Acid Dreams: The Complete Social History of LSD (46 page)

The shift in orientation was reflected in the new drug lingo: “getting wasted” (a term used by GIs in Vietnam to mean death) became a dominant idiom for chemical experimentation. Nineteen seventy turned into “the year of the middle-class junkie” as large quantities of heroin appeared for the first time in youth culture enclaves. Movement leaders were careful to distinguish between “death drugs” (smack, downers, speed, alcohol) and “people drugs” (marijuana, LSD), but the number of victims from accidental overdose kept increasing. Rock stars were falling like dominos: Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison. . . . Some suspected that the heroin scourge was part of a government plot to pacify the masses of young people. The conspiracy was allegedly set in motion in the fall of 1969, when Nixon initiated Operation Intercept to cut off the supply of marijuana from Mexico. A temporary grass shortage resulted, and then came the influx of heroin—the ultimate pharmacological copout. Subsequent revelations, however, topped any conspiracy theory: the CIA was in cahoots with organized crime; Agency personnel based in Southeast Asia were involved in the heroin trade;
*
for eight years the drug was smuggled inside returning corpses of American servicemen who had died in Vietnam; and corrupt police pushed junk in New York, Detroit, and other major urban ghettos.

When the social fabric starts to unravel, as it did in the late 1960s, the fabric of the psyche also unravels. People needed to put their lives back together and regain their sanity after the turmoil of those years. For some this meant going off to live in a commune or a farm in the country where they could wage a revolution of purely private expectations. Others took solace in Jesus Freakery or any number of Eastern swamis who promised blissful panaceas for acid casualties on the rebound.

Of all the New Age dream-spinners, none made as big a splash as Richard Alpert, whose spiritual Odyssey had begun at Harvard when he met Timothy Leary and sampled the magic mushroom. The two professors set out to publicize the virtues of psychedelic drugs, hoping to alter the consciousness of America. But playing second fiddle to Leary was never quite enough for Alpert. Eventually they went their separate ways—Leary to jail, and Alpert to India on a religious quest. A series of cosmic connections brought him to the Himalayas, where he found a guru with the right stuff. What made Alpert so sure? He gave the old man a few thousand mikes of LSD, and it hardly fazed him—which could only mean one thing: he was high
all the timel
Alpert changed his name to Baba Ram Dass and returned home to spread the word.

Ram Dass wrote an autobiographical treatise,
Be Here Now,
which described his conversion to meditation. (Actually it was only a partial conversion; he still took an occasional LSD trip when he yearned for a jolt of expanded consciousness.) The book became a cult bestseller, winning effusive praise from Jerry Rubin and other counterculture mavens. Ram Dass never intended to build a church or a new religion; his metaphysical meanderings were eclectic, and the gist of his message seemed to be, “Work on yourself.” Nothing new, of course, but soothing for an audience of weary radicals who needed some spiritual first aid after years of thankless struggle on the political front.

Ram Dass talked a lot about changing the reality of private consciousness, but he didn’t have much to say about changing social reality. “Better to be good than to do good,” he pontificated. “Trust your intuitive heart-mind, and see where the wind takes you.” It was nifty advice—assuming you were willing to believe that someone or something was tending the proverbial Light at the end of the tunnel. Apparently it was what a lot of people wanted to hear; Ram Dass became a hot ticket on the lecture circuit as the new High Priest. Oftentimes he began with a self-effacing comment: “You may remember me as Mr. LSD, Jr.” For years he had lived in Leary’s shadow, but now Ram Dass had a chance to do his own thing while Mr. LSD, Sr., languished in prison. He showed little sympathy for his former tripping partner. “If he’s there, that’s where he should be,” Ram Dass asserted. “Tim’s in jail because that’s his karma. Trust and obey your karma, grow with it.”

Such enlightened sophistry did not sit well with Leary. He had
spent seven long months behind bars, and there was little prospect of an early release. Karma or no karma, he wanted out. If legal methods didn’t work, then he would opt for an immediate solution: escape. An intricate plan was developed with Leary’s wife, Rosemary, ferrying messages back and forth among the principals. She was in touch with a radical attorney who arranged for a getaway car to pick Leary up on the highway near the prison. Members of the Brotherhood put up $25,000 to fund the operation, and a group of trained professionals was hired to spirit him out of the country.

