The tintinabulation of the spheres
Seems tickle-ing within my wicked ears
O surely it is but a dream
A green and gleaming mountain stream
Glissando crossing xylophonic stone
Silver demons in my eye alone
Send my salt and ashes to the sea
Saving only smoke and me
- Soda Pop Fats, Minneapolis circa 1887
Away these last weeks, trying to break out of my head, I return to The Ol' Sync Hole to the ringing of a mighty sync and on the brink.
Indras Net, in his sync-work, manages to mirror the events of my own life with striking accuracy.
To chill, we took in two films which I am now delighted to recall concern the use of tobacco as a thematic meme: Ghost Rider and Dead Man.
Later, in the cool morning, Zaz and I shared a Holy Moment in a place called Horseshoe Canyon and I flashed on Waking Life. Zaz's drawings for our Time Machine look alot like the folded paper divining toy from WL's opening sequence.
On the road, we listened to Alan Watts and the first random lecture was A Happy Death.
I must also note that when Zaz and I meet, we call it Shining, after our groundbreaking work unraveling the Kubrick masterpiece, an opus with conspicuous use of tobacco and Amer-Indo imagery.
Now, a biograph: your pal Artislav Mel is a chain-smoker. One hand rolled unfiltered after another, and each down to the nubbin. In the morning, when I brush my fangs, I also pumice the golden patina of weed from my fingers - a stain which many find more offensive than the fireplace perfume of my dud's that follows me like Pigpen's cloud. It is my custom to go to bed at the precise moment I no longer wish to smoke.
And so it is for the sink-thinker and the smoker. The physio-logic and hyper-doxical product of smoking is ASH (Latin creme; excrement - out of ash), which is the complete mortification of the material essence. When the body is burned away, and burned again, it is akin to the crushing of all life at the bottom of a pestle. Ergo, the insufflation of tobacco is the supreme spiritual and alchemical working. The remaining product is not manure but salted ash, from which only the purest spirit can ascend beyond the logos and be one without form.
Folks everywhere are ready to tear out their assholes. It seems as if the shit is gonna get heavy, good people. But don't worry, when it's time to burn... nothing is lighter than smoke.