PART 2 GOD'S SECRET AGENT A.O.S. 3
By this time (1962) we had set up a loose but effective distribution system for free LSD. A University psychologist in the mid-west, a God-intoxicated businessman in Atlanta. A few God-loving ministers and rabbis. David Soloman, at that time editor of the jazz magazine Metronome. Allen Ginsberg giving psychedelics to people they knew were ready for the trip. A responsible network of friends.
Everytime our supplies would run low a new shaman-alchemist would appear. Like Bernie and Barnie, the flipped out desert holymen, who had been taking the peyote trip with the indians for years and were writing crazy I brilliant illiterate books on telepathy and accelerated learning through LSD. Bernie claimed to have mastered the German language in two acid sessions. They had learned how to make LSD which they distributed in rubber-stopped bottles, a strange brown elixir with curious seaweed strands. They sold the sacrament at bargain rates to dozens of famous people in California. Before they were treacherously betrayed to the feds. They didn't get along well with their attorneys and built their case around an insane plot to get the judge and jury to taste their brew which would have revolutionized jurisprudence forever. But the judge recoiled and gave them nineteen years sentences which they jumped. God be with you beloved guides wherever you are.
Sometime later (the exact date must be kept vague) I was lecturing in a college town. A note to my hotel. Please cali a Dr. Spaulding. Urgent. Had to see me after the lecture.
He was a distinguished looking man in his fifties. One of the ten leading chemists in the country. Big-boned, handsome, jolly, athlete-scholar type.
He drove his car with strange jungle caution, checking the view mirror, doubling around blocks. He drove to the middle of a deserted supermarket parking lot and stopped the car. Cloak and dagger. He came to the point. He had taken LSD several times. He knew what it would do. He also knew that the government was alarmed. A lot of high level people had turned on and knew that LSD was a religious experience. But they were worried. Big power struggle over control of drugs in Washington. The narcotics bureau of the Treasury Department wanted to keep all drugs illegal, to step up law enforcement, add thousands of T-men, G-men, and other narks to the payroll. On the other hand the medics and scientists in the government wanted the FDA to handle all drugs including heroin, pot, LSD. Make it a medical matter. Would I make a deal? Would I tell the FDA all I knew about the black market and smash the underground distribution of LSD? If I cooperated I'd be guaranteed research approval to use LSD. We have to help the FDA get control of the drugs. Then marijuana and LSD would be legal for licensed use. But we had to keep the kids from getting LSD or the hard-line-cop faction in Washington would get the anti - LSD legislation they wanted. If I didn't cooperate I'd be busted.
I looked at him and laughed. Not a chance. This is a country of free citizens. LSD and marijuana are none of the government's business to give or take away. If ifs a choice between becoming a government informer or getting busted I'll go to jail.
Dr. Spaulding laughed knowing. O.K. I had to make the offer but I knew you wouldn't scare. But you should know that a big government crackdown is coming. All the sources of LSD will be sealed off. You better stock up. How much do you have on hand now?
Not much. A few thousand doses. How much LSD can you use? I looked at him in surprise. He starts out like a fed and now he's offering me acid. He saw my look and started to explain. A few of us saw this coming several years ago. We started stockpiling the raw lysergic acid base. We have the largest supply of LSD in the world. More than Sandoz's department. We want to give it away to responsible people who won't profit by it, and who can get it out to the people. O.K. how much can you distribute in a year?
The scene was surrealistic. This famous, eminently respectable professor offering to set us up with unlimited supply of acid. It was hard to keep from laughing. I asked him one question. Why? Oh, you know why, Tim. Can you see any hope for this homicidal, I neurologically crippled species other than a mass religious ecstatic convulsion? O.K. How much do you want?
We can get rid of two hundred grams in a year. That's two million doses.
Dr. Spaulding nodded. Fine. You'll receive a four year supply--1000 grams in the next few weeks. Each package will contain a hundred grams of LSD powder. Get scales to put it in doses. Keep it sterile. Alcohol or even vodka. Dilute it down if you can't get a pill machine and put it on sugar cubes.
He started the car and drove back to my hotel. How many people are you distributing to this way? Not many, he answered. In chemistry, every process has to develop at its own natural tempo. We have enough LSD stored up now to keep every living American turned on for several years.
