The First Naxal: Initial Impressions of Kanu Sanyal's Authorized Biography and a First-Person Look inside the Naxalite Revolution

It seldom happens that the story of an individual becomes so intertwined with the cause she or he stands for, that it becomes impossible to separate one from the other. Kanu Sanyal's is one such rare story. To read it is to relive the history of the Naxalite Movement (since 1965), which the Indian establishment calls "the country's biggest internal security threat", even as its poorest and fringe-marginalized desperately hang on to the same movement as their last resort.

This book narrates the making of Kanu Sanyal right from his childhood to the days of the Naxalbari Uprising (in the mid-'60s), and then traces the historical development well beyond the confines of the tumultous '60s right down to India's great foray into neoliberalism in the 1990s. Supposedly, the last great decade. It delves deep into Sanyal's evolution as a Marxist-materialist (as opposed to Bolshevik Communist) rebel and throws light on the various stages of the Naxalite Movement, starting with the Naxalbari Uprising, with relevant background information, and then continues on to trace the effects of the uprising, and the reactions to it, on the current political environment in India's untold reality. 

In short, much more than a historical retelling The First Naxal is also a brutally honest indictment of the heady subcontinental flavor of neoliberalism, aka 'India Shining', that gripped the Indian economy in the early 90s like yellow fever, leading the "sovereign socialist secular democratic" State down a path where like a thirsty vampire it sucked out the nation's core resources (its rivers, forests, mountains, and the people who depended on these natural resources) and like a sick street-dog vomited it out in its many glittering malls and supermarkets -- 'India Shining', in tinfoil wrapped American-conceived, Chinese-sweatshop executed, mass-manufactured trinkets, made out of the very flesh of an ancient land, and soaked in the blood and dreams of its poorest and disenfranchised. Unlike most works on sociopolitical commentary, however, this book does the public service of explaining the present in its proper historical context. 

The Poet once wrote,

                                                "Each slow turn of the world carries such disinherited,

                                                   To whom neither the past nor the future belong."

This book details a brave and unapologetic uprising of those disinherited who, devoid of a past and denied any future, plunged headfirst into an armed revolution against an unforgiving State Machinery in a desperate attempt to stop the civilized, moderate middle-class from stealing the last crumbs of bread off of their banana-leaves plates. And the merciless repression they faced in the form of the ire and anger of the patriarchal Indian State, and the apathy and indifference of a 'shining' moderate, liberal middle class that is so comfortable in its negative peace of "no noise" that it didn't think to blink even once as an entire race of people were, and still are, slowly being pushed to the brink of extinction. Kanu Sanyal's is a story not just of a forgotten (albeit very much alive) people's revolution, but also of the genocidal nature of a Brahminical State steeped in caste-ist bigotry and a sense of entitlement to privilege. 

Just as much it is a story of an apathetic, blissfully ignorant, media-addicted, consumption-driven, shine-fascinated middle-class that seems more and more comfortable with the idea of the aforementioned State Patriarch, so long as the State acts as the vanguard of their distorted morality. Keep the poptarts flowing into their LG microwaves, and they will happily ignore mass genocide while they Boldly watch the Beautiful on a 43 inch plasma screen television mounted on their bottle-green painted Parisian-plastered wall -- the proud sons and daughters of Friedman's loopy Free Market. Other than poptarts, microwaves and plasma screens, the story of the middle class, however, has remained the same even as the decades have rolled by. From the 60s, through the 70s and right down to the 90s, The First Naxal and the first naxal tells us of our own sad origins. We The People.

As one reads through the pages of this book -- rather ordinary use of the English language to effectively paint in words one of the most extraordinary times in recent history -- it is not hard to understand the circumstances that made a former school teacher (mastermosai, in vernacular) in one of the more rural areas of West Bengal reach the conclusion that "eliminating individual class enemies -- police officers, university teachers, bankers, and politicians from both the left and right -- in open daylight, for all the moneyed class to see" is the only way to perfect social justice. Nor is it difficult to sympathize with the urban Naxalites -- an entire generation of mostly upper-middle class, higher educated, urban youth, who dropped out of India's most elite colleges and universities, denounced paternal inheritance, and picking up arms brought to life one of the bloodiest decades in Indian history, nearly wiping out the bourgeoisie in Bengal. And just as easy is to shiver at the sheer violence with which the Indian State reacted towards its own children -- and children they really were, most naxalites. The average age of these "internal terrorists" -- in dealing with whom Indira Gandhi, then Prime Minister of India, declared "democratic niceties have no place in civil war" (Maggie Thatcher must have been proud of her former Trinity bestie), and under whose expert orders Siddhartha Sankar Roy, then Chief Minister of Bengal, unleashed the most brutal form of "torture and execute" operation in West Bengal -- was eighteen.

