Systematic Study Of The Cactus Louis Levin Essay Example

consciousness. However, an important detail went unnoticed until a Young English psychiatrist in Canada observed the resemblance in chemical composition between mescalin and adrenalin. Further investigation revealed that lysergic acid, a potent hallucinogen derived from ergot, shares a biochemical relationship with the aforementioned substances. Additionally, it was found that adrenalin decomposition produces adrenochrome, which can induce similar symptoms seen in mescalin intoxication.

It is possible that adrenochrome is naturally produced in the human body, which means each individual may have the capacity to generate a chemical that can significantly impact consciousness even in small quantities. These effects resemble those observed in schizophrenia, a common mental disorder of the twentieth century. Is it plausible that this disorder arises from a chemical imbalance? Could this imbalance be caused by psychological distress affecting the adrenal glands? It would be rash and premature to assert this conclusion definitively. However, we can propose that there exists some preliminary evidence supporting this possibility.

Meanwhile, the biochemists, psychiatrists, and psychologists who are following the clue systematically are on the trail. By a stroke of luck, I found myself right in the middle of that trail in spring 1953. One of these investigators had come to California for business. Despite seventy years of research on mescalin, his psychological data was still significantly lacking and he was eager to expand it. Fortunately, I happened to be in the right place at the right time and willing to be a test subject. And so it came about that on a sunny morning in May, I consumed four-tenths of a gram of mescalin dissolved in half a glass of water and waited patiently for what would happen.

Despite our

interactions with others, we ultimately exist as individuals. Even in situations where we are accompanied by others, like martyrdom or passionate embraces, we still experience these moments alone. Despite trying to merge our separate experiences with others, true unity is impossible to achieve. This is because each person's embodied spirit is destined to experience suffering and joy in isolation.

Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies - all these are personal and cannot be directly communicated, except through symbols and indirectly. We can share information about our experiences, but not the experiences themselves. Each human group, from families to nations, is like a society of separate worlds. These worlds are often similar enough to allow for understanding and empathy. By recalling our own losses and embarrassments, we can sympathize with others in similar situations, placing ourselves momentarily in their shoes. However, there are instances where communication between these worlds is incomplete or non-existent.

The mind is unique in its own way, and the places where the insane and exceptionally gifted reside are vastly distinct from the places where ordinary individuals reside. As a result, there is minimal shared memories or understanding between these groups. Words are spoken, but they do not bring clarity. The things and occurrences that the symbols represent exist in separate realms of experience. Gaining insight into how others perceive us is a valuable lesson.

The ability to perceive others as they perceive themselves is nearly as significant. However, what if these others are of a different species and exist in a vastly unfamiliar universe? For instance, how can mentally stable individuals truly comprehend the experience of being mentally ill? Or, unless reborn as a visionary, a medium,

or a musical prodigy, how can we ever enter the realms that Blake, Swedenborg, and Johann Sebastian Bach called home? Moreover, how can an individual at the extreme boundaries of thinness and brain intensity ever empathize with someone at the boundaries of roundness and internal intensity? Or, outside of specific restricted realms, share the emotions of those who stand at the boundaries of muscularity and physical intensity? These questions may be meaningless to unyielding behaviorists. Nevertheless, for those who theoretically believe in the existence of an internal aspect to experience alongside the external one – and practically know it to be true – these dilemmas pose real challenges. These challenges become even more grave because some are completely unsolvable, while others can only be resolved under exceptional circumstances and through methods inaccessible to all. Therefore, it appears highly unlikely that I will ever comprehend what it feels like to be Sir John Falstaff or Joe Louis.I have always believed that it could be possible to alter my consciousness and understand what mystics and visionaries talk about, whether through hypnosis, meditation, or drugs. After reading about the effects of mescaline, I was certain that taking the drug would allow me to experience the inner world described by Blake and AE for a few hours.

I did not get the outcome I expected. I thought that when I closed my eyes, I would see vivid and intricate visions of colorful designs, majestic buildings with precious gems, and stunning landscapes with heroic figures. I also hoped to witness symbolic performances that would reveal profound truths. However, it became clear that I had overlooked how my mental composition, temperament, training,

and habits could affect this experience. Throughout my life, I have never been good at visualizing images. Even the powerful words of poets don't bring pictures to mind for me. As I enter the realm of sleep, I do not have hypnagogic visions.

