyesight. And I know I mustn’t blame her for it, but it can be hard when I know that it’s all in her head.


I reach up. Her fan is off, but I pretend to twist it anyway.


‘There, it’s off now,’ I say.


‘No, I don’t think it is. I can still feel the air on my eyeballs.’


I reach up again. Fortunately, at that moment, the captain and co-pilot enter the plane. They both smile at Bubby – that’s enough to distract her, for now. And, grudgingly, I have to admit that they are both handsome men. I sneak another look across the aisle and am relieved to see that the object of my lust appears to be asleep. But why am I relieved? Why does every handsome male make me feel insecure? I make a mental note to discuss this with my analyst.


Bubby is peering into the cockpit where the pilots have already started to check the instruments. Why on earth is it called a cockpit? Not inappropriate, in this instance, but still.


I feel the pressure of Bubby’s grip on my hand relax. I look across and see that she is dozing. Then I look across to the other side. The girl is also dozing. Her posture, even in sleep, is perfect - like a taut bow. And, despite her athletic figure, she clearly has magnificent breasts. But she is not the sort of girl who would be interested in me. She probably has some Israeli Special Forces boyfriend. But she did catch my eye… I wonder if she’ll talk to me. I must look pretty good right now, looking after my aging grandmother. Now’s the time. Or maybe we can communicate without talking? If consciousness is a stream, and we are all just instantiations of it, then in principle there is nothing between us, at least nothing insurmountable.



*



After a while, Bubby opens her eyes.


‘My eyes!’ she exclaims.


‘But you’ve had them closed,’ I say, trying to calm her.


‘That’s the worst! I need my drops.’ Immediately she begins to rummage through her purse. I am not too concerned – I’ve been through this before.


‘I can’t see. Help me.’ Bubby deposits her purse on my lap. I look inside with some trepidation. I’m not sure I have ever looked through a woman’s purse before. I feel something prickly, then something furry. There are hundreds of objects in here. Oh God – I don’t want to find a tampon. Would it be a tampon from the 50s? Did they have tampons in the 50s? I don’t like this train of thought. Maybe the purser should look through the purse? If anything in there was from the 50s, she’d be sure to recognize it.


I remember seeing a bottle of eye drops in my own toilet bag. ‘Wait a moment,’ I say to Bubby as I stand up in the aisle and open the overhead locker. I take out my toilet bag. The bottle of eye drops is hiding in the corner. I fish it out and present it to Bubby. She administers them swiftly, efficiently; not surprising, she uses them many times a day.


She blinks a few times and wipes away the excess. ‘They’re different,’ she says, then she leans back and looks out of the window.


I try to do some schoolwork but I find it hard to concentrate. After a while, I give up and select a movie to watch on the screen in front of me. I choose Avatar, the film about the American soldier who is given the body of a jungle-dwelling blue alien. I’ve seen it before and I like it.


After a while, Bubby grabs my arm. ‘Look at the clouds,’ she says.


I look out of the window. There is, predictably, a layer of white cloud beneath us. ‘They’re very nice, ‘ I say.


‘They’re moving,’ she says. I nod. It looks like a pretty flat layer to me, but never mind.


‘The shapes, like ice cream. A big soft world of ice cream.’


I look again. There’s not much about the clouds that reminds me of ice cream. I return to my film.


‘Delicious,’ affirms Bubby. She starts to giggle. Then she presses her nose up against the window.


‘When I was in the cellar, I used to dream of ice cream every day. A big world of bright light white ice cream.’


I feel a sudden jolt of electricity. Bubby has never ever mentioned the cellar. I only know about that from my father, and even he has never talked to Bubby about it.


‘Such a horrible cold dark place. And the disgusting rats. So shameless! They would try to bite you all the time. What they really wanted was to eat your eyeballs. And their tales, so long and thick and bald.’ Bubby shudders convulsively. ‘That’s why we had to think about ice cream all the time. Hanna and I, how we dreamt of ice cream. And here it is, right underneath us. Wait until I tell Hanna about this. Oh, she won’t believe it!’


Again, Bubby starts to giggle. Then she turns away from the window and toward me and I notice that her eyes are very red. Suddenly the cold hand of horror clasps my heart and I remember – the bottle of eye drops contained the LSD left over from Burning Man.


Bubby’s attention is caught by the screen in front of me. She sees the blue Navi people and her eyes open wide. She squeezes my arm. I plug in her headphones and place them on her ears, but my hands are shaking. I don’t know of anyone who has ever taken LSD through the eye before. Bubby seems ok though, so far. But how many drops did she have? Two or three in each eye, that’s between four and six trips. But will ocular administration be more or less efficient? Should I tell someone? What can they do? And what will they think? She doesn’t seem to be in pain, even if her eyes are red.



A monster appears out of nowhere on the screen and Bubby recoils in her seat and gasps. ‘Run,’ she shouts at Jake in his avatar body. I hear a more youthful giggle and, looking across, I see the pretty girl with her hand in front of her mouth, trying to hide her laughter.


‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Is that your grandmother?’


‘Yes.’


‘She’s totally awesome. My granny would never watch Avatar. I mean, she just wouldn’t get it.’


‘Um, yes, well, Bubby likes to stay in touch with popular culture,’ I say.


‘You’re not from New York, are you?’


‘I was born there but then my parents moved to the West Coast. I go to Tel Aviv once a year with my grandmother.’


‘Oh yeah? That’s cool.’ Then, after a moment: ‘I’m sorry, my name’s Lily.’


‘I’m Josh,’ I say, reaching out across the aisle to shake Lily’s hand. Her smile, as I do so, is dazzling. ‘Are you staying in Tel Aviv?’


‘I’m going to be there all week. Maybe we can meet up sometime?’


‘Sure, I’d love to meet up,’ I say, my pulse racing.


‘I’ll write down my address. You might have to speak to my parents but don’t worry, they love American boys.’ Again the dazzling smile. Lily tears a page out of her book and starts to write her address when, suddenly, I hear a heart wrenching sob from Bubby. Reluctantly, I turn away from Lily.


‘She’s dead,’ sobs Bubby. I look at the screen again. The head scientist is lying on the earth, connected to the tree of souls by hundreds of fine luminous filaments. Another spasm of sobbing shakes Bubby and the tears course down her ancient face. She grabs my hand desperately.


‘It’s ok,’ I offer.


