I have been vehemently accused by people who didn’t understand me of not believing in anything. I don’t believe in anything. This is not a statement of existential hopelessness for which you should light a candle for me at night. It’s a strategy for not getting bogged down in some weird trip. After all, what is the basis for believing anything? I mean, you have to understand: You’re a monkey. In some kind of a biological situation where everything has been evolved to serve the economy of survival — this is not a philosophy course. So belief is a curious reaction to the present at hand. It isn’t to be believed, it’s to be dealt with — experienced and modeled.

Human beings are co-partners with deity in the project of being. This is the basis of all magic.

The global triumph of Western values means we, as a species, have wandered into a state of prolonged neurosis

because of the absence of a connection to the unconscious. Gaining access to the unconscious through plant

hallucinogen use reaffirms our original bond to the living planet. Our estrangement from nature and the

unconscious became entrenched roughly two thousand years ago, during the shift from the Age of the Great God

Pan to that of Pisces that occurred with the suppression of the pagan mysteries and the rise of Christianity. The

psychological shift that ensued left European civilization staring into two millennia of religious mania and

persecution, warfare, materialism, and rationalism.

The monstrous forces of scientific industrialism and global politics that have been born into modern times were

conceived at the time of the shattering of the symbiotic relationships with the plants that had bound us to nature

from our dim beginnings. This left each human being frightened, guilt-burdened, and alone. Existential man was