Of all the things I shall have read,
At the Mountains of Madness
matters much. On further reflection, I suppose I haven't read any
H.P. Lovecraft at all,
even though it would appear to be Reading 101. An awkward gap in my cultural
constitution, then, much like
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
ffs :/ and so many, so much more, but let's not digress.
For lately I often find myself truly climbing mountains of madness — to then tumble down from, tearing open some more awkward gaps, this time 'round in my weary, forworn memory, and tangibly manifested in batter and bruise. :l
Such breathaking epiodes surely in no small measure must be brought about by the chemicals, but that may not be the entire story. They are, in earnest, no laughing matter, and I tend to laugh at matters by default. Sadly, inadequate lofty words like “transcendent”, “metaphysical”, “spiritual” maybe, and suchlike, make up the word cloud to choose from. The experiences leave me feeling like a bland, male, latter-day decoction of Hadewych, say, or Hildegard von Bingen.
Ehh, yet another blog post quite TBC. 🫥
..because hardly anyone knows these things happen to me. Who would believe stories of spontaneously combusting bushes? And to the one person who does know of them, let's call them G., I haven't even begun to try to convey their nature.
..because I can't make sense of them myself. The mind already fails to recall them properly, never mind find the words, falling ever shorter. Hindsight ain't no 20/20 when psychotic, and that word instantly robs the experiences from their possible weight, importance, meaning, or relevance to anyone but myself. It ultimately all resides between the ears, is the only shabby thing one can be entirely sure of.
So I'll be joking about The Simulation, and enquiring about higher planes of existence, incapable of making any sense of it at all. 😔