When I remember something, the memory does not appear to me as a vividly observed event or object. Through an act of will, I can summon a somewhat hazy mental picture of what happened the previous afternoon, of how the Lungarno appeared prior to the destruction of the bridges, or of the Bayswater Road when the only buses were small and green, pulled along at a leisurely pace by elderly horses at a speed of three and a half miles per hour. However, these mental images possess minimal substance and no separate existence of their own. They exist in relation to actual, perceived objects in the same way that the spirits in Homer's tales existed in comparison to flesh-and-blood individuals who visited them in the underworld. Only during periods of high fever do my mental images acquire an independent existence.

For those who possess a strong ability to visualize, my inner world might appear strangely dull, restricted, and unremarkable. This was the world that I anticipated would be transformed into something entirely different from its original state. However, the actual change that occurred in this world was far from revolutionary. Just thirty minutes after ingesting the drug, I began to perceive a gradual ballet of radiant lights. Shortly after, opulent crimson textures emerged, growing and enlarging from vibrant points of energy that pulsated with a constantly shifting and intricate vitality.

During another instance, when

I closed my eyes, a complex of gray structures became visible, within which pale bluish spheres continuously emerged into intense solidity. Once emerged, these spheres would silently glide upwards until they disappeared from sight. However, throughout this experience, there were no faces or forms of humans or animals. There were no landscapes, vast spaces, magical transformations of buildings, or anything resembling a dramatic event or moral lesson. The altered reality which mescaline allowed me to perceive was not a world of imaginative visions; it existed in the external world that I could see with my eyes open. The significant change occurred within the objective reality. The transformation of my personal subjective universe was comparatively insignificant.

I ingested my medication at eleven o'clock. After ninety minutes had passed, I found myself seated in my study, deeply focused on a small glass vase. Within the vase, there were only three flowers - a fully bloomed Belie of Portugal rose, colored a delicate pink with a subtle suggestion of a warmer, more vibrant shade at the base of each petal; a sizable carnation displaying hues of magenta and cream; and an iris boasting a distinct heraldic blossom in a pale purple hue near the end of its snapped stem. This haphazardly arranged bouquet defied conventional notions of good taste. During breakfast earlier that morning, I had been captivated by the vivid clash of its colors. However, that was no longer significant in this moment.

I was witnessing the same awe-inspiring beauty that Adam had experienced at the moment of his creation. It was not just an extraordinary flower arrangement; it was the incredible miracle of existence unfolding before me. Someone

asked if it gave me pleasure, and I replied that it neither pleased nor displeased me, but rather simply existed. I remember this conversation because it was recorded on a dictating machine. The word "Istigkeit" came to mind, a term favored by Meister Eckhart, meaning "is-ness." It embodied the essence of Platonic philosophy, except that Plato erred in separating Being from becoming and identifying it solely with the abstract concept of the Idea. Poor Plato could never have beheld a cluster of radiant flowers pulsating with profound meaning, their inner light illuminating their significance. He could never have grasped that the intense symbolism embodied by roses, irises, and carnations was nothing more and nothing less than their true nature – a fleeting impermanence that paradoxically represented eternal life. These flowers were both a constant state of perishing and pure existence - a collection of minuscule, distinctive details which inexplicably revealed the divine origin of all reality.

I gazed at the flowers and perceived a living light that seemed to embody the essence of breathing. However, this breathing did not return to a starting point, but instead flowed continuously from one level of beauty to an even higher level, and from deeper meaning to even deeper meaning. The words "grace" and "transfiguration" came into my thoughts, representing, among other things, this remarkable phenomenon. My eyes moved from the rose to the carnation, and from there to the exquisite purple hues of the iris. It was at this moment that I truly comprehended, beyond mere words or vague hints, the profound concepts of the Beatific Vision, Sat Chit Ananda (Being-Awareness-Bliss). I recalled a passage written by Suzuki that

further validated my newfound understanding.

In a Zen monastery, a novice earnestly and bewilderedly asks, "What is the Dharma-Body of the Buddha?" The term "the Dharma-Body of the Buddha" is used interchangeably with Mind, Suchness, the Void, and the Godhead. In a manner reminiscent of the Marx Brothers, the Master responds with seeming irrelevance, saying, "The hedge at the bottom of the garden." The skeptical novice then asks, "And what is the man who understands this truth?" Groucho, striking him with his staff, replies, "A golden-haired lion." Initially, when I read this exchange, it seemed vaguely nonsensical. However, it has now become crystal clear and evident as can be. The Dharma-Body of the Buddha is undoubtedly represented by the hedge at the bottom of the garden. Simultaneously, it encompasses everything else that I (or rather the blessed Not-I, momentarily freed from my constricting grip) choose to observe. This includes the books that adorned my study walls.