On September 12, 1970, Leary slipped across the prison yard while most of the inmates were eating dinner. To scale the wall he had to climb a tree without being noticed. That was relatively easy. He removed his sneakers and padded barefoot along the roof, his silhouette exposed against an overcast sky. Extending from the other side of the roof was a thin steel wire—his path to freedom. Quickly he donned a pair of handball gloves and grabbed the cable, kicking his legs up like a monkey. He could see the car lights on the highway as he pulled himself hand over hand, bouncing and wrenching with each heave, until exhaustion set in. Leary’s body ached and perspired as he dangled precariously halfway across the highwire, unsure if he had the strength to continue. After pausing to catch his breath, he mustered every ounce of inner reserve and made it to a utility pole on the other side of the fence. Leary slid down the splintery wood, scrambled toward the road, and waited anxiously at a pre-designated spot.

A few minutes later a pickup truck signaled and pulled over. A woman called out the password, “Nino.” Leary answered “Kelly” and jumped into the car, overjoyed to be in the company of two young strangers who had come to rescue him. As the vehicle sped away, they handed Leary ID papers for a “Mr. William McNellis.” The acid fugitive changed into another set of clothes. His old gear was dumped at a gas station to mislead the police while he switched cars and traveled north to San Francisco. Only then did Leary learn that he’d been rescued by members of the Weather Underground.

Leary was taken to a safehouse in the Bay Area where he met with Bernardine Dohrn, Jeff Jones, and other Weather leaders. In a communiqué mailed to newspapers across the country, the Weather Underground claimed credit for the jailbreak. It was a tremendous propaganda coup for the acid militants. They described Leary as a political prisoner who was “captured for the work he did in helping
all of us begin the task of creating a new culture on the barren wasteland that has been imposed on us by Democrats, Republicans, Capitalists and creeps.” LSD and marijuana, the Weather cadre asserted, would help make a better world in the future, but for the time being, “we are at war. . . . we know that peace is only possible in the destruction of U.S. imperialism. We are outlaws. We are free.”

Leary was grateful to the Weathermen and enjoyed their company. They got stoned together and planned their next move. Leary needed an effective disguise. He shaved the top of his head, grew a moustache, and dyed his hair. But more than just his physical appearance changed during the time he spent with the Weatherpeople. Leary now thought of himself as a psychedelic revolutionary. He expressed his new political perspective in a manifesto called “Shoot to Live.” Disavowing his earlier pacifism, he called for sabotage and other acts of resistance. “To shoot a genocidal robot policeman in defense of life is a sacred act,” Leary proclaimed. “World War III is now being waged by short-haired robots whose deliberate aim is to destroy the complex web of free wild life by the imposition of mechanical order. . . . Blow the mechanical mind with Holy Acid. . . dose them. . . dose them.” He urged everyone to “stay high and wage the revolutionary war.” In a postscript he warned, “I am armed and should be considered dangerous to anyone who threatens my life and freedom.”

Many friends were shocked and dismayed by the turn Leary’s mind had taken. Ken Kesey, who was then living on a farm in Oregon, voiced his concern in a letter to Leary. It was an eloquent plea, written on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, after Kesey dropped some orange sunshine.

Dear Good Doctor Timothy:

Congratulations! The only positive memories I have from all my legal experiences was getting away. A good escape almost makes up for the fucking bust.

But listen to me, please, with a stillness. Listen to me as you would to any felon and fugitive and mainly, friend. With stillness, old timer, and patience, because I must say this carefully and with respect for your ears and not the media. . . . I’ve been doing a media fast, vowing this last summer solstice to try for six months to neither heed nor feed a beast which I am convinced is nourished by the blood and anguish of confrontations which the beast itself promotes. So all magazines, newspapers, TV or radio have been refreshingly absent the last few months. Lots of farming and community and trying to hear the earth and the people without the message filtered through Madison Avenue’s dollar. The true news always penetrates anyway.

“Did you hear? Leary flew the coop!”

“Far fucking out!”

Speculations were rampant and joyous. “I hope he gets his ass to India or someplace. Old Leary deserves some good R and R because, shit, man, how long’s it been? Ten, twelve years now and right in there all the time taking on all comers and never a whimper and you can
tell,
man, working where it counts inside and out
all
the time. . .”

Then that letter came out. “You read that letter of Leary’s in the
Free Press?.
Saying it’s sacred to shoot cops and that he’s armed and dangerous? That doesn’t sound like something he’d put out. It sounds like some of them militants trying to jack a buncha people up. . .”

