The stereotypical Western understanding of what is termed "Tantra" invariably involves ritualized sex, most often centered around semen retention, leading to increased pleasure for all participants. Leaving aside how narrow this interpretation is, its source being colonialist Christian ignorance, one field where the denial of fertilization does lead to a dramatic increase in subjective enjoyment is in the cultivation of cannabis.
Ganja is the Sanskrit word for the unfertilized female cannabis plant, and as every stoner knows, it's the unfertilized female cannabis plant that produces an excess of THC-containing resin. The cultivation of the hemp plant is one of humanity's oldest agricultural practices: archaeological evidence suggests that the plant was grown as far back as Neolithic Japan, definitely for its hardy fibers, possibly for its intoxicating properties. Where the cannabis plant originated is a matter of historicobotanical debate, but its homeland is traditionally believed to be that most mysterious land, central and southern Asia, the birthplace of Zoroaster and Buddha, the region where the Vedas, which list cannabis as a sacred plant, were first documented. There is some evidence suggesting that its use had spread across the Middle East into Egypt by 1350BC, with cannabis remains found in the tomb of Akhenaten, the pharaoh infamous for imposing a monotheistic religion on his polytheistic subjects. The motifs of Persian rugs and Islamic mosaics exhibit a strong indebtedness to hashish intoxication—small wonder why people like to postulate that the "Assassins" were so called because they ate hash before going into battle, or that the Knights Templar were initiated into the wonders of cannabis when fraternizing with the Assassins during the Crusades. Of course, "Assassin" is an epithet foisted on the Saracens by Crusaders, as is "Saracen," but I digress.
The psychoactive effects of the drug are activated via cannabinoid receptors which occur naturally in vertebrates. The endocannabinoid system, ill-understood but thought to play a part in a wide range of processes including memory, appetite, cognition, immune response, pregnancy, and fertility, responds to chemicals in the body with structures similar to that of THC. This is the mystery of all drugs and their efficacy, why certain chemicals fit into receptors in our brains such that they alleviate pain, decrease fatigue, or turn the wood grain on the floor into subtly shifting rivers of iridescence. The pharmacological structure of consciousness suggests that we are interwoven with a vast array of biochemical processes, where patterns of similarity and difference interact to produce the very ontological basis of Reality. Through millennia of trial and error, we as a species have been able to identify those products of nature that benefit us physically and, apparently, spiritually. Not only does it seem like Nature wants us to use drugs, but there are built in guard rails against the abuse of these substances: the universe punishes excessive opiate use with addiction (and constipation); psychedelic tryptamines refuse to reveal their secrets if consumed too frequently; cocaine only really becomes a problem when it’s industrially extracted; and even cannabis deprives its enjoyers of the subconscious’s recourse to dreams. It is, as with so many other things, human hubris that’s the problem, turning cures into poisons.
Cannabis is interesting among drugs because, in addition to being prescribed, at one point or another, for basically every health issue imaginable, the plant itself is exceptionally useful and adaptable. The plant is easy to grow and has a low environmental impact. Hemp seeds are high in protein, unsaturated fat, fiber, vitamins and minerals. Hemp oil was a common fuel for lighting pre-electrification. The plant’s fibers are hardy and versatile, used for everything from clothing to paper—the word “canvas” descends from the Vulgar Latin cannabāceus, or cannabis. America’s Founding Fathers, even if they didn’t blaze fat doinks or draft the Declaration on hemp paper, certainly did promote the growth of Indian hemp in the colonies. In fact, the first American Flag, erroneously attributed to Betsy Ross, really was made from industrial hemp.
