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Lovecraft, H. Finn McKenna: Psychedelics began to influence me from the moment I was conceived. If one takes the incident at La Chorrera seriously, which might be absurd since no one claims to understand it, then perhaps the DNA of my Y chromosome has been intercalated by an alien intelligence. When I could speak and ask questions I did so relentlessly and my parents always answered me honestly and openly. I can recall conversations about psychedelics as early as three. Later I was present while my parents led ayahuasca sessions and took mushrooms. I helped my father pound vine when I was old enough to wield the sledge hammer. The sight and smell of his ever-present hash and NorCal bud smoking rituals were the backdrop for all daily household happenings. The smell of burning hashish has always been my favorite scent. My life is utterly smudged by hash. The idea of hallucinating or having visions fascinated me and I looked forward with anticipation and excitement to someday having my own experiences. I recall a conversation over dinner where I was told that hallucinations were like being in a living cartoon. Still to this day I hope to become a living cartoon character, not such a far-fetched idea if one accepts that reality is a hallucination. Virtually unimpeded access to the outlandish imagery and ideas of science fiction, rare books, underground comics, and strange art that were sitting on the shelves of the family library filled my imagination and fueled my interest in alterity. Can you share an anecdote from it? When I was eight we lived in Hawaii and my parents rented an office in Honaunau as a base of operations for their fledgling non-profit Botanical Dimensions , which is still actively run by my mom Kathleen Harrison, an accomplished ethnobotanist. I barely understood how female anatomy worked and this blew my young mind so completely that reading that comic for the first time was a psychedelic experience. I secretly kept it and a few other inflammatory issues hidden in the outhouse, which was up a rough trail near our home in the jungle of South Kona that sits over a very deep, dark pit of truly primal Lovecraftian terror called a pooka. I had a prolonged personal crisis of conscience over this, and was fraught with guilt knowing that I was breaking all kinds of social rules, but simultaneously I was so fascinated that I could not stop going to the lua to reread these comics. So great was my stress that I actually whited out the profanity with careful precision emulating the lettering style perfectly so the ruse would be effective if my parents ever discovered my collection. Of course it never would have fooled anyone since the whiteout was clearly visible and in some cases like the Crumb story there was no way to make the sex less graphic. As my paranoia reached a crescendo I finally threw my precious comics down the pooka of the lua to be devoured by monsters and fecal bacteria. My crime was concealed and my mind returned to a disturbed but bearable state. What are some of your favorite drugs? I like many drugs, but aside from tobacco and hash spliffs, and before that mixed rips, I try to use them without over-using them. I have failed to do this in some cases but always bounced back without needing rehabilitation or extreme measures. Tobacco is the main exception. I love it, struggle with it, and have not been able to quit smoking it. I also enjoy opiates and various stimulants, but these have to be taken in moderation or issues of tolerance and dependence quickly arise. Ketamine can be great but only if taken in fully immersive doses on LSD with just the right music. Mushrooms also have been deeply influential on me and were my first mind-blowing psychedelic experience even before cannabis, but I have not taken them much as an adult, preferring LSD. Other than a beer or two or a glass of wine now and then I no longer really drink alcohol for the same reason: it makes me feel bad. I can honestly say that I hate being drunk. You mentioned you preferred LSD to mushrooms. Can you talk about LSD some more? The drug that has influenced me the most and my favorite psychedelic by far is LSD. I love the power of self-assessment it brings. The blazing light of clarification it shines has shaped my perception more than any other drug. I usually take it alone in isolation or with one or two close friends. LSD is deeply misunderstood, and the demonization of it is a great tragedy in the progression of human understanding of self and mind. What do you think about DMT? Ayahuasca is another and arguably more effective way to experience that content. When it works it really works. Some are beautiful beyond words but I have also seen deeply frightening things that are disturbing to recall. Yet, those things are still beautiful. Beauty is the unifying theme; regardless of whether the visions elate or disturb, when it is working and the DMT is firing off, the visions are truly breathtaking. How would