CONTENTS

I. Games and Aims
GAME WORTH PLAYING -- THE LOW GAMES -- THE HIGH GAMES -- DRUGS AND DELUSIONS -- CREATIVE PSYCHOLOGY.

II. The Drug Experience
A PHANTOM HAUNTS US! -- A NOTE ON DEPRESSANTS -- A SUBTLE SPIRIT -- RISKS AND REVELATIONS -- THE ENERGIES OF THE PSYCHE.

III. The Five Rooms
THE MYTH OF THE MAD KING -- DREAMLESS SLEEP -- THE ROOM OF DREAMS -- THE HALF-DREAM STATE -- DREAM CATEGORIES -- WAKING SLEEP -- SELF-TRANSCENDENCE -- COSMIC CONSCIOUSNESS -- SAMADHI AND SATORI.

IV. The Silent World
SIMPLE AWARENESS -- AWARENESS AND ATTENTION -- AWARENESS AND IMPRESSIONS -- CONSERVATION OF AWARENESS -- CHOICE OF ACTIVITIES -- INTENTIONAL DOING AND -- MECHANICAL HAPPENING -- RESTORING LOST BALANCE.

V. The Theater of Selves
WE ARE MANY -- THE FIVE WILLS -- THE SEEKER -- THE OBSERVER -- INNER THEATER -- OUTER THEATER.

VI. The Mask and the Essence
ESSENCE, PERSONA, FALSE EGO -- PHYSICAL TYPE -- PROBLEMS OF BALANCE -- TYPES AND CASTES -- PERSONA AND FALSE EGO -- ANATOMY OF A DWARF.

VII. Education of Psychic Centers
THE FOUR BRAINS -- EDUCATION OF INSTINCT -- EDUCATION OF MOVEMENT -- EDUCATION OF EMOTION -- EDUCATION OF INTELLECT.

VIII. Creative Psychology and Mental Illness
THE VITAL BALANCE -- ORDERS OF DYSORGANIZATION -- FOUR LOST SOULS.

IX. The Creative Community
THE WAY OF THE RECLUSE -- THE ORDERED COMMUNITY -- AIMS SUBJECTIVE AND OBJECTIVE.

X. Conclusion

NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY.

APPENDIX A: Physical Awareness and Exercise

APPENDIX B: Autogenic Training

APPENDIX C: Prayer of the Heart

APPENDIX D: Building the Spiritual Edifice

I. Games and Aims

A Game Worth playing

THIS BOOK is CONCERNED with games and aims.

It has been stated by Thomas Szasz that what people really need and demand from life is not wealth, comfort or esteem but games worth playing.1 He who cannot find a game worth playing is apt to fall prey to accidie, defined by the Fathers of the Church as one of the Deadly Sins, but now regarded as a symptom of sickness. Accidie is a paralysis of the will, a failure of the appetite, a condition of generalized boredom, total disenchantment -- "God, oh God, how weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!" Such a state of mind, Szasz tells us, is a prelude to what is loosely called "mental illness," which, though Szasz defines this illness as a myth, nevertheless fills half the beds in hospitals and makes multitudes of people a burden to themselves and to society.

Seek, above all, for a game worth playing. Such is the advice of the oracle to modern man. Having found the game, play it with intensity -- play as if your life and sanity depended on it. (They do depend on it.) Follow the example of the French existentialists and flourish a banner bearing the word "engagement." Though nothing means anything and all roads are marked "NO EXIT," yet move as if your movements had some purpose. If life does not seem to offer a game worth playing, then invent one.2 For it must be clear, even to the most clouded intelligence, that any game is better than no game.

What sort of games does life offer? We can study Stephen Potter for tips on "gamesmanship." We can (and should) read Eric Berne on Games People Play.3 If we have mathematical inclinations we can look into the work of John von Neumann or Norbert Wiener, who devoted some of their best thinking to the elaboration of a theory of games.4 From the Hindu scriptures we can learn of the cosmic game, the alternation of lila and nitya, the Dance of Shiva, in which primordial unity is transformed into multiplicity through the constant interplay of the three gunas. In the works of the mystic novelist, Hermann Hesse, we can read of the Magic Theater in which all life games are possible5 or of the game of games (Glassperlenspiel) in which all elements of human experience are brought together in a single synthesis.6

What is a game? An interaction between people involving ulterior motives? Berne uses the word in this sense in Games People Play. But a game involves more than this. It is essentially a trial of strength or a trial of wits played within a matrix which is defined by rules.7 Rules are essential. If the rules are not observed, the game ceases to be a game at all. A meaningful game of chess would be impossible if one player insisted on treating all pawns as queens.

Life games reflect life aims. And the games men choose to play indicate not only their type, but also their level of inner development. Following Thomas Szasz (more or less) we can divide life games into object games and meta-games. Object games can be thought of as games played for the attainment of material things, primarily money and the objects which money can buy. Meta-games are played for intangibles such as knowledge or the "salvation of the soul." In our culture object games predominate. In earlier cultures meta-games predominated. To the players of metagames, object games have always seemed shallow and futile, an attitude summarized in the Gospel saying: "What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" To the players of object games, meta-games seem fuzzy and ill-defined, involving nebulous concepts like beauty, truth or salvation. The whole human population of the earth can be divided roughly into two groups, meta-game players and object-game players, the Prosperos and the Calibans.8 The two have never understood one another and it is safe to predict that they never will. They are, psychologically speaking, different species of man and their conflicts throughout the ages have added greatly to the sum of human misery.

Table I
Meta-games and Object Games

All games are played according to rules. In man-made games such as poker the rules are imposed by the laws of probability (odds against a straight are 254 to 1, against a flush, 508 to 1) or they are dependent on special limitations (pawns and other pieces in chess each having its own move). In life games, rules are imposed by natural, economic or social conditions. The player must both remember the aim and know the rules. Apart from this, the quality of his game depends on his own innate characteristics.

Great chess masters are born, not made. Great football players are bound to have certain physical characteristics. The game a man can play is determined by his type (of which more later). He who tries to play a game for which his type does not fit him violates his own essence with consequences that are often disastrous.

The Low Games

The main types of life games are shown in Table I. Hog in Trough is an object game pure and simple. The aim is to get one's nose in the trough as deeply as possible, guzzle as much as possible, elbow the other hogs aside as forcefully as possible. A strong Hog in Trough player has all the qualities with which communist propaganda endows the capitalist, insatiable greed, ruthlessness, cunning, selfishness. Pure Hog in Trough is not considered entirely respectable in the contemporary U.S.A. and is generally played today with a certain moderation that would have seemed sissy to the giants of the game who savagely exploited the resources of the continent a century or so ago. The rules of the game have become more complex and the game itself more subtle.

Cock on Dunghill is played for fame. It is designed primarily to inflate the false ego and to keep it inflated. Players of Cock on Dunghill are hungry to be known and talked about. They want, in a word, to be celebrities, whether or not they have anything worth celebrating. The game is practically forced upon people in some professions ( actors, politicians ) , who are compelled to maintain a "public image" which may have no relationship to the thing they really are. But the real player of Cock on Dunghill, whose happiness depends entirely on the frequency with which he (or she) sees his name in the papers, does not much care about public images. For him any publicity is better than no publicity. He would rather be well known as a scoundrel than not known at all.

The Moloch Game is the deadliest of all games, played for "glory" or for "victory," by various grades of professional mankill-ers trained to regard such killing as creditable provided those they kill favor a different religion or political system and can thus be collectively referred to as "the enemy." Moloch Game is a purely human game. Other mammals, though they fight with members of their own species, observe a certain decent moderation and rarely fight to the death.9 But the players of the Moloch Game have no moderation. Lured on by some glittering dream of glory or power, they kill with boundless enthusiasm, destroying whole cities, devastating entire countries. The game is played so passionately and with such abandon that nothing, neither pity, decency, sympathy or even common sense, is allowed to interfere with the destructive orgy. As the devotees of the god Moloch sacrificed their children to the idol, so the players of the Moloch Game sacrifice the lives of thousands of young males in the name of some glittering abstraction (formerly "glory," now more generally "defence") or a silly phrase couched in a dead language: "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."10 But so great is the power wielded by the players of this game, exerted through various forms of coercion and blackmail, that the thousands of young men involved make little protest. They "go to their graves like beds," not daring to expose the emptiness of the glittering words on which the Moloch Game is based.

These three games, Hog in Trough, Cock on Dunghill and the Moloch Game, are all more or less pathological activities. The players who "win" win nothing that they can truly call their own. "Hog in Trough" may emerge twice as rich as Croesus only to find himself embittered, empty and unhappy, at a loss to know what to do with the wealth he has amassed. "Cock on Dunghill" may make himself so famous that everyone knows his name only to realize that this fame of his is a mere shadow and a source of inconvenience. Players of the Moloch Game may wade in blood up to the ears only to find that the victory or glory for which they sacrificed a million lives are empty words, like richly bedizened whores who lure men to their destruction. There is a criminal element in all these games because, in every instance, they do harm both to the player and to the society of which he forms a part. So warped, however, are the standards by which men measure criminality that players of these games are more apt to be regarded as "pillars of society" than dangerous lunatics who should be exiled to remote islands where they can do no harm to themselves or others.

Between the higher and the lower games is the neutral game, the Householder Game, the aim of which is simply to raise a family and provide it with the necessities of life. One cannot call it either a meta-game or an object game. It is the basic biological game on which the continuation of the human race depends. It is also possible to find, in every human society, a certain number of nonplayers, people who, due to some constitutional defect, are unable to find any game worth playing, who are, as a result, chronic outsiders, who feel alienated from society and generally become mentally deranged, tend to become antisocial and criminal.

The High Games

The meta-games are rarely played in their pure form. The Art Game ideally is directed toward the expression of an inner awareness loosely defined as beauty. The awareness is purely subjective. One man's beauty can be another man's horror. The beautiful of one age can seem ugly to another. But bad players of the art game have no inner awareness at all. They are technically proficient and imitate those who have awareness, conforming to the fashion whatever that fashion may be. The whole Art Game, as played today, is heavily tainted with commercialism, the greed of the collector pervades it like a bad smell. It is further complicated by the tendency to show off that afflicts almost all contemporary artists, whether they be painters, sculptors, writers or composers. As all traditional concepts of the beautiful have been abandoned, anything goes, just so long as it is new and startling. This makes it almost impossible to tell whether a given work of art corresponds to some inner awareness of the artist or merely shows that he was trying to be clever.11

The Science Game is also rarely played in its pure form. Much of it is mere jugglery, a tiresome ringing of changes on a few basic themes by investigators who are little more than technicians with higher degrees. The Science Game has become so complex, so vast and so expensive that more or less routine enterprises are given preference. Anything truly original tends to be excluded by that formidable array of committees that stands between the scientist and the money he needs for research. He must either tailor his research plans to fit the preconceived ideas of the committee or find himself without funds. Moreover, in the Science Game as in the Art Game there is much insincerity and a frenzied quest for status that sparks endless puerile arguments over priority of publication. The game is played not so much for knowledge as to bolster the scientist's ego.

