Happily Hippie-American

Mr. Paulie’s Psychedelic Experience: 

Toto, We’re not in Kansas Anymore!

Have you ever been experienced? Not necessarily stoned, but, uh, . . . beautiful. 

—Jimi Hendrix 

Many Hippies have had intense and formative psychedelic experiences, mostly with LSD. I did acid a few times and never really liked it. It made me physically uncomfortable, the hangover was like the aftermath of a tropical storm, and the deep thoughts and insights I was supposed to be having? Not happening. No, I had my life-altering experience with another hallucinogen: MDA, a cousin, apparently, of Ecstasy (MDMA)*.

Imagine a place beyond fear, insecurity, neediness and anger. A place where you feel con­tent, happy to be alive, quietly aglow with warmth, joy and kindness. I was 21, living in a dorm of a Midwestern university. Hillcrest was heavily Hippie; when you walked its hallways, you smelled marijuana. Most halls had one or two marijuana dealers. One of mine was an affable, academically capable computer-science major, Donald. I sometimes tell people that one of the first “drug dealers” I ever knew was an Eagle Scout, and he was. He sold cannabis and was liked and trusted by his neighbors/customers.

At the other end of Hillcrest lived several other Hippies I knew. Dave was a friend from high school, now a driven pre-med student; he hung around with John—dark, haunted, angry and mercurial. His very long hair parted in the middle, a mus­tache and wire-rimmed glasses, Dave’s roommate, Mike, was an­other computer-science whiz and a dealer. He was experienced with various drugs and well respected. A bit older than the three of us, he seemed an elder.

Mike sold more than marijuana. I didn’t know him well, but I found my­self alone with him in his and Dave’s room one day. He showed me a “hit” of MDA, neatly wrapped in a small packet of aluminum foil. “Look, you’re really going to like this,” he said, “I did it myself, and it’s great. Look, I have one hit left, and I want you to try it.” Leery of what I called “chemicals,” he reassured me it was safe, and he wanted me to do this drug as if he had decided to do me a favor. I felt a bit honored. Opening the packet, he displayed the fine light-brown powder. “It’s cut with Nestle’s Quik,” he explained. I paid him two dollars and planned to do it that night, Friday.

I had no grand plans—I would meet Dave and John in Dave-and-Mike’s room. Mike was out. We three would hang: chess and perhaps pizza. They had no MDA; I would be flying solo though in the company of experienced friends. A bit anxious at first, when I put the powder in my mouth, its sweet, chocolaty taste reassured me. Dave and John hud­dled over the chess-board; I watched, detached. 

A half hour later, my MDA experience was defining itself. Dave asked how I was doing, and I told him, well. I was feeling comfort­able with my emerging high. 

Physically, I felt fine—no weird LSD queasiness, no annoying am­phetamine buzz. More noteworthy were the psychological effects. Imagine a place beyond fear, insecu­rity, neediness and anger. A place where you feel content, happy to be alive, quietly aglow with warmth, joy and kindness. At peace.

In later years, I would hear a New Age minister speak of “mas­ters,” those capable of being happy “completely independent of exter­nal circumstances.” That night, I re­member thinking, “You could shut me in a dark closet, and it wouldn’t even faze me.” It was a bit like coming home—a place where you feel comfortable, natural and good. You don’t say, “Oh my God, this is amazing!” You say, “Oh, of course; hey, I knew this, and thanks for reminding me.”

If I “saw God,” God wasn’t what we expect: a bolt of lightning from some supernatural patriarch, an aching insight into a deep universal mystery—or at least a really good hallucination. No, more like a current of life or light flowing through me. It wasn’t sensational; it didn’t have to be. Apparently, real happiness doesn’t require stage gimmicks. My “wild” drug experience was anything but. 

Now, if that’s what my experience looked like inside, what was happening outside? Surely, I must have been about to leap off a ledge, crying, “I can fly!” right? Well, I was lucid and calm, completely in my senses; indeed, our threesome wasn’t always so harmonious, yet that night I was putting out such a good vibe, seemed so clearly together, I appeared to be playing a leadership role, modeling how to be. It was like I was suddenly more secure and mature, and it showed. 

The “trip” lasted about six hours—as I’d been told it would. Around two in the morning, I walked back to my room; I remember that the upper corners of the hallways seemed slightly distorted (I was sober enough to realize it), but that was all. I went right to bed. I wasn’t exhausted; it was just time to retire. I slept well. 

The next morning, I awoke early, refreshed. As I inhaled the fragran spring air wafting through the raised windows, as I admired the oak trees and the shadows they cast over the sunny grass, a robin chirped. “God,” I thought, “I’m so happy to be alive.” 

You know, one way to gauge the health effects of any drug is to see how you feel after you use it: if you’re hung over in some way, that might tell you something. The way I felt that morning told me that whatever I’d done was apparently kind to my body. I felt fine. 

Over the next several months, I tried to recreate the experience, and did “MDA” twice more. But unregulated street drugs are unreliable; the last “MDA” I bought was a fraudulent mix of amphetamines and baby powder. C’est la vie. 

Do I regret my drug experience? Obviously not. It was a gift, possibly the nicest gift anyone ever gave me. Mike the drug dealer turned out trustworthy. In some spiritual communities, they speak of a “tuning-fork memory”—a recollection of a time when one felt at peace and in harmony with life. This has been my tuning-fork memory: it has stabilized me, given me buoyancy, and like a kind hand on the shoulder, it helped me grow up.

As for “drugs,” yes, there are dangerous drugs, and we should be­ware of them and of drug abuse. But there are also positive drug experiences, things so valuable that a nation that outlaws them is foolish and repressive.

*I’m not advocating experimentation with MDA here since what is sold as “MDA” might be something else. Rather, this is an honest attempt to reconstruct a personal experience and draw some lessons.

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