The Banality of Psychadelics
Everything is boring.
Today, I encountered two "psycho-nauts." They were like astronauts, but instead of exploring outer space, they were exploring the depths of their own consciousness with the aid of ayahuasca. They were committing a victimless crime. True revolutionaries, they would stop at nothing to connect with God, the universe, and their deep inner child.
I asked one, a new user, if he had ever used drugs before.
"No, this is my first time."
The other used, a seasoned and experienced "explorer" was acting as his mentor and guide. LSD is, like many ancient psychoactives, a sacred drug. To have your first trip is a truly intimate experience. Nothing can compare to it — not even sex.
Therefore, on the level of consciousness, I considered these two a pair of lovers: one older, well acquainted with the art, and the other innocent like a baby. Somewhere, Alan Ginsburg is smiling at this beautiful expression of man-boy love.
I made some general inquiries into the experience. "Has it peaked yet?" The older man told me, "no, it hasn't even started yet!"
At this point, I made a comment: "wow, that's scary."
Is LSD scary? Of course it is. You could have a bad trip, go mad, have a psychotic episode, have a breakdown, start crying, see the face of God, and so much more. Why wouldn't that be scary?
But I committed a sin. "Hey man, why would you say that? Are you trying to give him a bad trip? You can't just say things like that man. Don't be that asshole." I became embarrassed. What a fool I was, so loose with my words against a mere psychonautic baby. My innocent comment could send him straight to hell. It was as if my words were a dagger aimed straight for his brain.
A day prior, I was in the third world. It was an exotic country, filled with culture, crime, cartels, killers, and all sorts of unique experiences we couldn't have back at home. Drinking. Strip clubs. Mini golf. Movie theaters. The actors were white, American. The pinball machines were stolen from a Chuck E. Cheese back in 2005. They were plastered with English slogans. PLAY ME. HAVE FUN.
Sitting in the bathtub, reading "Guns, Germs, and Steel," I flip through the pages of a historically inaccurate work of popular anthropology. The author cautions against extreme interpretations of the archaeological record, preferring always towards the conservative view. Still, I bought the book, so I'm stuck with it.
It still interests me. He details the voyages of the Polynesians, first from Asia, then outward on boats into the islands of the Pacific. He contrasts the colonial Maori with the indigenous Moriori. Reading about the slaughter and genocide of the Moriori by the Maori excites me. History never ends. Even if every white liberal cut off his dick, the spirit of the conquistadors would live on.
As I read, the pages warp from my wet fingers. The shower door is closed, and the hot steam deprives my brain of oxygen. I'm probably dehydrated from swimming and running in the sun. I start to notice that I'm reading the same page, over and over again. I re-read a paragraph, but my mind can't stay focused on the book. It drifts off into the events of the day, and fantasies of a new Polynesia. I imagine the excitement of the Maori as they discovered a new island chain inhabited by more primitive aboriginals. I'm trying to remember what it was like. At this point, my mind has lost the plot -- historical fact and fiction meld together. Did the Maori kill the women, children, and even the animals, like in the conquest of Canaan? Or did they slay the men, enslave the boys, and marry the women?
I imagined the Maori in the modern day, but reversed. What if instead of an invading force of Maori, raping and pillaging a defenseless American city, what if instead a million Americans were deported to the heart of the Congo? Would they survive? How? Why? Preferring a more realistic fantasy, and realizing the great evil of this experiment, I am reminded of Stalin's Gulag Archipelago, and the Nazi Madagascar Plan. What if instead of deporting Kulaks to Siberia, or Jews or Madagascar, what if millions of Slavs were deported to Africa? Would they survive? Assuming they did, what kind of culture would they form? Would they be like the Voortrekkers, or the Berbers, or something else? Would they intermix with the local population, creating something like a Creole people? What would a Slavic Creole culture look like?