‘She’s dead.’


‘Not really dead, just returning to the source.’


Bubby ponders that for a while. ‘I need the restroom,’ she says, eventually.


‘I can get you a Kleenex.’


‘Joshua, I need to go.’


‘Well, ok, sure.’


I stand up to help Bubby out of her seat. She seems a little wobbly but, considering that she has just taken the equivalent of six trips through the eye, she is in surprisingly good shape. She shuffles down the aisle and lets herself into the restroom.



*



I sit back down again and am about to turn to Lily when a gut wrenching Ur-Schrei tears through the cabin. The restroom door flies open and Bubby appears in the aisle like Oedipus and screams, ‘MY EYES!’ Even a dispassionate observer would have to agree that her eyes are a fearsome bright pink color.


I jump out of my seat and help her back down the aisle. We are almost level with our row when she pulls up short and refuses to move.


‘A rat!’ she exclaims. ‘Under the seat!’


This communication is overheard by the front three rows and every passenger instantaneously jerks their feet onto their seats. Two or three of them immediately press the button for the flight attendant.


‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘Bubby often sees things that aren’t there.’


‘I never see things that aren’t there,’ insists Bubby. ‘I can’t even see things that are there. Have you seen my eyes? I can’t see my eyes. You need eyes to see your eyes. Eyes to see eyes. Without eyes, how can you see your eyes?’


‘Excuse me Sir, is there a problem?’ I turn around to see the bulk of the purser in the aisle behind me.


‘Um, no,’ I lie.


‘Yes,’ says Bubby. ‘My eyes are the problem. See.’


Bubby opens her bright pink eyes as wide as possible and leans towards the purser. She looks like an albino rabbit with conjunctivitis.


‘My God,’ says the purser. Let’s help you sit down.’


‘And there are rats on the floor.’


‘What?!’ says the purser.


‘Like in the cellar,’ says Bubby, starting to sob again. ‘Rats with fat bald tails.’


At this, I hear Lily emit a little gasp of horror.


I feel I shouldn’t draw this out any further. Maybe Bubby’s eyes are in danger. ‘Look,’ I say to the purser, ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. I gave my grandmother some eye drops but, as it turns out, there was something else in the bottle.’


‘My God! What was in the bottle? She could go blind!’


‘I am going blind!’ screamed Bubby. ‘Everything is moving!’


‘There was a little LSD in the bottle,’ I whisper to the purser. The purser purses her lips very effectively. She allows an ominous silence to build – her fellow sadists in the psychiatric ward would have enjoyed that. Then she screams: ‘You put LSD in your grandmother’s eyes? Are you crazy?’


This time half the plane falls silent.


‘Sit down,’ she instructs me. ‘Watch him,’ she tells a stewardess who looks nervous and keeps a wary distance.


A few moments later she reappears with a bottle of eye wash. She gives Bubby a sedative, then she bathes her eyes while I prickle with embarrassment.


‘Oooh, that feels so nice,’ says Bubby as the purser presses the eye bath against her eye. ‘It’s like swimming in ice-cream. Eye-cream.’ She starts giggling again.


The captain’s oily voice comes over the speakers: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, there is no cause for concern. There are no rats on this airplane. There is a young man here who thought it would be funny to give his grandmother LSD. Possibly, once we have arrived at Ben Gurion, you may wish to share with him your own view of his little joke. He will be sitting in the front row when you disembark.’


Once the announcement is over, I hear the sound of paper being torn to pieces. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lily drop the pieces into the garbage bag.



*



By the time we arrive at Ben Gurion, Bubby has reached a state of zen-like calm. She holds my hand and smiles beatifically. To some extent, this disarms the hostility of the disembarking passengers. It is still embarrassing though.


‘So beautiful, the flight,’ Bubby repeats again and again.

34. The fridge

Since moving into the new apartment in the Mission, I have not seen eye to eye with our fridge.

Let me state from the outset that I love American fridges. I love their burnished aluminium bulk. I love their twin doors, like a Wild West saloon. I love the way that they remind me of the tremendous optimism of this country - two cars in every garage, more food than you can eat, tanned limbs and soda fountains and the beach boys, and the belief that there is more than enough for everyone. Yes it was naive and conformist and repressive and frequently untrue, but it must have been wonderful too.

I also love the ice dispensing facility of the modern American fridge. No more fiddly trays left unfilled. And the crushed ice, so useful for making cocktails! If you have ever tried crushing ice manually, you will know what a joy that facility is.

So, I was disappointed to discover, on the day of our Halloween party, that the ice making machine appeared not to work. On closer investigation, I saw that the drawer which ought to have been full of ice cubes was in fact filled by one solid block of ice. I tried to remove the drawer. I had to drag the fridge out from its wooden housing to open the swing door fully in order to gain access to the drawer. Having removed the drawer, I held it under the hot tap for 20 minutes so that the hot water could melt the block of ice. I alternately scalded and froze my fingers, but no matter, the goal was noble.

The process was also educational: it provided me with a visual image of the melting of a glacier. The rivers of hot water formed little boreholes in the surface of the ice, eventually converging in subterranean streams and undermining the integrity of the frozen mass until it finally broke into small pieces.

I replaced the empty drawer and checked on it periodically. The cubes of ice which were coming out of the ice-maker were misshapen. I fiddled around with the mechanism, pushing here and prodding there. I began to obsess, checking the drawer every hour. I didn't understand the mechanism. Why were the cubes only half formed?

Maybe the flow of water to the freezer was insufficient? With much effort, I dragged the fridge all the way out of its surrounding wooden housing. I saw, amongst the dust and fur balls and disintegrating organic matter, that the fridge had been standing on the water feed pipe, reducing the flow. I managed to pull out the water feed pipe, then I pushed the fridge back in.

Confident of success, and desirous of confirmation, I checked the ice drawer at least every half an hour. NO IMPROVEMENT!

Again I pulled and prodded at the mechanism. Still nothing.

What's more, having removed the pipe from under the back of the fridge, it now tilted back at a very unsatisfactory angle. In fact, when both doors are open, it looks as if the fridge is leaning back to hawk up a throatful of phlegm prior to spitting it at whatever sad, fridge-light-illumined figure happens to be standing in front. The interior of this fridge, once a place of cool and calm abundance, has morphed into the mocking maw of my nemesis.