One wonders, reading the story of Bimal, a twenty-one year old student from Jadavpur, who was hung upside down and had a hot iron inserted in his rectum at the express order of Somen Mitra, the anti-Naxal spearhead of the Congress party in Bengal -- routine interrogation during the Naxal days in Bengal -- how many Bimals were tortured and executed by the State from 1967 to 1975? How many enemies of class war did the Bimals of the day execute? The numbers are lost somewhere between government lies and rebel re-tellings, leaving behind shattered families and a forlorn dream. And Sita Mashi (Aunt Sita) who, ninety seven years old now, still sits on her khatiya (a sort of hammock-like bed made out of wood and ropes) and tells anyone who would listen where she used to boil rice for her son, Anish, and where the police took him to be shot, behind a public urinal, and how he touched her feet before he was dragged away.

But who has time to listen? Out in the streets of Calcutta, oops Kolkata (the State wants to rewrite its colonial past, and recolonize the land on its own now), busy teenagers cross the roads absorbed in their iThings, and the malls fill up daily with boys and girls still in school uniforms. Bimal and Anish's dream, however, lives on in India's Red Corridor, where the State sponsored genocide also still continues. An endless cycle of violence; the Naxals kill cops, the cops wipe out tribal villages, the villagers blame the naxals, the naxals kill some villagers, and in Jadavpur University Paul Krugman recently gave a lecture on the Efficient Market Hypotheses. Adam Smith must be rolling around in his grave, even as the Ghost of Marx looks on in dismay, as Sita Mashi sits on her khatiya, slowly swaying back and forth, and keeps retelling old stories of Anish coming home from school, how old he would be now, and how she would rock her grandchildren on her knees if Anish was alive and married. She has never heard of Kanu Sanyal. But she remembers Anish, in his last days, used to say Inquilab Zindabad (Long Live the Revolution), and shows an old black-n-white photograph of Malcolm X to the reporters who show up once in a while, and wonders out aloud if it's a picture of  one of Anish's classmate. "He was very fond of the picture", she says.

                                     Amar chele-ta je   kothay gelo?
                                     my       son  def.art  where go
                                   Where did he run away, my son?

What is significant about this book, other than the deeply touching stories of people whose lives were forever changed by the Naxalbari Uprising, is that this is the only authorized biography of Kanu Sanyal in any language - he personally read and cleared all its chapters but the last one, which deals with his aberrant demise. On March 23, 2010, The First Naxal hung himself in his home in Seftullajote village. They say his body was broken from the three years of police torture he endured in the '70s, he suffered from a painful heart condition and was disillusioned at the murder of innocent villagers by some naxals in Madhya Pradesh and Chattisgarh recently.

One wonders, what would Sita Mashi say, if she ever met this man who so moved her son to take up arms and sacrifice his life for a just cause (even if one debates the just-ness of his methods)? Or heard of his demise? And what ghosts haunted Kanu Sanyal in his last days? Was he wrong in calling for a revolution? He did express remorse, in his later years, for having fueled an armed rebellion without laying enough ground work. But was an entire generation wrong to dream of a fairer future? Did they have to be slaughtered like animals? (Perhaps, as Noam Chomsky would say, For Reasons of State.) Is there a cure for the neoliberal onslaught that even today threatens India's, and the world's, poorest?

The State seems determined to push the justice-minded into another Naxalbari Uprising, and the State itself is now more powerful, more fearsome in its oppressive abilities, than it has ever been. Must the roots of Progress and Development be watered with our blood? Is this the nature of Imperial Democracy -- buy one, get one free? Can we sit still, as our mountains, rivers, forests and our flesh and blood, our friends, brothers, sisters and lovers, and all of their cumulative hopes and dreams are put up for sale by the highest bidder in the Free Market? Are we to let charlatans like Steven Pinker tell us that The Better Angels of Our Nature  have come forth, that violence is on the decline in the best of ages in human history, even as we sink deeper in debt for wanting education and neoliberalism claims our very souls for its war-machine, and the State claims sole monopoly on violent methods? Are we to let Christopher Hitchens tell us to obey the Good Capitalists as they create minimum wage jobs for our children? Are we to let Sam Harris convince us that Arab commandos are terrorists, and Israeli terrorists are commandos? Is it only terrorism when it's done to them, and is it counter-terrorism when they do it to us? Are we to sit on the sidelines of history and watch our lives and future being bottled-up by Nestle, shrink-wrapped and sold in Walmart, and still not answer the call of Kanu Sanyal? 