That was the only time I met Dr. Spaulding. A week later the acid began arriving at Milbrook--in brown manila envelopes and hollowed out books mailed from different cities throughout the country. In hardly any time at all we have given away ten million doses.
It was ten in the evening by now, Rosemary and I were starved. O. was still too high to be hungry but he was responding telepathically to our stomach pangs. Organic matter nibbling the granite, galaxies feeding each other.
O., do us a favor and don't mention eating, O.K.? We haven't had supper yet.
O. was spinning us along an epic - poem trip through the levels of creation. He can really tell it. I've studied with the wisest sages of our I times --Huxley, Heard, Lama Govinda, Sri Krishna Prem, Alan Watts and I have to say that A.O.S.3, college flunk out, who never wrote anything better (or worse) than a few rubber checks, has the best up-to-date perspective of the Divine Design.
To begin with he begins where they all begin at the beginning. He had taken the full LSD trip, hurled down through his cellular reincarnations, disintegrated beyond life into pulsing electron grids, whirled down beyond atomic form to that unitary center that is one, pure, radiant humming vibration. Yin. Yin. Yin. Yang. Yang. Yang.
O. 's face was glowing and he was screaming that full throated God-cry that was torn from the lungs of Moses and shreiked by San Juan de la Cruz and which Rosemary and I heard most recently just after our sunrise wedding on the desert mountain top near Joshua Tree bellowed by the bone -tissue blood trumpet of Ted Marckland--the eternal, unmistakeable cry of the man who has heard God's voice and shouted back in joyous, insane acceptance. If you've ever opened your ears to any one who has surrendered wide-eyed to the sound of God you know what I mean.
O. shook his head and laughed. I can't say it in words. God, man, I've got to learn a musical instrument so I can really say what it sounds like.
Yes, O. carries the official stamp on his skin's passport that he has been where all the great mystics have been-that point where you see it all and hear it all and know it all belongs together. But how can you describe an electronic rhythm of which 5 billion years of our planetary evolution is just one beat? O. is in the same position of every returned visionary--grabbing at ineffective words. But check O.'s prophetic credentials. High native intelligence coupled with a photographic memory. Solid grasp of electronics. Absorbed biological texts. Knows computer theory. Has hung out with the world's top orientalists and Hindu scholars. Has lived with and designed amplifiers for the farthest out rock band. As a sniffing, alert, inquisitive mammal of the 20th century he has poked his quivering whiskered nose into all the dialects and systems by which man attempts to explain and divine.
Throughout history the alchemist has always been a magical awesome figure. The potion. The elixir. The secret formulary. Experimental metaphysics. Those old alchemists weren't really trying to transmute lead to gold. That is just what they told the federal agents. They were actually looking for the philosopher's stone, the waters of life. The herb, root, vine, seed, fruit, powder that would turn on, tune-in and drop-out.
And every generation or so someone would re-discover the key. And the key is always chemical. Consciousness is a chemical process. Learning, sensing, remembering, forgetting are alterations in a bio-chemical book. Life is chemical. Matter is chemical.
O.'s bells jingling as he gesticulates. Everything is hooked together with electrons. And if you study how electrons work you learn how everything is hooked up. You are close to God. Chemistry is applied theology. (Continued on page 10)
GOD'S SECRET AGENT
(Continued from page 2)
The alchemist-shaman-wizard-medicine man is always a fringe figure. Never part of the conventional social structure. It has to be. In order to listen to the shuttling, whispering ancient language of energy (long faint sighs across the milennia) you have to shut out the noise of the market place. You flip yourself out deliberately. Voluntary holy alienation. You can't serve God and Caesar. You just can't.
That's why the wizards who have guided and inspired human destiny by means of revelatory vision have always been socially suspect. Always outside the law. Holy outlaws. Reckless courageous outlaws. Folklore has it that forty-three federal agents were assigned to O.'s case before he was arrested on the day before Christmas, 1967. They have to stop this wildman with jingling bells or he'll turn on the whole world. O's Christmas acid could have stopped the war.