G and I have tried placing a plank of wood behind the fridge and then tipping it forward so that the back will be lifted by resting on the plank. However, the wooden housing means that we can't tip the fridge forward sufficiently.

I am saddened by these developments.

Last night, I resolved to try one more time. I meditated a little, then I opened the ice drawer. I allowed my fingers to wander over the mechanism. Like a zen master, I did not try to guide them. With radiance pure and simple, I allowed them to feel their way. When they encountered resistance, I allowed it to pass through consciousness and then to evaporate like a soap sud or a thought formed by the illusion of selfhood. Eventually, and with my fingers almost frostbitten, I was rewarded. The warmth of my fingers had melted a tiny piece of ice and freed up a part which, up until that point, I had thought was fixed. I moved it and it clicked satisfactorily into place. Then I went to bed.

After a few minutes, the ice machine starting to produce an irritating, clucking sound. Was this the equivalent of derisive laughter? Was this mechanical monster mocking me? It certainly stopped me from falling asleep.

And this morning, no ice.

But a haiku:

American fridge -
Bright doors to rich abundance!
My cold sad fingers.

33. The Mission

It has been a long time since my last post, which was about fasting. Well, I did fast for three days, and I didn't die, in case anyone was wondering. Actually, it wasn't all that difficult. Fasting over a three day period was, for me, rather binary: I was either hungry or not - there was not much in between. And when I was hungry, even on day three, it was never much worse than the feeling of having missed breakfast on an ordinary day. The hunger pangs would come every few hours but in between there was respite and, for the most part, I felt pretty normal.

By day three I did find it hard to study - my ability to concentrate was certainly affected. If I had been lying down, I would get a bit of a head-rush when I stood up. I also found it advisable to avoid places where I could see or smell food because they would trigger more aggressive pangs. Interestingly, I also noticed an increased sensitivity in my ability to smell. I walked past a group of girls in North Beach and I am pretty sure that the smell of their perfume was much more intense than normal, and I could detect it from much further away. I was left feeling like Suskind's Grenouille - not a particular role model of mine.

I was in Vancouver when I broke the fast. I celebrated with an evening meal of sushi, then with a brownie from Starbucks and a few slices of maple fudge. This set my heart racing as if I were on speed. It is interesting to see what a powerful effect sugar can have when you are not used to it.

I have now moved into an apartment in the Mission district of San Francisco. I like living here - the sights and smells make me feel as if I am in Central America. There is also a much greater sense of community - I often see Mexicans, Salvadoreans or Guatemalans bumping into each other or hollering at each other across the street. It's also warmer and sunnier than other parts of the city. In fact, the Halloween weekend felt like midsummer. On hot afternoons, there's a group of Mexicans who meet to shoot craps against the wall beside my building. Well, I don't know whether they are actually shooting craps, but I have always wanted to use that expression. In any case, the Mexicans are throwing dice against a wall and taking bets.

I share the ground floor apartment with my friend G. There are a number of steps leading up to the front door. On sunny afternoons, it is a great pleasure to sit on those steps. They remind me of the steps leading up to the old brownstone in Sesame Street. Also, although I am not part of the Latino community here, when I sit on the steps and watch the goings on, I feel that I am not totally divorced from it either. Increasingly, I think it is important to feel some sense of community, even in a small vicarious way.



My flatmate and I decided to throw a Halloween party. On the morning of the party, I still did not have a costume. Fortunately, on the way to buy a breakfast burrito, I walked past a shop on Mission Street which, I think, provides Sunday best outfits for the neighborhood's coolest cats. It certainly does not market itself as a fancy dress shop. However, I found a very satisfactory costume - a peach suit and hat complemented by silky turquoise shirt and tie, and matching turquoise faux-aligator skin shoes:









It did cross my mind that walking around the Mission in my get up might be equivalent to blacking my face with shoe polish and wandering around Harlem - i.e. an error. However, I need not have worried - people openly burst into laughter when they saw me.

32. Fast

I am now back in San Francisco. I have transferred to Saybrook University, a place which I think is much more in line with my interests and proclivities. I am currently doing courses in The Psychology of Shamanism, Eastern Psychology and The Psychology of Conflict Resolution. I have the familiar and exciting September-start-of-a-new-academic-year feeling.

In keeping with this sense of renewal, I have decided to lay off psychotropic experimentation for a while. I realise I didn't get very far over the summer, at least not with Ayahuasca, but I don't feel there is any rush.

Since I have been experimenting with putting things into my body, it crossed my mind that maybe I should try not putting anything into my body. While reading about meditation practices, it dawned on me that I have never deliberately fasted. So, tomorrow morning I intend to begin a three day fast. No solids, no juices, only water. I am intrigued to see what happens.

A Jewish friend of mine pointed out that my fast happens to coincide exactly with Yom Kippur. Synchronicity?

Watch this space.

32. Recent Commentator

If you recently sent me a comment beginning 'Do tell Claus,' then please comment again and send me your email address so I can write back. You ask some questions I would like to address, but I don't want to do so publically via my blog, and blogspot won't allow me to write back to you individually. I am not trying to discover your identity, just trying to communicate with you.

31. Psychonauting

I have been rather remiss about writing up the results of my 'investigations'. This is an update.

Wednesday June 30 2010
09:00 One boiled egg and nectarine for breakfast.
12:10 Ingested quarter tab LSD (lysergic acid diethylamide) while sitting on terrace in sunshine. Used a small amount in order to establish minimum dosage.
13:06 No noticeable effect. Ingested further half tab.
14:00 Slight muscular tension all over. Considerable hunger. Made and ate tomato/ avocado/ mozzarella salad.
14:30 Some slight visual effects - dancing patterns but only when I concentrated hard. Muscular tension not very pleasurable. Went for a walk along path on hillside. Sat on a bench overlooking village. Smoked 1 x hash cigarette. Muscular tension eased. Sense of unreality. An old Swiss lady with an off-road zimmer frame joined me on the bench. She stated: 'It is very peaceful here.' I agreed. We sat in companionable silence for half an hour before she left. A butterfly landed on my shoulder. I felt myself to be a part of, rather than apart from, the natural world.
15:30 Continued walk down path and through village. Removed shoes and walked barefoot. Contact with earth was pleasurable.
16:30 Returned home. Visuals still limited.
17:30 Return to baseline.
Conclusion: poor quality acid.

