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She was in her mids, a recent college graduate working with renters in crisis and unhoused people living on the streets—victims of gentrification—in the Bay Area. The stories they told moved her deeply, sometimes too deeply. In search of healing, she joined some of her friends in San Francisco for a psychedelic journey. We felt like we were entering into trance guided by frogs. The frogs eventually quieted down and went completely silent again. Then I opened my eyes, and my friends and I saw each other and felt awe before this moment with the frogs, like the earth was giving us a hug and protecting us. This article was featured in Alta Journal 's free Weekend Read newsletter. Chanting to birds and nature, singing Latin American folk songs, and playing guitar and other instruments made the experience with the medicina a positive and unforgettable one. What for centuries has been a largely taboo or prohibited experience is on the verge of becoming fully legal in majority-minority California and other states. The growing and largely white business of blowing minds adds to the economic distress of poor, non-white communities while denying them access to the powerful mind-altering substances that might help them. The fate of the psychedelic underworld hangs in the balance. As it stands, the dismal statistics documenting access to legalized psychoactive medicines look no better than employment statistics for people of color at Facebook, Twitter, and other Silicon Valley companies whose employees and investors are again putting the Bay Area in the vanguard of the next movement. This article appears in the Winter issue of Alta Journal. Nationwide, a University of Connecticut analysis over a year period found that only 2. Most tragically ironic: only 4. As seen with marijuana, both pre- and post-legalization, poor and non-white users of psychedelics will likely continue to be targeted by law enforcement for taking them in their homes, at raves, and in clandestine clinics. Latinos and other non-whites who were once the majority in the Mission face a new form of displacement: a gentrification of consciousness, a brave new world of psychedelic haves and have-nots. Gentrification of consciousness creates a situation in which Latinos and other non-whites have either zero or limited access to psychedelics. Accompanying the access problem is a spiritual extractivism that has white and upper-class psychonauts explorers of alternative states of consciousness building careers, organizations, and for-profits by mining the ancient and contemporary pasts of non-white cultures. The gentrification of consciousness often involves stripping the journeys to altered states of all their historical, cultural, and religious significance and commodifying them in the mill of mass consumption. And in the non-white corners of the Mission and other parts of the country, it also involves erasing people from their own history of occupying that spiritual space, a history that needs to be unforgotten if there is to be any shot at anything resembling psychedelic democracy. In and around Mission Dolores, the Inquisition demonized sacred Indigenous practices, especially ones that included music, dance, chants, and entheogens , psychoactive substances that inspire visionary and religious experiences. Across the street from us on 19th is the fading mural of the Little Baobab. The restaurant was once part of Bissap Baobab nightclub—a hub of music, dance, and art for African and Latino Mission residents—which closed in after the owner struggled to pay legal fees for an immigration case. I said to myself, This is where I belong. Driving this threat is the relentless march of Silicon Valley and finance-driven displacement in the Mission and the larger Bay region. I ask her about the similarly high costs of medicine needed by poor and working patients suffering from severe depression, PTSD, alcoholism and addiction, and other once-intractable ailments. The clinics are one of several signs—others include new laws decriminalizing psychoactive substances, major research projects and think tanks studying them, and multimillion-dollar investments—of the pricey so-called psychedelic renaissance. The unfortunate use of renaissance provides yet another example of the cluelessness of the modern movement. The smell of some good cannabis, a once-illegal substance in California, fills the air. Not us. We have to find ways of doing the medicina. We have to rely on the underground. I used to squish them, until I learned in books I stole from the Mission public library that these creatures had a marvelous power: the ability to use their internal chemistry to create the webs via which they navigated the abyss above and beneath them—an abyss that, in our crowded apartment, included me. The Mission taught me early on that the medicinas have always had the potential to give us spiderlike powers to navigate our inner and outer abysses. Coming here reminds me that from my earliest experiences, healing with entheogens was ever and always tied to groups of people, to community and to social movements, not apps like Trip and Quantified Citizen being developed and used by lone tech workers like those siloed in apartments that once housed entire families in the Mission. Their symptoms include PTSD, alcoholism and substance abuse, and depression. If only those who wanted to use them had proper access to psychedelics. Instead, they must seek them through underground channels. That indestructible part rebuilds our personal tejido of the heart as well as the tejido social. Having microdosed and macrodosed LSD, mushrooms, peyote , and other substances as I grappled with the ripping of my own fabric—the disease that cramped my stomach, fragmented my sense of time and space, and sent me