The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Archive for the tag “creative genius”

The Fix-it Man

NEW!

 

“Action Man” by Jeremy Richardson via Flickr

 

Gul

In my life, I had a special talent  – I could fix anything.  Anything except one important thing; and this came to define my existence.

In the crowded city slum in which I lived,  being adept at repair was very useful.  The people – my family, friends, neighbors – were among the poorest on earth.  Buying something new was an unimaginable luxury.  Everything we owned had been either been donated, discarded by others and repaired by us (for example, a broken umbrella, a worn pair of shoes), or it was it was an object of pure invention, cobbled together from other things.

Having nothing, needing everything forces one to be very creative, to find solutions in unexpected places.

I had a rudimentary education.  I was schooled only until age 10.  I did not have very much access to books, but I read everything I could find —  from old newspapers,  discarded magazines, flyers announcing elections or new rules or a statement from the government.  I was curious about everything and reading offered me windows into other worlds.

Even as a very young child, I was fascinated by how things worked. I observed the manifestations of physics in my everyday life – the way the wind blew scraps of paper in a certain way so it always collected in the same places; how the pitch of a roof might affect the average temperature inside the hut.  I was curious why objects or plants or animals behaved the way they did.

While in school, I started turning discards into functional items —  mainly junk into toys. I could often trade them for something I wanted or needed more.  By the time I was twenty, I was already known as the Fix-It Man, the creative problem solver in my section.  I was good with my hands and instinctively understood the alchemy and mechanics of things, the best uses for and the limitations of various materials. I would mull over a challenge, visualize the problem in all dimensions, and eventually the solution would appear in my brain, fully formed.

I was a marvel at repairing broken tools and household items using whatever was at hand. If I saw something in the street or in the garbage which might have some useful function in the future, I picked it up and took it home. A rusted piece of metal junk might still have useable screws or wires.  I let nothing go to waste.

By the time I was in my early twenties,  I made my living  by not only repairing people’s broken things, but by creating useful objects out of waste. Two large cans with a long tube made of smaller cans became a stove that vented outside.   I figured out a way to magnify the light of a candle by placing it inside a clear glass,  then placing that glass inside a larger jug filled with water.  When the only light you have in the evening is a candle, doubling the output means you can use one candle instead of two.   When you’re poor and living in a dark shack, light is a luxury.  It means twice as many hours of light.

Meanwhile, I never stopped reading whatever I could get my hands on – books when I could find them (usually cheap paperbacks, but occasionally a school book).   I particularly liked instructions for devices and appliances that I would never actually own.

I admit I was an odd fellow. I saw the world differently from others.  People appreciated my talents, but they found me strange and off-putting.  I wasn’t one for idle conversation.   I didn’t have a lot of friends. I was far too shy to approach a woman, and in my oddness, they did not approach me.

One afternoon, I was delivering a repaired bedframe to a customer in the next section.  It was large and awkward, and it blocked my view making it hard to see where I was going.  I nearly ran into a young woman, about my age. I avoided catastrophe only as the last moment when I managed to swing the frame out of the way.  I was instantly dumbstruck by her beauty.  She was fancier than any other girl I had seen.  She wore a clean dress and nice shoes that both seemed new.  Her black hair was smooth and shiny, pulled back with a comb that sparkled in the sunlight.   I fell instantly in love.

She found it curious that I was carrying a bed frame. She laughed and she commented on it.  Although my heart was pounding and I was flustered, I managed to tell her that I was the Fix-It Man, and if she ever needed anything repaired, she should seek me out.

Later, I asked others about her.  Her father held a bit of power in very local politics.  While they were hardly wealthy, her family was far higher than mine on the social scale.  I gave up all hope that I would ever see her again.

Then,  one day, she came to me to have her shoe repaired. It was as if heaven had opened its gates right into my shop.

I did my most artful, meticulous work, in the hopes that she would return again some day.