The author Arundhati Roy once wrote:

"The irony has never really left me -- the government's genocide in India's Red Corridor is carried out in the name of Progress and Development, and the Turkish Government's special wing that carried out the Armenian Genocide was called The Committee for Progress and Development. Who is progressing? Whose development? I can never tell."

 Neither can I. Neither could Kanu Sanyal. Nor Anish, nor Bimal. Certainly not Sita Mashi. Perhaps that's what led an eminent Bengali poet to write:

                              aamar bari,  tomar  bari

                               my     home  your  home

                             sobar       bari       Naxalbari

                           everyone's home     naxalbari

We have a choice to make, I think. Kanu Sanyal, and the history of Naxalbari and the Naxals, teaches us a very important historical lesson.We can obey the State and Make America (or India, or Pakistan, or <insert name here>) Great Again. Or we can try to Make Israel Palestine Again. We can Make Kashmir Independent Again. We can Make Nagaland Naga Again. We can choose to live on our knees, or die on our feet. It is a hefty choice, to be sure, not to be made in a fit of emotional turbulence. But it is a choice, nonetheless. They made theirs -- Kanu Sanyal, Malcolm X, Bimal and Anish. Right or wrong, unlike Nixon's non-existent Silent Majority they made a loud and clear choice, they were the Vocal Minority. We must make ours.

Inquilab Zindabad

USERNAME: EVIE -- A.I., Consciousness, Reality, Simulation and Identity in Joe Sugg's Graphic Novel Debut (A Spoiler-Free First Look)

Reading Sugg's very first book, which just happens to be a graphic novel, was a rather personal experience for me. The twenty-something year old Sugg does an excellent job of tackling certain rather interesting contemporary existential issues arising out of where the world is headed with recent developments in Artificial Intelligence, studies of the brain and the mind, and their implications for the human condition in general, and he does so while telling a very gripping and relate-able story. As someone who has been writing for a while, I can vouch that this is no small feat. Sugg deserves high praise for this very time-worthy volume, that will take an hour and a half, or two even, of the reader's life and leave her with quite a few ruminations for those sleepless nights. So... let's dive right in!

Like any conscientious young mind struggling with adolescence in this crazy corporate-consumerist world of ours, Evie feels alienated, lonely and at odds with the world. The loss of her mother, and her increasingly sick Computer Scientist father, adds to her growing sense of helpless fear as she continually struggles to find some sort of a human connection with her peers. But she finds only superficial frivolity, mindless consumerism, skin-deep camaraderie and groupies with more bubbles in their head than in their washing machines. Evie is at once torn between an intensely human urge to bond with another sapien mind, and her instinctive repulsion of the mindlessness of her peers, and they in turn respond to Evie's lack of superficiality and herd-mentality in the only way they can -- with passive violence and cruelty. Evie is scared, and hopeless in the certainty that the fridge inside which she sometimes climbs in is her only true place. She only wants what she can't have -- a safe haven with some friends who can understand her. But while the world seems indifferent, one man will not stand for Evie's psycho-emotional destitute.

Unbeknownst to Evie, her father, a brilliant Artificial Intelligence expert, is determined to give Evie a safe haven. As the reality of his own failing health dawns on Evie's father, he turns his back on the embodied physical world and turns to the abstract to ensure his daughter has somewhere left to come home to when he is gone. He would simulate her a better world! A world coded and programmed from the ground up to accept, to nurture nature and to value the mind that makes Evie so very special! e.Scape -- a living, breathing Computational Dimension with just one thing to provide it any meaning and existence. Evie's mind. When Evie's father passes away before he can finish programming e.Scape, he leaves her a mutating algorithm that only requires exposure to Evie's mind to complete itself. And all Evie needs to find her haven is a USERNAME: Evie.

