Mushrooms, madness, faith, humility, and wonder

taken from I, FOR LACK OF A BETTER TERM: a soul's soliloquy,  from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book

page 3

 

These are the words of an historical being only, they are no longer mine. I have proceeded out from that gnarled mess of dark, manifest complexity, back into the glow of the unmanifest One. But that is not really it either. Both sides are an insurmountable heap of confusion, and nothing more. Believe me. It's impossible to describe. Bloody impossible.

The names and places of our journey are as important as the individuals residing in them, and yet the context which I choose not to bring to this story would merely be a backdrop to the eternal drama underway. It is the Great Play of life, in which we may all choose a role, that really matters; whether it be as puppet, prop, actor, spectator, or muse. The characters are important only in so far as they lend flow and color to the story, they are nothing in themselves.

So consider me then, within and without context: a lost hero, or found fool, dressed in another's soiled rags, wildly drunk and yet perfectly sober, blindly jabbering out this vain prattle, rapt in a somber soliloquy amidst the epic journey through the mystic flesh, and whimsically determined to describe my most recent part in the endless Play.

There is no narrative to my story, as I said, only a voice liberated from the song; only a mute spirit in the chronic filibuster of the infinite soul.

In fact, I am not even speaking. Everything is inside. You are also there. I am the absence of thought. You are the ear which creates me.

You need me only because you need yourself- because I awoke before you in your dream, so as to then awaken you; because I am in you, and of you.

I need you because I am you. So you see where we are at then.

 

But allow me to backpeddle once again so as to fill in the yawning abysses of this artless unfable.

To begin with I had no idea worth dreaming, no thought worth thinking, no emotion for life. I had played in the world, loving its loves, fearing its fears, desiring its desires, and trying its trials.

None of it worked. It was all wrong. The path the world educated me to follow led quickly and only to hell.

Every moment of my old life was an improvisation. From the moment I first awakened I never saw the script. The director was nowhere to be found, and the rest of the cast was a bloodthirsty mob of petty, ostentatious insufficiencies. And only because of this- because I was bored and pissed off, and knew neither the plot, nor my part; it was only because of this that I eventually picked up a broom, walked into the reaches, and began to sweep dust out of the theatre.

And in that provincial domain of our feral aristocracy, where the duty and dreaming mingled into an insoluble one, nobody could have told me what I would find when I ceased living with expectation, with searching, with need. No one could show me how to get no where.

Rounding a corner in the hopeless race, I suddenly  stopped and lied down in the middle of the run. I went through no finish, and received no reward. I simply stopped. I came to the end of my soul's desecration, and was born from the remains of what never was me.

Oh, perhaps I am going off a bit, lost in the verbose, dark incantations of our imperishable emptiness. Perhaps not. Bear with me though, won't you- bare with me? It will all come full circle soon enough. But not until then. Not a chance. First we must live full in the full darkness, or we shall never appreciate the light.

 

What, then,  were the feverish hallmarks of my existential undoing? Who can say? Have I even the courage to speak? No, I have not the courage, I have only the need.

Coarse blasphemy and verbiage aside, I would not call my life a conversion, merely a version.

To begin with, there are truths I would not come to understand until after many confused and torturous years of hopeless digression, false intent, corruption, debauchery, idleness, unfaith, and agony.

For me it began as a wild and manic ride of booze and anguish, dope and euphoria, destiny and freedom, psychadelia, mushrooms, madness, faith, humility, and wonder. I would not come to the nothingness that is everything until all the blood had been letted from my putrid corpse, until I had mapped out all the blind alleys within myself, until the heavens murdered me without pity or concern, until I loved and cursed and followed God, and then was broken from the mold of the manifest, and inhaled back to the Source, like a creature caught in the throat of a Creator who had only begun to breathe.

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Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.

 

 

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