I have found it unprecedentedly difficult to formulate the opening commentary to the following work. In fact this opening has been ever on my mind for two weeks now, and yet, I am still unsure of the words which should appear here. This is due to the nature of these openings. They are the fabric which binds together this series as a whole, or rather that is my intent for them.
I suppose this is true of the closing commentaries as well. However, by the time we reach the closing commentary we’ve already gone over the mad man text created in Iowa. This gives me the freedom to directly reference the piece in question. I am more restrained in the openings. I can only do my best to prepare you for what you are about to read. Yet, that is not all I am doing.
I am also, attempting to draw a contrast between who I was and who I am. This will be easier to see in the SSB which will be written in a similar format to this series. Both stories have a similar theme in the sense that the over arching story is of a minds journey. Perhaps more so in that story than this, for that story was created with deliberation where as this one was created via looking back.
I wish I could tell you more about the SSB, but to fully explain what it is - even to reveal it’s abbreviated title - would sour its essence. I will yield this:
It is gonzo.
(The following appears in the middle of my JL MC 240X notes, which are more doodles than notes. Directly above this piece is written, 3.5g of Syrian Rue, and, MAOI; presumably a portion an Ayahuasca, or DMT recipe.)
The time is 1:02 pm. I am sitting in a large lecture hall waiting for class to begin. When it does, I will ignore the lecture, excluding quizzes and attendance, which count for points. Instead, I’ll opt for scribbling away in my notebook. It seems to me that this can only be because I value the recording of my minds workings to a greater extent than I value the principles and history of journalism. For, if it were the other way around I believe I would save this scribble for later, or never record it at all.
It is due to this observation that I have encountered the following epiphany: I do not want to be a journalist. Rather, I seek nothing other than to be a free man. I am more seriously contemplating dropping out of college. As I learned in my hanging, of just over a week ago, all life has, but only one life. Meaning, if I honestly seek the adventure of the unknown, I must act.
This was the first moment I began to live life in accordance with my true desires. I was unaware of it at the time, but this two paragraph piece scrawled in a notebook was the most honest thought I had ever discovered. The realization that I did not want to sit in a desk listening to a middle-aged liberal tell me what to think. It was the realization that I did not want to live life chasing after smiles on my parents' faces. At that moment I stated what I really wanted. What I still want: to be free.
It’s what I was trying to say while writing degenerate. Only I hadn’t fully comprehended my attraction to the degenerate. I hadn’t realized it at the time of this writing either. When I wrote this I didn’t understand how significant it was.
This may have been the first time I began my path to redemption, but it wasn’t an intentional first step. It was more like God foreshadowing what was to come. If memory serves correctly, I wouldn’t launch the resistance campaign for another six months. The beginning of which was marked by my first entry into the SSB - I’ll release that series of essays once the groundwork is laid. In the time between Bloom and SSB Entry 1, I underwent the adequately grotesque pain of yet two more tribulations.
- April 2019
- March 2019
- Feb 13, 2019 It Happened in Iowa: Part III Feb 13, 2019
- January 2019