Inside e.Scape, awaiting the arrival of Evie, is an entire world that would derive its very essence from an alienated mind and its untapped potential. And Evie's guide to her new world, and in a way to her very own mind, is an highly sophisticated A.I. interface that takes a transgendered-transcultural form -- UNITY. Unity is meant to be Evie's encyclopedia to e.Scape. Unity has no gender, nor any race, in fact Unity probably wouldn't even exist if Evie could only lend her mind to e.Scape. Or, would Unity? Unity is a set of principles that guide e.Scape to absorb Evie's mental realities, and to reflect their immense potential back to her. But when more than just Evie arrives in e.Scape, Unity faces a choice -- should she evolve? Should Unity remain a set of principles that are designed to absorb, or should Unity now face her own computational free will and interpret what her principles mean? Are principles mere statements? If there is a meaning to principles, are they inherent to the principles? Are they a reflection of the minds that framed those principles? What parameters must a set of principles impose upon their self-intepretations? Can A.I.s have free will? Is Unity to transform her descriptive status, shed the artificial and become a true intelligence? Or will that entail a betrayal of her own computational roots? Is the programmer the limit of  the program? Or is the algorithm more than just a recipe? How is Unity to know? Is it even possible to know?

On Anarchism (Noam Chomsky): First Impressions of the Penguin Special Edition

Noam Chomsky is the "world's most important intellectual", and few who know and understand his philosophy, his Science and/or his socio-economic and geo-political commentary would argue otherwise. Although that title was given to him by the NYT, in a vain and failed effort at sarcasm, it has stuck and for good reasons. Whether you have read Chomsky or not, whether or not you have heard him speak, chances are you know his name, and you have some idea of what he is about. This, despite the American media's unabashed attempts at ignoring his very existence. And these are precisely the issues that Chomsky discusses in this volume -- intellectual traditions, public consciousness, media, government, power politics, environment, philosophy, theory, oppression, repression, propaganda, and underneath it all, mankind's instinctive urge to probe, to question, to revolt, and to defy.

In his quintessential fashion, Chomsky remains theory-free in his political discourse, and avoids jargon. His political works have always been cut-n-dry, bare-bones, and deliberately "un-inspirational", as he consciously chooses to focus on data and analyses instead. This volume, although written in a similar fashion, is at once vastly different. Chomsky, here, reluctantly assumes the mantle of the father of modern anarcho-syndicalism, and takes upon himself the task of explaining to Everyman the centuries old political-humanist-philosophy of anarchism, its genealogies, its history, and its position and role in our society today. Understanding any ancient epistemology is a monumental task, and even more so the task of trying to explain in one book all the relevant underpinnings of such a tradition. Yet, this is the task that Chomsky undertakes in this volume, and in so doing he almost approximates poetry. From Marx and Bakunin, through Humboldt and Kant, right down the Paris Commune and the Spanish Revolution of 1936, Noam Chomsky painstakingly locates, quotes, places in context, deconstructs, elaborates, and simplifies the very truisms and fundamental moral objectivities that form the basis of anarchist thought. Chomsky lets that historical figures do their own talking, as his style, and restricts his own role to that of a commentator. Yet these commentaries are what makes this volume so important -- they shed light on the sub-textual, bring to the surface the underlying, and in a stroke of brilliance demarcates the boundaries that separate Marxism, Socialism, Communism and Anarchism.

Chomsky's deep insight not only elaborates on the philosophical foundations of Anarchism, but places Anarchist thought in its true context, and presents it less as a consciously formulated system of argumentation/political actions, and more as an innate human instinct, a deep-seated evolutionary dis-trust of power, authority, boundaries and control. Chomsky does not approach issues with a fixed political thought (process), precisely what he insists Anarchism is not, but rather with an Anarchist's instinctive need to question authority -- thus arriving, functionally, at the true definition of Anarchism.

30's for a 80's Kid

I sit here, at the deserted corridor of the Margot Hardy Gallery of the University of Western Sydney, late on this warm summer's evening. I am twenty-eight years old, I will be twenty-nine in a few months. And as I sit staring at the blinking cursor on my 2012 Macbook Pro, the summer wind blowing over my face brings back memories of so many summers; very similar summers in a very different place. I wonder if those memories are mine? Am I the same person from all those summers? Am I the accumulation of what has come of those many summers? Or is this me, remembering many versions of myself from many different summers? Are we all different people at different points in our lives? 


It is not always the same. It is not always romantic, tranquil or even nostalgic. Sometimes, when I wake up, I just lie in my bed, and wonder, "Why can't we figure out a way to remove specific periods and specific people from our memory, say, surgically?"...  I could use such a method. Other times, I wonder, if running into the wall, head first, would work?