running from the emotional present because of past psychic injuries from the war in El Salvador , Mission gentrification, and other traumas—I have a dream: that, like ketamine, all of these substances will soon be legal in clinical settings and might help others, especially the poor victims of gentrification, armed conflict, drug war policing, and other ills. The psychedelics helped me confront and eventually overcome the silent, inaccessible, but very devastating doings of inherited and experiential trauma in ways I could never have imagined were possible. I share their excitement about legalization; I read some of the same bestselling books, and I subscribe to some of the same email newsletters from the growing list of organizations—university think tanks, nonprofits, spiritual-tourism outfits, tech firms, franchised clinics, and major pharmaceutical companies—now occupying the once wholly underground terrain of information about psychedelics. Blotter—made of blotting paper cut into pieces and saturated with LSD—became the most popular way to distribute and ingest the drug after the U. Meanwhile, some art galleries see a market in these tiny works, which can fetch tens of thousands of dollars. This is what I call the gentrification of LSD. Against a background of green walls packed with framed samples of blotter a. Sitting next to him is a friend, Tim Tyler, who was recently released after 24 years in prison for LSD possession and for refusing to testify against his father to authorities. I listen to Tyler speak excitedly about this film that obviously gives him redemption and meaning long denied, and I want to give him a hug. He reminds me of my cousins and friends who were jailed in California prisons for dealing drugs that, today, are either legal or on the verge of becoming legal, and highly profitable. More than anyone else, it was Pop, the lyrical, sometimes loving and charismatic man who always rose from the depths of tragedies with song and laughter, whose anger and violence led me to rebel with the medicinas. In the summer of , at age 17, I dropped some mescaline, my first hallucinogenic. I was with Lalo and Ken, two of my homies from Los Originales, an informal clique of neighborhood kids with whom I stole cars, dealt and did pot and other drugs, and drove lowriders. Though it pains me to admit, we also sometimes robbed and beat up the richer people who lived in beautiful Victorian buildings around Mission High. I look down Mission Street and remember that summer night. I felt a momentary freedom. So were the new businesses, rehabilitated Victorian apartments, cops, and other signs of physical gentrification, at least momentarily. Poor, Brown, and working-class as I grew up, I was never just using the substances recreationally. I was continuing my inner explorations with hallucinogens after joining Chicano and Indigenous groups in some of the peyote and other medicinal ceremonies in tepees throughout Northern California. She was the great curandera who showed the way of the hongo—psilocybin mushrooms—to many prominent white psychonauts from the United States. Folks at Instituto and other Mission community members started seeing the medicinas as a way to deal with the ravages of war, migration, and poverty during the Reagan era. The mids was also when we started driving our lowriders to party in San Jose. The psychedelic seeds he sowed bore fruit, helping people like Steve Jobs and many engineers crack the rib of reality as they created the motherboard, the mouse, virtual reality, and other foundational tools of the computer revolution. Back home in the Mission, we began noticing that hordes of white Silicon Valley employees were moving into our neighborhood. They either paid jacked-up rents or outright bought many of the old Victorians and other buildings, forcing out our Black and Latino friends and families who had leased their spaces. This pressure cooker—the effects of gentrification, the drug war, and the battles we fought in our apartments, especially with our dads—was what drove my homies and me to burrow deeper into the psychedelic underground: more mescaline as well as Four Way Window Pane, Purple Microdot, and other blotter hits of acid. Altered states of consciousness helped us escape the gloom of the altered physical states of our housing and family problems. Sometimes, those substances led Los Originales to chill. The location of Polaris Insight Center —a few blocks walk from my high school alma mater—is familiar enough. The therapist, Veronika Gold, is a very affable psychologist from the Czech Republic, long a major center of psychedelic research. She tells me of the many challenges her clinic and others that want to serve poor, non-white clients face. As we tour the office, the conversation with Gold has me pondering the most important influences on the psychedelic experience: the setting and the set , terms coined by Timothy Leary. Setting refers to the external environment: the people, places, and things around us when we experience the medicines. Set refers to our mindset: the things affecting our internal state, including our personality, our mood, our expectations, and, especially, the preparation we do to maximize the experience. And preparing my set would have to include working through the fact that I used to come to this precise area to steal cars and sometimes rob some of the white people. Both clinics offer sliding-scale fees to accommodate those in financial need. When I speak with Herrera by Zoom, she recites the many obstacles—prohibitive cost, misdiagnosis, the drug war and policing, and familial and cultural skepticism about the substances, among others—that therapists treating poor and non-white clients must overcome in their efforts to provide psychedelic-assisted care. These and other dynamics turn every corner