Mushroom.Man

  Normally we find ourselves able to view the world around us with only one set of criteria. Anthropologists go to the Amazon basin and record the shaman songs. They ask what the words mean, they analyse the melody structure. Yet these songs are designed to be seen, not heard. Under the influence of ayahuasca the songs become visual images that hang in the air. Analysis of the lyric and melody are in no way helpful to understanding its purport or design. It’s a useful analogy when appraising anthropological information from groups where the hallucinogenic experience forms part of the culture. Things are not always as they seem to the Western mind.

  Writers of the ancient world have left us descriptions of the great mysteries such as Eleusis. Since the writers were not initiates their reports are like those of modern anthropologists: they are descriptions of form, not content. In this case objective observation is in no way helpful to understanding what happens. The only way to make sense of it is to participate.

  A lot of my half-formed ideas about the mushroom.man now came into focus. There was a rationale behind his chronic use of psychedelics which seemed to be based on his assumption that our perception of reality should be shaken. It wasn’t entirely clear to me why it should be so important to him that I should accept that there is more than one reality. It could have been, as I had originally thought, a lonely man with a schizophrenic world view trying to make others see things as he did. Or just possibly it could have some meaning that was escaping me.

  I could also see how, in his view of things, there was a correlation between the interconnectedness of people on the internet and his perception of the interconnectedness of tribal groups, but it was hardly a major revelation. His historical perspective on ancient mysteries did make sense to me, especially as he applied it to form and content. But the only thing that really kept me thinking was the idea that ‘understanding comes through participation’. It bothered me, probably because it was a thought that was already half-formed in my mind.

  I had by now got a long way with my paper and this last message allowed me to complete it reasonably well. I had worked hard to disguise the fact that I had only one field source, drawing wherever I could on quotations from other academics. The mushroom, man had suggested some time back that I read the works of Gordon Wasson, which I found in the university library. My original interest in mushrooms had now become entirely fixated upon the hallucinogenic varieties, although it was still only an academic interest. Wasson’s books, especially Soma: Divine Mushroom of Immortality and The Road to Eleusis, written with Albert Hofman, were a revelation. But I had a problem. How could I possibly write authoritatively on something that I’d never experienced? And yet something held me back. Fear, probably.

  Already the picture I’d built up in my mind of the mushroom.man was at odds with what I had previously believed to be true of hallucino gens. My problem was simple: the mushroom.man was, I was sure, someone who was coping with his life as well as anyone else; yet all my firmly held convictions supported the contention that prolonged exposure to hallucinogens was ultimately destructive to both socialized behaviours and thought patterns. I had wanted to prove that he was a schizophrenic, and yet I had nothing concrete to back up the contention. The mushroom.man appeared to exhibit none of the symptoms of schizophrenia other than his belief that reality was unknowable. In truth, his only obsession appeared to be with his past.

  I had provisionally entitled my paper ‘Chronic Abuse of Psychedelics: its Behavioural and Neurological Effects.’ In it I strove to support those ideas that I had held dear, but it was a struggle. A doubt had been implanted and it was growing, Hydra-like, gnawing at my certainties. I wrote and re-wrote my paper – on each revision I added more qualifications, more perhapses, more maybes. Eventually it seemed to express no opinion of any kind.

  In a way, my contact with the mushroom.man had put me a little off balance. It was as though my intellectual focus had been pushed in a direction I was not prepared for. I had never intended to become either interested in or involved with psychedelia, yet by degrees that was precisely what had happened. Somehow I had become prey to the contagion of the mushroom.man’s ideas. It had all the symptoms of a viral infection; the ideas had infiltrated my mindset and, like viruses, were modifying my existing thought patterns to their own design.

  Psilocybe semilanceata. The Liberty Cap or Witchs Tit.

  Small. 1–3 inches high. Bell-shaped cap. Distinctive nipple on top.

  Cream to pale, darker after rain.

  In grasslands especially lawns and golf-courses. Summer to Autumn. Hallucinogenic.

  epilogue

  Months passed and I heard nothing more from the mushroom.man. What I had received seemed like the results of a scatter-gun. There was a kind of chronology, but it seemed incomplete. I had a strong sense of unfinished business and became increasingly restless at the lack of response. I tried all manner of rationalizations to explain the silence; holidays, sickness, a broken computer. None seemed to offer a satisfactory explanation. It didn’t worry me, however. He’d given me enough to complete my paper and it had been well-received by my peers. I was pretty certain that it broke new ground and was the first of its kind in this area of fieldwork. Other research groups began asking for my opinions or contributions to their papers, which I will admit I found flattering. It looked as though there was a pay-off for the hours I’d spent cajoling the mushroom.man into corresponding with me.

  By this time I was fairly sure that I knew where he lived. There were enough clues in what he’d written to know that it was somewhere in the British Isles, although I had already formed the opinion it wasn’t England. I also knew a lot more about how the net worked, and by the simple expedient of leaving a message for the webmaster at his on-line address, discovered him to be in Ireland. I began to think about the possibility of visiting him.