"Those people and periods, the ones you want to remove, are the source of our rage. I wonder, I would ever want to let go of my rage", PK says. He is one of my best friends. One of my few friends. We have lived many lives together. In New Zealand. In Africa. In Australia. We have been hungry together. We have feasted together. I listen to him closely. "I feel rage is being alive. It is rebelling against your darkness, darkness of the soul that invites chaos. Memory itself is chaos. But, chaos invites creation. May be, running into the wall helps. Or may be, throwing that chaotic baggage of people and periods at the wall helps too"
.

I agree, and disagree at the same time. Though, I mostly agree. Rage, anger, hatred, are all useful emotions. The very emotions that make us human. One of the reasons why shrinks, those vanguards of state power and status quo, strive so hard to take those driving forces away from us, and use fancy terms like anger management and counselling in doing so, is so we are left with no tools for resistance. We become passive tools of conformity -- sheeple.

 Yes, I am all for directing the rage and hatred at people who deserve it.

"But, P**** my old friend, now comes my precautionary warnings. Hate is like LSD, very potent, very powerful, and very hallucinogenic. Trust me. Few people know hate and LSD as well as I do. But, as wonderful a substance as LSD is, and it is quite wonderful as numerous scientists and poets will tell you, it IS hallucinogenic. So is hate, my friend. After a while, it gets hard to distinguish between who is deserving and who is not. And try as you may, you stand a very good chance of hurting people who have been nothing but good to you. And I will not have that for any reason whatsoever. The spirit of anarchism is "Resistance against the violent. Compassion for all." And lately, I have found that I am being hindered, my productivity being minimised, by both useless initiatives that lack proper Science, and too much distraction in the form of hate. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am all for confrontations and in-your-face attitude. But you gotta pick your battles bro. You don't wanna put on your black mask to go after a pesky little fly, do you? Save your energy for the elite, the powerful, the 'respectable', the rich, the bourgeoisie, and the vanguards of the nation-state system. You don't want to be distracted from the revolution by the little people, and the worthless little irritations. You have bigger fish to fry. 

Hey!! You listening to me?", I almost raise my voice indignantly. 
I have been talking for almost five minutes, and he has not made a sound. I look up, to see the Margot Hardy Gallery, and a deserted corridor. 

PK is twelve thousand miles away, in Durham, Scotland. 

I look down. The blinking cursor stares back at me, like a hapless lover awaiting response to some forgotten confessions of love. I stare back.


Ghosts. Ghosts are all that are left of the days of yesteryears. The past is another country, long lost in some forgotten revolution. And journeys therein, of necessity, are clouded by false memories, false recollection of true events. Even the people from the past, the ones who left the deepest of marks, would have already turned into ghosts. Forgone dreams may hold them steadfast in memory, but they would hardly have any ground left under them -- their feet would have already turned into smoke.

It has been eighty-four hours, since I, finally, emailed in my summary resignation. I had finally decided that I would rather be unemployed, than oppressed. I did so with great sadness -- in general, because I enjoy Science, in particular because I will miss Ann Cutler.

But issues of existential significance, in a purely physical and political sense of existentialism, are worth more than money or a diploma.
I had stood by what I said and wrote. Because, what I talk and write about, straddle issues of "profit over people". I am happy to pay the price for my dissent. I know I will pay dearly for it too. But hey, I got nothing! What more can you do to me? 

The thing about having nothing is that there's nothing people can take from you. 

So... here I am! I enter my thirties, with naught but a headful of abstract theories, a few diplomas, negligible savings, no prospects for the future, no expectations from the present, a few good friends, a hoard of haters, and all the glory of an unemployed, dissident, entry-level hobo. I am one of you, brothers. Officially. 
And I must admit, while I am worried about sorting out my life, somewhere inside, there is this faint inkling of satisfaction -- I did it. I faced the demon, and as scared as I was, I did get through. I always wondered, if the day should come when I face a choice between actively practicing the people-before-profit philosophy I so admire, and having a fixed income, would my fear of uncertainty overcome me? I was always worried that the answer would not be good for my ego. I am happy to find out that I did not, in fact, sell out. I am poor as shit... but, right now, at this specific point in time, I can't seem to care.
Tonight, I am happy. Tomorrow will be another day. Soon, like so many acted out acts of my life, this too will be reduced to little more than memories. I don't know if I should feel saddened, frightened, relieved or simply glad. But I am in no hurry to decide. I don't try so hard with these things anymore. I have learned not to.
 Like sand in a closed fist, memories slip away, and one is left with a good strong clutch over nothingness.