To the Art Game and the Science Game we must add the Religion Game, a meta-game played for an aim loosely defined as the attainment of salvation. The Religion Game, as played in the past, had a fairly well-defined set of rules. It was essentially a game played by paid priests of one sort or another for their personal benefit. To compel their fellowmen to play the game, the priests invented various gods, with whom they alone could communicate, whose wrath they alone could assuage, whose cooperation they alone could enlist. He who wanted help from the gods or who wished to avert their wrath had to pay the priests to obtain his ends. The game was further enlivened, and the hold of the priests on the minds of their victims further strengthened, by the invention of two after-death states, a blissful heaven and a terrible hell. To stay out of the hell and get into the heaven, the player of the Religion Game had to pay lie priests, or his relatives had to pay them after his death. This "pay the priest" aspect of the Religion Game has caused several cynics to define it as the world's oldest confidence trick designed to enable certain unscrupulous individuals to make a profit out of the credulity and suggestibility of their fellowmen by interceding on their behalf with some nebulous god or ensuring their entry into an equally nebulous heaven. It was this aspect of the Religion Game that caused Sigmund Freud to exclaim, more in sorrow than anger: "The whole thing is so patently infantile, so incongruous with reality, that for one whose attitude to humanity is friendly it is painful to think that the great majority of mortals will never be able to rise above this view of life."12

A particularly hideous aspect of the Religion Game resulted from the insistence by certain priests that their brand of god was the only god, that their form of the game was the only permissible form. So eager were these priests to keep the game entirely in their own hands that they did not hesitate to persecute, torture or kill any who happened to wish to play the game by other rules. This practice was started by the Jews, whose enthusiasm for their one and only and very jealous father-god justified those slaughterings the accounts of which constitute so much of the bulk of the Old Testament. The practice was eagerly adopted by so-called Christians, who, not satisfied with slaughtering Moslems and Jews, turned like rabid dogs on one another in a series of ghastly religious wars, Protestant versus Catholic. The Moslems, who borrowed the rules of their Religion Game from Jews and Christians alike, did not fail to copy the bad habits of both. Believers were exhorted in the Koran to wage war on the infidel, the slaughter of unbelievers being defined as one sure way of gaining entry into the Moslem heaven (a much lusher paradise than the rather insipid affair offered by their priests to conforming Christians).

It would simplify our account of the games if we could offer the above description of the Religion Game without further comment. Unfortunately, this is impossible. Simply to define the Religion Game as the world's oldest con game is as "patently infantile" (to borrow Freud's words) as it is to take seriously the anthropomorphic father-god floating in his bed sheet somewhere in the stratosphere surrounded by cherubs and seraphs and other improbable species of celestial fauna (the "gaseous vertebrate" so derided by Ernst Haeckel). For it must be obvious to any fair-minded observer that there is another element in the Religion Game besides that of playing on the credulity of believers and selling them entry permits into a phoney heaven. All the great religions offer examples of saints and mystics who obviously did not play the game for material gain, whose indifference to personal comfort, to wealth and to fame was so complete as to arouse our wonder and admiration. It is equally obvious from the writings and sayings of these mystics that they were not so naive as to take seriously either the gaseous vertebrate or heaven with its golden harps or hell with its ovens. Obviously they played the game by entirely different rules and for entirely different aims from those of the priestly con men, who sold trips to heaven for hard cash and insisted on payment in advance (no refund if not fully satisfied, either).

What game did these mystics play? Within the matrix imposed by their religion, these players were attempting the most difficult game of all, the Master Game, the aim of which is the attainment of full consciousness or real awakening. It was natural for these players to play their game within a religious matrix. The basic idea underlying all the great religions is that man is asleep, that he lives amid dreams and delusions, that he cuts himself off from the universal consciousness (the only meaningful definition of God) to crawl into the narrow shell of a personal ego. To emerge from this narrow shell, to regain union with the universal consciousness, to pass from the darkness of the ego-centered illusion into the light of the non-ego, this was the real aim of the Religion Game as defined by the great teachers, Jesus, Gautama, Krishna, Mahavira, Lao-tze and the Platonic Socrates. Among the Moslems this teach-ing was promulgated by the Sufis, who praised in their poems the delights of reunion with the Friend. To all these players, it was obvious that the Religion Game as played by the paid priests, ', with its shabby confidence tricks, promises, threats, persecutions and killings, was merely a hideous travesty of the real game, a terrible confirmation of the truth of the statement: "This people praise me with their lips but their hearts are far from me. . . . They have eyes but see not, ears and hear not, neither do they understand."

So little did they understand that, at least within the matrix of the "Christian" religion, it actually became physically dangerous during several centuries to try to play the Master Game at all. Serious players found themselves accused of heresy, imprisoned by the Inquisitors, tortured, burned alive. It became impossible to play the game openly. To survive at all, one had to adopt a disguise, pretend that one's real interest was alchemy or magic, both of which were permitted by the priests, who did not understand the real significance of either.

Alchemy was particularly safe as its stated aim, the transmutation of base metals into gold, posed no challenge whatever to the authority of the priests. Therefore it was behind the mask of alchemy that many players of the Master Game concealed their real aims, formulating the rules of the game in an elaborate secret code in which the transmutations of substances within the body were expressed in terms of mercury, sulfur, salt and other elements. There were, of course, numerous alchemists who took the whole science at its face value, who believed that the Great Work referred to the production of metallic gold, who impoverished and frequently poisoned themselves in the quest for the great secret, and incidentally laid the foundations of modern chemistry. But for the serious alchemist the transmutation involved the formation of aurum non vulgi, or the genesis of the homunculus, both of which symbolized the creation of fully conscious, cosmically oriented man out of the ego-centered puppet that goes by the name of man but is really only a pathetic caricature of what man could be. So well did the alchemists conceal their secrets that it took all the intuitive genius of Carl Gustav Jung (perhaps the leading authority on the subject) a large part of his life to unravel this mystery.13

Today no danger is involved in playing or attempting to play the Master Game. The tyranny of the priests has more or less ended. The Religion Game, though often as much of a con game as ever, is played without threats of torture and death. A good deal of the old venom has gone out of the game; in fact, it is even possible for priests who wear round their necks the label "Catholic" to be moderately polite to those who wear the once hated label "Protestant." So the game is now played with a certain amount of restraint not because men have become more tolerant, but because the whole issue of heaven versus hell, salvation versus damnation, is no longer taken very seriously. Even the theologians admit that the old father-god (Haeckel's "gaseous vertebrate") is dead as far as anyone above the Jehovah's Witness level is concerned. The fight today is between rival political systems rather than rival theologies.

But although it is safe to play the Master Game, this has not served to make it popular. It still remains the most demanding and difficult of games and, in our society, there are few who play. Contemporary man, hypnotized by the glitter of his own gadgets, has little contact with his inner world, concerns himself with outer, not inner space. But the Master Game is played entirely in the inner world, a vast and complex territory about which men know very little. The aim of the game is true awakening, full development of the powers latent in man. The game can be played only by people whose observations of themselves and others have led them to a certain conclusion, namely, that man's ordinary state of consciousness, his so-called waking state, is not the highest level of consciousness of which he is capable. In fact, this state is so far from real awakening that it could appropriately be called a form of somnambulism, a condition of "waking sleep."14

Once a person has reached this conclusion, he is no longer able to sleep comfortably. A new appetite develops within him, the hunger for real awakening, for full consciousness. He realizes that he sees, hears, knows only a tiny fraction of what he could see, hear and know, that he lives in the poorest, shabbiest of the rooms in his inner dwelling, but that he could enter other rooms, beautiful and filled with treasures, the windows of which look out on eternity and infinity. In these rooms he would transcend his petty personal self and undergo spiritual rebirth, "the rising from the tomb" which is the theme of so many myths and the basis of all the mystery religions, including Christianity.

He who arrives at this conclusion is ready to play the Master Game. But though he may be ready, he does not necessarily know how to play. He cannot draw upon instinctive knowledge, for nature has not endowed men with such instincts. She provides for man's development up to the age of puberty, she endows him with the instinct to propagate his kind, but after this she leaves him to his own devices. Far from helping man to develop further into the harmonious and enlightened being he might become, the blind force of evolution has actually put obstacles in his way.15

One who would play the Master Game is therefore compelled to seek a teacher, a skilled player who knows the rules. But where will he find such a teacher? A materialistic, spiritually impoverished culture can offer no instructions to the aspirant. The huge, highly specialized training centers that call themselves universities are obviously lacking in universality. They do not put the emphasis on expansion of consciousness first and acquisition of specialized knowledge second. They educate only a small part of man's totality. They cram the intellectual brain with facts, pay some lip service to the education of the physical body by encouraging idiotic competitive sports. But true education, in the sense of expansion of consciousness and the harmonious development of man's latent powers, they do not offer.

Drugs and Delusions

Because teachers are so hard to find in the West, many who wish to play the Master Game try to become their own teachers and invent their own rules. As a result, they play the game in ways which cannot possibly give right results. The commonest example of this attempt to play the Master Game by an unlawful set of rules is provided by the so-called psychedelic movement, of which the high priest, in the U.S.A. at present, is that intrepid psychologist, Dr. Timothy Leary. This particular aspect of the game is played with great enthusiasm by young people who find the accepted brands of religion devoid of nourishment and who seek in "the drug experience" satisfaction of their hunger for higher states of consciousness.

Because this "drug experience" approach to the Master Game is so popular, a good deal of prominence has been given to it in the present book. It is a blind alley, a cul de sac, a dead end, nevertheless its claims must be explored. One cannot appraise realistically any technique of altering consciousness unless one has had an opportunity to test it personally. Nor is it wise to generalize on the basis of one's personal experience, for the saying of Hippocrates applies especially to the psychedelic drugs: one man's meat is another man's poison. The prohibitive legislation now being enacted to prevent people from determining their own reactions to psychedelics strikes at one of the most fundamental of all liberties, the liberty of the individual to explore his own inner world by means of his own choosing. The legislation, moreover, by endowing the psychedelics with an aura of the forbidden, actually encourages many young people to try them, purely as a gesture of rebellion against the tyranny of so-called authorities whom they instinctjvely suspect to represent an assembly of the spiritually dead.

When this writer states that the taking of psychedelics is not a lawful way to play the Master Game, he speaks from his personal experience. He does not expect anyone to believe him without personally testing the correctness of the statement. An enlightened legislature would make such testing possible for people who feel this need to know more about their inner world. Instead of enacting blanket prohibitions, they would provide proper facilities under which the psychedelic experience could be studied by any who wished to find out what it had to offer in the way of insights and illuminations. Such enlightened legislation would avoid the pitfall of making psychedelics more attractive to the rebellious by endowing them with the aura of the forbidden. It would prevent a lot of dangerous experimentation with inferior black-market materials, taken without proper supervision and under wrong conditions. It would be in keeping with those guarantees of freedom of religion which figure prominently in the Constitution, for it is clear that devotees of the psychedelic cult regard the drugs as pathways to religious experience. Even the poor persecuted American Indian has been allowed by the all-powerful whites to use peyote for religious purposes.16 If the Indian is allowed to use peyote, why forbid the non-Indian to use LSD or hashish?

None of which alters the fact that the Master Game, which involves the awakening of the powers latent in man, can no more be played by swallowing a pill than can a difficult mountain peak be ascended by sitting in an armchair drinking beer and indulging in daydreams. If the spiritual heights could be ascended by taking psychedelics, then both the Sufis of Islam and the yogis of India would long ago have discovered the fact, for the subtlest and most "spiritual" of all psychedelics (hashish) has been available in the East for centuries. But neither in the works on yoga nor in the writings of the Sufis does one find the taking of hashish described as a pathway to liberation.17 The Sufis sing the praises of wine (forbidden by the Prophet Mohammed), but the wine to which they refer is a very special brew, the product of an inward ferment, the result of great effort and inner work. As for the yogis, they put their trust in intensive and prolonged practices designed to awaken the latent forces in man.18

Of this more later. Here it is sufficient to say that the Master Game can never be made easy to play. It demands all that a man has, all his feelings, all his thoughts, his entire resources, physical and spiritual. If he tries to play it in a halfhearted way or tries to get results by unlawful means, he runs the risk of destroying his own potential. For this reason it is better not to embark on the game at all than to play it halfheartedly.

