I have decided to avoid any word from the outside world for the next week. A news blackout of frighteningly personal conviction. Gringo acquaintances, who I may encounter on the street, I will ignore. Some Mexicans will be the exception. I will spend time with the drunk, the lame, the sick, and the half-mad; the beggars and the whores. We will stand near the pissing dogs, in the sunlight, and recount our experience with shaman and hallucinogenic drugs. The clouds will pass over our heads and the police cars will occasionally stop and the police officers will slump over, sleeping, no doubt.
Most of my time in the next seven days will be devoted to writing and reading the books of Hermann Hesse which I will download from the free PDFs of the internet.
Tonight, as life howls, I have been reading Steppenwolf. In the preface of the book, I found the following statement: “I have no doubt that (his experiences) are for the most part fictitious, not, however, in the sense of arbitrary invention. They are rather the deeply lived spiritual events which he has attempted to express by giving them the form of tangible experiences.” I couldn’t agree more. Story, mine, yours, is hopefully informed by experience and the spirituality is leaning against the contours of pages, the sides of words, and it rises above everything, but in the process, it covers what one might refer to as “meaning”. Of course, each writer employs the idea of spirituality to greater or lesser degrees. That is what makes literature fun, if we can call literature fun, as the variation of styles plays with words, tying them to lived reality.
If memory serves me, this will be the fourth time I have read Steppenwolf. I seem to open and close it every ten years or so. Each time it seems new and I find things that excite me. Tonight, is no different. Give me one Harry Haller over thousands of politicians and preachers, over the mindless faces that I have avoided most of my life. But I am getting ahead of myself.
I’m not so big on observational humor, but I’d like to leave you with two questions: when a wolf or I shit outside, how is it that six or seven flies gather on the turds within seconds of them hitting the ground? Where do they come from? They weren’t there before we shit. Which possibly means they are part of the shit and have been inside our bodies and they used the shit as a sort of Viking boat launched from the shores of our respective bowels. Loosed, they are ready to wreak havoc upon the world, searching for Christians to maim and burn.