And she did, from time to time.  In addition to bringing me things to repair, she sometimes bought me things she was discarding which she thought I might find useful.  I would sometimes make her small gifts – works of art made from scrap —  which she seemed to appreciate.

I believed she liked me.  I felt that she respected my talent. She found me curious and intriguing.  But there was nothing more. She was willing to be my friend in this very limited way, on her terms.  I don’t know if she knew how much I loved her.  I never dared tell her.  I knew there was no possibility of anything more between us, and I didn’t want to frighten her away with my desire or make her feel uncomfortable.

Eventually she married, to a man with even a bit more status than her father.  She had children.  But still, she brought me her broken items for repair.  When her children were old enough, even they brought me their possessions to be repaired or commissioned new things built especially for their needs.

I watched her life from the sidelines.  It was as if I had just a torn corner of a magazine page and had to imagine the rest.  In my mind, her life was pure happiness and joy.  That is how I preferred to think of her.   I lived in a state of perpetual longing and sadness for what I could never have.

I went on, until I was quite old, repairing lanterns and chairs and cooking pots.  I was, to all who knew me, The Fix It Man.   The irony was lost on them: Inside, my heart was irreparably broken.

 

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

 

A Rose Blossoms

First published November 12, 2015

child adult holding hands

Kif

I met her when she was very young, a perfect rose among the wilting asters. Even as a child she was poised and full of grace; wise beyond her years. Her natural talent was unmistakable, but it was more than that. She shone, as if a pure light passed through her, magnified.

Children such as this are gifts to the world. It is a rare privilege to teach one.

I did not normally take on students so young, but she needed to be trained properly. To be taught bad habits as a girl might destroy any hope of future perfection. She needed the best. I was the best. It was my duty.

Her parents recognized this. They considered it fortunate that their child had caught the attention of someone such as myself; someone both of deep knowledge and high influence. They believed she never would have been born with such remarkable abilities if they were not meant to be fully developed. And so, because they truly loved her and understood the needs of her soul, they abdicated their obligation and entrusted me to mold and shape her as I felt best.

Our dynamics were complex. One part parent-child, another part ego. Some of it was about legacy. A certain a measure was about need. One share was about wiping clean a tablet full of regrets. We had a mutual fear of abandonment and also shared the fear of being too needy. In this churning stew of high emotion, there was jealousy and suspicion of betrayal; there was anger and frustration; envy and longing. Sometimes, the teacher became the student. We fell in and out of love with each other but never mutually at the same time, and never for the right reasons.

Such a relationship offered many opportunities for furthering my spiritual wisdom and deepening my self-knowledge – if I’d only looked deep enough. But even a dedicated seeker of Truth cannot possibly understand the lessons whilst in the thick of it. The emotions come spilling out in a jumble, too confused and fleeting to analyze.

From here, I am no longer lost in the minutia. From this height, I can see the broad strokes, the course of our individual paths on a map that was drawn before we were born.   They ran parallel, then diverged, crossed and forked, rose and fell, once again ran parallel only to diverge yet again.

It will take me a long time to understand this journey.

 

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

 

Greater Than the Sum of the Parts

originally published August 22, 2014

Artist: Mobstr/location: London

Sa

Genius. My greatest sorrow and frustration in life was that I was able to recognize it; appreciate it when I saw it; easily discern between the very good, the great and the brilliant; and yet, I, myself, could not produce anything of such caliber.   I could see the tricks and techniques the masters used to imprint their work with their unique creative flair. I was able to read between the lines and marvel at a turn of phrase or an especially apt metaphor. I noticed the nuanced underpainting and the way it brought life to the subject. I could hear the subtle change of key that lodged a melody in the head. And yet was not able to reproduce any of it.

I did not begrudge them their success. They deserved it. I only wanted to whip aside the curtain to see how they did it. Was there a trick? A skill I could learn? Techniques I might master?   The answer, I found was yes to all those things, and yet, the whole was far greater than the sum of its parts. There was something inside those people, something I didn’t possess. No matter what I did, somebody else did it better.   More naturally. More easily.

