A Dissociative Distance

It began like any Discovery Channel telly show...in the Sahara, in the brush, in the hidden heart of darkness wild and full of guns.

There weren't any rifle shots, there weren't any bombs, or secret missions of escape. The hall of this vast, ever growing jungle of soul searching, was moving back across the muck and brush of swamps and cryptic lagoons, revealing Z's modest size bed where he sat in thought.

This was in his apartment.

Each room of Z's apartment had a particular theme, each met with decor and functionality to create a little world for the little Lilliputians. The Egypt room had the feel of ancient hieroglyphics with an odd twist. It was a shrine to Elvis, in only what I presume to be a metaphor for him being the "pharaoh" of rock'n'roll?

In his room with the Curious George hanging from the lone chandelier, he had a mixture of ash trays, CD's, and a framed painting of Biggie Smalls. Besides the Jungle room, it had the ever common castle room, where his roomie, a 50's something tweeker, sat and stared into the mesmerizing orb of his telly playing a VHS tape of the Guns N roses video, "Estranged," which by the way has no real hidden storyline, no real meaning, other than a mad man with soon to be dreadlocks swimming & waiting to leave the stage forever, to hide behind the stars of stardom.

In guitars and loud beats from bass drums and electronic whips and whirs, there is spirituality hidden deep. Each time it appeared on his stereo, he would drift away, moving through a dark night's sky, like some distant fog hiding behind the crest of the moon.

There are two of Z, there are two of me, and there are definitely two of you. There is this hidden soul creature that lies dormant behind the hippocampus, where there sleeps a dragon napping on his treasures of past victories against man and its mystic legends. The dragons of mythic lore are no longer need to storm, as man continues to create his own in blasts and bombs and button pressing and shock n' awe. The legends of unicorns, elves, dragons, and fairies retreat from our wars, our possession with hate and fury and war and politicking. And that is where we go when we are quiet, still, and feeling the music drift away into our souls. That is Z will be in 20 minutes as he moves further from his Jungle apartment room on the 10th floor in the mission district of San Francisco.

In households, such as his, enlightenment hides in its silliness. The mind must prevail against the idea that material space can somehow dampen the spirit, as sometimes one must purify themselves by living in simplicity with nothing whatsoever. This induces hunger, this pushes you to the brink, the idea that tomorrow will be better because today can be no worse.

So after getting ready, he grabs his coat and his cigarettes, while the purrs of a 11 cats hound his every step as they fight for some affection. The door thuds behind him and he hears, "Crazy Train," now blaring, he shakes his head, says something to himself, and slithers across the grass.

The rather tacky gold of the Elvis shrine is directly out his driver side window, as he presses the gas and leaves. The siphon of smoke coming from the end of the filter moves through the trachea and into the tender branches of the bronchioles, across to the blood, where one could hear the rush of black tar moving and attaching itself to the sticky plasma. The orgasms from prior experiences appear out of no where and then go away, he changes to the next song and doesn't know why, he believes the government is against him and doesn't have any real proof, and he calls an old friend from high school but mistakes him for a friend from college. He continues down the hills of Oak waging a war on mediocrity, becoming nothing other than a grad school burn out.

But in a moment, with the wind in the right direction, the waves of spirituality seemed to brim from the surface of his cerebellum, moving through every nerve, and out of his eye sockets. In the past, there were periods of time where Z's consciousness would be vaporous and become something ghost-like, a shell of another life, able to freely walk the earth and gather wealth, the wealth of spiritual revelation, a deposit for a rainy day, so to speak. The ghost of his unconscious moved away to the reality of the evening, a soul about to depart on a scouting session to answer all of his questions.

This was the place, this was the way.

The lights went black along the street. Everything disappeared and a faint blossom of a blood vessel appeared upon his eyelids as the heart pulsated in response to his realization that he had lost all control.

In the space of seconds, many dreams were realized, many poems were written, many songs were composed, the lights blinking rapidly hovering above his consciousness were mixtures of greens and reds and purples, vibrant royal purple leaves falling from the atmosphere, burning as they touched his reddened, balding scalp.

His shoulders felt pulled upon and light, no longer heavy and burdensome as in the real world, the world where his car drifted along the road, moving and moving towards the barricade, ricocheting off the sides and into a ditch covered in tires and empty soda cans.

The blackness was solid, tarry, a veil over time and space.



Z awakened to a smear of blood, with iron glistening on his lips, the sirens calling to him through some forgotten hymns from psalms buried in caves and sarcophagi:

you were home, you were home, but we needed you to return; remember, this is not over and it is never a good time to quit, son, this isn't a time to remember the past and let it dwell, hollow us out; ya got to let it all go, ya gotta let yourself be hurt and healed, and feel the rebirth of a thousand baptisms, this is what is needed in your departure to another place, another space without any time.

This is where you will be, not where you are now. So open those eyes, open them up, and no longer be shell smashed, but free from bottles, free from everything, free.

Z opens the door and stretches his arms.

"I'm Okay," and he brushes off his scuffed up coat sleeve.

"Copy," the paramedic murmured, "Yes, he says he's okay, no medical attention necessary, got it... Listen, we're going to go if you're alright, " Z nods, "Okay, great... well, you tell him this will take at least 20 minutes and then we'll move on! Because I said so..."

The busy man trails off.

Z couldn't remember any thing then, his concussion scrambling his paperthin thoughts. He knew something awaited him in the future, but it was all forgotten; only sparklers and incense were left to move through his nostrils and into his skull.