Saturday June 31st 2010
Went for 7 hour hike/climb up Piz Mezdi, Piz San Gian and Piz Surlej. Returned home to meet Dom (my brother) c. 16:00
19:00 Sat on beanbag in sitting room. Still considerable natural light. Put Amazon icaros on hifi. Inhaled one hit of DMT (dimethyltriptamine) - approx. three yellow crystals on bed of ash, smoked through a glass crack pipe. Initial taste was acrid and somewhat plastic. Closed my eyes and was immediately transported to a bright, curving tunnel. Sensed a benign presence inviting me down the tunnel but did not see anything more. Breathing very calm and deep. Effect wore off after c. 2 mins. Felt slight tingling all over body, accompanied by slightly shaking hands and clammy palms.
19:10 Took a bigger hit, this time did not see tunnels. Found myself in a bright, cheerful space which reminded me of early childhood memories. Bright shapes or balloons appeared to be bouncing around me. No sighting of other 'living' entities. In my subsequent reading, the twenty-fourth fragment of Heraclitus has given me pause for thought: The Aeon is a child at play with coloured balls. I am not sure what to conclude from this.
19:20 My brother Dom took his first ever DMT hit, which I observed. First inhalation was slight. He closed his eyes and immediately began to breathe deeply and calmly. His eyelids were flickering. He reported also seeing tunnels with Amazon/ Aztec motifs. Effect wore off after c. 1.5 minutes.
19:25 Dom took a second, much bigger hit. Journey lasted c. 4-5 minutes. His first words upon reopening his eyes: 'That was f*cking nuts.' Reported seeing two insect-like female figures in a bright pink and purple landscaped whose contours recalled the mountainside he had hiked down that afternoon. The insectlike females were beckoning him onwards, inviting him to see their civilization on the valley floor. Effect wore off before he arrived there.
19:45 Smoked 1 x hash spliff and drunk 1 x bullshot.
20:00 Return to baseline.

Wednesday 4th August 2010
08:30 Breakfast: 1 x peach, 1 x boiled egg, 1 x bowl of Champion muesli.
12:00 Lunch: Tomato, mozzarella, avocado salad.
13:40 Ingested half a Pez sweet which had been anointed with LSD by Mark, the San Francisco pioneer of blotter art (see post 28: Experimentation). Mark had stated, in predictably cryptic fashion, that each Pez sweet was 'double-barreled', meaning, I think, that 1 sweet = two doses.
14:54 Effects predominantly physical. Some muscular tension. Went to get sickle and cut grass which is overgrowing the path up to the house.
15:20 Tired of cutting grass. Increased awareness of sensation of wind on my body. Removed t-shirt. Awareness of heightened libido.
14:00 Sat staring at bowl of lemons. Increased sensitivity to play of light on the lemons.
14:10 Insufflated 1 line of ketamine. Initially limited effects. Light appeared to dance around the lemons. Awareness of depth and calmness of breathing, and of the pleasure inherent in each breath.
14:30 - 20:00 Insufflated a further 7 - 10 lines of ketamine. Effects were cumulative but memory is hazy. Was unable to take notes. Early in the afternoon spent c. 10 mins staring into a mirror: powerful sense of unfamiliarity concerning my own physical being. Later in the afternoon, after further dosage, felt a great sense of confidence in myself combined with a recognition that there is not much which I need and much which I am willing to give. This struck me as very therapeutic. On some days I am troubled by a tension around my belly button, a tension which I now view as primarily psychological. Under the effect of LSD + Ketamine, the tension was resolved. After further lines, physical movement became a struggle. I settled on two beanbags and covered myself with a blanket around 18:00, listening to music. After insufflating another line, I felt that my body was reverberating at the same frequency as some mysterious cosmic spirit. Following further insufflation, I experienced a sense of euphoria as my own spirit - my own essence - appeared to transcend the limitations of my own being and join a joyful cosmic consciousness. These terms are vague and unsatisfactory I know, but they are the best I can do. Interestingly, my mind remained conscious and lucid at all times, though I lacked the coordination or the will to take notes. I do remember thinking that this was one of the most profoundly spiritual and significant experiences of my life. I also remember wondering whether I was experiencing identity with Brahman, the world soul.
20:00 I thought that by now the effects of the LSD must have worn off. However, insufflation of one further line of ketamine produced immediate effects in the form of synaesthesia. Tumultuous storm clouds had risen over the snowy peaks I could see through the window. The setting sun bounced off the clouds. The music I was listening to appeared to crescendo and my sensory perceptions overlapped and intertwined. However, I never lost lucidity of thought and at all times my body felt heavy but at peace. Frequently I wanted to smile but noticed a numbness in my facial muscles.
20:30 The psychological effects of LSD/ketamine had more or less worn off, though I still found it hard to move. However, since I felt I had experienced some form of spiritual awakening, I decided to smoke some DMT to see whether I might be vouchsafed a glimpse of other entities. I tottered upstairs to my room to get the DMT and glass pipe, then settled myself back on the beanbags. There was still some remaining light in the sky and I could see the buildings of the village through the windows of the door. I took one hit of DMT and was immediately catapulted into a totally different universe. It was as if I had changed from one computer game to another - the graphics were unrecognizable. I had not closed my eyes and from the tumultuous, synaesthesiastic world of LSD/ketamine, I now found myself in a bright, cheerful, pixelated universe whose blocky shapes once again recalled an Aztec aesthetic. The houses I could see through the window could not have been more cheerful: their windows were dancing in welcome. The mountains, so recently bruised and brooding, were now a snowy white against a serene blue sky. Looking around the room, it seemed as if the place had received the ultimate spring clean. Everything was pristine and the lamps and chairs and radiators were sparkling as if they had been sprinkled with fairy dust. It was in this room that, as lucky children, my brother and sister and I had been ceremoniously lead in every Christmas eve to see our piles of Christmas presents stacked in the corners. Looking around the room, I felt something of the magic of those early memories. If God had spoken to me at that moment, I would not have been surprised. Anything and everything seemed possible. It also seemed that the real (?) world and the spirit world were superimposed on top of each other, like transparencies on an overhead projector. But, as the DMT began to wear off, so did the magic and the sparkle, until all that was left was the everyday world of consensual reality.