Then I start to focus in on this Afro-Slavic race, scrutinizing its culture, its mythology, its religion. I imagine that if millions of Russians poured into Africa, they would be at least somewhat endogamous, and marry within their own. What if they weren't able to? What if instead, millions of Russian men were deported to Nigeria, and millions of Russian women were deported to Somalia? In this alternative history, the British and French empires collapsed, leaving African transportation in ruins. Without the flow of gasoline from oil refineries, without the flow of coal, even if roads or railroads could be maintained, they would have no fuel to run. Eventually, African transportation would fall into disrepair, similar to the state of affairs prior to colonization.
Under such conditions, the millions of Russian men on the Atlantic coast of Africa could not reach the millions of Russian women on the Somalian coast of Africa, at least not immediately. Would they succeed in wrangling horses together and making the great trek from east to west? Would the millions of women, forced off cargo ships onto unknown shores, starving and defenseless, be immediately killed or claimed by the native population?
Assume that the Russian men of Nigeria created a warband, and conquered for themselves a great empire, not unlike that German conqueror of Mongolia during the Russian Civil War. Perhaps they would have received word of their female compatriots across the continent. How quickly would they reach them? Would it take them months, years, or decades? By the time this Nigerian-Slavic Empire reached the coast of Somalia, would the Russian women have already been married off, or sold off into slavery? Would there be any suitable Russian wives left?
Perhaps this "Great Game" would take decades, similar to the the European colonization of Africa which occurred largely during the 18th and 19th century. By the time these previously Russian men had grown old, they would have already had half-Russian children with the native population. On the other side, the Russian women would have already been subjugated and integrated into the African population. Would their children recognize each other? Would the Russian mothers teach their language to their children? What about the Russian fathers? Would they merge and become one great Russian-African people, or would they instead form entirely different cultures, similar in certain ways but ultimately hostile to one another?
I thought of the genetic studies on Ashkenazi Jews, which claim their descent as hailing from Jewish fathers and Italian mothers. I thought of Obama and his white mother. What if his father were white and mother black? Would he be a different man? Would he be a different race?
I finished my reading, in between bouts of incoherent, rambling, flows of streams of consciousness. I was satisfied with my thought experiment, and wondered if, in some parallel universe or some pre-historic past, if this experiment hadn't already happened. I dried off and went upstairs, back to the druggies.
They were happily chatting away about some inanities.
"Ok, so, when I talk, does it seem fast to you, or slow?"
"You actually seem to be talking slow."
"Woah, that's crazy."
Suddenly, I became annoyed. I ended up in the car, and then in the parking lot, wandering around the mall. I wanted to write. The house was infected. I needed total control, total freedom, my own space. I needed to dominate the intellectual environment, to clear the cobwebs, to exist in my own dimension. Not the restroom (the land of rest), not the psychonauts (the land of babble).
I wandered around the mall, through cafes and empty corridors. It was, like most American malls, eerily empty. Not much to see, not much to do. It was a Sunday, so everything was closed. They were playing pop punk music. I couldn't tell you what the words were, but the angsty singer was railing against something, probably himself.
I realized that they had put metal plates on all the outlets throughout the mall, to discourage exactly what I was doing. They didn't want anyone charging their phones or laptops. Energy costs money. It's bad for business. A homeless guy could come in, charge his electric toothbrush, and start cooking bacon on a jerry-rigged stove.
The threat of homelessness was everywhere. Mall cops made the rounds, wearing red shirts and black pants like Star Trek disposables. Others wore all black, with their radios loudly announcing their presence. Old men past retirement age, probably former cops. Glasses and greying hair, long enough to tie into a ponytail. They probably let it all hang out at the local dive bar. It reminded me of the archetype of the "old badass." 65, but he still got it. Kicking ass, taking names. Granted, he probably has great grip strength. I worry, though, his hip might break on the shining stone floor.
They were on the prowl to catch someone sleeping on a bench, flashing their penis, ranting, spitting, overdosing. Me and the homeless were in the same camp. Irritable, psychotic, just looking for a damn electrical outlet. No luck.
