Weird feelings. Which is why I've made the decision to clean myself out. If I can't stop fucking with my head for a month, I really am an addict. So I'm going to take control.
But I haven't recovered from my head fucking yet so I'm still feeling weird. Still hollow. I know it's not reality, it's the chemicals, making everything I value seem silly and trivial. Robbing life of meaning. It might take a while for me to get my equilibrium back, if that's even possible. I remember an innocent time, a pristine baseline. I don't think I need to be guilty. I don't renounce my experiments, I've learned a lot, maybe more than I should have. But it's good to know when to fold. Know when to follow classic country songs.
My weird feelings flowered in an hour long improv. I actually managed to purge some of the negativity. I played the blues and then I played with the blues. I failed to record it. I never record the best improvs.
I can create, but I don't have the drive I ought to. I'm still stuck staring into the cesspool of Narcissus. I'm hoping I can break these feedback loops I've exacerbated with endless overlapping cycles of serotonin manipulation, dopamine spikes, 5HT receptor games. We can't resist playing with our heads, they're the most powerful of power tools. But even the brightest among us don't really know what we're doing. If anyone ought to have been licensed to operate their brains it would be people like Wilson, Leary, McKenna, Huxley, Crowley - those folks - they lit up their lives with a Mephistophelean glow.
In contrast, I'm a young, confused, weak, scared little fool. I deserve no such license.
What motivated me to write this entry again? I can't remember. Maybe I just wanted to write. See what comes out. This all still feels hollow. It's so hard to articulate what's been building in my head for the last year or more. Some foreign way of thinking. I really don't want to call it "wisdom" or "maturity" because that would mean that I'm comprehending the hideously pointless nature of reality.
Not that the lack of a point is necessarily horrible, but I haven't found a way to love existentialism, at least not on a regular basis. I've known for ages, long before the angst, that we create our own meaning. Sometimes that bothers me, but often I find daoistic peace in the idea. Carl Sagan wrote a book I never read called "The Demon Haunted World - Science as a candle in the dark". He banished God from his world, but he also expelled the demons.
My problem is that despite all the new age self-help optimism I've absorbed from my favourite quantum philosophers, I don't seem to be a particularly potent creator of my own reality. I suppose I could hold out hope of getting there, though, if I keep my mind sharp. Timothy Leary didn't come into his own until middle age.
Tony's got a great new mantra: "God has no mirror". He told me that as we were walking through the snow. I imbibed the snow frosting my favourite forest path in the purple tint of the virgin dawn and saw what he was saying. Brooksy should have been there to snap a pic with his digicam. It was a beautiful morning and T was having a glowing acid trip. I was very glad, it soothed me. That someone in my circle can trip well on acid. I know the drugs aren't evil but there are demons in my brain.
I've actually been thinking about moving to Kansas. I love Nelson but it may be that I'm overdosing on the place. Kansas would be a good place to dry out. I also feel like I need a change of environment. Not just yet, but somewhere down the road. I'd never leave this place for too long though. Whatever crazy shit happens here, whatever drugs flood the marketplace, the land will remain, and the land will be the last thing to lose its meaning.
The land is what I was thinking of when Tony smashed God's mirror.
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