of the Mission and other gentrifying neighborhoods, she says, into areas of psychic conflict, places where intergenerational trauma clashes with intergenerational wealth. Much the way that Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk are pioneering space travel for the ultra-wealthy, many entrepreneurs and their investors are putting scientific and medical advances out of reach of the communities they displace and fly over. Everything is perfect. The Bay Area chasm described by Herrera mirrors the situation across the world, especially in the Americas, says Dr. Bia Labate, the executive director of the Chacruna Institute for Psychedelic Plant Medicines , a San Francisco—based educational nonprofit dedicated to bridging the gap between the universe of sacred plants, tradition, Indigenous people, ritual, and religion and the world of psychedelic science and psychedelic-assisted therapy. Like Herrera and her peers, Labate is critical of spiritual extractivism. We can celebrate Indigenous plants, but Indigenous people continue to be murdered throughout the Americas. Indigenous churches in the United States have asked the larger legalization movement to allow them to lead psychedelic policy reform, to let Indigenous people exercise sovereignty over their sacraments. In response, Chacruna has organized numerous forums with Indigenous people and other groups left out of or tokenized by the mainstream conversation about psychedelic substances. Labate and other leaders are also spearheading efforts to address the gentrification of consciousness: training more therapists of color, supporting policy conversations, engaging in and promoting research and public education programs. Despite the challenges of racism, classism, and other ailments of the U. The tepee and other ceremonies, the clandestine clinic treatments and community-based spaces will survive in the Mission and elsewhere. But having outlasted centuries of literal demonization, criminalization, and discriminatory policing, the underground will continue to be a place where most poor and non-white people experiment, heal, and celebrate with the medicinas, a space that Labate, Herrera, and others believe can stave off the looming gentrification of consciousness. My faith rests in community, in the fact that people will continue to need people, that mobile apps and individualized psychotherapy inside expensive white-walled offices will not satisfy the ancient need to be with others, especially in times of epic displacement and crisis. If It Weeds, It Leads. Found in Translation. Say Goodbye to Kelseyville. A Different Drummer. The Bright Side of the Eclipse. The Year of Living Dangerously. Ask a Californian: All-Music Edition. The Mythologies of Place. The Problem Is Industrialism. View full post on Youtube. Jason Henry Dr. Roberto Lovato. Advertisement - Continue Reading Below.
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango
She was in her mids, a recent college graduate working with renters in crisis and unhoused people living on the streets—victims of gentrification—in the Bay Area. The stories they told moved her deeply, sometimes too deeply. In search of healing, she joined some of her friends in San Francisco for a psychedelic journey. We felt like we were entering into trance guided by frogs. The frogs eventually quieted down and went completely silent again. Then I opened my eyes, and my friends and I saw each other and felt awe before this moment with the frogs, like the earth was giving us a hug and protecting us. This article was featured in Alta Journal 's free Weekend Read newsletter. Chanting to birds and nature, singing Latin American folk songs, and playing guitar and other instruments made the experience with the medicina a positive and unforgettable one. What for centuries has been a largely taboo or prohibited experience is on the verge of becoming fully legal in majority-minority California and other states. The growing and largely white business of blowing minds adds to the economic distress of poor, non-white communities while denying them access to the powerful mind-altering substances that might help them. The fate of the psychedelic underworld hangs in the balance. As it stands, the dismal statistics documenting access to legalized psychoactive medicines look no better than employment statistics for people of color at Facebook, Twitter, and other Silicon Valley companies whose employees and investors are again putting the Bay Area in the vanguard of the next movement. This article appears in the Winter issue of Alta Journal. Nationwide, a University of Connecticut analysis over a year period found that only 2. Most tragically ironic: only 4. As seen with marijuana, both pre- and post-legalization, poor and non-white users of psychedelics will likely continue to be targeted by law enforcement for taking them in their homes, at raves, and in clandestine clinics. Latinos and other non-whites who were once the majority in the Mission face a new form of displacement: a gentrification of consciousness, a brave new world of psychedelic haves and have-nots. Gentrification of consciousness creates a situation in which Latinos and other non-whites have either zero or limited access to psychedelics. Accompanying the access problem is a spiritual extractivism that has white and upper-class psychonauts explorers of alternative states of consciousness building careers, organizations, and for-profits by mining the ancient and contemporary pasts of non-white cultures. The gentrification of consciousness often involves stripping the journeys to altered states of all their historical, cultural, and religious significance and commodifying them in the mill of mass consumption. And in the non-white corners of the Mission and other parts of the country, it also involves erasing people from