I read the letter. Halfway through I was sure it was you talking. And it grieved me because I perceived that you hadn’t escaped after all.

Don’t misunderstand me, doctor; I wish in no way to cool your fervor. We all know what is at stake. Unless the material virus that has been burrowing for decades into the spirit of the country is somehow branded and checked, unless our I/It lustings are outgrown and our rapings of the earth and each other stopped, in short unless we become the gentle and enlightened people we all know ourselves capable of becoming, we shall surely lose not only our life and land but, like Esau, our birthright. And worst of all, the birthrights of our children.

In this battle, Timothy, we need every mind and every soul, but oh my doctor we don’t need one more nut with a gun. I know what jail makes you feel but don’t let them get your head in their cowboys-and-Indians script. If they can plant a deep enough rage in you they make of you an ally. Rage is mainly a media brew anyway, concocted of frustrations and self-pity over a smokey fire of righteousness, for the purpose of making headline ink. What we need, doctor, is inspiration, enlightenment,
creation,
not more headlines. Put down that gun, clear that understandable ire from your Irish heart and pray for the vision wherein lies our only true hope. If it still comes up guns then God be with you in your part of the battle, but if it doesn’t come up guns then I beg you to print a reconsideration. I do not mean to scold someone so much my senior in so many ways; I just don’t want to lose you. What I really mean is stay cool and alive and high and out of cages.

And keep in mind what somebody, some Harvard holy man I think it was, used to tell us years ago: “The revolution is over and we have won.” The poor country still may not survive and even if it does survive and comes again to its feet, there’s still years of work and suffering and atonement before we can expect it to walk straight and healthy once more, but the Truth is already in the records: the revolution is over and we have won.

With all my respect and prayers,

Ken Kesey

Leary was in no position to heed Kesey’s words. He was in motion, transported from one underground site to another by the Weathermen, preparing to leave the country on a fake passport. His brazen plan was to walk right through Customs disguised as a bland-looking, middle-aged businessman. Leary tested his disguise for the first time with a trip to the movies accompanied by some of the Weatherpeople. They went to
Woodstock,
a film Leary had wanted to see while he stewed in prison. No one recognized the LSD doctor with horn-rimmed glasses and a shiny bald pate.

A few days later the new Leary passed through a metal detector and boarded a TWA flight to Paris. Rosemary joined him on the same plane; she also had a disguise and phony ID. At first they thought of going into seclusion in Europe, but that was no life for a perennial media star like Leary. The Weathermen suggested a quick trip to Algeria, where Eldridge Cleaver and the Black Panthers had set up a government-in-exile. Perhaps Cleaver could help him obtain political asylum in Algiers. It was a romantic script that intrigued Leary—a new society of American exiles in a Third World country, working to unify the revolution.

A Bitter Pill

Tim and Rosemary arrived in Algiers with great expectations. “Panthers are the hope of the world,” he wrote to Allen Ginsberg. “How perfect that we were received here and protected by young Blacks. Algeria is perfect. Great political satori! Socialism works here. . . . Eldridge is a genial genius. Brilliant! Turned on too!” The Panthers were also enthusiastic. At a “solidarity” press conference, they announced that “Dr. Leary is part of our movement,” having previously been active “among the sons and daughters of those imperialist bandit pigs.”

The alliance between Cleaver and Leary was hot news, and Algiers was suddenly crawling with media. But the much-publicized meeting of the minds quickly degenerated into a battle of egos. Leary didn’t like Cleaver’s heavy-handed security measures. All visitors were frisked—even Leary’s friends—and drugs were banned from Panther headquarters except on rare occasions when Cleaver said it was okay to get high. In his discussions with Cleaver, Leary emphasized that “you’ve got to free yourself internally before you attempt to free yourself behaviorally.” The Panthers, however, were
not receptive to Leary’s “spiritual” politics. Nor were they keen on his idea of inviting draft resisters, antiwar activists, hippies, rock stars, Weatherpeople, and other dissident groups to broadcast a “Radio Free America” program throughout Europe. Cleaver had no intention of providing a forum for a multitude of voices on the left. He was quick to brand nearly everyone else “revisionist,” heaping ridicule on Stokely Carmichael, Martin Luther King, James Baldwin, LeRoi Jones, and white radicals such as Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. Soon would come the split with Panther leader Huey Newton, fomented in part by FBI subterfuge.