The books, like flowers, appeared with vibrant colors and deeper meanings when I observed them. There were red books resembling rubies, green books resembling emeralds, white jade-bound books, agate books, aquamarine books, yellow topaz books and lapis lazuli books. The lapis lazuli books were so intense in color and meaning that they almost seemed to demand my attention by stepping off the shelves. Meanwhile, as I gazed at the books, the investigator questioned me about spatial relationships. It was a challenging question to answer. Although the perspective seemed peculiar and the walls of the room no longer met at right angles, these were not the most essential details to consider.

The significance of the mescalin experience was that spatial relationships no longer

mattered and my mind perceived the world in non-spatial terms. Usually, the eye focuses on questions like Where? How far? and How is it related to something else? However, during the mescalin experience, the eye responds to different types of questions. Place and distance become less important. Instead, the mind perceives based on intensity of existence, profound significance, and relationships within a pattern. I observed the presence of books but their spatial positions did not concern me.

I observed that all of them emitted a radiant light, with some being more radiant than others. The position and three dimensions were not important in this context. However, space was still a relevant category. When I moved around, I could do so without any difficulty in determining object locations.

The dominance of space had diminished, as the mind now focused more on being and meaning rather than measurements and locations. This shift was accompanied by a complete indifference towards both space and time. When asked about my perception of time, my only response was that there seemed to be an abundance of it.

There was an abundance of it, but the precise quantity was completely unimportant. I could have checked my watch, of course, but I was aware that my watch existed in a different reality. My personal encounter had been and still was an indeterminate length of time or a never-ending present consisting of a constantly evolving catastrophe. The investigator then pointed me towards the furniture from the books.

In the center of the room, there was a small typing table. From my perspective, there was a wicker chair beyond it, followed by a desk. These three pieces formed

a complex arrangement of horizontals, uprights, and diagonals. The pattern was particularly intriguing because it did not rely on spatial relationships. The table, chair, and desk were combined in a composition reminiscent of Braque or Juan Gris, resembling a still life that was clearly connected to the real world but lacked depth and photographic realism. Rather than perceiving my furniture as mere utilitarian objects for sitting and writing, or approaching it from a practical or scientific viewpoint, I observed it as a pure aesthete focusing solely on forms and their relationships within my visual field or the picture space. However, as I gazed upon them, this aesthetic Cubist perspective transformed into what I can only describe as a sacramental vision of reality. I found myself returning to the state of mind I had experienced when observing flowers—a realm where everything radiated with an Inner Light and possessed infinite significance.

The tubularity and polished smoothness of the legs of the chair are truly miraculous and supernatural. I spent what felt like several minutes, or perhaps several centuries, not just staring at those bamboo legs, but truly embodying them. In a sense, I became one with the legs, or more accurately, I became my Not-self within the Not-self that was the chair. After contemplating this experience, I find myself in accordance with Dr. C. D., a renowned philosopher from Cambridge.

According to Broad, it is important to consider Bergson's theory of memory and sense perception seriously. The theory suggests that the brain, nervous system, and sense organs primarily serve to eliminate information rather than produce it. According to this theory, every person is capable of remembering all their past

experiences and perceiving everything happening in the universe at any given moment. However, the function of the brain and nervous system is to protect us from being overwhelmed by this vast amount of irrelevant knowledge. They filter out most of what we would otherwise perceive or remember, leaving only a small and useful selection. In essence, each individual has the potential to be "Mind at Large."

Our main priority as animals is to survive. In order to facilitate this, the vastness of consciousness is constrained through the brain and nervous system. Consequently, what emerges on the other side is a mere trickle of consciousness that assists us in surviving on this particular planet. To articulate and communicate this limited awareness, humans have created and constantly developed languages, which encompass symbol-systems and underlying philosophies. Each individual is simultaneously a beneficiary and a victim of their native linguistic tradition. They benefit from language by gaining access to the accumulated knowledge and experiences of others. However, they also suffer as language reinforces the notion that reduced awareness is the only valid form of consciousness and distorts their perception of reality. Consequently, individuals often mistake their concepts for facts and their words for tangible entities. In religious terms, "this world" refers to the universe of restricted awareness, which is expressed and solidified through language.