I feel very happy to have seen this happy spirit world, though I still wonder why I have not seen any spirits or machine elves or insectlike females. Are they merely different ways of construing the spirit world? Do they only come to those who need them? Or is my inner vision in some way clouded? Did I not smoke enough DMT? Or maybe there were no spirits paying house calls last night? One thing is for sure: there are truly more things in heaven and earth than I had ever dreamt of.

21:00 1 x bullshot, 1 x Indian bidi cigarette. Return to baseline.

Today: no hangover, no fatigue, no negative effects.

30. The Storyteller's Chair

I have just been reading a friend's blog in which she explains that she only writes about bad stuff because the positive stuff makes for very boring reading. In general, I would have to agree with her. No one wants to know how great a date was, but everyone enjoys reading about a disastrous date.

However, I also think it is important to acknowledge, once in a while, that there are reasons for hope and for optimism in the world. I came across one such yesterday, as I went to look around the recently refurbished playground in the tiny village in which I am currently living, out here in the Engadine Valley in Switzerland.

There is a new pulley system which my 12 year old nephew loved. There is also a rather ingenious wooden sculpture of a large ant which you can climb up and sit on. However, I was most struck by the storyteller's chair in the corner of the playground, and the little circle of seats surrounding it. The chair itself has a niche carved into it for storing the wood-bound storybook. The stories are printed on weatherproof cards and the original Romantsch version - with pictures - is translated on subsequent pages in French, Italian, German and English. Romantsch is a little known dialect which developed from the Latin spoken by the Roman legionaries who were stationed here. It is still spoken in this valley and a few neighboring ones, by a dwindling number of people. I am happy that people are proud of their language, that they are sufficiently open minded to tell their stories in four other languages simultaneously, and that they still believe in the importance and value of storytelling.

If you walk down the Spinas valley, there are five more of these storyteller's chairs, each with a different storybook.

There are many places where this could never happen. However, examining this storyteller's chair, I felt that all was right with the world.

29. First Solo Ayahuasca

On Saturday June 19th I did my first solo Ayahuasca experiment.

The day before I had been on a long hike up over the snow covered Fuorcla da Val Champagna (2500m). Climbing the last 100 metres took over an hour - I kept breaking through the snow, sometimes up to my waist. Exhausting work, but good exercise.

On Saturday I rested. I ate a bowl of cereal for breakfast, a Greek salad and two nectarines for lunch and a few cashew nuts mid-afternoon. I placed a vomit bucket next to my beanbag and laid out a few of the ritual cigar-cigarettes from Iquitos. I built a fire in the hearth at 20.00, then I set light to the palo santo wood which Otilia the shaman had given me. The fragrant smoke of this wood is used like incense by Amazon Indians; it is also said to banish evil spirits. I walked around the house, fumigating with a piece of smoking wood and seriously questioning my sanity. However, I didn't want to take any chances.

I was, I must admit, a little nervous. People have been known to do crazy things under the influence of Ayahuasca. I was all by myself in the house. What's more, I did not know how strong the brew was which I'd brought back from the Amazon. I had 500ml which was supposed to be sufficient for 6 doses. I decided to be careful and to give myself a half dose of 50ml.

At this time of year it does not get dark until 21.30/22.00. I spent a couple of hours thinking about what I hoped to get out of the Ayahuasca experience. One thing I would like to glean is convincing firsthand evidence of a spirit world - the experience of a dimension which is inexplicable to science as we know it.

I took the Ayahuasca at 20.56. It was less viscous than I remembered, less noxious and a little bit fizzy. Presumably it had started to ferment. Then I sat on a beanbag, opposite glowing cinders, for an hour. It slowly grew dark outside. I put on a CD of icaros, the traditional Amazon songs and chants. I felt nothing out of the ordinary, other than hunger and boredom.

I waited another hour. Still nothing happened. Then I decided that the dose must have been too weak, or the brew I had bought was a fake. I got up, switched on the lights and made myself a hearty meal. I felt shortchanged but decided to compensate with a spliff and a line of ketamine. I then settled down to watch another episode of The Wire. I had a sense of unfamiliarity about both the program and my surroundings. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the episode and was able to go to sleep immediately after.

I have boiled the Ayahuasca brew again in order to burn off any alcohol from fermentation. I read online that it is advisable to do that. Next time I will administer a larger dose.

28. Experimentation

If you read my post about Cronbach's alpha, you will know my feelings about the field of psychology as it is taught at my current university. I find it stultifying and infantilising. However, there are other schools. One in particular appeals to me because of its humanistic emphasis, and because I could complete the degree by distance learning. I would only have to attend two week long conferences a year, both in San Francisco. However, if I were to go ahead and complete a doctorate then I still need to write a thesis.

I have been thinking about possible thesis topics for most of this year. The fact that I have found it so hard to come up with something which really grabs me suggests to me once again that I am not truly cut out for this field. Such topics as 'Meta-analysis of treatments for veterans with PTSD' or 'Correlations between Depression and Foetal Alcohol Syndrome', while interesting on the surface, lose their initial attraction (for me) once you get into the statistical nitty gritty. It's probably different if you know someone who suffers from either condition, but I don't. Increasingly, I think that personal exposure to mental illness, whether in a friend, family member or in oneself, is the greatest motivating factor for a clinician. The wounded healer is an archetype that makes sense - I do think that ex-addicts probably make the best addiction counselors, for instance. But even then, a substantial degree of altruism is also necessary. I don't think I possess any of these qualities in sufficient quantity.

However, I am and always have been interested in existential questions. Of course, I recognise that is a luxury, but that doesn't diminish my interest. A spiritual dimension, and altered states of consciousness, are both areas which fall under the existential rubric. Over the last year or two, I have become increasingly fascinated by these fields. This is partly due to personal experience. The ten days I spent in the Amazon with the shaman, and the two Ayahuasca ceremonies I took part in, left me with a lot of unanswered questions. I did not return from the Amazon with conclusive evidence, even of a subjective nature, for the existence of a spirit world. Nevertheless, I felt I had experienced intimations of it. When there are many phenomena which are inexplicable to science, there comes a point at which an explanation which is not rigidly scientific may indeed be the most elegant and convincing. I feel I am approaching that point.

One of the few teachers at my university whom I have admired is my professor of psychoanalysis. We share many interests in literature and philosophy which do not play much of a role in the thinking of most psychotherapists today. I met this professor for lunch on a number of occasions. He told me that he had been one of the first students at my university when it opened in 1969. However, he quit after two years and went to train as an analyst with the maverick anti-psychiatrist R D Laing in London.

