Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

I turned the machine off and looked around my room again, rubbing
my eyes. Everything is a mass of audio wires, flakes of ash, wellthumbed
books on philosophy, religion, anthropology, and half-empty
Tequila bottles. Entropy follows me in eddies, there isn’t time or energy
to counter it.
Some days I’ll spend hours collecting material from the moment I
open my eyes, adding those influences to my tabula rasa, with the intent
of later stirring it up with ethanol or just the right amount of THC and
spewing it back out again in a six or eight hour writing session.
I can see those threads interconnecting everything. Maybe there is
something autistic to my obsession, my self-absorption, but I simply
don’t know any other way. I feel driven. This pressure, sometimes, is
unbearable.
It was in Crowley, charlatan that he was, that I first discovered an
articulation of a mode of experiencing that I had accidentally stumbled
upon in my late teens: mythological thinking. Once the cat was out of the
bag I saw it everywhere and took it through Joseph Campbell into the
individual mystical traditions themselves. Everything in the microcosm
can be related to a corresponding “thing” in the macrocosm, or vice
versa. You can’t get this from a book you have to apply it to your own
experience. The events of the day and even the immediate sensory experiences
that comprise it are simply references to internal truths. The
reference can be discarded.
I know that I am on the trail of something important, if I can only
overcome what I call the gravity of my habits—the complexes that keep
us pinned down, closed off, and separate from our experience. Yet I
wonder—how is this self-inflicted dissociation different from what I am
calling “the gravity of my habits”? Is there any difference? Is this madness
or genius?
Wandering the halls at 3:00 a.m. with Jose Cuervo in tow, time has
compressed into fragments of memories. The present disappeared as I
slipped into a wider view, a view of all the pieces as interrelationships. I
look back on the day that has passed me by, and can’t find myself in it.
There comes a knock from downstairs, an echoing voice from down
the hallway— I wake up with a desperate craving that keeps me going. I
wake up again and again but it is ultimately the same day. That hunger
grows even stronger in the early hours of the morning as the pitch black
outside my window turns deep electric blue. I can feel the insects
buzzing outside my window. My skin itches like I’m covered in scabs.
Pink skin underneath. This sensation never finds a home in one particular
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