  It was a thought that hovered for weeks. Endlessly I went over the pros and cons. Did I really want the image that I had built up of him shattered by actual contact? On the other hand, curiosity impelled me to keep considering it as a possibility. Besides, I could rationalize it as a field trip to further my researches. I had more or less decided to go ahead with a visit when an e-mail finally arrived from him.

  Attn. mushroom.seeker.

  Subject: the usual.

  17 December.

  I’m sorry to have taken so long to reply to your messages, but a death in the family took me away. I really appreciate the encouragement that you have given me over the months, but with reluctance I feel that our correspondence should end. Since you have shown such regard for my work I offer it to you freely to do whatever you wish with it. I have no further use for it, and no further interest. I’m sorry to be blunt, but my life has taken a new direction and this particular chapter has closed, mushroom.man.

  I was shocked at its abruptness. It had seemed to me that we had been building up a rapport which I suppose I had always hoped would end in a meeting. Now he was suggesting no further communication of any kind. It was such a sudden end. That was what finally made up my mind. I would go to Ireland and meet him. I composed my last e-mail to the mushroom.man.

  Attn. mushroom.man.

  Subject: tapes.

  18 December.

  Thanks for the e-mail, and thanks for the offer of all your work, it’s more than generous. I would like, however, to send you a gift of three tapes of lectures given by Terence McKenna, who I know you know of. Naturally these can only go by snail-mail, so if you’ll let me know your postal address, then I’ll forward them at once. It’s been great corresponding with you. mushroom.seeker.

  I flew into Dublin in late January. From the airport a taxi took me to a busy street, a little way from the centre. I was looking for number 42, but hardly any of the shops had numbers on them. While I wandered up and down the street I began to wonder about this address. I had been convinced that the mushroom.man lived an entirely rural existence. This was about as urban as you could get. I walked into a newsagent and asked i
f they knew where number 42 was.

  ‘Right next door. It’s the door next to this one.’

  A plain brown door, so nondescript as to be almost invisible, was right behind the open glass door of the shop. Six bells and six names lined the jamb. None of the names meant anything to me; the address I had said simply Flat 4. I picked a bell at random and rang. No reply. Another got the same result. The third brought an old man to the door. He shuffled out in carpet slippers, his hands in the pockets of his cardigan. A cigarette hung from his lips.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for Flat 4.’

  ‘Next floor up. Barnes. On the right. American are you?’

  ‘English. On holiday.’

  He stood for a while in the doorway of his apartment as I walked up the stairs. I walked slowly, as doubts suddenly began to form in my mind about my visit. It was a kind of intrusion, and may well be ill-received. I faltered, but then I continued. I’d come this far, why stop now? I knocked on the door, hoping that no one would answer it. At least that would give me time to consider what I was doing. I had begun turning away when I heard footsteps inside. I felt a tightening in my stomach. A young woman opened the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know, maybe I have the wrong address, but I was hoping to meet the mushroom.man.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The mushroom.man?’

  She stood still and stared at me. I felt nervous and absurd. That primeval urge to flight began to build up in me. Suddenly she smiled.

  ‘Are you the American Adam’s been in contact with?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Come on in. Adam’ll be surprised, he thinks you you’re a woman.’

  I followed her into a room that was cluttered but tidy. The noise of the buses and traffic outside hung insistently between us.

  ‘You’ve just arrived, have you?’ She pointed to my suitcase.

  ‘Flew in about an hour ago.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not being very hospitable. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Please, yes, thank you.’

  She switched on an electric kettle and busied herself. I looked around at a shabby apartment. I sat in an armchair that had stuffing coming out of the arms. A spring seemed determined to penetrate the seat of my pants.

  She came over with a mug of tea. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Gregory Armstrong. Most people call me Greg. I’m English actually.’

  ‘God, that’s weird. I mean, not your name, just that Greg figures so much. In his writing, you know?’

  ‘I know. And your name is?’

  ‘Sorry, Jane. Jane Barnes.’

  ‘You’re not the Jane in Adam’s writing, are you?’

  ‘I’m his sister.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Adam’s not here. He’s gone down to the cottage for a few days. He goes down quite a lot these days.’

  ‘I see.’

  We sat in silence while the occasional bus made the sash windows quiver. I decided to let her break the silence when she was ready. After a while she gave a little cough.

  ‘Look, I don’t know if Adam will want to meet you. He’s a very private person.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have come without warning. Maybe I should go.’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine. It’s OK. It’s just that Adam sort of compartmentalizes things. You know – keeps one set of friends separate from another. He might feel that if he knows you through computers, that well … that that’s where he’s comfortable. On the computer. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘I think so. I can understand that. Look, I’m staying in a small hotel in Northumberland Road, here’s the number. If you’re talking to Adam, perhaps you can tell him that I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘Sure. OK. I’ll do that.’ She got up and moved towards the door. I held out my hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you. Hope we’ll meet again.’

  ‘Yeah, I hope so. Nice to meet you too.’

  I left the apartment with a strong sense of having leapt before I’d looked. A transatlantic journey for no purpose. I took a taxi to my hotel and unpacked.