The different "other worlds" that humans irregularly connect with are part of the overall consciousness of the larger Mind. Many people typically only know what is filtered through their limited perception and is considered real based on their local language. However, certain individuals seem to have a natural ability to bypass this filter. Others can acquire temporary

bypasses through spontaneous experiences, spiritual exercises, hypnosis, or drugs. Through these bypasses, they receive something more than the limited perception that our individual minds consider to be the complete reality.

The brain is equipped with several enzyme systems that coordinate its functions, including the regulation of glucose supply to brain cells. Mescalin inhibits the production of these enzymes, resulting in reduced glucose availability for an organ that constantly requires sugar. While there have been limited cases observed, providing a comprehensive answer is currently not possible. However, the effects on the majority of individuals who have taken mescalin under supervision can be summarized as follows.

The drug does not significantly reduce the ability to remember and think clearly. Upon listening to recordings of my conversation while under the drug's influence, I cannot find any evidence of being less intelligent than usual. Visual impressions become much stronger, and the eye regains some of the innocent perception experienced during childhood when sensory experience was not immediately controlled by conceptual thinking. Interest in space is reduced, and interest in time nearly disappears. While intellect and perception remain unaffected, the will undergoes a negative transformation.

The individual who takes mescaline does not see any motivation for engaging in specific activities and finds most of the reasons for which he would normally act and endure, incredibly boring. These reasons do not interest him because he has more significant thoughts to focus on. These more meaningful thoughts can be encountered either externally ("out there"), internally ("in here"), or in both realms, the inner and outer worlds, either simultaneously or consecutively. It appears evident to all mescaline users who approach the drug with a healthy liver

and a calm state of mind that these thoughts are superior.

These effects of mescalin can be expected from a drug that impairs the efficiency of the cerebral reducing valve. When the brain lacks sugar, the ego becomes weak, unmotivated to handle necessary tasks, and loses interest in spatial and temporal relationships that are important for survival. As Mind at Large seeps through the now permeable valve, various biologically pointless phenomena begin to occur. Some individuals may experience extra-sensory perceptions, while others encounter a world of extraordinary beauty.

To some, the glory and profound meaning of raw existence, of the unfiltered event, is unveiled. In the ultimate stage of egolessness, there exists a "mysterious knowledge" that everything is interconnected—that everything is essentially one and the same. This might be the closest a finite mind can get to comprehending "the entirety of all ongoing events across the universe." Within this framework, the heightened perception of color while under the influence of mescaline becomes incredibly significant! While certain animals rely on distinguishing specific hues for biological reasons, most creatures are completely unable to see colors beyond their utilitarian spectrum. Bees, for example, primarily engage in pollinating the blossoms of spring, yet they can only perceive a small range of colors, as demonstrated by Von Frisch.

The color sense of humans is a luxurious biological trait that is immensely valuable to the intellectual and spiritual aspect of their being, but not necessary for their survival as animals. According to Homer's descriptions, the heroes of the Trojan War possessed color distinguishing abilities similar to bees. However, mankind has made tremendous advancements in this aspect. Mescalin enhances the perception of all colors, allowing

the perceiver to notice numerous subtle variations that are usually invisible. It appears that, for the broader consciousness, the so-called secondary aspects of things hold primary significance. In contrast to Locke's viewpoint, it seems that colors are more important and deserving of attention than masses, positions, and dimensions.

Many mystics, like those who take mescalin, have the ability to see incredibly vivid colors both internally and externally. This phenomenon is also reported by psychics and sensitives. Some individuals, who are considered mediums, experience these brief moments of revelation experienced by mescalin takers on a daily and hourly basis. After this necessary exploration into the theoretical realm, we can now go back to the astonishing reality of four bamboo chair legs situated in the center of a room.

Like Wordsworth's daffodils, they bestowed various forms of wealth—the invaluable gift of a fresh and direct understanding of the fundamental essence of everything, alongside a more humble treasure of comprehension in the realm, particularly, of the arts. A rose is a rose is a rose. However, these chair legs were not just chair legs; they were imbued with the spiritual presence of St. Michael and all angels. Several hours later, when the effects of low blood sugar in the brain were subsiding, I was taken on a brief city tour—during which we stopped by what is modestly claimed to be the World's Biggest Drug Store—as the sun was beginning to set.

Among the toys, greeting cards, and comics in the back of the W.B.D.S. store, there was a surprising row of art books. I randomly selected the first volume I saw, which happened to be about Van Gogh. The book opened

to a picture called "The Chair," which was a remarkable portrait of a Ding an Sich that the mentally unstable painter saw and attempted to capture on canvas with a mixture of awe and terror. However, even with his immense talent, Van Gogh was unable to fully convey the essence of the chair. It was clear that the chair he witnessed was the same as the one I had seen.