After walking what felt like miles, I found myself in a familiar restaurant/bar. Each table was around four feet high, and each chair was at least three feet high. Too tall to comfortably sit. This would be my standing desk. Commandeering a nearby baby highchair, I plugged in my laptop charger and set it atop the side of infantile furniture. Finally, at last, I found an outlet.
As I settled in, I listened in on the couple sitting in front of me at another table. I knew enough Russian to hear one or two words. Suddenly, the conflict of my Russian fantasy had resolved before me. These were Navalnyites, exiles from Putin's hellscape, fully in love, blonde and affectionate. As much as I hate America, they remind me that things can get much worse. Someday I will come to miss it.
The passage of time once again became a blur, and one of the employees butted in. "Hey buddy, you gunna eat anything?" I had been caught. I was a squatter, an Israeli settler, a turnstile jumper. I bought some time. "Yeah, where's the menu?" He came back with a small, circular piece of cardboard. "Go ahead and scan the QR code," and speed-walked away, back to the kitchen.
I have never scanned a QR code. Not today. Not now. I wrote now with more exigence, fearing his return. What new excuse would I have? Without a menu, I couldn't even lie, order something, and walk out, wasting even more of their time and money. If I didn't eat it, was it a crime? How much did a paper menu cost? How much money did they save on menus every year? Why didn't they put a metal box over their electrical outlet?
I kept writing, glancing up at this employee. He was a busybody. He was there for the business. Maybe he was the franchise owner. Maybe time was money and mine was running out. I had to use the bathroom anyway. I closed my laptop, slipped it in my briefcase, and came out of the bathroom to gather up my things. I decided to pretend to be on the phone and ran out. I found myself without a charger, but enough juice to last a bit more. Before the escalator there was a random circular black couch. Instead of standing, I squatted on the floor and wrote, using the couch as my table, between genuine foliage.
I wondered how much it cost for them to water the plants. In front of me, on a small television, was displayed scenes of beach cities, overhead shots of cities, overhead shots of malls, all recorded with drones. The shots panned overhead, including wide, dramatic shots of the parking lot, of the highway, of the interstate, concrete, oddly parked cars, trains carrying trash, empty downtowns. The cars were mostly white, black, and red, like a latex-coated Imperial German flag. The overhead shots captured the cement roofs of the mall, flat and spacious, big enough to land a helicopter on them. I wondered if the American military regulated that malls have ample space for helicopter landings, just as highways are fit for tanks.
The video on the screen stuttered, slowed down and sped up at awkward intervals. How much money did this video make the store? It cost electricity. Did seeing these random, panning shots of the mall from a height of 500 feet create an increase in sales? Did it simulate a window to the outside world, a dream, a memory of the living room with the familiar family television set? How many studies were conducted which advised malls to plant television sets in the sides of their elevators to increase collective sales? Was this video priming me to buy? I watched the screen, hypnotized, distracted.
From my position beside the escalator, I watched couples ascend. A balding, blonde American man patted his girlfriend on the ass, reassuringly, akin to rubbing her back. He jiggled her ass in her black yoga pants, unaware that I was the sole audience of his performance. A Hispanic woman sat down across from me, wearing ostentatious, large, bright pink headphones, blocky, like the type you would wear while riding a lawn mower. She was advertising to the world her inability to hear the surrounding environment. She was barely aware that I existed, yet at this moment, she was the sole object of my attention.
More importantly, the mall cop descended, staring vaguely down, scanning for threats, making the rounds. I wonder how many steps he was getting in. Beside me, an autistic boy walked in his big boy shoes, stepping on the front of his toes. His poor posture and glasses would hopefully someday be corrected. A lady in a large faux-fur coat, like Cruella de Vil. An African migrant, wearing what he assumed to be the newest fashion. All the while, the screen in front of me played, my own private movie.