Perhaps if I’d had no aesthetic sense; if I’d not be able to catch that flash of brilliance that separated the journeyman from the prodigy, it might not have pained me so much. But I was able to see it and each time I did, it reminded me that I lacked what came so easily to them.

I plugged away at what I did best. I was moderately successful. I was able to earn a living, but few outside my immediate circle sang praises to my talent.

They stood at the pinnacle and I was left to worship from below.

I suppose this was the main thread of my life: To envy what I could never be; to live in the disappointment of not being able to be better than I was.

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

 

 

Artist: Mobstr/location: London

 

When I Stick a Spike Into My Vein…

Originally published August  7, 2014

heroin bottle

Lo

I was famous. You probably would know who I was. I say now, with no attachment at all to that ego, and with complete modesty, my fame was well-deserved. I was a genius in my field, and will long be remembered as so. But what does that matter now? Fame was just my particular path, no better and no worse than any other. Genius was merely a means to attain fame, which afforded me access to the lessons I needed to learn.

I was born with a terrifying hole inside myself. That was the price for my genius and the source of my creativity. The fount of my talent was a dark place deep in my soul; a place which attracted and repelled me at the same time. It was as if I were suspended from a thin wire over a gaping, black, shark-toothed maw. I’d lower myself down carefully trying to snatch what I needed without falling, then getting out before the jaws snapped shut.

The deeper I went into the blackness, the more my genius spoke to me. I needed to go down there to retrieve what was necessary, but it cost me dearly.

I paid for my talent with pain and fear. How often I longed for less genius and more peace! It took all my psychic energy to cling to that wire!

I needed to numb the fear of falling. I needed some detachment.

This was easily accomplished with alcohol and narcotics. By the time I was 17, I’d settled on heroin as my drug of choice.   I wasn’t stupid about it. I guess technically I was a junkie because I was absolutely addicted for most of my adulthood,  but I never was one of those nodding-out smack-heads who slept in parks or shot up in squatters’ crash pads. Unlike others, I didn’t go from one ill-conceived smash-and-grab petty crime to another.   Well, perhaps a bit, in the very beginning, when I was just starting. But I became professionally successful early on. I was able to afford my own place, pay my bills. I had access to the good stuff whenever I wanted it. I had people to take care of me. I never (well, rarely) shunned my responsibilities when people were counting on me. I was able to enjoy my escapes with what I thought was little danger. I didn’t think the consequences would apply to me. I thought I could forever live this lifestyle with impunity.

I loved being high. I existed on an entirely different plane which felt as much like reality as reality. More so, even. I’d wonder, what is reality? The truth was, nobody was ever able to give me convincing argument that one was more real than the other. That was the beauty of it! Maybe the high was true reality and what most people thought of as cold hard reality was merely illusion.

Now, if a living junkie said that to you, you’d probably think their brain was totally fried; that it was just the drugs talking; that it was a way of denying the damage, of justifying the addiction. But just look at my current reality. I’m pure white light,  the state I’d long been trying to achieve through various means.  Maybe I wasn’t so wrong to have asked those questions when I was alive.

I guess always suspected that a state such as this was the true reality, or at least another valid reality. I was just trying to get to it, all the while playing a game of chicken with The Angel of Death and The Gaping Maw.

Reality, I have come to understand, is purely subjective.

 

Listen to “Heroin” by The Velvet Underground

 

addendum:  This narrative was channeled in early July.  At the time, I wondered if it was Lou Reed dictating.  I recognized that it was wishful thinking to believe that Lou had chosen to speak to me,.  I’ve always been a huge fan of his,  ever since the first “Banana” album.  He was famous and certainly qualifies as a genius.  But since I neither get (nor do I want) any personal details,  the narrator’s identity would have to remain a mystery.