The outpour of support and compassion have been overwhelming, since I quit my position. Friends, the few I have, and colleagues have showered me with compassion, helping hands and sheer, unadulterated love and understanding. And I have never been happier, more productive, and anger-free than in the last four or five days, during which, incidentally, I have also been the poorest and most insecure in recent history.
 There you have it -- rather conclusive evidence that neither money nor security, both artificial constructs, are driving factors behind happiness. As a scientist, which I am by vocation, I find immense joy and bliss in doing mathematical and theoretical analyses of data. As an anarchist, I am happy volunteering at the Society of Jesus' orphanage. (Incidentally, my gratitude for Fr. J. Alexander Fosoux, S.J. for allowing an atheist-anarchist to find some solace and engagement in his House. These jesuits, and I know from a life-long experience, are seriously awesome people.)

The only thing lacking is a long walk down to Auckland Domain, or down Seafield View Road, with P**** and C**, and puffs of good ole' Mary Jane. 

I close my eyes, and another gust of wind flows over my face. The rush of memories is so strong, my heart almost skips a bit. I half expect to open my eyes and find myself staring across Auckland Harbor, or over Davenport, the village by the sea, or perhaps across the field of St. Xavier's High School, and see L***'s smiling face inches from mine. I open my eyes.... and reality drops back on my lap like shedding leaves in the summer breeze. 

1998 was sixteen years ago.

I look around, and there is not a soul in sight. I can't help but chuckle a bit, almost involuntarily. Cliques are so transient, and yet convince us that they are forever. I was in a clique once. The Kliq. I wonder, where are they now? What are the odds that, right now, there is more than one of "us" thinking about when we were "us", young, naive, ambitious and walking, talking, cliches? I can't help but chuckle again. Not out of pity, but more out of a half-longing-half-understanding vantage, that sixteen hard years have afforded me.

Despite all the hardships, though, in the last four years, I have been a part of four different Universities, met numerous eminent scientists, been inspired by a few, pissed off a whole bunch of them, I have met the most awe-inspiring, and the most tedious people, I have fallen head-over-heels in love, and gotten out of a decade-long obsession, I have gained priceless friends, and lost an irreplaceable part of my life, and I have lived in places that are so picturesque that pictures ruin their allure, and places so revolting that I actually felt at home! And while they have been only a handful, and far and few between, but some of the most important people in my life have turned out to be the ones I met during this time. I shiver to think what my life would have been like, had I not walked down this long, winding path! 


I wouldn't have it any other way. 

And if I could do it all over, live my life all over from the beginning, I won't change a damn bit of it, just for the sake of what I have been through in the course of this long, strange trip I've been on for, oh, so many years now.

Make no mistake about it. I enter my thirties, with a lot of questions, very few answers, a lifetime's worth of memories, and experiences that elude my prosaic abilities. I stand at the beginning of mid-life, with more interrogatives than declaratives, but I do so with absolutely no regrets.

Tolkien's words have never been truer -- "Not all who wander are lost."

Of Temporality

Ghosts. Ghosts are all that are left of the days of yesteryears. The past is another country, long lost in some forgotten revolution. And journeys therein, of necessity, are clouded by false memories, false recollection of true events. Even the people from the past, the ones who left the deepest of marks, would have already turned into ghosts. Forgone dreams may hold them steadfast in memory, but they would hardly have any ground left under them -- their feet would have already turned to smoke.

It is difficult, utterly so, to be homeless. It is difficult still, to not have a home. It is not pleasant, to have to suffer. It is unpleasant still, to realise the futility of suffering. 

The great tragedy of life, is not that it ends. It is rather that the process is, inherently, paradoxical -- a continuous conflict between the destination and the journey itself.

LSD, Grateful Dead and Self-Desired Psychosis.

It's definitely a full body/mind experience for me. I am on my third acid (dropper/cid/blotter/drop etc.) right now, and I have one more to go. LSD, lysergic acid diethylamide, is an extremely potent hallucinogenic psychedelic compound, with (a) no physiological addiction, (b) no long-/short-term neurotoxicity, (c) no dependency syndromes, (d) no recorded case of overdose, and (e) no known side-effects, other than acute, and often desired, psychosis. 