their own history of occupying that spiritual space, a history that needs to be unforgotten if there is to be any shot at anything resembling psychedelic democracy. In and around Mission Dolores, the Inquisition demonized sacred Indigenous practices, especially ones that included music, dance, chants, and entheogens , psychoactive substances that inspire visionary and religious experiences. Across the street from us on 19th is the fading mural of the Little Baobab. The restaurant was once part of Bissap Baobab nightclub—a hub of music, dance, and art for African and Latino Mission residents—which closed in after the owner struggled to pay legal fees for an immigration case. I said to myself, This is where I belong. Driving this threat is the relentless march of Silicon Valley and finance-driven displacement in the Mission and the larger Bay region. I ask her about the similarly high costs of medicine needed by poor and working patients suffering from severe depression, PTSD, alcoholism and addiction, and other once-intractable ailments. The clinics are one of several signs—others include new laws decriminalizing psychoactive substances, major research projects and think tanks studying them, and multimillion-dollar investments—of the pricey so-called psychedelic renaissance. The unfortunate use of renaissance provides yet another example of the cluelessness of the modern movement. The smell of some good cannabis, a once-illegal substance in California, fills the air. Not us. We have to find ways of doing the medicina. We have to rely on the underground. I used to squish them, until I learned in books I stole from the Mission public library that these creatures had a marvelous power: the ability to use their internal chemistry to create the webs via which they navigated the abyss above and beneath them—an abyss that, in our crowded apartment, included me. The Mission taught me early on that the medicinas have always had the potential to give us spiderlike powers to navigate our inner and outer abysses. Coming here reminds me that from my earliest experiences, healing with entheogens was ever and always tied to groups of people, to community and to social movements, not apps like Trip and Quantified Citizen being developed and used by lone tech workers like those siloed in apartments that once housed entire families in the Mission. Their symptoms include PTSD, alcoholism and substance abuse, and depression. If only those who wanted to use them had proper access to psychedelics. Instead, they must seek them through underground channels. That indestructible part rebuilds our personal tejido of the heart as well as the tejido social. Having microdosed and macrodosed LSD, mushrooms, peyote , and other substances as I grappled with the ripping of my own fabric—the disease that cramped my stomach, fragmented my sense of time and space, and sent me running from the emotional present because of past psychic injuries from the war in El Salvador , Mission gentrification, and other traumas—I have a dream: that, like ketamine, all of these substances will soon be legal in clinical settings and might help others, especially the poor victims of gentrification, armed conflict, drug war policing, and other ills. The psychedelics helped me confront and eventually overcome the silent, inaccessible, but very devastating doings of inherited and experiential trauma in ways I could never have imagined were possible. I share their excitement about legalization; I read some of the same bestselling books, and I subscribe to some of the same email newsletters from the growing list of organizations—university think tanks, nonprofits, spiritual-tourism outfits, tech firms, franchised clinics, and major pharmaceutical companies—now occupying the once wholly underground terrain of information about psychedelics. Blotter—made of blotting paper cut into pieces and saturated with LSD—became the most popular way to distribute and ingest the drug after the U. Meanwhile, some art galleries see a market in these tiny works, which can fetch tens of thousands of dollars. This is what I call the gentrification of LSD. Against a background of green walls packed with framed samples of blotter a. Sitting next to him is a friend, Tim Tyler, who was recently released after 24 years in prison for LSD possession and for refusing to testify against his father to authorities. I listen to Tyler speak excitedly about this film that obviously gives him redemption and meaning long denied, and I want to give him a hug. He reminds me of my cousins and friends who were jailed in California prisons for dealing drugs that, today, are either legal or on the verge of becoming legal, and highly profitable. More than anyone else, it was Pop, the lyrical, sometimes loving and charismatic man who always rose from the depths of tragedies with song and laughter, whose anger and violence led me to rebel with the medicinas. In the summer of , at age 17, I dropped some mescaline, my first hallucinogenic. I was with Lalo and Ken, two of my homies from Los Originales, an informal clique of neighborhood kids with whom I stole cars, dealt and did pot and other drugs, and drove lowriders. Though it pains me to admit, we also sometimes robbed and beat up the richer people who lived in beautiful Victorian buildings around Mission High. I look down Mission Street and remember that summer night. I felt a momentary freedom. So were the new businesses, rehabilitated Victorian apartments, cops, and other signs of physical gentrification, at least momentarily. Poor, Brown, and working-class as I grew up, I was never just using the substances recreationally. I was continuing my inner explorations with hallucinogens after joining Chicano and Indigenous groups in some of the peyote and other medicinal ceremonies in tepees throughout Northern