During the course of my life, I have imagined hundreds of worlds and solved all the problems they presented to all the characters I colonized them with, yet my own world had remained perplexing. Shortly after the age of 24 and the end of my first marriage, I fell into a pit of melancholy. The gusto I had once felt for life went out of me and left first a doldrum and finally a vacuum that created within me an unbearable pressure of nothingness. I could not think of anything more I especially wanted to do- yet I had not yet done much of anything. A formidable restlessness seized me each morning when I woke up, but no activity, no book, no escapade and no dream prevented it from becoming a crushing emptiness by nightfall. I began questing after my composure as if it were The Grail, but only as if I had forgotten the name and nature if it, all the while conducting myself within the wide limits of behavior permitted to the allegedly glamorous fools who consider themselves "artists." I found relief in neither the dilemma itself nor among the conventional distractions supposed to be the necessary escape from it.

I do not believe honestly that by the time I reached the age of thirty, the Catholic Church, by which more or less I was raised, had given me an abnormal feeling of guilt. If what I felt was guilt, it was a feeling deeper than any response to dogma.

It had never occurred to me to study more psychology than was fashionable- selected reading of Freud, Jung, Adler and some casual delving into morbid "abnormal" case histories. The idea that I needed to know more about psychology particular to myself was apparent only to my intimates, who were detached. I read about religions when I became curious concerning them and I read the major philosophies. It is a part of a business I now realize I have only just begun. But I can never feel again that there is an emptiness which cannot be filled by those who are willing to go about it subjectively. I am no yogi, no mahatma, no saint, and I live in no perennial Tao- but even to know how to find out is to know much more than I did.

I have attempted on numerous occasion to steel my conscious brain to such a degree that, when under the influence of drugs, I would still retain direction enough to put down an explanation of that curious post-sentiment of revelation which is left in the memory after the effect of the drug wears off. The trick is largely self-frustrating. I might better have tried a hair change than heroin. But I had determination, and at least one abstract concept rewarded my painful methodology.

Many people remember enough of their state under anesthetic and morphine (as well, occasionally, as in dreams) to be convinced that something of importance has taken place in their minds. Whether the higher centers of their brains are first to suffer blackouts from the toxins and the impression of an impression comes from the uninhibited images in the lower part, or whether the drugs and anesthetic stimulate the brain to some extraordinary and abnormal defense activity, is unknown; but the recollection of an experience is very common.

Attempts to recall it's nature usually elicit a blank, or the memory of a peculiar form or pattern is so irrelevant to everyday consciousness as to be dismissed as of no comprehensibility. My attack on the problem, however, led to the projection of a single sentence from that nether world to my waking mind. After dosing myself and preparing a paper and pencil, I fell into the wash of the drugged state and, after making one frantic effort to write to myself, passed out cold.

When I came to, I read four scribbled words: think in other ways.

Books: STEPPENWOLF, Chester Himes, Patricia Highsmith, Jim Thompson, Raymond Chandler, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlin, Leroi Jones, William S. Burroughs, Kurt Vonnegutt, Hunter S. Thompson, Chuck Palainchuk, Alan Watts, Aldus Huxley, D.T. Suzuki, Wayne Dyer, Christopher Buckley, Douglas Adams, Michael Crichton, Robert Greene, Dean Koontz, (I also love comic books and graphic novels)

Movies: Stalag 17, 12 Angry Men, A Long Day's Journey into Night, Night and the City, Casablanca, The Big Sleep, Seven Samurai, Sanjuro, Strangers On a Train, The Sting, Taxi Driver, Dr. Strangelove, Star Wars, Resevoir Dogs, the Departed, Let The Right One In, Wristcutters: A Love Story, Doctor Parnassis, Inception, Sucker Punch.... I could go on and on but I'm busy writing my own movie scripts!

Music: Jimi Hendrix, Miles Davis, Built to Spill, Cream, Allman Brothers, Deeek Trucks, Bob Marley, Rebelution, Motörhead, Zakk Wylde, Albert King, SRV, Nina Simone, Melody Gardot, Thelonious Monk, Billie Holiday, Santana, Buddy Guy, Black Keys, Bright Eyes, Morphine (!), Modest Mouse, Tom Waits, Robin Trower, King Crimson... I LOVE playing blues/ jazz/ rock guitar!

I make amazing Mexican food, Asian fusion, and tasty vegetarian cuisine!

Ones application of the concept of "meditation" may come upon the notion that his psyche operates in many ways besides those of verbalized logic. If he has the time and energy, his "research" may progress, through self instruction, to sequential constructs very different from those around him. Owing to a plethora of attributes (equally gifted and cultivated), I have been able to "earn" my living in a fairly small fraction of the time at my disposal. I have as much energy as the next man so my adventures in consciousness were legion. At first intimate and peculiar, finally generalized into categories which would be incomprehensible without a step by step explanation of the procedure, those adventures passed trough midpoints which seemed to illuminate several collective attitudes. From them I have drawn the inspiration of this essay.

It is time for me to make a new appraisal of myself. My failure, so far, has been abject. My plans for the future, infantile. The varied forms of my education in this life are smashing each other. In universality and degree, the existential war I have currently, finally, managed to perpetuate surpasses every past similar disaster. The body is still intact, but it's material safety is by no means guaranteed and it's psychological future is in doubt. Plans for it's defense involve a "Holocaust of Conceptions" resembling the Plagues of the Old Testament.

War is an expedient. It represents the unreasoned and inarticulate attempt of anxieties to solve it's frustrations by exploding. But I believe it to be one of many skeletons in our closet I believe we can neither fight at our best nor win lasting peace with each other unless we employ that part of our God-given reason we call "criticism" even though, at times, it's function is exhumation and autopsy. Those who are about to die may inter some of our unburied dead by their sacrifice; the remains will be the assignment of the survivors. It is time to mitigate certain future epitaphs by scanning old tombs.

With all my energy and all my heart, I have tried to look back on my years that bred spiritual death. The urge to do this is unquenchable. Nothing can arrest my ambition to become more than merely a figure of fortune or fame- but one of wisdom. That is my new vanity. I sincerely hope it becomes yours so that we may share in it's bounty at the earliest possible opportunity, with each other, as well as all those around us whom we love and cherish.