One of the requirements of my school is that we clock 45 hours as recipients of psychotherapy. I asked this professor whether he could recommend a psychoanalyst for me to see. My professor then asked me whether I would be interested in seeing him. I said I would; I have now seen him twice a week for the last six months. I told him about my experience with Ayahuasca and he told me that, when he was training to be an analyst, he used lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD-25) once a week over a period of years and that it brought him 'great clarity'.

In the 1950s and 60s there was a lot of interest in the potential use of psychotropic substances in therapy. There were studies which administered LSD to autistic children and alcoholics. Due to poor methodology, the results of many of these studies are inconclusive (although only in very rare cases could the effects be considered harmful). LSD is thought to have therapeutic potential because it enables patients to unblock repressed material and to accept themselves for who they are. All clinical trials ceased in 1970 when LSD was made illegal in response to a political firestorm. However, there has been a recent resurgence of interest in the therapeutic use of LSD within the field of psychology. MAPS, the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies, recently held a large conference in San Jose, CA, and is currently financing clinical studies on the psychotherapeutic uses of LSD with terminal cancer patients in Switzerland, as well as similar studies using MDMA (3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine - main ingredient in Ecstasy) for the treatment of PTSD in both Israel and Switzerland.

Furthermore, I am interested in the similarities between the mental states induced by meditation and those induced by chemicals. Through meditation, Tibetan monks are able to train the ego-transcendent right halves of their brains. In our frantic daily lives, we may be further than ever from those meditative brain states, but perhaps we can access them in other ways, some more desirable than others. The following link gives a fascinating insight into the experience of a neuroscientist who suffers a sudden stroke; the blood is cut off from her left brain hemisphere and she is forced to experience the world entirely through the underused right brain hemisphere -

http://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html

So, before committing to writing a thesis on some aspect of psychedelics and psychology, I thought I ought probably to conduct some experiments on myself. That is partly why I have retreated here to the Swiss mountains for the summer. I can be more systematic and scientific about my experiences. I am assured of a minimum of distractions and I can control my diet very precisely. Also, this is a place I love, and hence I am at my best here. I think that these are all important factors when using psychedelics, particularly when using them with a view to learning and benefiting from the experience.

After spending a week with the shaman in the Amazon, I returned to Iquitos. Iquitos is the most populous city in the world that cannot be reached by road. Travel to and from Iquitos is by plane or by boat. It is a hot, humid, dirty and intense city. The streets within the city itself are dominated by thousands of motorised rickshaws. They are like swarms of noisy wasps. There is one street where fish are sold. By midday the gutters are knee high in fish offal. The flies delight in the glistening innards. The stench is indescribable. In the afternoon, when the market has packed up, the vultures do battle for the leftovers. Later in the afternoon there is often a downpour which cleans the streets.

There is another smaller, darker street which is the preserve of the witchdoctors, healers and magic men. All sorts of herbal remedies, medicinal brews, aphrodisiac concoctions, unguents, salves, leaves and roots are sold here. The vendors sit in front of the stalls but they do not hawk their wares as elsewhere in the market. They are more like reserved apothecaries, calmly awaiting the patient's inquiry.

I was after Ayahuasca. The first stall I asked at had the main ingredients - Banisteriopsis Caapi vine and Chacruna bark. However, they did not have any ready made. At the next stall, a boy was sent to fetch a bottle from the stall belonging to a shaman further down the street. I bought the bottle for the equivalent of about ten dollars. I was told that it contained sufficient Ayahuasca for 6 doses.

I continued down the street and perused the other stalls. One vendor was more talkative than the rest and we fell into conversation. He said that he too was a shaman from the interior. He asked me what I had bought and I replied that I had bought Ayahuasca. He asked me who from and I said I didn't know, a boy had been dispatched to get it. Then he asked if he could see it. I gave him the bottle. He opened it and sniffed it, then pronounced that it was a good brew. I was happy to hear this since, for all I knew, I could have been sold muddy river water. He then offered, as a favour, to ensure the best possible experience for me. I said he should go ahead. He hunkered down in the corner of his stall, removed the top of the bottle and started blowing smoke into it and chanting under his breath. I am not sure what this achieves, or how it achieves anything, but it is a ritual which I had also observed Otilia perform back in the jungle.

I bought some cigarettes off this man. They are more similar to cigars than cigarettes. Then he attached one of his labels for a different medicine to the outside of the bottle of Ayahuasca, in case I had trouble at customs. Fortunately I have not had any trouble - the bottle has accompanied me from Iquitos to San Francisco, San Francisco to London, London to Salzburg and finally over the border into Switzerland. I am not entirely sure what Ayahuasca's legal status is in any of these countries - quite possibly no one would care anyway.

*

I also wanted to buy some LSD to experiment with over the summer. I have used it before on a few occasions, but I have always found the experience confusing rather than illuminating. However, in the past I have paid scant attention to set and setting. I am interested in comparing the respective benefits and drawbacks of LSD and Ayahuasca.

San Francisco is reputed to have some of the purest LSD available. I made some inquiries and followed up on a couple of leads. However, as is so often the way with these things, it all came to naught. The community of drug users and vendors are, for the most part, an unreliable bunch.

I told my friend G about my difficulties. He suggested that I should accompany him to visit his next door neighbour, M. He thought that M would be able to solve my problem directly. So, I went to meet G one Sunday afternoon and together we knocked on M's door.

M's house is an old 3 floor Victorian in the Mission district. M opened the door himself. He is a man in his 60s with wrinkled, leathery skin, long graying hair and a lot of rather macabre jewelry. He proudly showed us round his house which appeared not to have been cleaned or tidied for half a century. On the ground floor, the walls were covered with framed works of blotter art. M has been a blotter artist since the 1960s - he designs the motifs which are printed on the blotter paper which is then dabbed with LSD, and from which the individual tabs are then cut. He also has one of the largest collections of blotter art in the world. A niche market, for sure, but an intriguing one.

