Break out the sugary drinks! I have a mystical treatise I wish to deliver via PowerPoint. All is wondrous and large and unnameable. Is it possible that the narrator is constructed by the language he speaks? Or is that to confuse the self with its externalizations? Action becomes introspection, and plot evolves into spiritual adventure. The self moved by something other. The invisible hand, or whatever god it is that allows itself to be “chosen” by the other pole of its dyad. The mouse that steps atop the keyboard of consciousness. Perhaps there’s some place in this altered state that can fit Sam Harris’s book Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion — though I doubt it. That dude strikes me as entirely too sober and arrogant. I prefer my sermon in the form of Andy Holden’s “Chewy Cosmos (Panels to the Walls of Heaven).”
The need to collect nuts and berries lingers. Collection involves giving oneself over to luck. Infinite reverie.
Equally impressive is Holden’s video, “Prelude (A Pilot).” It, too, can point us on our course. Allegorical or archetypal landscapes poached from old Roadrunner cartoons. The artist imagines himself operating in the Romantic tradition, mining points of intensity from domains native to everyday life. And from Holden’s work, I’m led to the work of filmmaker James Benning. The path thus creates itself under the feet that tread it. Sarah and I granted ourselves a brief respite from the book edits and grading, walking in the sun yesterday midday along snow-covered streets, water melting, dripping from trees and branches. “Ptarmigans” emerged at one point as a topic of conversation: birds whose feathers change colors every year with the seasons. Upon my return from the walk, I watched Benning’s One Way Boogie Woogie (1977), reminded while watching of industrial landscapes I observed as a kid. Like songs that build in volume, signs begin to speak to me. Stubbornly persistent illusions give way to the conviction that everything is connected. “Let’s glitch the matrix and reorganize the gameboard,” I add, knowing not how or why.
Prayer will take us there. We might as well call it that, this act of turning inward, even if there aren’t any mantras involved or words addressed to a higher power. Much of my learning occurs these days through concentration on letting the mind go where it may. I hang back a bit and wait to see what stirs. Hands meet with fingers and thumbs arranged to form a triangle. I hold up to my eyes an inverted, upward-pointed Merkel-Raute or Triangle of Power, tolerating it the right to expand slowly across my field of vision, the gesture crossing outward beyond my peripherals. No more aristocracy of moneyed corporations, I declare to potential comrades. But few heed the call. They look at me askance, shake their heads reprovingly, and return to their sullen pursuit of property, most of them declaring themselves for business, without ever having been taught how else one can be. The Real is that which one feels deeply in one’s mind. Let’s do it, sings the chorus. Now is the time for love. The world has never felt itself so much a totality as it does today — so let us raise glasses instead to the visions in our minds. Let us imagine for one another how else the world may be. We have become more or less completely, more or less obviously, more or less miserably, the dependents of capital — so let us change that. Wildlife, like wildfires, rise up and appropriate thy appropriators! Humanity’s running down the clock, one way of being having come to dominate all the rest. And there’s no longer any imagined purpose to any of it. One is tempted to wish for some chance intervention, some upwelling of otherness. Cast over the soul a luminous spell, craft for it a key that opens doors onto possible worlds. Passion destines its victim, writes de Rougemont, “to contest with every breath everything that officially regulates social life” (73). Weed grants me such a passion; it fills me with words and metaphors, interlacing symbols through which to enunciate a mind in its refusal to adhere to the as-is.
Boards of wood warp beneath my feet as I stare up at the night sky. Paranoia tugs at me, and I know that’s just the weed becoming manifest — but I also hear the world telling me, “All symptoms are purposeful.” Upon observing this, my reality fast-forwards. I live my life as Providence decrees, dipping into and reading snippets on occasion from St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul. Sarah and I shared a mystical experience, a moment of sublimity, while sitting on a bench, staring up at a play of sunlight and wind among the tops of a patch of trees. It is only in retrospect that I see ahead a way to retain the habits of the child, while standing upright. St. John scolds me here, though, for my vanity. Don’t speak proudly or boastfully of spiritual things in the presence of others, he warns. What, then, of these trance-scripts, I wonder. Is it, perhaps, time to take a break? Can’t I pull a Bartleby and say, “I’d prefer not to?” Why am I even considering obedience to what feels like an ultimatum? Are these the first signs, perhaps, of a crisis of faith in my crisis of faith? Nay, it angers me; I resent the imposition. Grace is not a gift if it requires something in return. Utopia ain’t utopia if reserved only for a deserving few. Perhaps I’m too patient, though, with regard to my progress. Let it thus be resolved: for purposes of experiment, I shall assent to a few days off.