For a long time my mind was partially filled with low-grade industrial-strength molasses. The remaining space was hollow and I’m not really sure what was there. Nobody knows. Maybe dark matter, I think. How the molasses came to be remains a mystery, but no one really knows…
Molasses is a condensed version of sugar, you see, and a lot of foods contain sugar. The Big Sugar industry doesn’t want you to know this, but it’s true. This molasses is the type of neglected refuse found in rusty storage bins in the forgotten corner of the old storage warehouse that went undisturbed for generations because they bought the Health Inspector. They paid the fucker off. Nobody goes back there because, aside from being an immediate termination, this sector is foxtrot off-limits. Mostly, it’s creepy and probably has snakes.
The nasty muck is like thick, black, roofing tar and has all the toxicity of mustard gas mixed with 1960’s outlawed mutagenic herbicides. The good stuff. It’s impermeable and essentially liquid nightmare. It reeks of inner-city sewage sludge, rotten baby animal carcass, and exudes a noxious miasma and pesky Chernobyl radiation. You’ll know it when you smell it, because it’ll be the last thing you ever smelt. There should be a strange glow if you look close enough, but I wouldn’t dare…except only if I had a giant telescope on Mars. No functional properties at all, this filth, except to North Korea myself from the rest of known humanity.
And don’t go lawyering up and trying to sue Big Sugar either. They’re far too powerful, and will keep your case tied up in appeals until your bled dry. This ain’t their first rodeo, or their last. They’ve got the judges and the city cops in their pockets as well. Besides, they didn’t feed you the damn garbage.
Though, as a kid and some point in my 20’s, the stifling mind-lock hadn’t quite set in just yet. Only after some time did I realize the vacuous disease closing in on me. ‘What happened?‘ I questioned myself incessantly. Was this just anxiety? If so, which type? I needed to know.
There are 3 types of anxiety according to the philosopher & theologian Paul Tillich from “The Courage to Be,” 1952.
(1) Ontic Anxiety: the anxiety of fate and death.
(2) Moral Anxiety: the anxiety of guilt and condemnation.
(3) Spiritual Anxiety: the anxiety of emptiness and meaninglessness.
I peered within and realized the light wasn’t on because this viscous shit covered every part of my brain. I was the living dead like in Dawn of the Dead, and a lot more immobile. Think of an insensate lobotomized paraplegic idiot without the obligatory hospice helper. I was barely self-aware of my own bodily functions, no less higher-order ‘normal people’ thought processes. I was a sub-human hominid, dullard, non-player character, an evolutionary glitch cast upon the deep void of space-time. Existing with no past, no place, and only poorly lit present and futures.
I had made a mockery of myself on the fool’s stage. So I researched head transplants. It seems a bit risky, but unfortunately for me, the goddamn bioethnicists claimed fake news on Sergio. It’s an uphill battle for him, No más for me. Buffaloed again.
The horrendous sin that I was made culpable of was ignorance. Prideful ignorance. Hubris. Willing ignorance. Selfish squalor and disgrace. Sloth. Welcoming to the treacherous shadowy creatures of vice and debauchery into the far reaches of my mind and allowing them slumber, like gargoyles, perched up high on their aerie to reign over the shambles that laid waste below to everything. Except, this seemed sexy to me for twisted reason. I wasn’t in the right state. A desolate wasteland this place now was.
Until the dawning of a new day.
To say that I was in desperation for a mental douching is an understatement. I was in the throes of a full-on existential 30-day digestive cleanse. To relinquish the imprisonment of my own mind required some heavy-duty powerwashing of the filth on my soul. It would require adding diesel-fuel, burning of the mixture, stirring, and further burning. It would require the certified invocation of Voodoo black magic with the doll, and pins and needles.
How does one ‘be water‘ as Bruce Lee would say?
“I said empty your mind, be formless, shapeless, like water. Now you put water in a cup, it becomes the cup, you put water in a bottle, it becomes the bottle, you put water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Water can flow or it can crash. Become water my friend.”
I would start by drinking a full glass of water. Moreover, how can I actually become 2 parts Hydrogen and 1 part Oxygen? It seems that some ubiquity is in order. So I located this image of The Water Cycle, so that I could simulate immersion. Imagining myself being all of these places at once. It made me feel powerful and sadistic, like a government agent. If I was water, I would be on the road all the time. Kind of like a drug mule carrying the goods.
I admire Bruce Lee, but I’m not sure that I can become water more than I already am. Maybe I could drink my own bath water. Humans are already around 60% water and that’s a passing grade in most public schools in the South. The best I can do is brainstorm, write something down, and then ultimately do nothing and move on with my life as if nothing happened.
This poignant visualization is followed by a keen sense of despair. I want to be like water, but I more resemble the sloth. God, how glacially slow and coagulated it feels to have no thoughts at all. Technically speaking, glaciers are water. I’m not sure this was the same ’empty’ Bruce Lee was talking about, the type that evokes a kind of liberation from self. It’s absolutely completely 100% possible to live at base mental state, in the negative sense, where one reverts to the simplicity of low-level beast-like thinking.
One can simulate this mindset by smoking A LOT of cannabis. And when I say A LOT, I mean fill a 40 foot tractor-trailer and live in that mother fucker. Then, smoke all-day EVERYDAY. It’s fun at first, sure, but then becomes cumbersome and taxing like hard labor. The active mind takes the back seat and the passive mind sleeps in the drivers place. Until one day it just falls out of the car completely and still the car keeps moving, speeding off. That is my experience, anyway. But I’m sure there are the freaks who excel in life, and smoke all day everyday. I can’t stand these types but God bless them.
is originality dead, and if so what does this mean?
There are many great ideas out there in the world (past and present), but chances are if you’ve ever had a novel idea, then somebody, somewhere has already thought about it, thought it out, worked out the bugs, articulated it, wrote about it, published it, sung it, played it, painted it, sculpted it, acted it, tested it, and perhaps made a lot of money from it. What idea is so novel that it’s never been thought about? Probably nothing.
So I seek within myself, from the water within me, why can’t I feel it? Why can’t I be a drop in the ocean or a skydiving traveler or a misty transient that drifts out of the desert and into some finer atmosphere? Will some great author take from me my title and generously bestow upon me The Mists of Avalon? Will I drop into the crystal clear waters of Exuma, Bahamas and celebrate the blessings of passing sunlight with the beautiful celebratory splashing of drunken tourists?