you compare DMT and ayahuasca? While there are skilled ayahuasceros out there who know the icaros and can guide the experience effectively, they have become harder and harder to come by. After seeing enough of this I would rather take it with a few close friends who know the territory than risk having to endure a long, loud night of such nonsense. Inevitably I will probably endure it again though. I am more interested in the experience than in its cultural trappings. It is now the most sanctified and religiose drug experience on earth and tends to lend itself to preistcraft, bullshit cults, and squirreliness in general. This is no fault of the drug but of the rapidly expanding, global retail culture that surrounds it. Yes, this applies even to ayahuasca. There is an over-emphasis on using psychedelics to do noble self-directed psychotherapy on oneself or access something spiritual which cannot be defined clearly. Often the line between recreation and introspection, or ludible and ceremonial use, is blurred and porous. Many trips contain both, and besides, fun is good for you and joy is medicine. That said, I agree with Terence that the central, deepest expression of the psychedelic state is found through taking a high dose of tryptamines alone in the dark and simply watching and listening with an open mind. I was a devout stoner for 20 years and only in the last few have gotten that addiction under control. People who say cannabis is not addictive are simply wrong and often in denial of their own use. I have no interest in revisiting it anytime soon. Weed is a religion, and a set of perceptions that are a cul-de-sac in thinking which is invisible to those who use it all the time. I think that if Terence had ever truly come out of the smoke-cloud we would have seen an entirely different set of ideas arise from him and it would have been very interesting. Now more than ever. Psychedelics and your art-or your interests in visual art-have some relation. Can you talk a little about that? Psychedelic drugs, art, and music were my primary interests as a teenager before sex and other drugs took center stage. What other connections do you see between your art and drugs? My mind and art at the age of drug discovery suddenly got much darker and weirder. I was heavily inspired by the visible language of graffiti that adorned San Francisco. Tagging along with Terence and the charming gangs of squirrels and nutty drug freaks that surrounded him as his career took off, I first encountered megalithic London and the swarming hive of Manhattan, as epic concrete graffiti sketchbooks to be absorbed and emulated as I scribbled page after page of twisted little faces, ridiculous beings, and ambiguous word-art which all became my permanently dominant themes. Long bursts of drug-fueled scribbling produced wacky characters with impossibly deformed anatomy that insulated me from the culture I was becoming aware of and fascinated with but increasingly alienated from. People often ask if these beings are what I see when I trip. No, they are what happens when I put pen to paper. What I see when I trip is barely describable and utterly undrawable. My illustrations are only a crude micro-reflection of what I feel needs to be penetrated by art but now that we finally live in a sci-fi future, the tools to produce art that delivers a reflection of the indescribable are better than ever. I acknowledge that some of the art under the visionary art heading is absolutely great and there is nothing wrong with art that basks only in the light just like there is nothing wrong with showing only darkness. However, an honest attempt at representing the psychedelic state brings some of both. The scene is severely lacking in the irony, biting humor, and cosmic ridiculousness that Terence articulated and which I embrace and try to represent. Where have you found art that depicts the psychedelic state in a manner that feels true, or more true, to your experience? There are many good reflections of the psychedelic state being as beautiful as it is terrifying and as sacred as it is often profane, hilarious, irreverent, and ironic. These can be found in graffiti and street art, underground comics, alternative comics, graphic novels, animated cartoons, and the pop surrealism and lowbrow art represented by Juxtapoz and Hi-Fructose magazines, as well as the dark and often erotic art of Heavy Metal magazine, which Terence collected since its inception and which deeply inspired us both. Writers like Philip K. Lovecraft and the very dark artwork of H. Giger and the art of R. Connett, are crucial examples of truly honest efforts to bring forth the ineffable weirdness that is undeniably a part of the psychedelic mind space that visionary art often leaves out or attempts to sweep under the rug. If you are going to represent the psychedelic experience you should be as honest as possible about it. Any thoughts on that? Trying to infuse the psychedelic experience with fuzzy half-baked pseudo-religious ideology is utterly missing the point. We must resist the urge to sanctify and seal up what is at best only a vague and pale understanding of the mystery. What are you working on now? The current project that I am obsessed with and that my small team is excruciatingly incubating is a revolutionary musical video game that will immerse players in a psychedelic experience. We intend it to be seriously next-level shit. Since I am currently courting investors for this vast undertaking, nothing more can be said about it at this time. Follow Tao Lin on Twitter. Finn McKenna can be contacted at gnawedoffthoughtgun gmail. By Mattha Busby. By Manisha Krishnan. By Marlene Halser. Share: X Facebook Share Copied to clipboard. Videos by VICE.