Creative Psychology

The present book offers a synthesis of many methods derived from different sources, all of which are designed to help the practitioner to emerge from the darkness of waking sleep into the light of full consciousness. Purely for convenience, these methods are referred to collectively as Creative Psychology, creative because they bring about a higher synthesis, a new level of order within the psyche. Creative Psychology is based on the idea that man can create by his own efforts a new being within himself (the second birth). As a result, he can enjoy certain experiences, exercise certain powers, attain certain insights that are quite inconceivable to man in his once-born state. Creative Psychology involves the highest form of creativity of which man is capable, the creation of a truly inner-directed being out of a helpless other-directed slave. This creative work involves every aspect of man's behavior, the instinctive, motor, emotional and intellectual. It involves an understanding of the chemistry of the body and of the mind. It involves a study of type and all that pertains to type, the strengths and weaknesses that type imposes. It involves a study of creative activity, arts, crafts, techniques of various kinds and of the effects these activities produce on levels of consciousness. It involves a study of events on the large scale and on the small, an awareness of the processes taking place in human and nonhuman communities that affect the individual adversely or otherwise. For man cannot be studied apart from his environment and he who would know himself must also know the world in which he lives.

The theory of Creative Psychology can be studied in books.19 The practice is a different matter. For this a teacher is necessary. One who tries to practice the method without a teacher almost inevitably encounters certain difficulties which he cannot surmount. The illusion-creating mechanism in man's psyche does not cease to operate merely because a man decides to practice Creative Psychology. In fact, in such a one, it may operate all the more actively. So he may enjoy all sorts of pseudo-experiences, the result not of an expansion of consciousness but of the workings of his own imagination. A teacher can help him to sort out the true from the false, can warn him about the traps that lie in his path.

Furthermore, the solitary practitioner of Creative Psychology lives today in a culture that is more or less totally opposed to the aims he has set himself, that does not recognize the existence of the Master Game, and regards players of this game as queer or slightly mad. The player thus confronts great opposition from the culture in which he lives and must strive with forces which tend to bring his game to a halt before it has even started. Only by finding a teacher and becoming part of the group of pupils that that teacher has collected about him can the player find encouragement and support. Otherwise he simply forgets his aim, or wanders off down some side road and loses himself. Unfortunately, it is very difficult to find such teachers and such groups. They do not advertise, they operate under disguises. Moreover, there exists an abundance of frauds and fools who pass themselves off as teachers without having any right to do so. So the would-be player of the Master Game encounters at the outset one of the most difficult tests in his career. He must find a teacher who is neither a fool nor a fraud and convince that teacher that he, the would-be pupil, is worth teaching. His future development depends largely on the skill with which he performs this task.20

II. The Drug Experience

A Phantom Haunts Us!

THE PSYCHEDELIC DRUGS, substances which alter the individual's awareness of himself and the world about him, have begun to haunt the collective psyche of contemporary America almost as persistently as does that tired old specter, Marxian Communism. Certainly the drugs are more sophisticated phantoms than Marx's old bogey, which has been rattling its chains since the days of crinolines and become a trifle passe in the process. The threat posed by the drugs (if they do pose a threat) is hard to define and "solid citizens" who routinely oppose the taking of any drugs save aspirin or alcohol have some difficulty justifying their negative attitude toward the psychedelics. When informed that strange mystical experience can be had by the taking of some pill or concoction, they automatically assume that something must be wrong. Even if told that people of other races, including the local American Indians, have for centuries taken such substances to help them communicate with God or the spirit world, they still raise their eyebrows. Compelled by their fear of the unfamiliar to view all such practices as "un-American activities," they enact legislation to make the possession of psychedelics a crime. Where these drugs are concerned, the solid citizen is curiously lacking in that respect for individual liberty which he usually claims to be eager to protect. Frightened by this mysterious, unknown force, he becomes as rabidly intolerant as any Commissar or Inquisitor and deals out jail sentences equal to those imposed for high treason or armed robbery on fellow citizens whose only crime is to have in their possession some relatively harmless substance which happens to exert a certain effect on the psyche.

In spite of the disapproval and the repressive legislation, acres of comments in magazines and newspapers testify to the fact that the psychedelics are the rage of the age:

Do not be surprised if you see in the streets of Berkeley girls wearing the rapt expressions of Madonnas or sandalled youths with the indrawn air of El Greco saints. Do not assume that the millennium has arrived or that our population is heading en masse for Nirvana. It merely means that a shipment of high class "pot" has been brought in from Mexico or some really potent "hash" has come in from Beirut. Or one of the local chemists has successfully synthesized a batch of LSD or extracted some mescaline from pe-yote. I swear that half the population is high on one drug or another -- and I don't refer to "beatniks" either. People smoke "pot" as regularly as they smoke tobacco. There is a general feeling of unreality.

Thus writes a California correspondent. Perhaps the account is a little exaggerated but it contains much that is true. Whence comes this enthusiasm for chemically induced stupors, raptures, transcendental experiences, "trips" and "kicks" in general?

The psychedelic age, foretold by Aldous Huxley in 1931, has dawned far sooner than that prophet expected. It was soma, the perfect psychedelic, that solaced the inhabitants of Brave New World, resolving tensions and frustrations which might otherwise have disturbed the balance of that harmonious society. "Euphoric, narcotic, pleasantly hallucinant -- all the advantages of Christianity and alcohol, none of their drawbacks." Nothing so good has been synthesized by our contemporary chemists. But we do have lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD). It is around LSD that the former Harvard psychologist, Timothy Leary, has constructed a cult, its sacred book an exotic mixture of psychedelics and the Tibetan Book of the Dead,21 its headquarters an ugly mansion in New York State, its title The Castalia Foundation, the name being derived from the sacred order described by Hermann Hesse in Magister Ludi.

Over Leary's activities there has been much headshaking on the part of so-called authorities -- medical, legal, religious, political -- who imagine they have the right to dictate to their fellows just what substances the latter may ingest, have in their possession, cultivate in their back yards and so on. But though legislators growl and members of various "narcotics" bureaus (many of them ignorant of the very meaning of the word "narcotic") descend in slavering packs on their fellow citizens, searching their houses and persons, insulting, bullying, harassing and arresting, they have not been able to halt the psychedelic movement.

Why not?

Because, as the history of mankind clearly shows, there is in some, not all, men, a distinctive hunger for experience in another dimension, for an elevated or expanded state of consciousness, for insights seemingly unattainable by ordinary means. For the sake of these insights, many who suffer from this hunger are willing to risk the sort of penalties imposed recently on Leary by a Texas judge (thirty years in jail, thirty thousand dollars in fines). Said Aldous Huxley: "The urge to transcend self-conscious selfhood is a principal appetite of the soul." Baudelaire, poor haunted Baudelaire, described the hunger in more detail:

Those who are able to observe themselves and can remember their impressions often have occasion to note in the observatory of their thoughts strange seasons, luxurious afternoons, delicious minutes. There are days when a man awakens with a young and vigorous genius. Hardly have his eyelids cast off sleep which sealed them before the outer world presents itself to him in strong relief, with a clearness of contour and wealth of admirable color. The man gratified with this sense of exquisite loveliness, unfortunately so rare and so transitory, feels himself more than ever the artist, more than ever noble, more than ever just, if one can express so much in so few words. But the most singular thing about this exceptional state of the spirit and of the senses, which without exaggeration can be termed paradisical as compared with the hopeless darkness of ordinary daily existence, is that it has not been created by any visible or easily definable cause.

This acuity of thought, this vigor of sense and spirit, has at all times appeared to man as the highest good. For this reason, purely for his immediate enjoyment, without troubling himself about the limitations imposed by his constitution, he has searched in the world of physical and of pharmaceutical science, among the grossest decoctions and the most subtle perfumes, in all climates and at all times, for the means of leaving, if only for a few moments, his habitation of mud and of transporting himself to paradise in a single swoop.

Alas! Man's vices, horrible as they are supposed to be, contain the positive proof of his taste for the infinite.22

The taste for the infinite! How well Baudelaire puts it. But what exactly does this mean? The phrase suggests that within the psyche of man are secret rooms, vast chambers full of treasures with windows looking out on eternity and infinity. Man does not enter these rooms, or does so only rarely. They are locked. He has lost the key. He lives habitually in the lowest, dreariest, darkest part of his inner habitation. Concerning this, the mystics of all times and all religions are agreed. But do psychedelics offer the key to those locked rooms or does their use constitute a form of spiritual burglary which carries its own hazards and penalties? Before we attempt to answer the question, let us try to evaluate the varieties of what is loosely called "the drug experience." 23

A Note on Depressants

Drugs which affect consciousness can be roughly divided into two groups, depressants and stimulants. The depressants, including ether, alcohol, chloroform, nitrous oxide, the opiates, the barbiturates and the so-called tranquilizers, lower the activity of the brain. They produce, in small doses, a state of mild euphoria, a sense of sinking into an ocean of oblivion. In large doses they engender varying degrees of stupor which, in its extreme form, results in death.

Some depressants have been regarded as gateways to higher consciousness or as means of engendering mystical states. There was, during the nineteenth century, quite an upsurge of interest in the anesthetics -- ether, chloroform, nitrous oxide -- as a means of engendering mystical experiences. Much of this material was reviewed by William James in The Varieties of Religious Experience. Alcohol, which should be included among the anesthetics as it produces insensibility when taken in sufficient amount, was praised by James for its liberating power:

The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour. Sobriety diminishes, discriminates and says no; drunkenness expands, unites, and says yes. It is, in fact, the great exciter of the YES function in man. It brings its votary from the chill periphery of things to the radiant core. It makes him for the moment one with truth. ... To the poor and the unlettered it stands in the place of symphony concerts and of literature; and it is part of the deeper mystery and tragedy of life that whiffs and gleams of something we immediately recognize as excellent, should be vouchsafed to many of us only in the fleeting earlier phases of what, in its totality, is so degrading a poisoning.

Alcohol acts by lowering the activity of the brain, first at its highest levels (controlling thought), next at its motor levels (controlling speech and movement), finally at its basic levels (controlling sensibility, reflexes and respiration). The so-called mystical states produced by alcohol are due to the inhibition of that entity which Freud called the "super-ego," a cold, censorious spoilsport whose favorite phrase is "Thou shalt not." For some people, whose spontaneous awareness is strangled in a network of inhibitions, prohibitions, guilts, fears, repressions and other unlovely products of a puritanical conscience, the weakening of the super-ego generates a certain Dionysian ecstasy, a fuller, richer sense of being, a liberation. This happens only at one stage of intoxication, an early one and a transient. It occurs at the moment when just enough alcohol has been taken to affect the thought-controlling part of the brain. This dose will produce a sense of relaxation, a freedom from tension, a general sense of well-being. The mystical "at-one-ness" may be part of this feeling. Moreover, many barriers in the psyche which prevent a man from manifesting various aspects of the self are removed temporarily by alcohol, as the phrase in vino veritas attests.

Alcohol, therefore, can be useful for certain kinds of self-study, provided the student knows exactly what dose to use to attain the desired effect. Alcohol itself is not very toxic and, taken in moderation, is utilized as a source of energy, for the body contains the enzymes needed to consume it. Unfortunately, like all the other drugs, alcohol can only reveal certain possibilities; it cannot transform those possibilities into realities. Those who come to rely on it use it merely as a club with which to bludgeon themselves into a state of insensibility. They wreck their body chemistry in the process, not so much by overconsumption of alcohol as by underconsumption of vitamins, lack of which gives rise both to delirium tremens and to Wernicke's syndrome.

William James also commented on the properties of the more powerful anesthetics, nitrous oxide and ether, which, when sufficiently diluted with air, stimulate the mystical consciousness in an extraordinary degree. Depth beyond depth of truth seems revealed to the inhaler. The truth fades out, however, or escapes, at the moment of coming to; and if any words remain over in which it seemed to clothe itself, they prove to be the veriest nonsense. Nevertheless, the sense of a profound meaning having been there persists; and I know more than one person who is persuaded that in the nitrous-oxide trance we have a genuine metaphysical revelation.