The tale of how a plant with such a wide variety of practical applications became illegal in America is a fable all too well known by anyone who’s spent more than a few evenings taking bong rips while listening to Bob Marley. The Du Pont Corporation wanted to promote Better Living Through Chemistry, ie sell new synthetic fibers made from the byproducts of petroleum extraction, despite the fact that hemp fibers are way more environmentally sound and aren’t a total drag to wear. So, piggy backing on the racist rhetoric of Harry Anslinger’s anti-marihuana crusade—which, naturally, enjoyed the imprimatur of Du Pont ally William Randolph Hearst—the American establishment nipped the kine bud from the white market, incarcerating generations of Blacks and Mexicans in the process. (The fact that nylon wasn’t discovered until a year after Anslinger unleashed his histrionics about Reefer Madness seems besides the point; industrialist conspiracies to hobble competition are as often opportunistic as they are premeditated. We won’t say anything about Pfizer for the time being).
In the half-century-plus that followed, cannabis was held in such high contempt by WASP elites that it was easy to believe, as Boomer hippies did, that getting stoned would provide the mystical potential for a revolution in consciousness, leading to the end of capitalism and the start of a New Age of universal brotherhood. Definitely it’s true that the powers that be did not want people thinking too much for themselves, because thinking for yourself leads to questioning why things have to be the way they are, and the way things are happens to work just fine for the select few calling the shots. But while cannabis prohibition continues to ruin the lives of plenty of every day people all over the US and indeed the world, the recent trend towards its decriminalization/legalization/NORMLization, supported by such conservative luminaries as John Boehner, suggests that maybe it’s just another product for VCs to make money off of, rather than some politico-spiritual panacea. What better way is there to enjoy bread and circuses than with a few tokes? Even Terence McKenna, one of the most outspoken proponents for the revolutionary potential of cannabis and psychedelics, predicted that eventually international elites would decriminalize drug use so as to further commodify, and thereby domesticate, experience. Which is why, despite being quite a fan of these substances, I’m not exactly thrilled with the neoliberal psychedelic revival spearheaded by Compass Pathways and its poster-boy researcher Hamilton Morris, but that’s a story for another day.
Now, me, I ain't even smoke like that any more. Used to be I was stoned all the time, then I got a little more control on it, but it was still every day. Then something happened, one night after therapy, when the fun, relaxed, goofy feeling that being stoned usually gave me slipped into another, much more overwhelming feeling, of being reduced, stripped of my volition, left to experience myself as a mere filament in the flow of samsara, with every sound, sight, sensation, thought, and action seemingly attuned to reverberant frequencies of fate playing out at scales inconceivable to my puny human mind. I feared some catastrophe was about to befall me, that my dick was going to be cut off, or that I was going to shit myself. Suddenly, fundamental aspects of human life—the brewing of tea, the use of ovens, regulated plumbing systems, trains, sirens, flashing lights—all appeared to participate in some grand narrative, with millennia of development culminating in my ability to perceive the present, transient moment. All my movements corresponded with things going on in the room, as though I were a marionette, quantumly entangled with my girlfriend, the images on the TV, the sounds outside the house. This sort of thing had happened before, in times of more acute psychic distress, or on stronger drugs, to much stranger and more extreme effect, and I'm not entirely convinced it's "all in my head"—might be that there are times when the Great Cosmic Loom, the Trimurti of Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva, shines forth in all its terrible splendor, revealing on a visceral level the karmic baggage a person is saddled with, which plays out as a montage of trauma, on primordial, biological, personal, historical, and eternal planes. Maybe you have no idea what I'm talking about. Point is, I had to take the next two days off of work, and I quit smoking for three months after that. The two times I got high since were not devoid of the impression that my little sheltered ego was being stripped of its defenses and I was "returning" to the prelinguistic ebb and flow of Becoming. I'd call it a buzzkill if it weren't exactly the opposite.
The cowardly thing would be to never risk such an experience again and swear off cannabis forever. But, any Fear it prompts is a reflection of issues I have with myself, and the anxiety of death, and a puritanical repulsion over the sordid business of living in a body. So instead, I'm doing neo-Jungian depth therapy, and reserving cannabis for special occasions: to seal friendships, to commemorate important turning points, and to periodically remind myself that the machinations of the universe are strangely harmonious, full of signs and wonders, with the macrocosm reflected in the microcosm.
And maybe sometimes for sex.