Robert Anton Wilson dabbled all his life in magical phenomena. But he also regarded such things with a bemused, skeptical eye.
In Down to Earth he describes performing, while under the influence of LSD, a Crowleyoid ritual designed to activate the magician’s “true will.” After chanting the ritual’s invocation, he was confronted by a ring of dog-faced demons—”black and sinister, and they slavered or frothed a bit at the mouth[.]”
Recalling a bit of wisdom from shamanism—”If you feed Them, they will become Allies instead of Foes”—Wilson concentrated on party food: his altar suddenly filled with shrimp cocktail with hot red sauce, one of Wilson’s favorite snacks. He began distributing the shrimp to the demons, who promptly transformed into the nuns who had hounded him in grammar school, now “shrunk into rather comic dwarfs. In school they had been bigger than me, but now I was bigger than them. They had lost all ability to terrify me.”
Wilson broke the circle, grounded the energy, and the nuns faded away.
Then I sprawled on the bed and laughed like a blithering idiot for a half hour. That was one of the many, many times I felt totally convinced that all the “entities” involved in Magic are parts of our minds.