Goo Goo Gaa Gaa
Time passes. Like fireflies under the full moon, in those uncanny seconds of illumination, an eternity passes you by. And we wonder where time has gone. How comedic we are, to wonder where eternity has gone. And with serious philosophical innuendo at that. Eternity is right here, has been since you had breakfast. Was right here last night, while you were masturbating. Yup, right here as you reminisce your childhood – even then.
Time flies because we have all the time in the world. We grow old and die, because we have an eternity to play with – might as well try our hand at decay ever so often. And why not, it’s the only thing that’s impossible. This death of ours. What better games to construct than ones where the impossible nearly kills us. You ever wonder why you wake up just before you die in your dreams? Snap. Snappity snap awake. Or nuzzle awake, as you desire. Even if you do die in your dreams, you still awaken. What makes you think this isn’t a delicate reminder to our psyche of the mystery of awakening at the moment of demise. Birth. Rebirth.
Our dreams are as honest as we can possibly unravel. Nothing makes it clearer than our very dream states that this death we candidly routine our social lives around, attempting vain tiptoe-dances around the inevitable realisation, that this death is an illusion. Snappity snap. If all that I attain in this life is the insight and kindness to dance and sing and rejoice in the cemetery, I would declare myself blessed. To stomp wildly in boyish innocence at funeral homes, a velvet tune raptly engrossed upon my throat, jovial matrimony in syncronised elegance with the Universe – the loss-less Universe. Dancing, because nothing is lost. Awaken!
Pray that you did not just react with the thought, “Never invite this man to my funeral.” Trust me, when you look down upon your funeral, that is, for a jolly good giggle, you will wish then that I was there to sing and dance and celebrate the eternity of your being. But no, you won’t wish it. You will be laughing too hard to even think it.
Ever since the dream – ah, it started with the dream – that shackled the boundaries of my known Universe – the dream about the wisdom of surrender – the word now fiery and alive – ever since this dream, the infinitude of my visions of a perfect life trailed into oblivion, without relenting a gasp of defeat. Not even a whimper. Not even a thunderous roar, lest we mention fluorescent lightning, neon or otherwise.
I had plans you know. To call them ambitions hardly do them justice, paradigm shifts are close to the mark, epic visions – a tinge closer, aspiration, ah. Yes. Aspirations for a total cosmic revolution. Yes, big plans. Akin to choosing with careful and gleaming preciseness every single detail that fills your room. Now – try a grand twilight scale. A world full of laughter. Tick. Soulmate, yes, definetely. Tick. Dream job, dream house, dream waterfall, dream children. Tick tick tick. Tick. Peace of mind. Ti- ah shit. My room is a godforsaken mess, and here I am with plans. So, you see the rules of the game? Sometimes when you win, you lose.
And sometimes when you lose… “I’ll ask you to do things that you won’t understand the purpose of. Do it even if it makes no sense.” Said Dragon… do you ever lose? A decade has passed, a decade of wanting to keep some things as important, as precious. Virgin fucks. Enchanting melody. Grand scheme of existence. Utopian formula. Divine soulmateship. Nymphette sexiness. Perfect sincronicity. Endearing struggle. Doing it my special and glorious way – transcending from hell to heaven that is. You name it… what is it that you just can’t lose because it’s too important. Whatever it is. In the dream, I’d given up this crazy writhing stronghold on the
fleeting joys. What was I left with?
“I believe that drugs are basically of more use to the audience than to the artist. I think that the illusion of oneness with the universe, and absorption with the significance of every object in your environment, and the pervasive aura of peace and contentment is not the ideal state for an artist. It tranquilizes the creative personality, which thrives on conflict and on the clash and ferment of ideas. The artist’s transcendence must be within his own work; he should not impose any artificial barriers between himself and the mainspring of his subconscious. One of the things that’s turned me against LSD is that all the people I know who use it have a peculiar inability to distinguish between things that are really interesting and stimulating and things that appear to be so in the state of universal bliss that the drug induces on a “good” trip. They seem to completely lose their critical faculties and disengage themselves from some of the most stimulating areas of life. Perhaps when everything is beautiful, nothing is beautiful.” – Stanley Kubrick.
I have a soft spot for transitions, and lookey here, this man has very cleverly and with blind comparability distinguished the foremost fear of man upon his intuition. Until the dream, I too subscribed to this oh so intelligent snappity snap. It makes no sense, he is screaming with his every word. Look carefully. That’s all he is saying. It makes no friggin’ sense how Universal bliss dims your senses and robs your discerning vitality. Good enough reason to hold tight to what little we use of our brain, no? Everything just has to make sense, otherwise, I ain’t doing it. So you see the doubt that salivated with panic when I was asked to do things that made no sense. This the difference between the blessed man and the betrayed man. For the man who feels betrayed, everything must have a reason. If you’re about to go to your favorite restaurant for lunch, and something tells you to visit that curious place down the corner instead – it is what prevails that decides if you’ll get your special gift. Reason or intuition. A reasonable man paints a shooting star upon his starscape photograph. An intuitive man points the camera towards the stars – because something inside him said it was a good idea for no reason at all – and he snaps the picture just as a shooting star streaks across the twilight.
The first man uses ten percent of his brain, and he calls it stimulating. An artist drunk in Universal bliss taps full brain potential, and he utters, “goo goo gaa gaa” dribbling simultaneously. Such is the mystery. Do not be fooled.
Now for the dream itself. For seven days I delayed speaking of it, because when I ventured to paint, “everything is the same” is all that came out. Everything! How else do you paint that? Throw the canvas on the paint, throw the paint at the dog, throw the dog at the canvas, throw the canvas at a pebble – daintily procure the pebble and declare it your masterpiece? Now I wonder if I can write “everything equal” in different ways for the rest of my life. A daunting thought.
But lets try. The dream wasn’t all that, really. That’s kind of the point. The dream. Bits and pieces remain from the dream… an express train from Australia landing on a beach at the outskirts of a forest in England. A peculiar.. strangely desolate hermitage – exactly at the spot where the train parks… it didn’t even slow down. It just cracked to a frozen stop. The tracks barely visible under crystal sands, ardently transparent, and you just know they will disappear with the train soon enough. Bright eyed, gleaming Australian backpackers trot out of the express in order to request the tutelage of Dragon. I had gotten there by flight. I cannot remember that part, I just knew that’s how I’d come. Or maybe I guessed, within the dream itself.
Watching. Not a resignation.. definitely not. But rather, I was in the state of mind I have always dreaded to be in. Where no one thing was more important than another – where there was equality abundant and piercing calmness whenever something didn’t go my way. I cared nothing for my primitive insignificant notions of sophistication, value and even stimulation. I cared nothing even for frolicking in mortuaries. I did as I was told. Simple, true, and oh yeah, even easy.
As symbolism would have it, I find myself knelt at Dragon’s feet, and he mentions what seems now to be paradoxical, but at the time was crystaline understanding – that now I have learnt the wisdom of discernment.