Messianic certainty. O. is the most moralistic person I have ever met. Everything is labeled, good or bad. Every human activity is either right or wrong. He is, in short, a nagging, preaching, intolerable puritan. Right to O. is what is natural, healthy, harmonious. Right gets you high. Wrong brings you down.
Meat is good. Man is a carnivorous animal, but eat your meat rare.
Vegetables are bad. They are for smoking, not eating. God (or the DNA code) designed ruminants and cud-chewers to eat leaves. And man to eat their flesh.
Psychedelic drugs are good.
Alcohol is bad. Unhealthy, dulling, damaging to the brain. A down trip. O. explains this in ominous chemical warnings. I always feel guilty drinking a beer in front of him.
Showers are good. Clean.
Baths are bad. You soak in your own dirt & Your soft pores sponge up foul debris, in a lukewarm liquid ideal nutrient for germs.
Rock and roll is good.
Science fiction is bad. Screws up your head. Takes you on weird trips.
Long hair is good. Sign of a free man.
Short hair is bad. Mark of a prisoner, a cop, or a wage slave.
Smoking is bad.
Marijuana is good.
Sex is good. Sexual abstinence is insane.
O. is now sitting against the wall talking quietly. The red glow flickers on his round glasses. He is a mad saint.
At the higher levels of energy, beyond even the electronic, there is no form. Form is pure energy limiting itself. Form is error.
On one trip they (I'll refer to "they" for lack of a better term), the higher intelligence, beckoned me to leave the living form and to merge with the eternal formless which is all form and I was tempted. Eternal ecstasy. But I declined regretfully. I wanted to stay in this form for a while longer.
Oh, to make love. Balling is such a friendly tender human thing to do.
How about eating, O.?
Oh yes, that's tender too.
O.K. Lets go to a restaurant.
O. is a highly conscious man. He is aware at all times of who he is and what's what. Aware of his mythic role. Aware of his past incarnations. Aware of his animal heritage which he wears, preeningly and naturally like a pure forest creature. His sense of smell. O. carefully, selects and blends perfumes for himself and his friends. Your nose always recognizes O. Oh, some sandlewood, a dash of musk, a touch of lotus, a taste of civet.
I talked to him once on the phone after a session. He was in his customary state of intense excitement. Listen, man, I saw clearly my mystic karmic assignment. I am merlin. I'm a mischevious alchemist. A playful redeemer My essence name is A.O.S.3.
Like any successful wizard A.O.S.3 is a good scientist. Radar-sensitive in his observations. Exacting, meticulous, pedantic about his procedures. He has grandiose delusions about the quality of his acid. "Listen, man, LSD is a delicate, fragile molecule. It responds to the vibrations of the chemist.
He judges acid and other psychedelics with the fussy, patronizing skill of a Bordeaux wine-taster. He is less than kind to upstart rival alchemists. But no jeweler, gold-smith, painter, sculptor was ever more scrupulous about aesthetic perfections than A. O. S. 3
And like any good journeyman messiah his sociological and political perceptions are arrow straight. As do all turned-on persons, O. agonizes over the pollution of air and water, the rape of the soil, man's vengeful disruption of the living fabric. He, as well as anyone, sees the mechanization. The robotization,
Metal is good. It performs its own technical function. Metal has individuality, soul.
Plastics are evil. Plastic copies the form of plant, mineral, metal, flesh but has no soul.
O.'s life is a fierce protest against the sickness of our times which inverts man and nature into frozen brittle plastic. Only a turned-on chemist can appreciate the horror, the ultimate blasphemous horror of plastic.
O. is unique. He is himself. His life is a creative struggle for individuality. He longs for a social group, a linkage of minds modeled after the harmonious collaboration of cells and organs of the body. He wants to be the brains of a social love body. The ancient utopian hunger. Only a turned-on chemist can appreciate God's protein plan for society.
A.O.S.3 is that rare species. A realized, living, breathing, smelling, balling, laughing, working, scolding man. A ridiculous conceited fool, God's fool, dreaming of ways to make us all happy, to turn us all on, to love us and be loved.
(If you missed the first part which appeared in issue #6 and you gotta have it, send a quarter in coin or stamps to the SUN, 499 W. Forest, Detroit 48201 and we'll send it to you.)