This piece is a follow-on to a short story posted a few days ago here, and it will make less sense if you have not read the other. It described some inner experiences upon ingesting mescalin half a century ago. That piece was a work of fiction, although obviously possessing a strong autobiographical content. Here, however, I am trying to reason some specific points. What is imagined and what is not, and how do we know?
At the first stage of dessication, there is the rigid form, and the disciple, minister, and naysayer alike all cleave to it for its comforting corpse-like clutchability. Then a small fraction, one day, succeeds to observe the mystery from many perspectives, and the corpse begins to dance and asks a question. Then, an era passes, and for a very tiny fraction, their persistent, unfrozen awe and devotion observes what truly is, as a conceptual blossom, and heart-seen, but not seen by mind…
Wherein Icker, eighteen, uses mescalin for the only time this life, and comes under withering investigation from two leprechaun-entities in a forest, and is found wanting…
For fellow Scorpio suns, this goodbye November prayer. I commiserate with you all. Aren’t we terrible?
The author in a previous life, approximately 9th century, vicinity of present-day Slovenia.
Aloha, one & all…
Just a note to inform that I am taking a deliberate WP hiatus, perhaps a year, more or less with the aim of working upon a book of short stories. (I might drop an essay once in awhile, not sure.)
Deepest thanks for all of your wonderful writing & reading.
Keep Going!
Burning wishes to contact me can be accomplished on the ABOUT page. Salut.
_______RS
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Seekers often imagine the great shapers of destiny in our lives to be those personalities with whom we have lengthy and varied contact. But they are mistaken…
||skirmishes|| ||with|| ||reality|| 