likes, 8 comments - dennismckenna_ on June 10, 'In , the first Ethnopharmacologic Search for Psychoactive Drugs symposium was.
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Forced coca farming that feeds a booming drugs trade is bringing misery to villages on the Pacific Coast. An update from the front line communities where a cruel war between armed groups headed by former FARC guerrillas is trapping Afrocolombian communities in new cycles of violence. Tulio is afro-descendant and part of a small close-knit community like thousands of similar settlements that dot the tropical lowlands where muddy brown rivers rush down from the Andean slopes carrying their mineral-laden waters to the Pacific Ocean. He has already lost two sons, he tells me, as tears well in his eyes. None of this is new in Colombia. What is surprising though, as I travel downriver, is that much of this violence is unleashed by armed groups formed by ex FARC guerrillas. Comrades-in-arms once famed for their discipline and purpose no matter how much you agreed — or not — with their Marxist Leninist philosophy have now fractured into factions squabbling over drugs and dollars. Or the real names of my hosts. But what I recount here is a scenario all too common in areas of Colombia where coca is grown and armed groups reign. We begged them to spare him. The neighbour recounts how the group collected all the cell phones in the village and smashed them with a hammer. This community is ramshackle with a half-built school now abandoned after its roof blew off, and the small health post a concrete shell consumed by tropical vines. So they fined us instead. The local guerrillas I met are frequently drunk, stoned and paranoid. At night, fuelled by yet more beers and cheap hooch, they crank up an old generator to play vallenato music on giant speakers until the cascading accordion rhythms penetrate every nook of the bullet-holed wooden and tin-roof houses. Then, in the small hours, when the generator fuel runs out, they shout random insults into the jungle air and fire guns. There is no escape from the noise, just like there is no escape from the conflict. Next morning beer cans litter a small concrete cancha which forms the village hub, shaded by a wall where banners hang with faded photos of illustrious FARC leaders from days gone by. Diego is effectively a prisoner in his own community. Sure, he can travel downriver in his canoe to the town to buy supplies. But his wife and young child must stay behind. In public, Diego puts on a good act of being confident, moving with casual ease among the guerrillas as they shoulder their Uzis and pack 45 pistols in their rubber boots. In private his eyes are wide with fear. The nearby football pitch has been mined during recent combat, and just beyond the line of jungle lie bodies still unrecovered because of fear of explosive traps. Along the river other leaders face house arrest, banned from communicating or traveling having lost the confidence of the current armed group. Several times I hear how a leader has stepped in to defend the community from the gunslingers, sometime physically putting themselves between an angry commander and a local youth hauled into the bush for execution for some perceived transgression. Other leaders campaign against coca and suggest alternative crops like cacao, with high market value in a world equally hooked on chocolate. Their voices are usually silenced, sometimes for ever. It dawns on me why so many community leaders get killed in Colombia: they are pawns in a pitiless drug war pitching endless economic power — a sizeable chunk of the global economy — against poor farmers clinging to their ancestral lands. All for the love of cocaine. Of course, in its early days, coca cropping seemed like a good idea. The miracle plant offered a financial lifeline for remote communities long abandoned by the state. And the afro communities were steeped in agricultural knowledge from generations of tending plantain and other tropical crops, which along with fishing formed their main form of livelihoods. But, like the drug itself it eventually turns into, Erythroxylum coca is a false friend. Now, every morning soon after daybreak, every able adult arrives at the river beach soon after sunrise to form teams