It started last night. This time my meditations came to me. Dazzling mandalas of the buddhas and the gods and the demons of the Eight Wells of Hell. Alive with winds and fires and bulging eyes. Like a Chinese New Year Parade dancing through my head.
I knew something was not right. Or at least terribly wrong. Unfortunately it was not drug induced. That would have made sense. And I haven't been maced since the Great Panty Raid of 1999.
It must be the same psychic awareness that has told me so many things so many times. Just not in so many words.
I continued my meditation until I fell asleep. My radio awoke me with the news of your death. You break my heart, Hunter.
All the laughs over all the years. You were the only one who really understood. You saw past the madness and gave us hope. Really. The kind of hope that if we survived, if we made the world a better place, if we stopped the madmen, the wave would never break.
I found it hard to sleep last night, took ages for me to get to sleep - I even had a rather mild flashback. Would be nice to think that certain chemicals build spirtual bridges between people, strictly im an aethist but theres more to this spirtual stuff than meets the eye thats for sure - 90% of the brain is unused, maybe we dont know all that much about the human body.
I couldn't sleep last night either. I though it was my sinuses.
At 3:00am my dog woke me up vomiting in the bedroom floor.
I think she new something was wrong, that somewhere in the world,
the energy that flows among us was thrown off balance. I'm feeling
worse and worse as this day goes on. I'm usually not very spiritual,
but today I'll allow myself to believe that something greater than I
can understand has been drained from my being.
I am back from the Temple where I left a candle burning. I have read the other threads and I think it is time for a shot of bourbon. A fifth of scotch. A dozen tabs of South Florida blotter. Three lines of Columbian blow. No, make it six. My neighbor girl looks a little frisky. Don't worry, she's legal. An ounce of red bud. Three cans of whipped topping. And four frozen pizzas for later.
You Bi-Polar Freaks. He's a Doctor of Journalism. And you're fighting over him like a bunch of demented Harpies looking for a quick fix from his vial of ether.
Pity us poor bastards you left behind, Brother. In our grief and in our anger we show our weaker side.
...being told to consider a sex change? I can't think of a single joke that has ever been told about that subject. Yes, I'm ignoring you. Right after I stuff your ass in the trunk of the Great Red Shark and turn you in to the cops for practicing comedy without a license.
Patrick, I don't think you're nuts. Don't pay any attention to these infidels. I'm a serious Buddhist, and I have read the good Doctor's works for many years, and loved his writing, felt bonded with him. Late yesterday afternoon West Coast time, I felt seriously physically wierd for quite a while, then last night went into a serious fit of depression for no reason. I was getting a little worried, then I heard the news. We're all connected.....
That is what I tell myself. After turning my brain into a bourbon soaked sponge. And reminding myself of all the things that keep me from opening the curtain on my final act of self-destruction.
It is a short list indeed. But it is all I've got. And it is all I need.
We like to think we were on your list Brother. You will always be on mine.