Then yesterday (early August) I was working in the kitchen,  listening to my stereo which contains 200 CDs (about 3500 songs) and is always set to “random.”   Apropos of nothing,  I started to think about Lou, wondering again about this narrative, recognizing that I will probably never know either way if it was him or someone else or nobody at all or just a figment of my imagination.  As I thought about him, an obscure song of his popped into my head. (“This Magic Moment” from the Doc Pomus tribute album) and I kid you not,  the next magic moment,  that song came on the stereo!

Perhaps it was just a coincidence…or perhaps it was Lou saying, “Yeah,  that was me.”   Readers, you can decide for yourselves.

(By the way, I’ve never done heroin or any other narcotic.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Shoulders of Giants

First published Jan 23, 2015

tesla_patent_382279a

 

Ko

(again. His voice and accent are quite strong and insistent. I thought I was finished with him, but then, a couple of days later, there he was, tugging at my proverbial sleeve again, demanding to be heard.)

Humans believe, for their entire lives, the lies and nonsense they are fed as children. They accept on faith that there is a God or gods who watch all they do, judging and rewarding them. They put their trust in scientific and medical “facts” which are demonstrably untrue.  They believe false stories about others — individuals or entire  groups — which were created in order to divide and control. They even believe lies about themselves…that they are not good enough or that they are special in a way that exempts them from the rules.

This acquiescence holds society together but it does so at the expense of truth. The light is revealed only by questioning of authority and looking beyond the limits of what is known.

Few dare to question or search too deeply. This is necessary to maintain social order.  If everyone questioned, there would be anarchy. There would be no foundation for knowledge.  However, if nobody questions, there can be no progress, no advancement of civilization. No science. No philosophy. Nothing new. Nothing revolutionary.

And so, humankind exists in a kind of stasis, with people falling at different points along a curve. Some never question anything. Some accept some things but question others. I questioned everything. Always.  I asked not only “why?” but “what if?”

I accepted nothing at face value. My ideas derived from the premise that common knowledge is not written in stone. Often ideas formed wholly in my head, as if put there by an outside intelligence. I questioned not only the seen, known world but the unseen and unknown as well.  These thoughts consumed me and separated me from my fellow humans. They called me mad because I could see things which they were too bound by their limited thinking to understand.

——————

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey! 
-Adrienne

A Rose Blossoms

NEW!

child adult holding hands

Ki

I met her when she was very young, a perfect rose among the wilting asters. Even as a child she was poised and full of grace; wise beyond her years. Her natural talent was unmistakable, but it was more than that. She shone, as if a pure light passed through her, magnified.

Children such as this are gifts to the world. It is a rare privilege to teach one.

I did not normally take on students so young, but she needed to be trained properly. To be taught bad habits as a girl might destroy any hope of future perfection. She needed the best. I was the best. It was my duty.

Her parents recognized this. They considered it fortunate that their child had caught the attention of someone such as myself; someone both of deep knowledge and high influence. They believed she never would have been born with such remarkable abilities if they were not meant to be fully developed. And so, because they truly loved her and understood the needs of her soul, they abdicated their obligation and entrusted me to mold and shape her as I felt best.

Our dynamics were complex. One part parent-child, another part ego. Some of it was about legacy. A certain a measure was about need. One share was about wiping clean a tablet full of regrets. We had a mutual fear of abandonment and also shared the fear of being too needy. In this churning stew of high emotion, there was jealousy and suspicion of betrayal; there was anger and frustration; envy and longing. Sometimes, the teacher became the student. We fell in and out of love with each but never mutually at the same time, and never for the right reasons.

Such a relationship offered many opportunities for furthering my spiritual wisdom and deepening my self-knowledge – if I’d only looked deep enough. But even a dedicated seeker of Truth cannot possibly understand the lessons whilst in the thick of it. The emotions come spilling out in a jumble, too confused and fleeting to analyze.

From here, I am no longer lost in the minutia. From this height, I can see the broad strokes, the course of our individual paths on a map that was drawn before we were born.   They ran parallel, then diverged, crossed and forked, rose and fell, once again ran parallel only to diverge yet again.

It will take me a long time to understand this journey.