Despite being much more tangible than ordinary chairs, the chair depicted in his painting was ultimately just a highly symbolic representation of reality. The reality had been unveiled as "Suchness," while the chair only served as a metaphor. These metaphors provide genuine understanding about the essence of reality, which in turn helps to cultivate the mind for personal revelations. However, that is the extent of their purpose.

Symbols, while expressive, can never truly represent the objects they symbolize. It would be intriguing to examine the art that was accessible to the great individuals who had profound knowledge of Suchness. What kind of artwork did Eckhart study? Which sculptures and paintings were significant in the religious experiences of St. John of the Cross, Hakuin, Hui-neng, and William Law? I cannot answer these questions myself, but I strongly suspect that most of these great individuals paid little attention to art. Some even rejected it completely, while others were content with what would be considered mediocre or even poor quality works by critical observers. For someone whose enlightened and enlightening mind can perceive the entirety in everything, the quality of a religious painting, whether excellent or subpar, holds no importance. Perhaps art is only relevant for beginners or for those

who stubbornly adhere to a false perception of Suchness, finding solace in symbols rather than their true meanings; those who settle for elegantly crafted recipes instead of an actual meal. I returned the Van Gogh painting to its place and reached for the neighboring book.

The book I had was about Botticelli and I was flipping through its pages. I came across "The Birth of Venus" which I never particularly liked. There was also "Mars and Venus," a beautiful painting that received strong criticism from Ruskin due to his own personal struggles in the realm of sexuality.

The "Calumny of Apelles," with its rich detail, intrigued me. Another less known and mediocre painting, "Judith," also caught my attention. I was captivated, not by the pale and neurotic heroine or her surroundings, but by the deep purple silk of Judith's pleated bodice and flowing skirts. It reminded me of something I had seen earlier that morning, between the flowers and furniture: my own crossed legs. I couldn't help but passionately gaze at the intricate folds in my trousers and the luxurious texture of the gray flannel fabric. These same elements appeared again in Botticelli's painting. The depiction of folded textiles is essential in any portrayal of civilized humans wearing clothes, whether it be in portraiture, mythology, or historical storytelling. However, simply attributing it to tailoring does not explain its abundant presence throughout the visual arts. It is evident that artists have always appreciated drapery for its own sake—or rather, for their own sake.

When creating artwork depicting drapery, whether through painting or carving, artists often find themselves working with non-representational forms. Even in the most naturalistic tradition, artists enjoy

expressing their creativity by exploring these unconstrained forms. In fact, in the average portrayal of a Madonna or Apostle, only about ten percent of the entire artwork represents the human figure realistically. The remaining ninety percent is comprised of various colorful renditions of crumpled wool or linen, which although non-representational, are equally vital in both their qualitative and quantitative significance.

Often, the tone of an artwork is set by its draperies. They convey the key theme, mood, temperament, and attitude towards life of the artist. Piero's draperies display stoical serenity through their smooth surfaces and broad untortured folds. Bernini, torn between fact and wish, cynicism and idealism, balances hyper-realistic faces with abstract sartorial designs in stone or bronze. These designs embody the timeless commonplace aspirations of heroism, holiness, and sublimity that humanity strives for but mostly fails to achieve. El Greco's visceral skirts and mantles create a disconcerting blend of traditional spirituality and nameless physiological longing. On the other hand, Cosimo Tura's figures are draped in sharp, twisting folds that evoke an agonized sense of the world's inherent strangeness and hostility. Lastly, Watteau's melancholic men and women engage in various activities against the backdrop of Cythera, the mythical island of love. Their immense sadness and their creator's raw sensitivity are not conveyed through their actions or facial expressions but rather through the relief and texture of their taffeta skirts, satin capes, and doublets.

The text describes a surface that is devoid of smoothness, peace, or confidence. Instead, it is filled with countless tiny pleats and wrinkles, forming a continuous and uncertain pattern. Despite this uncertainty, the artist's hand confidently renders these variations in tone and color. The

proposal in life is made by man, but it is ultimately God who decides the outcome. Similarly, in the arts, the subject matter proposes, while the artist's temperament and the drapery play a role in determining the final result. Together, they can evoke emotions such as tears during a festive scene or during a crucifixion.