I try to log into Substack. The password is wrong. It's never been wrong before. Why today? Do I have dementia? This question prompts me to remember. Somehow, the interactions of the two moms beside me is encouraging. I pick up on a phrase, "empty nester." The black mom smiles to the white one, like in a commercial. They are in a new stage of life. Their existence now revolves around social events, planning committees, and other Karen activities. I feel no resentment. They are normal people. They do not imagine themselves as "revolutionaries" or "psychonauts."
The Banality of Immigration
The third world, sadly, is boring. So are drugs. I feel superior to these people, as I sit on the floor of a mall and write my screed. I watch a man ascend, wearing a black jacket, bald headed, looking tough, carrying a huge plastic bag filled with two cubic feet of popcorn.
The volume of the popcorn is bigger than his stomach, but it will fit, as his esophagus melts it down with gullet fluid and squeezes it like a trash compactor. He gains a few calories through the fake butter, maybe some electrolytes from salt. He interests me, simply because of his body, his experiences, the dumb look on his face, his innocent contrasted with his hard exterior, his slightly open mouth, his lack of presumption.
I resent the right because of their presumption. The left presumes to seek equality, and in that I can only encourage them to tear down statues, riot, and cause mayhem. Hopefully it amounts to something. But the right presumes to be "truly" radical, "truly" counter-cultural. Ben Shapiro raps ironically. Nazis soyface, making fun of him. Tech bros do drugs, and fly down to South America for a new startup. They replicate their American experience wherever they go. The problem with psychedelics is that it makes boring people feel as if they are worth something.
Frankly, you don't deserve a trip. You don't deserve anything. My problem with drugs, perhaps more than anything, is that it gives something for nothing. Psychosis, hallucination, God consciousness — this is something you earn. Near death experiences, excruciating pain, fasting, prayer, sleep deprivation — these are valid paths. A drug? A plant? Give me a break.
You have condensed the human experience into a tab of acid. Terrance McKenna my ass. It is unfortunate that through some kind of genetic accident or cultural tragedy I have some similarity to his voice. In a twist of fate, I have the voice of the ultimate druggie. My hatred of the druggie is a hatred of the bourgeoise, and I can only hate something that splits my own heart. I want to tear it out of me, and I see it everywhere around me. The enemy is within.
Everything is safe. Everything is comfortable. This is all an affront to God, who demands that we die. Bryan Johnson deserves credit for taking this logic to the extreme. He is exceptional in his mediocrity, a curiosity. To be the best pancake flipper in the country is worthy of a Guinness Book record, and surely entertaining. But so many pretenders take their vitamins, take their drugs, travel, go to school, work, the bathroom... They find themselves in the toilet. They clean their toilet until they can see their own reflection. Wash your hands with soap and water, wear a mask, take a vaccine.
The boyfriend descends the escalator. He balances his cup on his girlfriend's head. He is like a monkey. He shows his affection through little acts of annoyance. His girlfriend pretends not to care, after the millionth time. She is comforted by being the center of his attention. This is how they love.
LSD probably increases your quality of life. The studies show it. You are a guinea pig like any other. You are no different. Take the magic mushrooms and it will solve your addictions, and your relationship with your mother. Legalize it. Make it safe. Don't have a bad trip. Don't say anything "scary." Don't be that asshole. Don't knock it till you try it.
Stanislav Grof writes that we should never be violent during a Holotropic Consciousness session. We shouldn't be scary on LSD. We shouldn't do anything that might disturb, upset, damage, harm, hurt, bleed, cut, punch, bloody, beat, fight, strangle, claw, bite, rip, tear, scream, destroy, eviscerate, or cannibalize. I thought of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Two men trying to choke each other out. I thought of the first Baptism -- an attempted drowning, failed, and born again.
I thought of children. If you give them a free choice of real food, they generally eat right. If you give them seed oils, processed food, or artificial dyes, they lose their senses. But with natural food, children gravitate toward what they need. Without artifical sweeteners and flavors, our body knows what we need. Pregnant women eat strange food because their nature drives them toward the needs of the baby.