 

*****

Thank you for visiting.  If you enjoyed this post, please follow the blog and/or sign up to receive email posts. New posts every three days.  Comments are welcome here or at https://www.facebook.com/livesofthedead.   If you’ve enjoyed this, please share with others via email, Facebook, Twitter or other social media.  Thanks!

Greater Than the Sum of the Parts

 

originally published August 22, 2014

Artist: Mobstr/location: London

Sa

Genius. My greatest sorrow and frustration in life was that I was able to recognize it; appreciate it when I saw it; easily discern between the very good, the great and the brilliant; and yet, I, myself, could not produce anything of such caliber.   I could see the tricks and techniques the masters used to imprint their work with their unique creative flair. I was able to read between the lines and marvel at a turn of phrase or an especially apt metaphor. I noticed the nuanced underpainting and the way it brought life to the subject. I could hear the subtle change of key that lodged a melody in the head. And yet was not able to reproduce any of it.

I did not begrudge them their success. They deserved it. I only wanted to whip aside the curtain to see how they did it. Was there a trick? A skill I could learn? Techniques I might master?   The answer, I found was yes to all those things, and yet, the whole was far greater than the sum of its parts. There was something inside those people, something I didn’t possess. No matter what I did, somebody else did it better.   More naturally. More easily.

Perhaps if I’d had no aesthetic sense; if I’d not be able to catch that flash of brilliance that separated the journeyman from the prodigy, it might not have pained me so much. But I was able to see it and each time I did, it reminded me that I lacked what came so easily to them.

I plugged away at what I did best. I was moderately successful. I was able to earn a living, but few outside my immediate circle sang praises to my talent.

They stood at the pinnacle and I was left to worship from below.

I suppose this was the main thread of my life: To envy what I could never be; to live in the disappointment of not being able to be better than I was.

 


 

Thank you for visiting.  If you enjoyed this post, please follow the blog and/or sign up to receive email posts. New posts every three days, and they are getting more and more interesting. I promise! Comments are welcome here or at https://www.facebook.com/livesofthedead.   If you know anyone who would enjoy or relate to this,  please forward and/or share on Facebook or Twitter.  Thanks!

Artist: Mobstr/location: London

 

When I Stick a Spike Into My Vein…

Originally published August  7, 2014

heroin bottle

Lo

I was famous. You probably would know who I was. I say this now, with no attachment at all to that ego, and with complete modesty, my fame was well-deserved. I was a genius in my field, and will long be remembered as so. But what does that matter now? Fame was just my particular path, no better and no worse than any other. Genius was merely a means to attain fame, which afforded me access to the lessons I needed to learn.

I was born with a terrifying hole inside myself. That was the price for my genius and the source of my creativity. The fount of my talent was a dark place deep in my soul; a place which attracted and repelled me at the same time. It was as if I were suspended from a thin wire over a gaping, black, shark-toothed maw. I’d lower myself down carefully trying to snatch what I needed without falling, then getting out before the jaws snapped shut.

The deeper I went into the blackness, the more my genius spoke to me. I needed to go down there to retrieve what was necessary, but it cost me dearly.

I paid for my talent with pain and fear. How often I longed for less genius and more peace! It took all my psychic energy to cling to that wire!

I needed to numb the fear of falling. I needed some detachment.

This was easily accomplished with alcohol and narcotics. By the time I was 17, I’d settled on heroin as my drug of choice.   I wasn’t stupid about it. I guess technically I was a junkie because I was absolutely addicted for most of my adulthood,  but I never was one of those nodding-out smack-heads who slept in parks or shot up in squatters’ crash pads. Unlike others, I didn’t go from one ill-conceived smash-and-grab petty crime to another.   Well, perhaps a bit, in the very beginning, when I was just starting. But I became professionally successful early on. I was able to afford my own place, pay my bills. I had access to the good stuff whenever I wanted it. I had people to take care of me. I never (well, rarely) shunned my responsibilities when people were counting on me. I was able to enjoy my escapes with what I thought was little danger. I didn’t think the consequences would apply to me. I thought I could forever live this lifestyle with impunity.

