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Robbins in 1981 |
The author of nine wild and wonderful novels like Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Robbins also penned a memoir titled Tibetan Peach Pie: A True Account of an Imaginative Life, which describes in a series of stories his “lifelong quest to personally interface with the Great Mystery (which may or may not be God) or, at the very least, to further expose myself to wonder.”
Born and raised in the South, Robbins worked as a copy editor for The Richmond Times-Dispatch, a job he continued after graduating with a degree in journalism in 1959. But, according to the New York Times, "he chafed under the restrictions of Jim Crow-era Richmond, including a prohibition at the newspaper against printing photographs of Black people — a transgression he nevertheless committed several times."
He moved to Seattle and worked at the Seattle Times, where he wrote art reviews and unusual headlines for Dear Abby columns during what he calls “that nondescript period between the end of the beige '50s and the beginning of the Day-Glo '60s.” He read about Gordon Wasson’s sacred mushroom experiments in Life magazine and—having explored Zen, Tantric Hinduism, Sufism and the Tao—he sought Wasson’s experience, but was lead to LSD instead.
Describing his first LSD trip in Tibetan Peach Pie, Robbins wrote that the session ended with his consciousness entering a daisy’s, described “like a cathedral made of mathematics and honey.” He credits this life-changing experience with enabling him to lose his “terror of the eternal,” and finding the connection between modern painting and the psychedelic sacraments:
Each…offered humanity a new way of seeing, an enlarged and deepened definition of reality, a freshened and intensely sensual awareness of what it means to be a cognitive mammal on a tiny planet spinning precariously in the backwash of an infinite universe…
He wrote of visiting Amsterdam “to take the waters,” and recounts his participation in the historic 1963 LeMar (Legalize Marijuana) event organized by Allen Ginsberg at the Women’s Detention Center in Greenwich Village, “to protest that the prison was crowded with females of all ages whose sole criminal act was the private, orderly, nonviolent inhalation of tiny plumes of smoke given off by a smoldering weed.”