Alice Climbing through the Looking Glass, by M

We climbed the stairs to M's dark, high ceilinged bedroom on the first floor. Every inch of wall space was covered with bizarre bric-a-brac: hundreds of dusty old apothecary's bottles, small stuffed animals, skulls, bones and psychedelic art. The room had the feel of a Victorian curiosity shop. M sat on his red velvet four poster bed smoking marijuana and holding forth. He told us that he had known Timothy Leary and, I think, even Albert Hoffmann, the father of LSD. M did seem to know what he was talking about; when I eventually asked whether he could help me get hold of a sufficient quantity in liquid form for me to take to Switzerland over the summer, he said I would be better off getting it from Sandoz laboratories. That is true - Sandoz is a Swiss company which produces the purest LSD for use by clinicians and researchers. However, you have to have a licence to buy from them, and as a student I am not eligible.

Most of what M was saying made sense. However, at times he would get side-tracked onto material which was much less convincing. For instance, when I asked him why he had so many flasks of water covering the floor, he replied that he wanted to be prepared for the rising sea levels which would precede the end of the world in 2012. He then got up and fished out a book to show me. The book was published by a Freemason's lodge around 1900 and apparently drew on ancient and mystic sources to provide irrefutable evidence of this imminent apocalypse. M spoke with somewhat fanatic conviction on this subject. It did make me think that I have to be careful with my own experiments this summer. Overuse of psychedelics, like overuse of anything, is not beneficial.

When we asked whether M could get hold of some LSD for us, he replied that he could but that he required us to undergo a test of suitability first. He said he was unwilling to give LSD to people he didn't know well and who might have bad experiences which could end up getting him into trouble. He added that he is already on the CIA's wanted list. However, his reasoning seemed sensible in principle. When I asked what the test of suitability consisted of, he said that he wanted us to get high with him, but that it would only last about 5 minutes and that he would know after that. I tried to glean more information but M became evasive. Nevertheless, he was confident that he was able to get an insight into my psychic health in those 5 minutes, so we made a plan to meet the following Sunday with a view to conducting this mysterious initiation.

Since I had a friend staying with me the following weekend, I ended up having to rush to M's house rather tired and hung over after a night of drinking and a day of hiking. I stopped at G's on the way to pick him up. G and his brother R were entertaining guests who had come for a dinner party. G said that he was not in the mood to undergo this initiation but I persuaded both him and his brother and girlfriend to accompany me.

We knocked on M's door and, following another mandatory appreciation of his blotter art, he lead us back up to his bedroom. He appeared a little disappointed that I was to be the only initiate but gamely set about making preparations. He informed me that he and I would both take one hit off his pipe. He pulled out what appeared to be a crack pipe and started loading the bowl with a few small yellow crystals. When I asked him what they were he replied evasively that this was an endogenous substance - it occurs naturally in the human brain. At this stage I began to suspect that the crystals were N,N-Dimethyltryptamine (DMT), the active ingredient in Ayahuasca. The natural occurrence of DMT is correlated with out-of-body and near-death experiences.

I took one long drag from the pipe, closed my eyes and leant back in my chair. I found myself catapulted almost instantaneously into a parallel universe. I felt I was part of a great river of consciousness. I heard a maternal voice and felt like a baby again. And I felt a great calm. I lost all sense of place and time. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was M's face right up next to mine. He winked conspiratorially at me and made me think of a leprechaun. Then I looked across at the sofa where G, his girlfriend and his brother were all observing me with interest. It took me a few seconds for me to remember who they were. I told them that I felt fine and that the experience had been a positive one.

In the meantime, M had got up to prepare something at his desk. He returned with two Pez sweets and placed them on my hand. He said that I should be careful because they were still wet, but they were my reward. I still felt befuddled and asked him what they were but he again got sidetracked. Suddenly I realised that they were Pez sweets soaked in LSD. I quickly removed them from my hand before I absorbed the LSD through my skin.

We all left a few minutes later. G and his brother and girlfriend had to return to the dinner party they were hosting next door. I had to drive to dinner with other friends in a restaurant uptown. I said goodbye to M and thanked him. I still wanted to get hold of a larger quantity of LSD but I thought I would drop by his place the following week to discuss it. I then drove uptown. The DMT had in no way affected my motor coordination and I felt very lucid. However, I also felt slightly shell shocked, as if I had climbed down from a high peak in a howling blizzard and had just entered a snug mountain restaurant with contented lowlanders warming themselves around a hearth fire.

I have subsequently done some online research about DMT, or 'the spirit molecule', as it is also known. I found the following to be an excellent resource:

http://wiki.dmt-nexus.com/DMT-Nexus_Wiki:Health_and_Safety

As I wrote earlier, DMT is the active ingredient in Ayahuasca. The following is an interesting link about Ayahuasca:

http://wiki.dmt-nexus.com/Ayahuasca

I also enjoyed this video a lot. The psychology of Piers Gibbon, the posh presenter, is rather fascinating. His relationship with the smug Texan is intriguing, and the Shamanic phlegm and millipede episode at the very end is both revolting and baffling.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=3887330534813813733#

Finally, this follow up online chat with Piers Gibbon is also quite interesting:

http://www.piersgibbon.com/online-chat-on-channel-4-i-found-the-transcript/


I think I will have to add pure DMT to my list of substances to be investigated.

27. Apology/ dinner dates.

Firstly, I feel I have to write an apology. In my post about Cronbach's alpha, I was rather mean about fellow students on my course. And about Americans. Now, I didn't think that any of my fellow students read this blog. I thought I had pretty much kept it to myself, and I don't think you can find it by searching my name online. However, it is quite possible that I talked about it in some grandiose drunken moment which I no longer recall.

Anyway, that post was a bit of a rant. I feel bad because I wrote a few things that I really didn't mean. I do not think that Americans are barbarians because of their bad pronunciation of foreign names. There are definitely cultural differences, I won't deny that. And I frequently feel an absence of humor (well, my sort of humor) in day to day interactions, but I'm not sure whether that is a related to this country, this particular part of this country, or the earnestness of this field. However, at the same time I do actually have a very high estimation of most of the people I have met here, based primarily on their default position of warmth and friendliness. Similarly, strangers in the street will smile at you and say hello. I actually think that, as grumpy and cynical Europeans, we could learn something from that. It makes everyone's day more pleasant.