I loved being high. I existed on an entirely different plane which felt as much like reality as reality. More so, even. I’d wonder, what is reality? The truth was, nobody was ever able to give me convincing argument that one was more real than the other. That was the beauty of it! Maybe the high was true reality and what most people thought of as cold hard reality was merely illusion.

Now, if a living junkie said that to you, you’d probably think their brain was totally fried; that it was just the drugs talking; that it was a way of denying the damage, of justifying the addiction. But just look at my current reality. I’m pure white light,  the state I’d long been trying to achieve through various means.  Maybe I wasn’t so wrong to have asked those questions when I was alive.

I guess always suspected that a state such as this was the true reality, or at least another valid reality. I was just trying to get to it, all the while playing a game of chicken with The Angel of Death and The Gaping Maw.

Reality, I have come to understand, is purely subjective.

 

Listen to “Heroin” by The Velvet Underground

 

addendum:  This narrative was channeled in early July.  At the time, I wondered if it was Lou Reed dictating.  I recognized that it was wishful thinking to believe that Lou had chosen to speak to me,.  I’ve always been a huge fan of his,  ever since the first “Banana” album.  He was famous and certainly qualifies as a genius.  But since I neither get (nor do I want) any personal details,  the narrator’s identity would have to remain a mystery.

Then yesterday (early August) I was working in the kitchen,  listening to my stereo which contains 200 CDs (about 3500 songs) and is always set to “random.”   Apropos of nothing,  I started to think about Lou, wondering again about this narrative, recognizing that I will probably never know either way if it was him or someone else or nobody at all or just a figment of my imagination.  As I thought about him, an obscure song of his popped into my head. (“This Magic Moment” from the Doc Pomus tribute album) and I kid you not,  the next magic moment,  that song came on the stereo!

Perhaps it was just a coincidence…or perhaps it was Lou saying, “Yeah,  that was me.”   Readers, you can decide for yourselves.

(By the way, I’ve never done heroin or any other narcotic.)

 

If you enjoyed this post, please follow the blog and/or sign up to receive email posts. New posts every three days, and they are getting more and more interesting. I promise! Comments are welcome here or at https://www.facebook.com/livesofthedead

Greater Than the Sum of the Parts

Artist: Mobstr/location: London

Sa

Genius. My greatest sorrow and frustration in life was that I was able to recognize it; appreciate it when I saw it; easily discern between the very good, the great and the brilliant; and yet, I, myself, could not produce anything of such caliber.   I could see the tricks and techniques the masters used to imprint their work with their unique creative flair. I was able to read between the lines and marvel at a turn of phrase or an especially apt metaphor. I noticed the nuanced underpainting and the way it brought life to the subject. I could hear the subtle change of key that lodged a melody in the head. And yet was not able to reproduce any of it.

I did not begrudge them their success. They deserved it. I only wanted to whip aside the curtain to see how they did it. Was there a trick? A skill I could learn? Techniques I might master?   The answer, I found was yes to all those things, and yet, the whole was far greater than the sum of its parts. There was something inside those people, something I didn’t possess. No matter what I did, somebody else did it better.   More naturally. More easily.

Perhaps if I’d had no aesthetic sense; if I’d not be able to catch that flash of brilliance that separated the journeyman from the prodigy, it might not have pained me so much. But I was able to see it and each time I did, it reminded me that I lacked what came so easily to them.

I plugged away at what I did best. I was moderately successful. I was able to earn a living, but few outside my immediate circle sang praises to my talent.

They stood at the pinnacle and I was left to worship from below.

I suppose this was the main thread of my life: To envy what I could never be; to live in the disappointment of not being able to be better than I was.

 


 

Thank you for visiting.  If you enjoyed this post, please follow the blog and/or sign up to receive email posts. New posts every three days, and they are getting more and more interesting. I promise! Comments are welcome here or at https://www.facebook.com/livesofthedead.   If you know anyone who would enjoy or relate to this,  please forward and/or share on Facebook or Twitter.  Thanks!