  For two days I sat watching CNN in my room, waiting for the phone to ring. The only call I had was from my mother, who wanted to know how I was enjoying my holiday. On the third day I decided that waiting in my room for a possible phone call was crazy. I went out to see the sights of Dublin. When I went back that evening there was a message from Adam Barnes. He’d left instructions on how to find him, and suggested we meet the next day at four in the evening. Apparently the cottage was an hour or so outside the city, so I’d need to hire a car.

  I slept badly that night. Shallow, restless sleep interrupted by periods of wakening. I kept telling myself that there was nothing to fret about, nothing that should keep my subconscious mind working overtime. Yet the thought that somehow this meeting tomorrow was important in some way kept my mind busy.

  I spent the next morning hiring a car and re-familiarizing myself with a stick shift. Driving on the left again did not come easily. I ate lunch in a burger bar and wondered once again if this trip made any sense. On the face of it, it looked insane. I had travelled three thousand miles from what I called home, looking for a man whose only evidence of existence was messages on a computer screen.

  Despite these misgivings I couldn’t help feeling that I was somehow being adventurous and daring. I was doing something that I had never done before; I was acting impulsively, and I found a very definite frisson of excitement in it. I drank two cups of black coffee with sugar, hoping it would calm my nerves.

  By half-past two I could resist no more. I set off on unfamiliar roads in an unfamiliar car. After a while, beyond the city limits, I found myself driving through low hills devoid of houses. Around me were rolling peat bogs, some harvested in strips, with small piles of turf the only evidence of human activity. A low mist hung over the hill-tops. I put on the car’s lights as the visibility worsened. It was an eerie landscape; lifeless and brooding. The road twisted and turned through the rolling hills until eventually it began to descend and the mist cleared. Large tracts of forestry lined the sides of the valleys and below me I could make out the occasional shimmer of a river running in winter spate. On the lower ground ahead of me I could see some scattered farm houses.

  I drove through a small village that lined the road – a few houses, a church and a few pubs. I was nearly there. I stopped at the side of the road to examine the instructions again. There were no more than five miles to go now, and once again I could feel my stomach knotting. I realized that I had built this meeting up into something momentous and that the chances were that it was likely to be more ordinary than I expected. I turned off the road at the sign for Knockaderry forest and drove downhill along a track lined with cut timber. The track made a sharp turn where a large tract of forestry had been clear-felled and I saw that I was in a valley. A river ran along the valley floor, and I could see, about half a mile away, a clearing and a long, low cottage – a plume of smoke rising from the chimney. I stopped the car and got out.

  Not a sound disturbed the air. For a moment I couldn’t even hear bird-song. What I was looking at could have been frozen in time: there was nothing to link this view to the twentieth century. It was as if the colour had been drained from the landscape. A grey, overcast sky and a thin mist left all but the closest trees vague silhouettes. What light filtered through the cloud cover was so refracted that there were no shadows, making everything somehow insubstantial. I got back into the car and drove on slowly down the rutted track.

  A whitewashed, slated cottage was the only house on the lane. A neatly kept garden surrounded it. As I stopped the car I could see that the front door was open. The gravel crunched noisily underfoot as I approached the porch, the only sound in an otherwise noiseless valley. I knocked on the door and waited. The silence was intense. I called out, I knocked again. I could see through the open door that a fire was burning brig
htly inside, casting flickering shadows around the room. I stepped just inside the door and called again. I looked around the room. A sofa was placed in front of the fire, a table lay behind it. One wall was lined with bookshelves, another had a writing desk littered with papers. I noticed a single sheet of paper on the table behind the sofa, held in place by a small pot on one corner.

  I walked over to it and read the message ‘Eat these.’ I took the top off the little pot and saw that it contained mushrooms. On impulse I spun around, only to see the room still empty. I shut the door, picked up the pot and sat down in front of the fire. I held the pot between my knees and closed my eyes. I had a decision to make.

  Dusk had begun falling, the room was becoming darker, the firelight more insistent. I lifted the pot and smelt the earthy mushrooms. I thought about turning on a light, but the firelight seemed welcoming and comfortable. I pulled out a small mushroom from the pot and studied it in the fading light. A long, thin stem and a top like a tiny bell. I put it in my mouth and chewed. Maybe I was expecting some kind of instantaneous effect, but as there was no effect at all, I ate another, and then another. The taste was not unpleasant; earthy and a little gritty, but acceptable. Slowly I ate them all. Without any great thought or deliberation I had eaten my soma and sat back to see where it would lead me.

  I twisted my wrist to see my watch by the firelight. Ten past four. I had arrived a little early but now the mushroom.man was late. I threw a few logs on the fire and made myself comfortable again. I felt what seemed like a cramp in my stomach which slowly gathered in intensity and then with a rush seemed to course upward through my chest and into my brain. For a moment I thought it was some kind of nervous reaction to waiting in a strange place, but then another formed and followed the same course. Then, in an accelerating logarithmic progression, wave upon wave crashed upward and outward, each one tingling my body, exciting the synapses.