A Third Person Dissolution: Voyages in Carnal Ecstasy

I had never seen the movie Weird Science, from director John Hughes, starring Anthony Michael Hall, Ilan Mitchell-Smith, and Kelly LeBrock until last week. Of course, the fiercely mediocre and moronic comedy was made in 1985, but I just caught up with it in 2006. Weird Science refers to masturbation as "tossing off," a variational term for the enterprise that I was previously unfamiliar with. I appreciated it at the time solely for its obtuseness and ability to cause Dostoyevsky or Neitzche to fall to the ground and binge-drink in spite of its stupidity. Since, my admiration for such senseless cinema has embraced a new, more Huxleyan attitude. Now my admiration is far more personal, situational, and... Augural.

I consider my life middling. I am nineteen years old and live at my best friend's parents' house. I don't have a job, nor do I go to school. My daily activities include thinking and writing. Sometimes I associate with people: best friends, a girlfriend, but most of the time I think alone and write alone. Sometimes I socialize with my friend Jack Daniels; he assists me in not thinking. In fact, I've fathered this systematic psychological escape that I think a good number of people should adhere to. I call this arrangement, "Don't Think, Drink," in which one selects a night of one's week to do just what the epithet implies. I compulsively toss off. I cannot sleep in the daytime, and I cannot sleep at night. I am capable of actively (or rather, inactively) sleeping only at those in-between times like dusk, or dawn.

That's enough about me. Now to keenly move on to the exploit. My last week was irregularly unpleasant. Ironically, the tirade came on too soon after the closure of a brilliant book by Terrence McKenna, a particularly copacetic and sinful visit from an inseparable friend, and the release of the new Depeche Mode album. The first downtrodden exploitation was having to deliver that inseparable friend back to a six-week sport of being the governer's honor in irresponsibly muggy Valdosta, Georgia. Although the five-hour trip was rollicking (including a rascally outing on Brighton Road, exit 66, that ended in a poison oak affliction), seeing him go for two more weeks was painstaking. Shortly thereafter, my body punished me for recently attempting to make my body look like that of Brandon Boyd by commissioning my upper-respiratory system to go haywire. Finally, my parents acquaint me with the prospect of disabling my cell phone after my relentless text messaging and unruly directory assistance use sent their bill skyrocketing. Sick, itchy, and out-of-contact, I was doomed to a stagnant couple of days with a moderately hallucinogenic cold and cough drug.

I waded through a euphoric dream-state for a few days, one in which at times I had little cognitive ability to actualize concepts of dimensional depth or substantial matter. Opening doors, something that normally is habitual, became something of a game. Other living beings became fascinating to me; when the cat came to me, I would examine her, endeavoring to determine the inner-workings of mammals. Tossing off during this time became a phenomenon, a conglomeration of mental hysteria and carnal delirium. Nothing was important. An incident occured where a friend questioned too staunchly a theory involving my tosser-offer, and right there I answered her questions. I became a machine of psychoactivity and translingustic, unwarranted rapture. I am unsure if this ideological liberty was born of my matrix of mind-altering OTC drugs, alcohol, sleep deprivation, and minor sickness, but be assured that the experience was unprecedented.

After a collage of boredom and stagnancy, I decided to visit an enigmatic and unfrequented clearing that I had discovered in my youth in the woods near the house. "Woods," is an evasive word; the clearing is located in the middle of Cobb County's sewage system. A sign adorns its initial entrance that reads, "Cobb County Water System," and below it is posted, "No Trespassing." Unfortunately for any party that would be afflicted by illegal trespasses, there is no stopping a pagan mind in its conquest for nature when there is a necessity for it. I am unnaturally attracted to those places that are authentically esoteric. In fact, it was by that very principle that originally led me to this place, which I now call "Death," for no indicative reason.

Being there, in Death, has always inspired this raging sexual necessity for release upon my admission to it. Since Death was solely my possession and its introduction to others was out of the question, the logical solution to pacify this necessity has always been tossing off. So, still influenced by this heterogenous ecstasy, the sensational experience began. I have trouble pinpointing the words to describe such an ancient felicity. I have even further trouble attempting to accurately describe its interruption. In the immediate distance, I caught visualization of a behemoth, circular, metallic disk. It was a wondrous terror. The sight hatched a feral excitedness about me and I leapt to my feet, adjusting my pants properly.

Scalding heat upon its touch, dripping a thick violet colored liquid. The thing had an image like steel, but a psychological sensation like mind-sandpaper. In the reflection decorating the aqueous material dripping from it, I could see minute and infrequent reptilian movement. In fact, the entirety of the liquid itself was shifty and scrabbling along the red clay ground. Upon a more judicious inspection of the vessel, I discovered a miniscule cylinder jutting from its southernmost end. On occasion, the tube would puke the violet substance I defined earlier. The thing, by its very essence, was exhilarant. I spent a moment breathing in its hermetic quality before jogging home to inform someone of its presence.

I believe that we are all very cognizant about how this narrative will end. I waited until my best friend, whom I live with, reappeared from a sweltering day at a labor job. Mostly against his will, I rushed him out the door to experience the thing with nothing but disregard to my previous convictions about Death's isolation and confidence. Upon arrival at the thing's dock, I soon discovered its peculiar absence. A desperate policing for the arcane liquid as proof of its being failed. We returned home, my friend angry with my oblong fantasies for postponing his nap. I subsequently wandered the house for a good while, bewildered by the thing and its significance or suggestion. I was animated with a quaint disorientation.

My further days of bending the foundation of physical reality, conquering the electromagnetic spectrum, and inspecting mammals continued, but with a sense of reverence and aversion. Even tossing off became an entirely new sophistication, one with inclusion of humanity and the advent of the collective unconscious. I felt abided by a vortex of psychological thrill and mystery. I theorize that the movement inside the matter I observed was a new species of animal. I believe that it is an embodiment of information; something noiselessly approaching to enlighten humanity. The thing itself whispered to me about the limitations of living in a 3D world. At that moment I became vitally aware of the ocean of perception that we as human beings have yet to even explore the surface.

Some will read my narrative and scoff. I agree that the nature of my encounter is a weird science, but I will add that it is an imperative art in order to evolve. Put simply, in the words of William Blake, "If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is: Infinite."








Just a short Kerouac-type piece. Sorta beat. Looking for critique.