In a more recent study of the effects of an anesthetic, Rene Daumal, a daring experimentalist, sought a method of confronting death itself.24 Assuming an analogy between sleep and death, he first "attempted to enter sleep in a waking state." He did not persist in this technique, commenting that the undertaking is "not so utterly absurd as it sounds, but in certain respects it is perilous." He was evidently not easily deterred by peril for he next decided to put his body into a state approaching as close as possible that of physiological death, while concentrating all his attention on retaining consciousness. To produce this condition, he used carbon tetrachloride, figuring that he could regulate its action very simply, as the handkerchief moistened with the volatile fluid would fall from his nostrils the moment he began to lose consciousness.

A toxicologist must shudder at the thought of so poisonous a substance as carbon tetrachloride being used for this purpose. It inflicts damage on the liver which is not repaired and can adversely affect the working of the physical organism for the duration of a man's life. Was the psychedelic experience worth the damage? Did Daumal gam access to the fourth room or even the fifth, or did he merely descend into the second, "the room of dreams"? These questions are hard to answer for the reason that words cannot communicate a state of consciousness.

Verbally Daumal described his experience as follows:

1. Everything that made up "the world" for him in his ordinary state was still there, but it was "nothing more than a phantasmagoria," empty, absurd, clearly outlined and necessary all at once.
2. The ordinary world lost all reality because he had abruptly entered another world, infinitely more real, an instantaneous and intense world of eternity, a concentrated flame of reality and evidence into which he had cast himself like a moth drawn to a candle. At that moment came the certainty, and speech had to be content to wheel in circles around the bare fact.

On this certainty Daumal commented as follows:

In my ordinary state of mind, all that remains thinkable and formulable of this experiment reduces to one affirmation on which I would stake my life: I feel the certainty of the existence of something eke, a beyond, another world, or another form of knowledge. ... In that new state I perceived and perfectly comprehended the ordinary state of being, the latter being contained within the former as waking consciousness contains our unconscious dreams and not the reverse. This last irreversible relation proves the superiority (in the scale of reality or consciousness) of the first state over the second.

The substance of the experience, its visual and auditory elements, was described in some detail by Daumal. The endlessly dividing circles and triangles inscribed one within the other, combining and moving in harmony, seem typical of the "moving hieroglyphs" that express ideas to one in this state of awareness. The auditory component, a chant or formula having the form "Tem gwef tem gwef dr rr rr" reminds one of William James's "Higamus, Hogamus." The altered sense of time, the awareness of multiplicity regenerating unity, all fit into a definite pattern of experiences many times described and always with the same disclaimer (words cannot do justice, etc.).

Of special interest are Daumal's comments on the dangers involved in this kind of experience. He warns the reader that it is terrifying and insists that he does not refer to physiological dangers, which he admits are very great ("if, in return for accepting grave illness or infirmity, and for a considerable shortening of physical life, one could attain a single certainty the price would not be too high"). He does not even refer to the dangers of insanity or of damage to the brain, which he escaped "by extraordinary good luck." The greatest danger of all, in his opinion, is a complete loss of belief in what ordinarily passes for reality:

Everything seemed to me an absurd phantasmagoria, no logic would convince me of anything and, like a leaf in the wind, I was ready to obey the faintest interior or exterior impulse. This state almost involved me in irreparable "actions" (if the word still applies), for nothing held any importance for me any longer.

This comment is extremely important and should be borne in mind by all who feel tempted to dabble with the psychedelic experience without knowing what they are doing or why. He who enters the fifth state of consciousness without preparation may be spiritually paralyzed by his experience. He has seen too much too soon and, as a result, all games become meaningless. He cannot play the life games that satisfy men in the third state of consciousness. He cannot play the Master Game because he knows nothing about it and has no teacher. So he becomes, like Daumal's "leaf in the wind," an even more helpless plaything of external forces than he was before his rash experiment. A similar warning has been voiced by Dr. Sidney Cohen:

There are hazards. If a person has seen the glory and goodness of life via psychedelics and then backslides, the guilt of failure is added to the hopelessness of his situation. The depression may be deeper than before the treatment. Others who have been touched by the light may develop so unrealistic a view of themselves and the world that they become most difficult to live with.25

The other nervous-system depressants, opium, its derivatives, and the barbiturates are dangerous and, for most people, ineffectual. The barbiturates simply induce stupor and are used for this purpose very extensively. Few claim that they offer a pathway to any sort of mystical experience. They offer sleep of a sort. Their habitual use produces a serious form of physical dependence (addiction ) and an overdose is the path to a peaceful death.

Opium and its derivatives, morphine and heroin, produce what might be called "mystical states" in certain people. Coleridge, De Quincey, and Baudelaire all found that opium opened certain depths, "the abyss of divine enjoyment" about which De Quincey grew eloquent in his Confessions of an English Opium Eater. For the majority, however, they are merely pain relievers and their effects, in the absence of pain, are generally experienced as being unpleasant.

A Subtle Spirit

Of the drugs that can more properly be called "psychedelics," the substance variously known as hashish, marihuana, bhang, charas, etc., which is derived from the resinous flowers of the common hemp (Cannabis sativa), is the most subtle, the most harmless and the most interesting. The drug is not a narcotic, is not habit-forming, is mild in its action and nontoxic. Were it not for the barbed-wire entanglement of prohibitive legislation that has been erected around this harmless weed by various busybodies who take a professional pride in curtailing the liberties of their fellow-men, it would certainly be the material of choice for one interested in exploring drug-induced changes in consciousness. The effects of this botanical have been described at some length in a previous book.23 A few additional observations derived from the author's experiences while working on the chemistry of the drug may be of interest.

Red oil of hemp, a partially purified extract,26 was used in these experiments. A dose of thirty milligrams taken orally after a fast of twenty-four hours began to produce its effect an hour after ingestion. This first, "induction" phase of the drug's action was experienced as being somewhat unpleasant. There was a reddening of the conjunctivae, a dryness in the mouth, an uneasiness in the stomach. An overdose of the preparation (up to loomg) induced vomiting. This vomiting was of an especially disagreeable character because hashish, at this stage, inhibits the secretion of saliva, exerting in this respect an action similar to that of the drugs scopolamine or atropine. Such action is called "anticholin-ergic" and indicates that the drug is blocking the activity of that part of the autonomic nervous system called "parasympathetic." So far as concerns the stop-start mechanism in the brain, hashish, at this stage, presses the stop button.

The induction period lasted from fifteen minutes to half an hour. During this time the active principle of the drug, a resinous substance quite insoluble in water, was slowly absorbed through the walls of the intestine. (When hashish is smoked, this absorption is far more rapid but the acrid resin may damage the lining of the lungs.) After the induction period, the spirit of the hashish began to play its theme with variations on the organ of the brain, pulling out the stops one after another, sounding great colorful chords, marvels of tonality that blended, in a fashion hitherto never experienced, the ordinarily separated components of sensation. Colors vibrated with sound, sounds evoked colors, at the same time all sorts of odd sensations, so peculiar as to defy classification, scuttled in and out of consciousness like mice.

The spirit of hashish on one's good days (it should never be evoked on bad ones) is playful as a kitten, puckish, jocular, a conjurer performing quaint tricks that one never would have thought possible. The tricks are associated with the self-sense, that mixed bag of awareness, of muscle tone, vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell that gives us the overall sensation of "I am." All these familiar landmarks in the map of the self were shuffled around by the playful spirit of hashish. The "I am" became hazy and diffuse. The face symbol of the ego, its emblem and shield, seemed to twist and stretch like a Halloween mask, now tragic, now comic, now grotesque until the astonished experimentalist asked himself in amazement how he could ever have attributed to this rubbery object the quality of selfhood.

As with the face, so with the rest of the body. Limbs became free, independent, disconnected as if they had taken on a life of their own. A hand was seen from a great distance, the structure of fingers was much admired. It was an object of art. But not my hand. All the selfhood was drained out of it. It existed in its own right, floating far from the body like a starfish in the ocean. At intervals the self-sense left the body entirely, floated off and associated with some other form, a tree, a cloud, even a piano. This is quite a common feature of the hashish experience. Baudelaire described it when he wrote: "If you are smoking by some sort of transposition or intellectual quid pro quo, you will feel yourself evaporating and will attribute to your pipe, in which you feel yourself crouching and packed together like tobacco, the strange power of smoking yourself."

As the spirit of hashish continued its performance, the observer noticed how cyclic is its action. All the experiences came in waves, and the different reactions generally followed in the same order as if one center after another, in definite sequence, were being activated by the drug. A "rapture" began with stimulation of the respiratory center. The experimenter found himself literally "inspired," he gulped down great draughts of air as if to fill his system from the inexhaustible reservoir of cosmic prana. This air gulping has been observed by many, is an objectively definable effect of the drug. Says Baudelaire: "You have deep raucous sighs, as if your old body could not endure the desires and activity of your new soul."22 Says Fitz Hugh Ludlow: "Hotter and faster came my breath; I seemed to pant like some tremendous engine."27

This stimulation of the respiratory center was accompanied by a strengthening of the action of the heart. Awareness of the action of this vital pump may become acute, even alarming. Ludlow had this experience when he first took hashish and become so frightened that he hastened to consult the nearest physician:

The beating of my heart was clearly audible. Lo, now that heart became a great fountain, whose jet played upward with loud vibrations, and, striking on the roof of my skull as on a gigantic dome, fell back with a splash and echo into its reservoir. Faster and faster came the pulsations and the stream became one continuously pouring flood, whose roar sounded through all my frame. I gave myself up for lost, since judgement, which still sat unimpaired above my perverted senses, argued that congestion must take place in a few minutes, and close the drama with my death.27

Stimulation of the hunger center in the hypothalamus may follow this orgy of respiration. More often it is not the hunger center but the sex center that is stimulated. In the male an erection of the penis results from stimulus of the parasympathetic part of the au-tonomic nervous system. The sympathetic mechanism which results in ejaculation is inhibited. At the same time the intensity of the sexual sensations is enhanced and the duration of the act is prolonged. For this reason hashish is regarded as an aphrodisiac par excellence throughout the East, but it cannot be relied on to exert this effect. The spirit of hashish, in its playful performance on the brain centers, may so powerfully stimulate the sex center that the sex act acquires a stupendous Dionysian splendor, or it may miss that center entirely and leave the experimentalist so indifferent that Venus herself could not tempt him into intercourse.

This activation of the centers in the lower brain can provide a careful observer with much material. Instinctive functions are illuminated and emphasized, emotional functions are sharpened and given new force. Hashish enhances all emotionality, positive and negative. Fear, anxiety, apprehension, distrust can be so augmented by hashish as to make the whole experience a most unpleasant ordeal. But joy or delight are similarly augmented and it is this augmentation of joy to the level of ecstasy that endows the hashish experience with such a powerful appeal. "Over the surface of man's ordinary life the power of hashish spreads a magic glaze, coloring it with solemnity, bringing to light the profoundest aspects of existence." 22 This magic glaze can spread over any form of experience. For many, it exerts its greatest power in connection with music. Patterns entirely unsuspected emerge from the sound. The ear becomes fascinated with a minor theme, follows a single instrument to the exclusion of all the others. Music that seemed clever or even brilliant may, under the hashish influence, stand revealed as phoney and insincere. The merciless spirit of hashish strips from all art forms the overlay of egotism, illuminating with a pitiless radiance the underlying reality. For genuine artistic creation its praise is unqualified; for the contrived, the slick, the merely clever its contempt is biting: "How this fool tries to show off! What a jackdaw in peacock's feathers!"

This clarity of vision, this hard gemlike illumination lit up the experimenter's portrait of himself. The inner contradictions, the multiplicity that tries to pretend it is a unity, showed under hashish as the thing it really was, a patchwork of odds and ends, of dreams and delusions, hopes and fears, held together by the physical continuity of the body. Brought thus face to face with his inner contradictions, he saw himself not as a self at all, but merely as a puppet, helplessly pulled by strings which were manipulated by outside forces. 'There is no self!" he exclaimed. "There is no I. There is merely a shifting mosaic of moods and thoughts, changed like a pattern in a kaleidoscope every time circumstances shake the instrument." This realization, depending on his mood, was either terrifying, reassuring or seemed merely comical. "This ridiculous object has been strutting around saying I this and I that and all the while it has no more I than a scarecrow and no more will than a puppet." At this he often laughed most heartily.