Artist: Mobstr/location: London

When I Stick a Spike Into My Vein…

heroin bottle

Lo

I was famous. You probably would know who I was. I say now, with no attachment at all to that ego, and with complete modesty, my fame was well-deserved. I was a genius in my field, and will long be remembered as so. But what does that matter now? Fame was just my particular path, no better and no worse than any other. Genius was merely a means to attain fame, which afforded me access to the lessons I needed to learn.

I was born with a terrifying hole inside myself. That was the price for my genius and the source of my creativity. The fount of my talent was a dark place deep in my soul; a place which attracted and repelled me at the same time. It was as if I were suspended from a thin wire over a gaping, black, shark-toothed maw. I’d lower myself down carefully trying to snatch what I needed without falling, then getting out before the jaws snapped shut.

The deeper I went into the blackness, the more my genius spoke to me. I needed to go down there to retrieve what was necessary, but it cost me dearly.

I paid for my talent with pain and fear. How often I longed for less genius and more peace! It took all my psychic energy to cling to that wire!

I needed to numb the fear of falling. I needed some detachment.

This was easily accomplished with alcohol and narcotics. By the time I was 17, I’d settled on heroin as my drug of choice.   I wasn’t stupid about it. I guess technically I was a junkie because I was absolutely addicted for most of my adulthood,  but I never was one of those nodding-out smack-heads who slept in parks or shot up in squatters’ crash pads. Unlike others, I didn’t go from one ill-conceived smash-and-grab petty crime to another.   Well, perhaps a bit, in the very beginning, when I was just starting. But I became professionally successful early on. I was able to afford my own place, pay my bills. I had access to the good stuff whenever I wanted it. I had people to take care of me. I never (well, rarely) shunned my responsibilities when people were counting on me. I was able to enjoy my escapes with what I thought was little danger. I didn’t think the consequences would apply to me. I thought I could forever live this lifestyle with impunity.

I loved being high. I existed on an entirely different plane which felt as much like reality as reality. More so, even. I’d wonder, what is reality? The truth was, nobody was ever able to give me convincing argument that one was more real than the other. That was the beauty of it! Maybe the high was true reality and what most people thought of as cold hard reality was merely illusion.

Now, if a living junkie said that to you, you’d probably think their brain was totally fried; that it was just the drugs talking; that it was a way of denying the damage, of justifying the addiction. But just look at my current reality. I’m pure white light,  the state I’d long been trying to achieve through various means.  Maybe I wasn’t so wrong to have asked those questions when I was alive.

I guess always suspected that a state such as this was the true reality, or at least another valid reality. I was just trying to get to it, all the while playing a game of chicken with The Angel of Death and The Gaping Maw.

Reality, I have come to understand, is purely subjective.

 

Listen to “Heroin” by The Velvet Underground

 

addendum:  This narrative was channeled in early July.  At the time, I wondered if it was Lou Reed dictating.  I recognized that it was wishful thinking to believe that Lou had chosen to speak to me,.  I’ve always been a huge fan of his,  ever since the first “Banana” album.  He was famous and certainly qualifies as a genius.  But since I neither get (nor do I want) any personal details,  the narrator’s identity would have to remain a mystery.

Then yesterday (early August) I was working in the kitchen,  listening to my stereo which contains 200 CDs (about 3500 songs) and is always set to “random.”   Apropos of nothing,  I started to think about Lou, wondering again about this narrative, recognizing that I will probably never know either way if it was him or someone else or nobody at all or just a figment of my imagination.  As I thought about him, an obscure song of his popped into my head. (“This Magic Moment” from the Doc Pomus tribute album) and I kid you not,  the next magic moment,  that song came on the stereo!

Perhaps it was just a coincidence…or perhaps it was Lou saying, “Yeah,  that was me.”   Readers, you can decide for yourselves.

(By the way, I’ve never done heroin or any other narcotic.)

 

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