that set to the coca fields up or down river. Each farmer is carefully dressed with a long-sleeved shirt, long trousers and rubber boots, and carries a small pack with water and a lunchbox. Some carry sacks of coca seedlings. Others backpack sprayers and cans of chemicals. Everyone carries a machete. Here, I notice, farming vernacular is now shorthand for everything coca. Sembrando, sowing the young shrubs with their innocent green leaves. Raspachando, stripping the darker mature leaves from the white stems. Triturando, making a mulch of the coca leaves. Procesando; mixing the mulch with chemicals like petrol which forms the coca base, a white cake sold on to the armed groups for processing into cocaine. In , the whole production line appears to be under the control of the former guerrillas. Sure, campesinos are paid for the coca they harvest, or a daily wage to work the fields. The story seems the same in many parts of the river: the armed groups are labour gangmasters running their business with an iron fist. As I watch from the beach a senior commander arrives with his entourage. They came just before dawn in a long fibreglass canoe indistinguishable from the others already laid up. Their uniforms are low key consisting of a black T-shirt over dark coloured shorts. But two things give them away: their attitude, which compared to the farmers who seem a bit cowed can best be described as cocky. And their guns. Just after arriving they pull back a plastic sheet covering their canoe to reveal some machine guns which they are now draping around their shoulders. Ironically though, and perhaps disappointingly, this guerrilla group are currently involved in a coca war with another bunch of ex FARC guerrillas, similarly dressed, similarly armed, also calling themselves FARC-EP, also name-checking the same former leaders. And this is no theoretical struggle. Not to mention five civilians injured, including a year-old girl with a bullet still lodged in her brain. The youngster pulls back her braided hair to show me the entry wound at the back of her head. The lost bullet somehow entered her skull without killing her and is now embedded where no brain surgeon dares to go. So they sent her back to the village. The kid is fine physically, for now, but desperately wants the alien object removed. These kind of stories hardly make the news in Colombia where there is a concerted effort to keep the lid on anything happening in these backwaters all better to ensure the cocaine keeps flowing. To my surprise, the army are present, and some well-armed troops wave to me from a high riverbank. Turns out they are clearing land mines planted by armed gangs on jungle tracks that form short-cuts between the river systems. These form a much larger labyrinth of conflict trails linking a vast network of illegal installations — cocaine labs, hidden camps, home-made submarines, weapon caches — dotting the tablelands between the Andes and the sea. I talk to a woman whose father was killed by a mine a month before, he was walking to his plantain plantation when the hidden explosive blew both his legs off. He bled out. She has had support from NGOs, and given psychosocial support, but the underlying problem is harder to fix. The groups are still there, and mines are still being sown. During my visit I walk some of the tracks making sure to stick to the trodden path and am quite surprised to see concrete bridges and rusty car hulks along the way: these were proper roads in their time, though never appearing on official maps. Also missing from the maps are the lines of control between opposed armed groups. These barriers are visible enough on the river, though: once abundant communities are now half-abandoned ghost towns. People still do live there, quiet families camped in the ruins of their houses scared to walk the river banks for fear of mines and constantly alert for the sound of gunfire. Both armed gangs — and sometimes the national army too — push up and down the river feeling for readiness and resistance from their enemies, ready to spring a surprise attack. It ebbs and flows with the cycles of coca production, with fragile truces being hammered out at vital moments to ensure the product can get to market. Once again, coca is king. Such realpolitik further underlines the futility of the fight. So why go to war? If it was too easy, they would charge less. Fighting, when it does happen is sudden and intense, fought out with small arms, grenade launchers, landmines and trip wire explosives. It shifts along the river from village to village, but also plays out in far hills and hidden camps. These local displacements are typical of upriver communities with no easy route to a local town. These crises are rarely reported to the outside world. Families must fend for themselves until they think it is safe to return, to whatever state their homes are left in. Not always. In one case an armed group left the dismembered bodies of their slain enemies scattered among the houses. Communities