California. She was the great curandera who showed the way of the hongo—psilocybin mushrooms—to many prominent white psychonauts from the United States. Folks at Instituto and other Mission community members started seeing the medicinas as a way to deal with the ravages of war, migration, and poverty during the Reagan era. The mids was also when we started driving our lowriders to party in San Jose. The psychedelic seeds he sowed bore fruit, helping people like Steve Jobs and many engineers crack the rib of reality as they created the motherboard, the mouse, virtual reality, and other foundational tools of the computer revolution. Back home in the Mission, we began noticing that hordes of white Silicon Valley employees were moving into our neighborhood. They either paid jacked-up rents or outright bought many of the old Victorians and other buildings, forcing out our Black and Latino friends and families who had leased their spaces. This pressure cooker—the effects of gentrification, the drug war, and the battles we fought in our apartments, especially with our dads—was what drove my homies and me to burrow deeper into the psychedelic underground: more mescaline as well as Four Way Window Pane, Purple Microdot, and other blotter hits of acid. Altered states of consciousness helped us escape the gloom of the altered physical states of our housing and family problems. Sometimes, those substances led Los Originales to chill. The location of Polaris Insight Center —a few blocks walk from my high school alma mater—is familiar enough. The therapist, Veronika Gold, is a very affable psychologist from the Czech Republic, long a major center of psychedelic research. She tells me of the many challenges her clinic and others that want to serve poor, non-white clients face. As we tour the office, the conversation with Gold has me pondering the most important influences on the psychedelic experience: the setting and the set , terms coined by Timothy Leary. Setting refers to the external environment: the people, places, and things around us when we experience the medicines. Set refers to our mindset: the things affecting our internal state, including our personality, our mood, our expectations, and, especially, the preparation we do to maximize the experience. And preparing my set would have to include working through the fact that I used to come to this precise area to steal cars and sometimes rob some of the white people. Both clinics offer sliding-scale fees to accommodate those in financial need. When I speak with Herrera by Zoom, she recites the many obstacles—prohibitive cost, misdiagnosis, the drug war and policing, and familial and cultural skepticism about the substances, among others—that therapists treating poor and non-white clients must overcome in their efforts to provide psychedelic-assisted care. These and other dynamics turn every corner of the Mission and other gentrifying neighborhoods, she says, into areas of psychic conflict, places where intergenerational trauma clashes with intergenerational wealth. Much the way that Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk are pioneering space travel for the ultra-wealthy, many entrepreneurs and their investors are putting scientific and medical advances out of reach of the communities they displace and fly over. Everything is perfect. The Bay Area chasm described by Herrera mirrors the situation across the world, especially in the Americas, says Dr. Bia Labate, the executive director of the Chacruna Institute for Psychedelic Plant Medicines , a San Francisco—based educational nonprofit dedicated to bridging the gap between the universe of sacred plants, tradition, Indigenous people, ritual, and religion and the world of psychedelic science and psychedelic-assisted therapy. Like Herrera and her peers, Labate is critical of spiritual extractivism. We can celebrate Indigenous plants, but Indigenous people continue to be murdered throughout the Americas. Indigenous churches in the United States have asked the larger legalization movement to allow them to lead psychedelic policy reform, to let Indigenous people exercise sovereignty over their sacraments. In response, Chacruna has organized numerous forums with Indigenous people and other groups left out of or tokenized by the mainstream conversation about psychedelic substances. Labate and other leaders are also spearheading efforts to address the gentrification of consciousness: training more therapists of color, supporting policy conversations, engaging in and promoting research and public education programs. Despite the challenges of racism, classism, and other ailments of the U. The tepee and other ceremonies, the clandestine clinic treatments and community-based spaces will survive in the Mission and elsewhere. But having outlasted centuries of literal demonization, criminalization, and discriminatory policing, the underground will continue to be a place where most poor and non-white people experiment, heal, and celebrate with the medicinas, a space that Labate, Herrera, and others believe can stave off the looming gentrification of consciousness. My faith rests in community, in the fact that people will continue to need people, that mobile apps and individualized psychotherapy inside expensive white-walled offices will not satisfy the ancient need to be with others, especially in times of epic displacement and crisis. If It Weeds, It Leads. Found in Translation. Say Goodbye to Kelseyville. A Different Drummer. The Bright Side of the Eclipse. The Year of Living Dangerously. Ask a Californian: All-Music Edition. The Mythologies of Place. The Problem Is Industrialism. View full post on Youtube. Jason Henry Dr. Roberto Lovato. Advertisement - Continue Reading Below.
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango
Buying MDMA pills Chimaltenango