Tuesday Afternoon: N,N-Dimethyltryptamine (The negation of the need for sub-division by gender)
This goddamn fly is hurtling around the room like a corporate learjet! It’s battering into walls for fuck sake! It’s as big as a crow! Christ, it may even be a crow!
Which begs the question: where the fuck’s that buzzing coming from?
It can’t be the air-conditioner, can it? Please God let it be. Could it have recovered from the sweaty beating I gave it the previous afternoon with an already broken cricket bat?
But no, it hasn’t. It remains in what seems to be, by the looks of it, unrelated pieces on the wall and the floor. And the noise has stopped, suddenly, and for no good reason. And all the while this hot inland wind licks at my naked body through the open window; unannounced but for the flicker of curtains and the reek of human waste and rare bodily fluids.
My Essential Vibrations have dropped below a critical level. The red lights have flashed, the sirens have screeched, and my temples have pulsed worryingly for days on end. I can buy no more time.
So I sit down. And with no worry nor ill-feeling, and the wisdom of an elderly Barn Owl, suck back the first full lungful. And hold it. Then the second. And hold it. Then, almost half heartedly, sink, deeply, into the third and final toke.
The mind ignites.
Huge swathes of pearlescent colours herald the start of something truly important.
And suddenly there are no more walls, nor lines, nor footholds. There are no more ideals. Words fail. Language capitulates into a series of broken grunts, each steadily lower in volume than the last and with an increasingly audible undertone of stunned awe.
At once, I believe that history is merely an accumulating record of chance encounters played out in a vast and unceasing blizzard of possibilities.
I think, quite possibly, and as a consequence of that last point, that we are locked in an ever accelerating forward motion; discovering exactly what we are, by being who we are.
Are we Ape? Artist? Nordic Viking? Dalai Lama? George W. Bush?
We are someone, though. Right now. Someone with something to say. But only very quietly, in the dark, whilst others sleep.
We are an experience. An occurrence. An incidence of consciousness never before undergone. A progressive linear existence that may end, suddenly, for some discernable timeframe at least, however briefly, when the games are over, and it’s only you, and your broken shell, surrounded by the roaring Abyss as it screams the ineffable truths directly into your soul.
We are the breeze in the sails of the yacht and the waves that crash into the rocks.
The famine, the feast, the birth and the death; the sunrise, the sunset, the Brahman.