At times the spirit of hashish led him further. Penetrating beyond the shadow show of the "I," he contacted an older drama, enacted by awe-inspiring forms, by gods and demons, veritable archetypes. This ancient drama, The Theater of the Seraphim, transported him beyond the "I," beyond personal boundaries that define the self as it is usually felt. Here, as in a primeval cosmic dance, he sensed the evolution of the race, the procession of living forms, flowing, changing, perishing, reappearing. He even passed through the process of death and glimpsed the mysteries of the after-death state. He experienced birth (or what appeared to be birth). The details of his life showed as if illuminated, exquisite reproductions from times past, with all their elements supplied, the sounds, sights, smells, the bodily sensations. The drug unlocked the doors of memory, a memory that can be as impersonal as the memory of the race, linking him to the great patterns of living forms, green plants and fungi, invertebrates and vertebrates. Against so expansive a background personal memories appeared trivial. The observer laughed at his most painful recollections which, seen in proportion, perhaps for the first time, astonished him by their insignificance. "How was it possible that I became so upset over such a trifle? How could I allow so minor an incident to poison the springs of my inner life?"

Risks and Revelations

Such are the revelations that hashish can offer. In the writer's opinion, it is the mildest, most benign, least liable to produce a postpsychedelic depression and very nontoxic. It is, however, capricious and quite often produces no effect at all. It's quality is very variable. It also happens to be the victim of a semi-imbecile piece of legislation called the "Marihuana Tax Act" that makes it a criminal offense even to have the hemp plant growing in one's garden unless one has paid for a tax stamp, which the Narcotics Bureau, in most cases, refuses to issue.

Other psychedelics -- LSD, mescaline, psilocybin -- can produce effects very similar to those of hashish in people with whose personal chemistry they happen to agree, though they may function merely as poisons for those unable to detoxify these substances.28 Aldous Huxley, for example, was evidently well able to metabo-lize mescaline. His description of its effects29 shows that, for him, it had the same consciousness-expanding properties as has hashish. Alan Watts was able to obtain satisfactory results with LSD. His beautifully illustrated book, The Joyous CosmoZogy,30 reveals in-sights of the same general type as Aldous Huxley's. Particularly fascinating is his description of the changed sense of self and his resolution of the cosmic drama into two questions of housekeep-ing: "Where to put it?" and "Who cleans up?" Leary et al. have summarized much of this material in The Psychedelic Experience, though their insistence on forcing the insights into a framework which is essentially Tibetan produces a strained, somewhat artifi-cial effect like the efforts of early astronomers to force the movements of planets to fit into the Ptolemaean system. For a more balanced review of the effects of LSD, the reader should consult Sidney Cohen's The Beyond Within?5

All this evidence leads to the conclusion that these drugs, so different in chemical composition, operate through a common mechanism and bring into action a capacity present in the human psyche but not ordinarily used. This capacity can be defined as the power to transcend temporal limitations, verbal definitions, the limitations of name and form. When P. D. Ouspensky was gathering the material for his chapter "Experimental Mysticism" in A New Model of the Universe, he too used psychedelic drugs (mainly opium). He expressed the essence of his experience in a single sentence: "Think in other categories." This is the hallmark of the state of higher consciousness. Somehow these chemicals release the awareness from certain fetters that ordinarily bind it. The doors of perception are cleansed. The taste of the infinite is obtained. The isolated awareness, imprisoned in the illusion of its ego-sense, is suddenly liberated from its fetters. Ecstasy is the result, for ecstasy means nothing more or less than standing outside of oneself. A man dies at one level and is reborn on another.

Now we return to the starting point. If this self-transcendence is in fact the highest prize life has to offer, if this jewel can be obtained by the taking of certain drugs, then why should any reasonable person deny himself this experience? The Mystic Way is, by all accounts, hard and long. How much easier it is to break open the locked doors of the secret chambers in the psyche by chemical means. We may suspect that the taking of psychedelic drugs is depraved, realize vaguely that it constitutes a kind of spiritual burglary, a criminal activity on the spiritual level, a stealing of something that one has not earned. So what? A generation reared to rely on labor-saving devices can hardly be blamed for hoping that the insights laboriously earned by saints and mystics may be acquired without effort by the simple process of swallowing a pill. Nor is this attitude confined to contemporary man. There have been members of earlier, more ruggedly reared generations, who showed just as much enthusiasm for the easy rapture afforded by psychedelics. Thomas De Quincey, the English opium eater, was eloquent on this subject.

Here was a panacea, a pharmakon nepenthes for all human woes; here was the secret of happiness, about which philosophers had disputed for so many ages, at once discovered. Happiness might now be bought for a penny, and carried in the waistcoat pocket; portable ecstasies might be corked up in a pint bottle, and peace of mind could be sent down by mail.

De Quincey, of course, was referring to laudanum (tincture of opium), which is a far from ideal drug for inducing changes in levels of consciousness and does not properly belong in the group called "psychedelics," being, for most people, only an analgesic (pain reliever). But De Quincey's delight over his discovery of the effects of opium is paralleled by that of contemporary investigators over those of LSD, mescaline or psilocybin. Being familiar with the vocabulary of Oriental mysticism, these explorers sing praises of bottled samadhis or encapsulated satoris and eagerly spread the word that a short cut exists and that the efforts made by yogis, Sufis, mystics and magi to break into the triple-locked fourth room were needless. All that these seekers had to do was to introduce into their metabolism certain chemicals and all locked doors would open by themselves. Their view is summed up by a saying of the opium smokers of India: "If heaven can be obtained for a pice [i.e., a penny], why should you be so envious?"

This may seem a reassuring message but is not a correct one. The high ends of Creative Psychology can no more be attained by taking drugs than the high ends of art can be achieved by slopping paint about at random. There are those who insist that such slopping is art. There are those who insist that pill swallowing can lead to higher consciousness. Both are wrong.

However, this much can be said in favor of the psychedelics. If they are taken under the right conditions, with proper preparation, under the supervision of one who knows how to guide the explorer in the territory he will enter, they can, on occasions at least, be of some value. They can challenge the traveler saying: "These are the mountain peaks. They really exist. Now make up your mind. Are you strong enough, persistent enough to try to climb them?"

When the psychedelics offer this challenge they are performing a valuable function. By awakening the traveler to his own inner potentialities, they provide him with a game worth playing, a task worth undertaking, a pilgrimage on which it is worthwhile to embark. Furthermore, they offer valuable clues to one who wishes to understand his own inner chemistry. They spotlight certain processes and thus make it easier for the experimentalist to recognize the mechanisms involved. When he fully understands how certain effects are produced, he can learn to initiate them at will without the use of drugs.

This is the lawful use of the psychedelics. (No reference is intended to human laws designed to regulate the use of these substances. ) It is physiologically lawful to obtain information about the workings of one's own organism by any means that does not damage the organism or render its possessor a slave to the procedure in question (physically dependent on a drug, for example). It is psychologically (or spiritually) lawful to obtain such information as part of a Me game, the aim of which is realization of higher states of awareness. It is not spiritually lawful to take psychedelics merely for "kicks" or to use them as substitutes for the special kind of inner work that alone can produce lasting results. Those who use the drugs in this way suffer a penalty imposed not by flat-footed tax collectors disguised as "narcotics agents," but by the impartial forces that regulate a man's fate. The penalty takes this form: he who misuses psychedelics sacrifices his capacity to develop by persistently squandering those inner resources on which growth depends. He commits himself to a descending spiral and the further he travels down this path, the more difficult it becomes for him to reascend. Finally the power to reascend is lost altogether.

The Energies of the Psyche

Now consider the psychedelics objectively. How do these substances act? What do they do? We cannot answer this question without first discussing how the body stores its energies and how these energies are released. A very large part of the total energy store is located in the muscles or stored as glycogen in the liver and is released as muscular work. Another portion of the energy store is utilized in purely instinctive operations, digestion of food, storage of products of digestion. The sexual apparatus with its component urges utilizes a further portion of the total energy. Emotional functions of various kinds consume their quota and thought processes consume theirs. There is left over a certain amount of energy which manifests itself in the level of total awareness that can range from deep dreamless sleep to the highest state of consciousness possible for man.

All energies in the body are chemically bound. They are locked up in molecules of one sort or another just as the energy of a log of firewood is locked in its molecules of cellulose or lignin. To prevent the depletion of these very specific energy stores, mechanisms exist in the body which lock up the storage sites much as a careful mother locks up the cookie jar to prevent depredations by a greedy child. The storage organs correspond roughly to six glands, the gonads or sex glands, the adrenals (divided into two parts, medulla and cortex), the liver, the pancreas, the thyroid in the throat and pituitary at the base of the brain with its two lobes, anterior and posterior. The pituitary, though a very small gland, about the size of a pea in the adult human being, may be called the master gland of the body because, through its special hormones (the "tropic" hormones), it arouses to activity the other glands. But the pituitary itself is directly linked to that part of the brain known as the hypothalamus, which in turn is linked to the roof brain, the cerebral cortex.

The hypothalamus contains a master switchboard, speeding up or slowing the operation of the glands, regulating the rate of utilization of the body's stores of energy. It is difficult, experimentally, to determine exactly where in this part of man's brain the different switches are located. We are forced to rely for this information mainly on data obtained from monkeys. Such studies show that the instinctive urges -- hunger, thirst, the sex urge -- are controlled by impulses coming from this part of the brain. They also show that two large switches, which we may call the "start switch" and the "stop switch," are located in this area. The start switch arouses an animal to activity and its operation induces sensations that are largely pleasurable (the "get up and go" sensation); the stop switch inhibits activity and its operation induces sensations that are largely unpleasant ("leave me in peace" sensations, accompanied by general malaise). The first system has been called by the Swiss neurophysiologist, Walter Hess, the "ergotropic system" (inciting to activity), the second the "trophotropic" (inciting to rest).

One who knows this much about the workings of the mental switchboard can accumulate, by direct observation, a great deal of information about the operations of his own brain. He can learn to distinguish one switch from another, to detect the changes in the harmony of the glandular orchestra, to recognize the release of stored energies, to know (more or less, for such observations always lack precision) which systems have been activated, which rendered quiescent.

To one who possesses such knowledge it becomes obvious, as soon as he feels the effects of the so-called psychedelics, that these substances are acting on the hypothalamic switchboard, turning various switches on and off. They exert effects on the centers regulating thirst, hunger, sexual desire, respiration, temperature, sweating, rate of the heartbeat. They may press the stop switch and incite to inaction, inducing feelings of malaise, often accompanied by vomiting. How they do all these things is a biochemical problem of great complexity. We can guess that they alter the balance between excitation and inhibition by exerting a chemical effect at certain strategic junctions in the complex communications network that is man's brain.

Because the psychedelics function by liberating stored energies, their effect will depend on the levels of these energies available. The various tribes of Indians who use peyote understand this well and prepare in advance, fasting and practicing continence, for the level of sexual energy influences powerfully the overall result. "Civilized" Western man, who despises the wisdom of these "poor primitives" and takes his psychedelics without any previous preparation, with all his habitual anxieties gibbering about him like a bevy of ghouls, with his energies scattered, his mind awash in daydreams, may wonder why the experience is unpleasant or downright terrifying. Worse still, he may be inveigled by some asinine experimentalist into being dosed with the drug in a hospital setting, amid sterile, hygienic white walls, starched nurses, syringes and bedpans and all the paraphernalia of sickness and death. Then, while still trembling with the horrors he has experienced, may be thrown out into the street, his psyche still as raw as an open wound, to be set upon by the vampire flock of impressions that suck souls dry in this world's major man swarms.

