A long time ago, when I was a wild rebellious eighteen-year-old who left my mother’s home with a young man I would soon marry, I liked to experiment with LSD. Not as often as some of my generation did, but often enough to learn that it could sometimes scare the hell out of me. The way it bent reality was usually amusing, sometimes instructive, or so I forced myself to believe, since I sought some therapeutic revelation or insight into my complicated, miserable…