The following is an excerpt from the author’s journal. One section has been removed.
Sometimes all it takes to make a man sentimental is seeing a well beat-up half empty packet of dirty matches sitting on the ground waiting for him.
Maybe it’s the distinct branding of his in-town tobacconist on the outer package; the moisture on the striking strip that makes it hell to get a clean light without breaking a head; the fact that he has only now relocated his pipe after lifetimes searching in the woods and everything on his path towards breathing it in glows at him like hot Cavendish embers, and the fact that these meekly firesticks have helped feed me (and free me). Forever caught ablaze in Promethean camp stupor, with Dionysus’ own dreams rafting us up and down the still glassy lake in consumer-grade funtime inflatables, and cheap canoes…
Maybe it’s just for the man who needs his pipe to finish his sentences. Cigarettes aren’t built for long-burning thoughts.
Sitting with [removed] on a small half-sinking dock, getting our feet wet. Feeling the water and the wind in the trees; breathing in tiny yellow dust like particles of sunshine smoke.
Tripping on astral spirits: molecular unwinding within the walls of my brainbox. I collapse onto my back, splashing slightly, steadily breathing.
All is sun, warm and glowing. I can feel it radiating in my skin, attacking me. Behind my eyelids, through them, all I see is fire. The pure Promethean glow. The magnificence that melted Icarus’ wings.
I am peeled open. All that I feel is my breathing, which sits at the very back of my throat as if anchoring my rhythmic soul into some central nerve. Descartes claimed the pineal gland, but pneuma sinks us lower, closer to the fire. The curious and chaotic flame manifests into patterns, all manic and incomprehensible, yet somehow recognizable.
I am, perhaps, simply endeavouring to recognize them.
This panoply of patterns, scales, schemas and sets, chords and categories, began to assemble itself before me into higher orders of complexity. A raving mad homunculus carving out the expressions of his symphony from within the walls of his emotional memory, built up for psychonaut touristic selves bent on primitive caves for their wall paintings.
Hermeneutic psych-archaeology: my cave paintings depicted women and children, women and children, women and children, endlessly. The cave was a forest all along; perhaps I am confused by my whelming sensation of depth. A woman, turning away endlessly in warm reassurance to tend to the child, half hidden behind her. Or perhaps created in her turning…
I feel emblazoned, golden archon emboldened. I feel secure. I am moving deeper, venturing further, swept beyond my impetus, onward.
Shattered again into the myriad modular molecular shards. Exhaled like cosmic dust over the kingdom of Heaven, rediscovered by Ovid and Museaeus in the Eleusinian temples at altars to Demeter. There was a frenzied rhythm.
Implosive crystalline static ocular junk food, everything lashing out like an animal, angry or scared. Bonds mostly refused to hold in this erratically rippling soup – those that did had the appearance of an unforgiven soul suffering an acute psychotic break, trying manically to tear itself apart.
This was a jungle storm, a living-breathing jazz fusion orchestra, beating on my breath, whipping me up into a whirlwind – and we danced! – like wildfire.
Everything I was, moving like the echo of a drum, raving madly through the trees like a heartbeat. Everything moved like music, symphonic and sanguine, bleeding audioblood and breathing high-octance forest fuel.
I taste my tongue – wet. I smack my lips, slowly opening my eyes. Blue sky, blue lake. A forest breathing across it. Forever longing the golden sun. [Removed] is smiling at me. I lift my hand and feel my face, all but groaning in what I can only call ecstasy.
Breathing in deeply, I sit up. I sit up, I scoot forward, and drop my legs into the water.