I felt the acid coming on very gradually, about ninety minutes after I placed the blot under my tongue. It began as a mild altered consciousness, purely psychological, but then slowly spread over for a more full body/mind experience. The immediate, and so far as I can tell right now, persistent, effect is  increased (definitely heightened), but also highly altered (paradigm shifted) cognition. It seems pretty domain general at this point -- I can tell it affects spatial reasoning, I know it affects melody and rhythm, I know it's making me a little bit more jovial than I usually am (I am laughing my ass off to That 70s Show), and it certainly makes you aware of the physical limits of your body, the edge of your skin against the  cosmos. And yeah, talking like this is another not-so-bad effect of LSD.

I am not sure that I had any of the acute visual experience that most LSD users swear by, but I did experience acute psychedelic shifts in my conceptual-intentional system, and getting a little bit higher up with the abstractions, some major shifts in the recursion of the Fodorian concepts within my mind.  There is nothing new, though. I should mention that. I don't think the LSD induced anything that wasn't there to begin with. Also, it is completely different, pleasantly so, from alcohol. Alcohol impedes cognition. LSD enhances it. As far as I can tell, right now, it also significantly modifies it. It's almost like being aware of things that you never knew you were NOT unaware of -- but seriously, it really lets you travel, almost literally, into some pretty enticing corners of your psyche, and affords whole new perspectives on things. I suppose, this is why they call this "a trip"??

Now, I am wondering, purely out of academic interest of course, can the 'nature' of the trip be attributed to the LSD? I think LSD, in this context, is merely a catalyst that interacts with and manipulates the process of recursion of the Fodorian concepts in the mind, thereby inducing psychosis. My personal thinking is that it does not induce anything novel, but only magnifies and helps re-interpret the ongoing conceptual computation. Otherwise, there would be some observable correlation between the good trip vs. bad trip distinction and the chemical composition of the LSD ingested. I couldn't find any such reference in the literature. 

Recursion!!! That's the key! Perhaps, recursion characterises other more domain-general cognitive functions as well, thereby distinguishing those functions in humans from other higher primates! Hmmm... I should run this by Iris Berent, and possibly Poeppel and Pinker too!

Okay!! I think I might be beginning to see some of the visual auras... this is so awesome!!! I just spent the last seven minutes trying to adjust the font size across the text, only to realise that its the acid interfering with my depth-perception and spatial-reasoning. I am still completely in command of my mind and, from what I can tell from the line-walk test I just took, also my body. There is no hangover of any sort. Nor any clumsiness, as one would from drinking alcohol. In fact, I feel fresh. Almost unbelievably so. 

My mind is a kaleidoscope, right now.... somebody is playing Grateful Dead's greatest hits from 1965... Amy Goodman is interviewing Noam on Syria... and I just saw a freaking dragonfly, gold and blue, burst out of a rainbow and dissolve into a sea of colourful lava.... there are dragons and unicorns, and Derrida, and Neruda, and co-ordinate geometry...

I think I am just gonna sit back and enjoy this awe-freaking-some show my mind is putting up in front of my eyes, right now! It's pay-per-view, boys! Watch this space for updates on my experience with LSD. The fonts are changing colors right in front of my eyes.... this is seriously awesome! And the fact that I am doing the Science along with the LSD is making it that much more awesome!!! 

Peace, love and resistance, ya'll. 

Hope: Memoirs of a Homeless Vagabond

"[...] beneath the glitter and glitz, the diamonds and black velvet, deep below, the Metropolis' heart beats; down in the sewers and gutters, where its dearest families live."

-- Paul Theroux; Memories of New York City--


She had come to hate it -- Hope.
The word. The sound. The concept. The unabashed cruelty of it all.
That's all anyone ever gave her -- Hope. Wrapped in short change.
A few were bills. But a buck is a buck -- paper or metal.
A dollar's worth of Hope -- that's all she ever could get for one.
And there were many -- a dollar at a time. A dollar a day.
Always. A dollar's worth of Hope.

Hope was a lie. Hope was a beautiful fairytale.
Hope was a ploy; an excuse.
Hope was diversion. Hope was perpetuation.
Hope was no solution; nor was a direction.
Hope. Was a compass without a magnet.
Hope was her; sunken eyes, ruffled hair.
She sat under that park bench; still savoring yesterday's meal.
As she thirsts for tomorrow's rain.