closer to larger towns along the river can generally flee there, living with friends or relatives, or in shelters provided by local authorities. Some families were displaced by combat several times in the last year, causing a new phenomena whereby people have shifted permanently to houses they have built in the cabeceras , headquarter town of the rural area they live in. The towns are by no means free of violence. Armed gangs also control the access routes and kidnapping and extortion is common. But there is some army presence and state scrutiny. People feel safer. Farmers can afford to buy canoes, outboards and fuel to make the daily journey. It also brings the money in the buy the house in town in the first place. The gold-and-coca boom has seen hundreds of new houses — some quite luxurious — being thrown up, turning many an unexpected backwater into a mini-Miami. But at a high social cost. Urban drift has always been a feature of Colombia, like most of Latin America, but conflict accelerates the process hollowing out formerly thriving rural communities. Migration has left behind a vulnerable caste of the old, the infirm, and the excluded or those simply too stubborn to leave their old territory. Empty houses in half-empty villages also gives free reign to armed groups to set up house within the communities. You can sometimes feel their presence behind shuttered windows as you walk by. Which reminds me to say: I was there for a reason, and they knew I was coming. And in the old days the FARC commanders were usually straight talking. This generation is a bit harder, often drunk or stoned or both and seemingly muddled in their own heads what they are actually up to. I have an order for capture by the state. He seems loose and dangerous: a man-child with guns, stumbling around between shots of liquor and yelling out, then sitting on the village stoop where he exudes both menace and vulnerability. He gets to his feet quick enough, though, when an unexpected canoe arrives from upriver. A child has fallen from a mango tree and fractured his arm. He comes ashore and sits on a stool crying as the limb swells. His father is absent, his mother is away working in the fields, so the local teacher brought him in. Nacho, Diego, Tulio and few village elders gather round for a conflab. Should the boy go further downriver by canoe to town and the health clinic, or shall they call the local bone-setter, the sobandero? Another fear — one not clearly spoken — is that the clinic is in a town dominated by the enemy group, who will be on the lookout for any canoes travelling downriver. They have armed checkpoints along the river route. To make it worse, the armed groups on this river have marked their territories with large cloth banners announcing their presence at the entrance to each village. That makes everyone a target. The former FARC would know better. Upriver communities are particularly vulnerable since they have pass through opposition territory to reach any town for supplies or health needs. Several people share their fears of these canoe journeys downstream: they can be harassed, their supplies or motor stolen, their canoe overturned. Or worse. I think back to Tulio and his tale of the two sons who went downriver and never came back. Regarding the boy, the decision is made, and the villagers call for the local sobandero , the traditional healer found in many rural communities who treats fractures, broken bones, dislocations, and a variety of physical ailments The local one is a large fellow and multi-tasking too, since he also runs a small shop, the local bar, and repairs outboard motors. For a brief moment the community has worked as one; strong, independent, resilient, the characteristics that help these afro-descendant communities thrive for so long in the margins of Colombia. Just as quickly the conflict cloud is back. Another canoe arrives, this time with a senior commander and his entourage. Their guns are to the ready. I see some serious faces. Then I see Nacho walk down from the village to meet them, swinging his own Uzi, but looking very scared. I get myself away behind the houses as fast as possible. Others do the same. The storm is in a teacup, and Nacho and his boss agree their differences. A tense calm settles back on the village. Later that afternoon, the liquor bottles come out and the guerrillas are yelling and whooping to the vallenato strains. No-one sleeps easy after dark. This is the heart of the coca conflict in rural Colombia. A waking nightmare of fear, sorrow, paranoia, and longing for better times. Families torn between their ancestral lands, and escape to a cruel city. A small girl crying with a bullet in her head. A young guerrillero drinking to forget past horrors — and to numb himself for those to come. A father dreaming of his two sons, and where their bodies might lie. Some tips for travellers. Viva Villa de Leyva! Building battles Viva Villa de Leyva! Is Colombia Safe?
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