There is another cultural difference which I find amusing, though I would also have to admit that, logically, my position and attitude is the more bizarre. I find it very odd that other students are happy (and permitted) to consume whole meals (e.g. a steaming dish of microwaved lasagna) during class. I would feel very awkward doing that. And that's hardly surprising - from the age of 13 to 18 I went to a school where eating in the street was verboten. You could be fined money for just popping a chocolate into your mouth while sauntering down the High Street. And if students are hungry in class, why shouldn't they eat while the professor instructs? It is perfectly reasonable, and yet I think I will always find it a little odd.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that I may have an unhealthy attitude to eating. I like to stuff myself with as much food as I can but I often feel rather bloated afterwards, not to mention quite disgusted by myself. So then I go to the bathroom and stick a finger down my throat and vomit it all back up.

Iocor.

But I do think that I may have an odd attitude to eating. For one, I hate dinner dates with anyone that I don't already know quite well. If I go on a date, I much prefer to go for a drink. The whole dinner thing is bedeviled with potential pitfalls. For one, I prefer either to talk or to eat. I am not very good at doing both at the same time, for the very logical reason that they both require you to use the same body part. Of course, in general people tend to alternate, but then there is the danger of spitting bits of food or energetically chewing in awkward silence prior to forcing a recalcitrant bolus over your epiglottis. And if the bolus has been insufficiently chewed - maybe a piece of steak which has separated into two smaller boli which are still connected by a thin string of gristle, like an Argentinian gaucho's hunting bolas - what then? The risks are great.

Argentinian aborigine with hunting bolas

I also worry about getting food on my face (spaghetti, with its whiplash finish, presenting the greatest risk), or having bits stuck between my teeth. And, frankly, eating is just not an aesthetically pleasing activity. On a first date, when both parties have devoted energy to looking attractive, why would you choose an activity which, in one moment of inattention, has the potential to undo all the hard work?

I also don't like sitting opposite people in restaurants, as one is frequently forced to do. It is too formal and feels a bit like an interview. Fortunately, many restaurants here have bars at which you can eat. I hope it is a trend which catches on in other places.

I also don't like the fiasco of ordering wine, given that they all taste pretty much the same to me. That's not something I am ashamed of, though it's not necessarily something I want to admit to right away. And I am no great fan of the kerfuffle around paying the bill. If I invite a girl on a date, then I expect to pay for us both (so long as I have the means - that's critical). After all, it's not much of an invitation otherwise. But it is always an attractive quality when a girl doesn't appear to expect you to pay for her, though I'm not sure how this can be conveyed without her having to go through the traditional pantomime of searching for purse/ pulling out credit card etc.

My two preferred ways of avoiding the bill paying/ bill splitting debate are, firstly, to get the bill while the other person is away from the table. That's really the easiest way and probably ends up reflecting most positively on you. Alternatively, I like to stress in my initial communication that I would like to invite my companion to dinner. If she still remonstrates when it comes to paying, you can always say that she can buy you a drink somewhere else; in fact, it can provide an organic segue to the rest of the evening.

26. I've started so I'll finish...

...by writing about my dream last night. I do this with some trepidation, since even for the most die-hard Jungian, other people's dreams can be extremely dull.

I have never been able to remember my dreams, so for the last six months I have kept a notebook next to my bed to record them. I've only written in it a handful of times, and most of the nocturnal entries are illegible. There is no record of nocturnal emissions.

So, last night's dream:

I was bicycling along a road on the Isle of Wight, which I have visited twice or maybe three times in my life. It was a balmy afternoon in late summer. The low hills were bathed in warm apricot light and the air was full of those tiny bouncing bugs that come out shortly before sunset. I was on my way back to my bed and breakfast. I had come to the island for the summer to write.

I reached the top of a gentle incline and was about to freewheel down the other side when I noticed a small farm lane to my right which parted from the main road. It was a road made of slabs of pebbled concrete. However, the lane cannot have seen much use since the tufts of grass grew thickly in the middle of the cracks where the slabs met. I followed the lane with my eyes and saw that it lead to a small village higher up the hill. From where I was standing, it looked as if this was the highest village on the whole island. It suddenly seemed important to visit that village, so I turned off the main road and began to cycle up the lane.

On my way towards the village, I met the son of the couple who owned and ran my bed and breakfast. He was a boy of about ten who had a yellow BMX bicycle very similar to the one which I myself had had at that age. I felt a close connection with this boy. When I think about it now, he may have been my childhood self.

We rode our bicycles along the lane which passed through the village and then continued to climb up the hill. When the lane reached its highest point, we stopped and admired the view of the island spread out beneath us. There was a steep embankment to our right, so we leant our bikes against the verge and scrambled up the embankment.

The views from the top of the embankment were even more impressive. However, we were still not on the highest point of the island - there was another crest in front of us which the embankment had hidden from our view. Although the sun was about to set, we had come too far to turn back now. The long grass rippled in the wind as we climbed up this last slope.

When we reached the top of the slope we were amazed to see the ruin of an enormous arch caught by the last rays of the sun. This arch had been entirely hidden from below by the angle of elevation. We walked through the arch. The shadowy far side was decorated with beautifully preserved Inca or Mayan motifs. In the shadow of the arch lay the ruins of what must once have been the keep of a castle. The walls and staircases were still standing, but there was no roof and the grass grew thick in the central courtyard.

'This is scary,' said the boy.

I notice that there is a knee high fence surrounding the ruins. The fence appears to be new and well-maintained. We step over the fence and enter the colonnade of the ruins. The colonnades remind me of the entrance hall of the palace of the King of Mustang, in Lo Manthang. However, instead of Tibetan mastiffs, these ruinous corridors are guarded by enormous black birds. The light is fading fast but this is a unique opportunity to explore and I try to give the boy courage. However, I am a little unnerved myself by the way that the enormous birds swoop down from the sky and fly through the colonnades before landing in the nests which hang at irregular intervals along the walls. All we can hear is the sound of huge wings beating the air.

We explore the ruins. My face is covered by cobwebs which are thick and sticky and hard to get off. It sounds frightening but I don't remember being afraid. When we have explored to our satisfaction, we return to the arch with the Inca or Mayan artwork. However, darkness has fallen very quickly. There was no gloming - it is now pitch black. I take the boy's hand and we walk in the general direction of the hill and our bicycles, though I know we will never find them in this darkness. I realise that we are going to have to wait here until daybreak and I feel a little foolish, that is all.

In retrospect, the feel of this dream reminds me a little of Alain-Fournier's descriptions of the Lost Domain in Le Grand Meaulnes.

If anyone would care to offer an interpretation, please don't hold back.