i finally got the chance to watch an apparently 80’s masterpiece movie, “the drugstore cowboy.” i think my favorite part in the movie was seeing william s burroughs play the old time junkie. i can definitely identify with these characters but obviously, i have to yet to hit rock bottom. shallow as my “bottom” may seem from this high chair, i understand the philosophy disgust that is an undertone in all of this. drugs expands the mind and even if you don’t become addict to it, it demands a little space in the dark part of your mind. there are interesting parallels when the addict hits rock bottom and looks into the future to see what life would be like without drugs. it’s a promise land to a land of normalacy, of routine and simple comfort. what was does a man in this realm of mundaneness hit rock bottom? is the mid life crisis the cylyast for rehab? and so the drug addicts and the spiritual seekers walk the same path. for the path to salvation is filled with habits and quick fixes.
for sometime the light in my eyes decieve me as i walk a downward path of unholy darkness. the fear tingles ever so slightly in between my toes. barely noticeable during habitual patterns but painfully annoying in moments of stillness. although the urge is fewer and farther in between (only because of a very direct unconscious choice), it roars louder than ever now because it is so very near. the promoise land of a freedom to explore without the normal boundaries that befuddles most of us dearly. it’s like those last days of high school when you see the future a head of you and it will be mostly so unlike the past 18 years of your small existence. the excitement goes beyond ‘graduation’ because the irony isn’t so much that anything has been completed but only the beginning of greater experience field. and that is what lurks ahead in my hozion – an unlimited sky of unfathomable potential. the even the mere promise of unfullfilled potential is enough to bring hope into dismal existence.
i know where i am at by my reaction to the homeless. my spastic mental reaction to shutdown the patterns of compassionate thought through an onslaught of cosmic bullshit as fresh as the evening dew. after 3 to 4 times in a day of recognizing the pattern after it’s occurance, it leaves a slight order that carries with me all day into my sleep. that order is slighty decrease with a fix of yogic movements but no amount of mechanical showering will ease its great itch.
it would seem that only during these times of mental farting that i allow the time and perspective to spew without wipeage from the hand of busyness. it is a groetequse exercise on it most base level but one must start somewhere. even in its funest moment, one knows that it can not sustain. no, it can not sustain – these loud mental farts that will haunt my cyber existance.
_she is not hope but the drug of choice by Thomas Cunningham