Posts Tagged ‘Charles Bukowski’

Thoughts deeper than you

Friday, 13 March 2009

“Could any Hell be more horrible than now, and real?”
— Jim Morrison


I’ve been thinking about suicide lately with the same conclusion Sam Kinison had about wife-beating: I don’t condone it, but I understand it.

I won’t kill myself.

For one thing, at my age there’s very little left to kill.  (- Bukowski)

Life is painful, unpredictable and typically just plain fucked-up in both meaning and execution: it’s unreasonable to believe that suicide would bring an immediate end to suffering from such a warped existence; suicide is the gleaming cheese in a mousetrap.

Suicide means physical death, but I don’t want death, because death means MORE: more suffering and more pleasure. I want neither, in favor of annihilation.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience this annihilation, which is not an empty void but The Void, filled with Everything which is really only One thing. I could only enter this state of No-Mind under the aegis of a meditation master capable of projecting spiritual energy. The meditation group I was with only got to experience it perhaps a dozen times a year.

One minute I’d be sitting in my folding chair, the next there was NOTHING, all the chattering noise and nonsense composing the modern mind wiped clean like a giant eraser swiping across a dry erase board. Other types of meditation had different effects but coming out of the No-Mind sessions I always felt oddly refreshed.

No-Mind has been called ‘the only true final Enlightenment’ and if you’re lucky enough to merge with it beyond death, you win, that’s all, no more suffering, no more anything. Compared to this state, a heavenly afterlife seems ridiculous. If you can have limitless pleasurable experiences in Heaven, it stands to reason one moment will feel better for you than another. How is that Heaven? You’ll still be striving for MORE, even if by definition, in Heaven you always Receive it.

Nothingness sounds scary, I know. To a 300lb co-worker I presented the choice between a guaranteed immediate merging forever into nothingness or a chancy afterlife. His answer was, “I like existing.”

I do not like existing. I am trapped here, with none to rescue.

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Heart of Dentist Too(th)

Tuesday, 26 February 2008

Click for the original post.

I wake up unhappy, don’t eat and go to the dentist’s office.

Lying in the chair with a fairly attractive Asian probing my
mouth, I think about how I’ve never seen a porno that takes
place in a dentist’s office, probably because no one believes
anything pleasurable happens there.

As the woman works away with hooks and drills I once
again imagine the sewer pipes under the building, draining
the sludge of blood, gum tissue and tooth (fairy) dust to
Hell for sinners to drink.

I get the vibe the pretty Asian might be Interested, but I’m
not. I’m already heartsick and have no idea why it’s
important my teeth be in good order; ideas for suicide don’t
involve anything that leaves ID only by the teeth.

The dentist is a Good Old Florida Cracker. There are fillings
to be done and the syringe has a shiny silver ring for his
thumb. Oh shit.

The needle pierces my gums, pain lighting up the nerves
racing up the length of my jawline. By the 5th time the
needle strikes, I’m used to it, the monstrous pain of the
white hot needle, a cum-squirt of hot Novocain and WHOOF,
the pain vanishes like a match being blown out. The
horrible needle delivers the cure for itself.

As Dr. Cracker finishes with the shots I tell him, “This is why
I could never be a spy.”

Ha ha ha ha.

Fairly Pretty Asian cleans some more. I’m led to another
chair for the fillings.

A White girl, age unknown, wears a cloth mask over her
mouth and a full facial visor over that. Her smock is
brown and neither her tits or ass leap out as extraordinary.
I love her anyway. She sets up the tools of the trade on
the little tray. Hyperactive squirrels outside the window
distract her. Uh oh.

Dr. Cracker joins her when all is ready. Even with the left
half of my face numb, the drill feels like one from a hardware store. My
mind is both keenly focused and racing. I wonder why
there have never been tooth-shaped birthday cakes, why
everything is a disaster to the unhappy mind. A line from
Bukowski: People’s mouths are uglier than their assholes. I
try not to laugh aloud, there are four hands in my mouth
wielding all manner of sharps and I’m drowning in my own
saliva. I wonder if the girl is a dental student. I love her
even though I haven’t seen her face. Is this how poor
Muslim men go through life? Wondering what’s under there?

No wonder they pray to Allah. No, girl, don’t look at the Muslim squirrels holding their nuts, concentrate on this.

She hold a blue light over the filling goo. Beep….beeep.

It is finished.

I sit in the raised chair like the Buddha, the stupid beaded chain with alligator clips holding a blue napkin on my chest. Horrible pain brings a powerful ability to focus. When Dr. Cracker was shooting me with Novocain, I wished he would’ve flipped out and stabbed me in the heart. It would probably be a fine way to die, the heart stopping as if batteries had been removed but instead of cold death, warmth and beautiful numbness.

The bill is $285 for 3 fillings and a partial cleaning. I’m in the wrong line of work and of questionable sanity, as is everyone who visits a dentist of their own free will.

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