Grapples

Hug-apples, crapples. Woe and fruit and riding and writing.

...

I am, as some of you know, an able and ambitious hallucinogenicist. I have loads of experience doing  lots of things that are (theoretically) bad for you, and I have come through, unscathed, every time. I take no small pride in this, and I have been to and fro in my head, out in the world.

I am better for it. Lots of ways. 

...

I can only do what I can understand, what I can imagine. The world is bounded by the legos-of-the-mind I have access to, and the more I have, the more I make. Tripping's given me lots of legos, offered me more and more punctuated moments to make myself anew. The experience of it, the vivid schizophrenia, the world turned up. I realized on my last birthday that there was a point when I could consume information-music, TV, what have you-and have no idea whether it was good. I lost my taste, my critical eye. Completely.

That's handy, that is. Moments like that are worth having with yourself.

And it is grueling, the hours of unstoppable force. It's that metaphor I'm relying on now, the riding-it-out. Because once in there's no out, there's nothing to be done but endure it no matter how it wears and wrecks and wracks (and it's been fucking puissant, once or twice). That's what this is, what now is like. Grueling, and to be endured. I'd like to think that I'll be better for it.