A quotation from Baudelaire's Paradis artificiels seems in order at this point:

I presume that you have chosen the right moment for this expedition. Every perfect debauch requires perfect leisure. Besides, hashish not Only magnifies the individual but also the circumstance and environment. You must have no duties to accomplish that require punctuality or exactitude, no pangs of love, no domestic preoccupations, griefs, anxieties. The memories of duty will sound a death knell through your intoxication and poison your pleasure. Anxiety will change to anguish, grief to torture. But if the conditions are right and the weather is good, if you are in a favorable environment as in the midst of a picturesque landscape or in a room artistically decorated, if, moreover, you can hope to hear some music, then all's for the best.

This is rule number one for all who wish to experiment with the psychedelics (for what Baudelaire says of hashish is also true of the others). Prepare beforehand. Embark on such a journey only when the energies of the body are at a high level, when that state of inner harmony which the Greeks called ataraxia is already the dominant mood. Tranquil, consoling, reassuring surroundings, a soothing pattern of music, perhaps a companion -- but this companion must be chosen with the utmost care, for the psychedelics, hashish especially, strip from the everyman his mask (persona) and reveal the essence.

However, we must always remember that, no matter what we do, we cannot evade the law which governs the formation and expenditure of certain substances in the body on the supply of which happiness, awareness, tranquility, health and life itself depend. If these substances are destroyed faster than they are made, a condition of depletion results. This depletion is experienced subjectively as depression, a general lowering of the vital flame, a heaviness, gloom, lack of pleasure, weariness, boredom.

Experience suggests that one psychedelic "trip" properly prepared for, conducted under the right conditions, will not result in a dangerous state of depletion. But the situation is entirely different when the experience is repeated several times or the session is conducted under unfavorable conditions. Such repeated or ill-regulated use of the drugs can produce a postpsychedelic depression of a most unpleasant kind which can, and in several cases has, resulted in suicide.

There is a second reason why the repeated use of psychedelics fails to produce any permanent alteration in the level of consciousness. In the beginning the drugs, by releasing certain energies in the body, touch off an inner firework display that is often fascinating and very beautiful. But the self-indulgent or lazy investigator who makes a habit of trying to set off such inner pyrotechnics will find that the show becomes less and less rewarding. The body grows accustomed to the drug and ceases to react. This is true of both LSD and hashish. The first few meetings with "My Lady of the Hemp" may produce raptures, ecstasies, give insights never to be forgotten. But continued application for aid to this potent spirit dulls the magic, blunts the effects, evokes misery rather than rapture. As Ludlow put it: "The ecstasy became daily more and more flecked with shadows of an immeasurable pain."

It takes a considerable time (two weeks or even a month) for the body to regenerate the stored energy substances which are casually squandered in one of these psychedelic sprees. If a second explosion is initiated before the body has had time to recover from the first, a point may be reached at which it is actually impossible for the body to regenerate these stores. In this process, as in many others, the old phrase of the alchemists applies: "You must have gold to make gold."

In summary, then, we may state that consciousness-expanding drugs can, if taken in the right doses, after proper preparation, with proper guidance and under the right circumstances, offer glimpses of the contents of both the fourth room and the fifth. They can never, no matter how often they are taken, enable the investigator to change his level of being. Their continued use represents a form of spiritual burglary which carries its own penalty, an irreparable depletion of the substances needed for real inner work and a total loss of the individual's capacity to develop. Carefully controlled experiments with the drugs are justified if they lead the experimenter to the conclusion that the fourth and fifth states of consciousness are possible for man. This realization may serve to awaken him to the existence of the Master Game, the only game in life that is truly worth playing. From that point on, he can progress only by combining right knowledge with right effort under the guidance of one who knows the way.

III. The Five Rooms

The Myth of the Mad King

IN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER man was compared to the inhabitant of a house containing locked rooms, "vast chambers full of treasures with windows looking out on eternity and infinity." It was said that man in general does not enter these locked rooms. He has lost the key. Sometimes he suspects that the rooms are there and may try to unlock the doors by the use of drugs. More often he does not even know that the rooms exist.

This concept of man's psyche is very ancient, as old as civilization, probably even older. Like much ancient wisdom, it has come down to us in the form of a myth, which will here be called the "Myth of the Mad King." The myth takes various forms. Some of the better known variations on this theme are the story of Nebuchadnezzar leaving his palace to eat grass with the beasts, Plato's story of the prisoners in the cave, the New Testament story of the Prodigal Son and the related story of the wandering prince contained in the Gnostic allegory called the "Hymn to the Soul." 81

This old myth, in its essence, compares man to a king with a sumptuous palace at his command. But the king went mad and insisted on living in the cellar surrounded by rags and bones and other worthless objects which he called his possessions. If any of his ministers reproached him for this behavior and tried to remind him of the palace and its splendors, he indignantly replied that he had never left that place. Such was the nature of his illusions that he saw the wretched cellar as a palace and the rags and bones he had collected as precious jewels. .

Today we can rephrase this old myth in terms more precise and in more accord with our new knowledge of human nature. We can say that man is a being with great powers at his disposal, which are his by virtue of his large brain and, more specifically, his huge cerebral cortex, an organ he has not yet learned how to use. Because he does not know how to use this powerful machine it tends to operate in ways not beneficial to its possessor, to generate a host of illusions among which he wanders like a babe in the enchanted wood, frightened and confused, a prey to terrors that he himself has created.

In psychological language the myth of the mad king means this: Man's ordinary state of consciousness is not the highest level of consciousness of which he is capable. In fact, it is so defective that the condition has been defined as little better than somnambulism. Man does not really know what he is doing or where he is going. He lives in dreams. He inhabits a world of delusions and, because of these delusions, makes dangers for himself and others. If this is accepted, then we ask the next questions: What can be done about it? Can man really awaken? What other states of consciousness are possible for him and what must he do to attain these states?

Let us repeat an oft-quoted passage from The Varieties of Religious Experience:

One conclusion was forced upon my mind at that time, and my impression of its truth has ever since remained unshaken. It is that our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without suspecting their existence, but apply the requisite stimulus, and at a touch they are there in all their completeness. . . . No account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded.19

William James was actually describing effects he obtained while experimenting with nitrous oxide. The statement, however, need not be limited to drug-induced states of altered awareness. One can, in fact, be far more specific than was James in the above passage. One can affirm, on the basis of considerable evidence, that roughly five levels of consciousness are possible for man:

Nature guarantees that man shall experience the first, second and third levels of consciousness. These are necessary for Me, for the maintenance of the physical body and for the perpetuation of the species. She does not guarantee that he shall experience the fourth and fifth states. In fact, it appears, owing to an error in the pattern of man's evolution, that mechanisms have developed in him which make it difficult for him to attain the two higher states of consciousness.

Dreamless Sleep

Let us consider the characteristics of the five states. In the first state man knows nothing. His activity is reduced to a minimum. He breathes, his heart beats, various instinctive processes go on, but he is not aware of himself in any way at all. Dreamless sleep. Oblivion. Death's brother. This is the first room in which man must spend a large fraction of his life because only when he is in this state can certain storage organs in the body (the vital batteries) be recharged. If deprived of the chance to enter the first room, he suffers damage that may prove irreparable. Inability to enter the first room is an early symptom of the approach of schizophrenia, one of the commonest and most disturbing forms of mental illness.

Man does not enter the first room in a single bound. He approaches it gradually as if descending a stairway of steadily diminishing consciousness. Contemporary students of sleep have divided this descent into roughly four stages.32 During the approach to sleep (drowsiness) a regular rhythm called the "alpha rhythm" appears on the electroencephalogram (EEG), which records the shifts in electrical potential in the brain. The appearance of the alpha rhythm is accompanied, subjectively, by a serene state, similar to that induced by meditation. In fact, that enterprising neu-rophysiologist, Dr. Joe Kamiya of the Langley Porter Institute, has shown that this rhythm is characteristic of the state induced in Zen Buddhist monks by the practice of zazen, in which the mind is emptied of content but alertness remains unimpaired.32 Into this state there may intrude various, often quite vivid images called "hypnagogic hallucinations." They are not dreams but have certain dreamlike qualities.

The alpha rhythm fades as the descent toward the first room continues. Small uneven waves appear on the EEG, there are more drifting images, floating or sinking sensations, the muscles relax, the body temperature declines, respiration grows more even and the heart rate becomes slower. Persons can be easily awakened at this first stage of sleep, may enter it momentarily as when the head nods at a boring lecture. It is the borderland of sleep, the gate of entry to the first room. It generally lasts only for a few minutes.

Students of sleep distinguish three more stages as the sleeper moves further into the first room. These stages are characterized by changes in the EEG recording. The muscles become steadily more relaxed. The breathing is even, the heart rate continues to slow down, the temperature to decline. Finally the most oblivious sleep (stage 4) is reached. The muscles are very relaxed and the heart rate is slow. We know almost nothing about the subjective sensations of stage-4 sleep because the whole apparatus of consciousness is turned off. Studies of the EEG recordings show a steady train of large, slow waves. They also indicate that every sound, every touch is registered by the brain but the mechanisms that render these stimuli conscious are completely inactive. (Curiously enough it appears that somnambulism -- sleep walking -- occurs at this stage of sleep. Despite inactivation of the mechanism of consciousness, people rise from their beds, negotiate rooms full of furniture, look at other people with open eyes, return to bed, recall nothing of the incident when awakened.) A normal person will spend a considerable portion of the night in this stage of sleep and, if his night is disturbed, will make up for it by spending proportionately longer time there on the following night. The restorative effects of "a good night's sleep" are probably the result of relatively long periods spent in stage 4.

The Room of Dreams

Man never spends the period of sleep entirely in the first room. Indeed, it seems downright unhealthy for him to do so. He must, in accordance with some little understood law of his being, emerge from time to time into the second room, the room of dreams. When man enters the second room, he apparently "sees" a series of episodes enacted before him as if on a wide screen. We put the word "see" in quotes because obviously, with both eyes closed and the room dark, he cannot receive any image on the retina. The seeing is purely mental and yet, through some curious hook-up between brain and eye, the eyes move rapidly during dream episodes as if they were following a drama. It was these rapid movements that gave to contemporary students of sleep, N. Kleitman and W. Dement, the clue as to when dreaming occurs.33

The second state of consciousness, the room of dreams, has from the earliest times fascinated human observers. Here is a mechanism which nightly fills the awareness with a host of dramas, without any prompting from the will, without external stimulation. From what do they come, these astonishing inner performances? Artemidorus, in the second century A.D. collected every known treatise on dreams (the literature was voluminous even in those days) and distilled the essence of the ancient wisdom into a work of four books (with an appendix). He firmly maintained that dreams are never meaningless, nor do they result from natural causes. They are sent directly by some god as a promise or warning of the future. The gods never lie, but they often veil their meaning in order to test men's faith and patience. Hence the need for skilled interpretation.34

The dream state was universally regarded by the ancients as the surest and shortest route to health of both body and soul. In the great Aesculapia at Cos and Epidaurus there were special rooms in which patients underwent the temple sleep (incubation), during which the gods of healing (Apollo, Serapis, Aesculapius) visited them and revealed the causes of their ailments. Aristides, also of the second century, has left us a detailed account of his long quest for health in all the great shrines of healing of the ancient world. His dreams were alarming and his faith extraordinary. He once dreamed that all liis bones and sinews must be excised and stubbornly demanded that the attendant physicians perform this incredible operation. They finally managed to persuade him that, in this instance, literal interpretation of the dream was not demanded.