If you give children a free choice, they will fight. Not kill, but fight. They will push, pull, yank, shove, scratch, kick, wrestle, trip, cry, and make up. Not just human children, but animal children too. War didn't start with man. It's an animal instinct. Yet every day, we are confined in a box of pacifism. If man is not man without meat, then man is not man without fight. We can't live like this. And we aren't. We are dying. Surely but slowly, our dicks don't work, our sperm is empty, we become cat moms and dog dads, and we die leaving the world a little bit emptier.
A friend of a friend might have committed suicide. Who knows? He hasn't answered anyone's text messages. Maybe he is starting over, starting fresh on the other side of the world. Maybe he's enlightened, or maybe he's dead. He's out of our lives, and onto something else. Maybe he's trapped in a prison and needs our help. We'll fly out to his last known address and interview his parents on his location. We'll stage an intervention and get him a life coach, a therapist. Maybe he needs medication. Maybe he needs a girlfriend. Maybe he needs better diet and more exercise. Maybe he needs more hours of sunlight. Maybe psychedelics would open his mind and make him whole, healing his childhood trauma.
Sike! He's already done 14 trips and lives with his mom. See? Psychedelics are for the weak. What are you looking for out of this life? More of the same? Nothing you've ever done has been very radical. Where are you? In your bedroom? At home? Who pays the bills? Your boss? What's your job? How are you changing the world?
Talk, talk, talk. It's all talk. What do you do when you get high? You talk. About what? About the speed of your own voice. You enhance the mediocrity of everyday life. Things which once seemed boring now seem amazing. The colors on the television grip you.
This is the same as the travel bugs. In a foreign country, everything is different. The plants, the animals, the people, the language, the food, it's all so amazing! Yet it's just another mediocre country, with mediocre people, and mediocre food. The language communicates ideas just as boring as the ones on TV.
There are three things I like: nature, people, and art. You could say they're all the same. People are just a product of a long natural process of evolution, and art is just the genius of a man frozen in time. Outside of that, there's nothing. Bowling? Backgammon? Virtual reality? This is just a means of distraction. There's no difference between playing mini-golf and watching overhead drone shots of a mall parking lot.
What about leisure? Isn't there time to relax? I shouldn't be so harsh. People need their down time. The problem is that this is their "up time." This is "living it up." This is the high life. Getting to spend $35 at the bowling alley, on a new video game, on OnlyFans, on Tinder+. This is the high of their week. This is what they look forward to after work. This gets their heart pumping, their blood flowing, and their pupils dilated.
If you want to relax, lie down on the sidewalk. But you don't. You want to be distracted, endlessly, by 6,000 foot shots of a shopping mall parking lot. You need to distract yourself from the mediocrity of your life. You follow the rules, don't step on any toes, and you go along to get along. You are not, after all, a criminal. That would be rude. You try not to be "that asshole."
Sadly, mass immigration won't liven up this country. We will be flooded with Tim Scotts and Nikki Haleys — cardboard cutoffs, cheap rip-offs, more of the same. As boring as white people are, two wrongs don't make a right. But still I say, open the border. Flood it. Dump it. Not because it will make the country better, and not because it will make it worse and “accelerate” or cause a reaction. But just because it will give these talking heads one less talking point, one less thing to talk about. The country will become 50% Hispanic, and no one will care. It will be just as boring as before.
The real horror of reality is not that we are barreling toward genocide, or "the Great Replacement," or a final solution, or race war, or anything else. The real horror is the banality of drugs. Not even a drug can save you. What can?
The mall cop holds his phone up to the television screen I’m watching. The phone beeps. His app confirms that he has, indeed, walked to the checkpoint. Mission complete, soldier. James Bond music plays in my head. Fade to black.
That is: a black girl with a low-cut shirt and huge tits appears in front of the wall, making her boyfriend take her Instagram selfies. I squat like some golem creature, observing them. She has disturbed the perfect ending. Her laughing, her pleasure at being the center of attention distracts me. For a moment, I forget to watch the overhead shot of the mall parking lot.