I have always wanted to be a “holy man” , for hedonistic and utilitarian reasons. It makes me feel good, to think about God; the feeling is akin to how Emily Dickinson described poetry as that which makes the top of her head come off. Accompanied, for me at least, by delicious shivers up the spine into the eyes and out that 7^th (or is it 8^th?) chakra. The tip of the head one.

I remember talking to God once, as a kid. I said, ‘’ fuck you, god, I hate u, and I don’t believe in you anyway, so strike me dead now if you exist.” I actually waited a few seconds with delightful apprehension. Sort of like when I was watching jaws  as a 10 yr. old and knew he was about to strike, but didn’t know exactly when.

So I eschewed God after that. I never had to go to church, because my parents had made “a break due to some personal issues that we’ll tell u about when you are older” with the Congregational Church in 1964. I came along three years later, and was never baptized. One of my elementary school pals told me I’d go to hell for that. I humored his ignorance. He turned out to be the smartest boy in school, next to me. And later, a good friend.

I would play semantically with that exclamation (“Jesus Christ!”) I made when I was surprised or mortified or disgusted or humiliated or when my funny bone was tickled well. I had an arsenal of them. “Jesus fuckin Christ”, “jesus motherfuckin Christ”, “Christ jesus motherfucker”, “jesus dammit”, “jesus fuckin goddammit”, and, lately , oddly, “fuck me jesus”. It evolves I guess.

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I caught the bipolar virus sometime in my teens I guess.  It was the viral strain that caused lengthy periods of depression (years) with short bursts of mania (a few months).  So I was a mute blob of a teenager muddling his way through jr. high & high school , wishing to die rather than have to do anything like gym class or take the bus home or visit with my ‘friends’ or even get up every morning to go get tortured.  Since I knew there was no God, I knew that when I died, I would be simply…erased. As if I had never been. I mean, sure, there would be mom and dad and sisters who would be sad, but fuck them, that’ll teach em for making me do shit I do not wanna do.

Method of suicide? Best plan= drive the car into a big solid tree & die instantly, delivered to oblivion in a flash, without all that unpleasant business of suffering while in the process of dying. Ok. Plan made. Once I got my driver’s license I could do it anytime I wanted. I was set!

As Nietzsche said, the thought of suicide as an ‘out’ helps us enjoy life. Gives a lot of comfort.

So: I had a way out, a good one. I would wait til things became totally hopeless.

Except they never did. Become totally. Hopeless.

I kept finding hope in some damn thing, be it an upcoming Christmas or a birthday or an episode of “star trek” I could watch at 4 p.m. in the afternoon after the day’s educational  sadistic vibes had been forgotten & the humiliation was at reasonable levels & Spock & McCoy were there to inspire me, or

I would find hope in my plan to become a priest, a guy who could live away from the world & read & watch tv & talk to idiot parishoners with AUTHORITY without being challenged . Or a monk. I could maybe be a monk, live in a tiny room, hardly talk to anyone, read, garden, eat, sleep.

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Marijuana exacerbated my bipolar mania. It made me think and talk and want to live. I even started having the courage to talk to the chicks, make them laugh, even touch their arms if I was really really stoned.

It also got me to reading a bunch of philosophy & theology.

Then that damn Blake .

What can you possibly do when you are stoned to the gills, baked to 450 degrees Fahrenheit, and open a book, and read this goddamn shit?

This life's dim windows of the soul
Distorts the heavens from pole to pole
And leads you to believe a lie
When you see with, not through, the eye.

Or

The infamous “if the doors of perception were cleansed/man would see everything as it is/infinite” which Aldous Huxley stole, then jimmy Morrison stole.

Anyway. I started getting stoned to the Doors.

Zeppelin.

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Dylan.

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This is not an apologia for drugs. They are a gateway to your neuronal network’s configuration. But your neurons are not your own. They have been structured by people, events, and genetic heritage. Some people shouldn’t do them, cuz they would, in the vernacular, freak out. Others should do some pot right now & they will be a-ok. Others could snort or smoke all night and still be the same person, good or bad or indifferent, they always were. For me, mary jane is a sacrament. My sacrament.

Religion is  “something u do in private,”said Alfred North Whitehead.

I agree, but inviting one or two friends can be beneficial to the Universal Mind. Intersubjectivity is all the rage these past few years. I am wading carefully , ever so slowly, into it. I am afraid to share my Head with other people, because they usually tell me I am 1. Cute but kinda weird, 2. Crazy cool!  , 3. Obviously psychologically troubled, 4.in need of ‘help’ , 5. Dangerous.

I eschew labels, except, maybe, “holy man”, in all facetiousness.