Freud and Jung, dream doctors of the twentieth century, seem at times to place almost as much reliance on dreams as did Aristides in the second. Their theories of repressed material symbolically represented in the dream state demand more faith than some skeptical investigatiors are willing to permit themselves. It is, however, firmly established that the dream state is not at all the same as deep sleep. Dreaming, in the words of a contemporary investigator (Dr. Frederick Snyder, Chief of the Section on Psy-chophysiology of Sleep, National Institute of Health), "is the subjective concomitant of a pervasive and distinctive physiological state, a third basic biological mode of existence, of the same order yet different from sleep or waking." Dr. Snyder calls the state "REMS" (Rapid Eye Movement State). The state has other characteristics than dreams and eye movements. The muscles twitch, the breathing is shallow, rapid and irregular, pulse rate and blood pressure increase; in the infant there is grimacing, brief vocalization and sucking; in the male there is often penile erection not necessarily accompanied by erotic dreams.32

The Half-dream State

The direct observation of dreams is made difficult by the sequence of stages in sleep. Normally, people first enter stage 4 of sleep, remain there for awhile, then emerge from it and reenter stage i. After reentering stage i they begin to dream. If awakened artificially while dreaming, they may recollect a good deal of the dream but, if they awaken naturally, the dream recollection is rapidly erased, often in a matter of minutes, by the stream of daydreams that begins as soon as the third state of consciousness is re-established.

The normal course of sleep, with its initial descent into oblivion, makes it impossible for the student of dreams to carry over a thread of awareness from the waking state which would enable him to bring to his dreams an attitude of impartial self-observation. The descent into the first room severs the thread and the student, however hard he tries, cannot pick up the thread again as he passes from stage-4 sleep to stage i. So dreams are almost always remembered from the end backwards and the beginning of the dream may be completely out of reach.

The intentional study of the dream state would be made easier if it could be entered directly without the preliminary descent into stage 4 sleep. Can this be accomplished? The student must answer this question for himself, but material from two completely different sources can throw light on this problem. Among the writings assembled by Evans-Wentz in Tibetan Yoga and Secret Doctrines19 is a scripture entitled "The Doctrine of the Dream State." It is part of The Path of Knowledge, a group of six doctrines all bearing on the development of higher levels of consciousness. This Tibetan teaching declares that the practitioner can and should firmly resolve to maintain unbroken continuity of consciousness throughout both waking state and dream state. In order to do so, he must learn to focus awareness in a psychic center (chdkra) located in the throat, visualizing in that chakra the syllable AH, red in color and vividly radiant. This concentration on the throat psychic center will, if correctly performed, enable the student to enter the dream world while keeping hold of a certain thread of awareness. The Tibetan yogis know nothing of the retic-ular system at the base of the brain which is so directly involved in sleeping and waking, but they state, from direct observation, that a tubelike psychic organ exists between the heart center and the throat center. If the vital force is quiescent in this organ, there is dreamless sleep. If the vital force is in motion, dreams occur. In Tibetan Yoga and Secret Doctrines19 we find:

By mentally concentrating on the AH and recognizing every phenomenal thing to be in essence like forms reflected in a mirror, which though apparent, have no real existence of themselves, one comprehends the dream.

In the further development of this exercise, the AH in the throat is reduced to a red dot holding the awareness in such a way that the dream process can be observed as if through a lens. To the Tibetan yogi, all forms are the expressions of the play of mayd (the manifest world seen as illusion because of its transitory nature ) and dream forms are neither more nor less "real" than the forms seen in the waking state. Concentrating his awareness in the manner described, he is able to "see" whatever aspect of the cosmic process he desires, from the very small to the very great, from the atomic to the galactic, from the hells to the Buddha realms. The gods in their various heavens, the sufferers in their various hells, all sorts of sentient beings in all kinds of situations become visible in the dream state. To the enlightened mind, all these are the stuff that dreams are made of. Thus, the phenomenal things of Sangsara, the cosmic dance in which the three forces interact to weave the web of events on the loom of time, have all a dreamlike quality, are all products of mayd. For, waking or sleeping, we do not see things as they are but watch, in both cases, a sort of shadow show projected within the brain either by senses stimulated from outside (when we are in the waking state) or by inner events, spontaneous activities of the brain, experienced as dreams (when we are in the dream state).

Much can be learned from the Tibetan doctrine of the dream state, but the teaching is an integral part of the Yoga of the Six Doctrines and has to be studied in conjunction with the other five. All these Tibetan techniques call for a good deal of help from one who understands the methods and they have to be practiced under special conditions. They are suited to the last phase of life, when, putting aside all material entanglements, dwelling in solitude and with singleminded devotion, the practitioner sets out to reach those high levels of the Way, in which he can leave the physical body, shedding it as one would shed an outworn garment.

A similar approach to the experimental study of dreams is the one described by P. D. Ouspensky, who devoted a whole chapter to the subject in a New Model of the Universe.19 Ouspensky discovered his own method of retaining awareness during the dream state. To do this, he found it necessary to enter the half-dream state, a condition which could be induced by holding in the mind some definite image or thought while gradually allowing oneself to sink into sleep. The half-dream state would not come without such definite effort. This is in line with the Tibetan practice that emphasizes concentration either on the AH in the throat or on the red dot in that region.

Ouspensky was very impressed by the half-dream state. He concluded that "without these half-dream states no study of dreams is possible." But though the states offered him what appeared to be a reliable key by means of which he could enter the room of dreams, he was also suspicious of this power and somewhat afraid of it. His fear arose out of the observation that, if he allowed the half-dream states to take their course, they tended to encroach both upon sleep and upon the waking state.

It is up to the student himself, by using the above techniques, to decide whether or not it is possible for him to obtain a key to the world of dreams. He must also decide whether, for him, the practice is worthwhile or beneficial. In this writer's opinion, much can be learned in the second state of consciousness, but in order to learn it one must not only master some rather difficult inner exercises having to do with the placing of awareness, but also liberate oneself from a host of preconceived ideas about the significance of dreams imposed on one's consciousness by the speculations of psychoanalysts.

Dream Categories

To avoid influencing the dream content all theorizing about the meaning of dreams must be avoided. Only the simplest classification should be used. Ouspensky, in the course of his studies, divided dreams into three categories. These do not impose any structure on dreams, merely make it easier to recognize them, for most dreams recur with minor or major variations:

Category 1: Nonsense or chaos dreams. These dreams may be very terrifying or very comical but in all cases have a lack of structure that makes them seem peculiarly senseless. They result from some physical condition. A dream of snow or ice may signify simply that the bed clothes have fallen off. Horrendous dreams of witch burnings and conflagrations may accompany overheating of the body by too many coverings. Panic dreams ( one is stuck in a quicksand, one is entangled in ropes, snakes, tropical creepers, etc. ) can result from nothing more than getting one's feet entangled in the sheets. Dreams of flying, of sudden infinite vistas, vaguely disquieting because of their fluctuating perspective, may be produced by moments of dizziness as can the dream sensation of falling. Choking dreams, dreams in which one tries to cry out but cannot, often result from a blockage of the breathing tube with phlegm or saliva.

Category 2: Dream dramas. Dramatic dreams, in which the dreamer takes part in a series of escapades in a more or less orderly sequence, -- are far more coherent than the nonsense dreams. These dreams are apparently a manifestation of the work of a creative artist that exists in many, perhaps in most, people but who may not, for various reasons, be able to manifest in the waking state. Artists, writers, scientists have all experienced the working of this element of their totality. A picture, a story, a solution to a scientific problem springs suddenly, fully formed, into the mind. Something has evidently been at work on the project but that something is not an element of the ordinary (third) state of consciousness.

This creative faculty, encountered in the second state of consciousness, may impart in symbolical form an important piece of information, like Kekule's dream of the snake with its tail in its mouth that gave him the clue to the cyclic structure of benzene. More often it tells a story of some kind in which the dreamer performs some role that may be very different from the roles he plays in life.

Ouspensky, discussing this type of dream, commented on the skill of the dream agent. It possessed, or appeared to possess, capacities that he was not able to use in the waking state. It was an artist "extraordinarily versatile in his knowledge, capacities and talents." It was not only a playwright, producer and scene painter but also an actor-impersonator. The latter quality impressed Ouspensky because he had very little of that capacity when awake. He had never been able to imitate people, reproduce their voices, intonations, gestures, movements. Yet the dream agent could do all these things.

Ouspensky made the further observation that this actor-impersonator can, at times, so realistically present the being of a dead person that the dreamer becomes convinced he is receiving a communication from the dead. This forms the basis of many so-called spiritualistic phenomena. There is, in such a phenomenon, an element of "magic" and the dreamer can hardly be blamed if he accepts somewhat questionable theories to account for his experience. Perfect impersonation of another being involves the projection of consciousness into that being (as in the Tibetan art of tron-jug). It tells the one who thus projects his awareness many things about that being which he could not normally know. It appears that this projection may, at times, occur when a person is in the dream state. The projection is involuntary and the information fragmentary; the dream may be remembered only dimly but carries with it an almost overwhelming impression that something has been communicated from "the other side."

An aspect of the dream state that has impressed several observers is the deja vu phenomenon: "I have been here before." This feeling may come to a person in the waking state or in the dream state. Sometimes the sensation takes the form: "I have been here before, but in a dream." For some, this experience is so impressive that they have made it the basis of an entire theory of time. Ou-spensky, commenting on this experience, stated that it was characteristic of dreams observable in the waking state. He went on to say that the machinery which generates dreams operates in the waking state but is obscured by the workings of the roof brain and the streams of thought that it pours into the awareness. To become aware of the dream world, it is necessary to achieve the state of consciousness without thoughts. In this state, dream images emerge and the experimenter finds himself "surrounded by a strange world of shadows, moods, conversations, sounds, pictures." The deja vu sensation, that elusive feeling "I have been here before" appears, from this observation, to result from the superimposing of a dream on the waking state. There are, of course, other possible explanations, as for instance Ouspensky's own favorite, "Eternal Recurrence," which gives to time a three-dimensional structure and thus ensures that every event is repeated. It is also possible that the deja vu sensation is purely subjective and has no significance whatever. The neurophysiologist, Wilder Penfield, has been able to evoke the sensation by stimulating electrically a part of the cerebral cortex called the "temporal lobe."

Category 3: Revelation dreams. These dreams are quite rare but very impressive. They give to the dreamer a powerful impression that something, a god, an angel, a "higher power," is trying to reveal something to him or communicate with him in some way.

A characteristic of these dreams is the tremendous emotion which they generate, an emotion that can only be described as "religious awe." People of the ancient world attributed enormous importance to such dreams, were willing to rearrange their whole lives as a result of such an experience. Even a modern man, armored against superstition by the prevailing skepticism of a scientific era, may be much impressed by revelation dreams and may, on occasion, change his way of life as a result.

Dreams of this kind, either expressed in sleep or evoked by hypnosis, are often so dramatic that they are accepted as evidence of a previous incarnation. A whole class of literature has grown up around such dreams. A recent example of such literature, M. Bernstein's line Search for Bridey Murphy (New York: Double-day), was a very modest affair compared with such effusions as The Third Eye (New York: Ballantine Books) by T. Lobsang Rampa, a catalog of marvels reputed to be Tibetan, recorded by a man whose proper British soul was displaced by that of a Tibetan lama without the usual formality of death!

Experiences of this kind may occur not only in the dream state but also during certain forms of meditation. Ouspensky recorded them during the experiments described in his chapter "Experimental Mysticism." With characteristic good sense, he refused to take the "revelations" seriously. The same cannot be said of such "clairvoyants" as Charles W. Leadbeater and Rudolf Steiner, who constructed, on the basis of revelation dreams, an entire pseudo-history of things past derived, as they expressed it, from the "Akashic records" (supposed "cosmic records" of all that has occurred) with which they firmly believed they had made contact.35

The feeling (common to all revelation dreams) that some stupendous secret is about to be revealed is also often experienced by people who have taken psychedelic drugs. They stand trembling on the threshold scarcely daring to look lest the revelation overwhelm them entirely. "I looked up," wrote Fitz Hugh Ludlow of one of his hashish experiences, "but my eyes, unopposed, every moment penetrated further and further into the immensity, and I turned them down, lest they should presently intrude into the fatal splendors of the Great Presence."27 Such is the emotional tone that fills the sleeper who experiences a revelation dream, and it often compels him to endow the revelation with supernatural significance. Actually, it may not be significant at all. William James thought he had recorded the ultimate mystery under the influence of nitrous oxide. On returning to his normal state, he eagerly consulted the paper on which he had scrawled the great message. It read:

Hogamus, Higamous,
Man is polygamous.
Higamous, Hogamous,
Woman is monagamous.

Does this mean that revelation dreams are always deceptive, that despite their grandeur and the sense of awe they inspire they are actually never more than empty fantasies? No general answer can be given to this question. It is permissible only to warn the traveler that he who enters and explores the second room must interpret his experiences with caution. In the second room nothing can be trusted. The light is dim, the place is full of shadows, reverberates with echoes, is haunted by phantoms, filled with whispers and rumors. By all means, explore it but treat with caution what you find there.

Waking Sleep

The third state of consciousness is experienced when man awakens from physical sleep and plunges at once into the condition called "identification." Identification is the essence of the third state of consciousness. In this state, man has no separate awareness. He is lost in whatever he happens to be doing, feeling, thinking. Because he is lost, immersed, not present in himself, this condition, the third state of consciousness, is referred to in the Gurdjieffian system as the state of "waking sleep." Man in this state is described not as the real man but as a machine, without inner unity, real will or permanent I, acted upon and manipulated by external forces as a puppet is activated by the puppeteer.

For many people, this concept of waking sleep makes no sense at all. They firmly maintain that, once they "wake up," they are responsible beings, masters of themselves, fully conscious, and that anyone who tells them that they are not is a fool or a liar. It is almost impossible to convince such people that they are deceiving themselves because, when a man is told that he is not really conscious, a mechanism is activated within him which awakens him for a moment. He replies, indignantly, "But I am fully conscious," and because of this "trick of Nature" as Ouspensky used to call it, he does become conscious for a moment. He moves from the third room to the threshold of the fourth room, answers the challenge, and at once goes to sleep again, firmly convinced that he is a fully awakened being.

So, in the Myth of the Mad King, it makes no difference how often the king's ministers tell him that he is living in the cellar instead of his palace. He will reply, and really believe his reply, that the cellar is his palace and that they are the mad ones for suggesting that it is not.

It was exactly this reaction that Plato described in his account of the prisoners in the cave (which is actually a variant of the Myth of the Mad King). Suppose, says Plato in his Republic (Loeb edition), that one of the prisoners in the cave, whose only impression of reality is derived from watching shadows on the walls, escapes into the world outside. Suppose he is of an altruistic disposition and returns to tell the other prisoners of the bright and varied world that lies beyond their prison. Suppose he announces that all things they have ever seen are merely shadows. Will they welcome that message? Not likely!

There will certainly be laughter at his expense and it will be said that the only result of his escapade up there is that he has come back with his eyesight ruined. Moral: it's a fool's game even to make the attempt to go up aloft; and as for the busybody who goes in for all the liberating and translating to higher spheres, if ever we have a chance to catch and kill him we will certainly take it.

The fact is that man in the third state of consciousness is in a situation from which it is hard to escape. He does not recognize the state as waking sleep, does not understand the meaning of identification? If anyone tells him that he is not fully conscious, he replies that he is conscious and, by the "trick of Nature," becomes conscious for a moment. He is like a man surrounded by distorting mirrors which offer him an image of himself that in no way corresponds to reality. If he is fat, they tell him he is slender. If he is old, they tell him he is young. He is very happy to believe the mirrors for they save him from that hardest of all tasks, the struggle to know himself as he-really is.

Furthermore, this sleeping man is surrounded by other sleeping people and the whole culture in which he lives serves to perpetuate that state of sleep. Its ethics, morality, value systems are all based on the idea that it is lawful and desirable for man to spend his life in the third room rather than in a struggle to enter the fourth. Teachings that exhort men to awaken, to adopt a system of values based on levels of being rather than material possessions are distrusted. Theoretically, in the United States at least, what are loosely called "spiritual values" are accepted as valid, but practically they do not carry much weight.

Self-transcendence

A man's chance of attaining the fourth state of consciousness depends on whether or not he has experienced this state. If he does not even know it exists, he will not long for it any more than a bird born and raised in captivity can know what freedom is like or long for freedom. Man can, and from time to time does, experience the fourth state as a result of some religious emotion, under the influence of a work of art, in the rapture of sexual love or in situations of great danger and difficulty. In these circumstances it is said that he "remembers himself." This term is not entirely descriptive of the fourth state but it is the best available. Self-remembering is a certain separation of awareness from whatever a man happens to be doing, thinking, feeling. It is symbolized by a two-headed arrow suggesting double awareness. There is actor and observer, there is an objective awareness of self. There is a feeling of being outside of, separated from, the confines of the physical body; there is a sense of detachment, a state of noniden-tification. For identification and self-remembering can no more exist together than a room can simultaneously be illuminated and dark. One excludes the other.

Several characteristics of the fourth state of consciousness have been described by A. Maslow in a chapter entitled "Peak Experiences as Acute Identity Experiences." He emphasizes the paradoxical quality of this state: "The greatest attainment of identity, autonomy or selfhood is itself simultaneously a transcending of itself, a going beyond and above selfhood. The person can then become relatively egoless." 36

One statement in this chapter by Maslow calls for some elaboration: "Peaks are not planned or brought about by design; they happen." This may be perfectly true, but does not have to be. The whole practice of Creative Psychology is based on the hypothesis that man can change his level of being through intentional effort properly guided and persistently exerted. As a result of this effort, he will attain the fourth state of consciousness (roughly corresponding to Maslow's peak experience) with increasing frequency. He will also get glimpses of the fifth state of consciousness. The difference between experiencing these states by accident and inducing them deliberately is like that between finding money in the street and earning it by the sweat of one's brow. One may find money now and then, but it is not an event to be relied upon. In the same way, some drug experiences may produce a state akin to self-remembering and generate what Baudelaire called "The Taste of the Infinite." There are several ways of getting glimpses of the interior of the fourth room or even the fifth which a person may stumble upon more or less accidentally. This is not at all the same thing as finding the key and unlocking these chambers. For this, both effort and knowledge are required.

Once a man knows that the fourth room exists, he reaches a parting of ways so far as his life is concerned. He can either try to forget all about the fourth room, behave as if it does not exist, lapse again into the state of total identification, or he can decide to play the Master Game and set about looking for someone to teach him the technique. Two factors will influence his decision: the intensity of his dislike of sleep and the intensity of his longing for real awakening. These are the stick and the carrot which between them get the donkey moving. The struggle to unlock and enter the fourth room and, having entered it, to remain there, is a task so difficult under the conditions of modern life that few undertake it and even fewer succeed. It may well be that even the appetite for this adventure is gradually disappearing from the psyche of man. In this respect, the words of Nietzsche in Thus Spake Zarathustra may be relevant:

Alas! there comes the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man. . . .

Lo! I show you the last man.

The earth has become small and on it hops the last man who makes everything small. His species is ineradicable like the ground flea; the last man lives longest.

It may be asked at this point why should one make great efforts to enter the fourth room when things have been made so easy and pleasant in the third room. For there is no doubt about it; we of the so-called advanced nations live, on the whole, like kings. Better than kings. Not all the wealth of Croesus could have brought him even so commonplace an experience as a flight through the air, nor did all the riches of Egypt suffice to give Cleopatra freedom from the pangs of childbirth. The great ones of antiquity were as prone to pestilence as the meanest of their slaves. Even for the rich, life was dangerous and uncomfortable. For the poor, it was one long struggle to keep body and soul together.

Things are very different now. Watched over from cradle to grave by a paternalistic government, protected from overwork by unions, from hunger by the bounty of a scientific agriculture, from pestilence by an art of medicine so advanced that all the great plagues of antiquity have been conquered, soothed by tranquiliz-ers or stimulated by antidepressants, perpetually hypnotized by the unending circuses offered by television, radio, the movies, why should we ask for more? When the third room is comfortable, safe and full of delights, why should we strive to ascend to the fourth? What does it have to offer that the third room does not?

The answer, of course, is freedom. Only when he enters the fourth room does a man become free. Only in the fourth state of consciousness is he liberated from the tyranny of the personal ego and all the fears and miseries that this entity generates. Once he has attained the fourth room and learned to live in it, a man becomes fearless. The words "I" and "mine" have ceased to be meaningful. He does not identify the self with the physical body or attach much importance to the possessions of that body. He feeds it, dresses it, cares for it and regulates its behavior. In due course he leaves it. One of the powers conferred by entry into the fourth room is the capacity to die at will.

Man in the third room may think he is his own master but actually has no control over his actions. He cannot so much as walk down a street without losing his attention in every stray impression that "takes his fancy." Man in the fourth room really is his own master. He knows where he is going, what he is doing, why he is doing it. His secret is that he remains unattached to the results of his activity, measures his success and failure not in terms of outward achievement, but in terms of inner awareness. He is able, as a result of his knowledge of forces at work about him, to know what is possible and what is impossible, what can be achieved and what cannot be achieved.

This may sound like a small accomplishment but it is actually a very large one. Dabblers in various forms of occultism and theos-ophy, dilettantes who play with what they imagine to be yoga, show a pathetic naivete when it comes to evaluating what can and what cannot be obtained by these means. All sorts of miraculous achievements are accepted as possible, for man in the third state of consciousness tends to love miracles and to believe all sorts of nonsense that could not possibly happen. In the fourth state of consciousness such naivete disappears. A man knows what combination of forces can produce what sort of result. He knows that everything happens in accordance with certain laws governing the relations of matter and energy. He knows that there is no miracle and anything that appears to be a miracle is merely a manifestation of some rare combination of forces, like the rare combination of skill and knowledge that enabled the master magician, Houdini, to extricate himself from every form of restraint that was ever applied to him.

Cosmic Consciousness

In addition to the fourth room, there is said by some commentators on this subject to exist a fifth room, corresponding to the fifth level of consciousness. It is related to that condition which R. M. Bucke described in Cosmic Consciousness, the "prime characteristic of which" was "a consciousness of the cosmos, that is, of the Me and order of the universe." 37 Flashes of this state of consciousness may be experienced by certain people for no apparent reason. They may also be induced by psychedelics. Much of the material described by Alan Watts in The Joyous Cosmology could have been obtained as a result of his having entered the fifth room. The cosmic vision offered to Arjuna by Krishna and described in the eleventh chapter of the Bhagavad Gita is another example of the working of the fifth state of consciousness.

It must be understood, however, that this state, cosmic consciousness, is impossible for man to sustain without long and special training. The normal course of development demands that man must learn to enter and live in the fourth room before he can safely ascend to the fifth. If he enters the fifth room unlawfully, either by the use of drugs or any other means, he may suffer permanent damage as a result of the force of the impressions poured into his unprepared awareness. His situation is akin to that of an electrical machine suddenly subjected to a current much more powerful than that for which it was designed. The result at best is a blown fuse, at worst a burned out machine. Fortunately the physiological equivalent of a fuse does exist in man. Its operation results in the loss of consciousness when a man accidentally enters the fifth room. He is simply overwhelmed by the terrific rush of awareness and "blacks out," retaining afterwards scarcely a memory of that extraordinary moment.

This concept of the five rooms, or five levels of consciousness, is the theoretical basis of the whole teaching of Creative Psychology. We say "theoretical" because, unless a man has experienced the five states, they must remain for him theoretical possibilities only. No one, no matter how great his skill, can communicate to another the feeling of a different level of consciousness. Man in the fourth room cannot communicate his condition to man in the third room, nor can man in the third room communicate with man in the second.

Samadhi and Satori

Those familiar with the terminology of Zen Buddhism and yoga may. ask what relationship the states called safari and samadhi have to the fourth and fifth states of consciousness. The answer is that neither safari nor samadhi represents one condition. They may range all the way from a brief experience of the fourth state to a profound experience of the fifth. Satori is the psychological result of the practice of zazen or "wall gazing,"