2-3-2022: Day 265
So, today was nil-by-mouth. Nothing by the cakehole. A glorious feast of fasting, for the first time in a bygone age. I was hydrating myself with water – for soul sustenance, physical thirst, and inner liquid balance. Only for twenty-four hours mind, till the hunger pangs really kicked in.
Twelve hours in, I found myself exploring the inner temple, deep in meditation, and unearthed a waxing method-man-in-the-madness of this fasting business. In a heady cryptic trance, the image of a perfect onion popped up. It served as a fitting legume metaphor for a nightmare I suffered the night before.
It neatly highlighted my deep, earthy rooted, trauma from last night’s creative work from the Sandman. My subconscious was peeling layers, like the onion. And like the onion, from time to time, there would be tears. By the end of the session, I felt the welcome release of all the tears of a tragic clown.
4-3-2022: Day 267
I was listening to ‘Fishermen’, dropped on a shiny black vinyl stream of a record this AM. It was a fresh sounding joint from the wise street sage of hip-hop and decorated Wu Tang Abbot, the RZA.
The RZA tune transported my soul on a waxing lyrical journey, from the legendary Shaolin temple of China’s Wu mountains – via the rivers of the Congo, via the Saturday night ‘Kung Fu’ cinemas of New York City – to the mythical island of Avalon.
And it was all grafted together to the laconic beat of a New Orleans funeral march, bringing up long buried memories from a near-forgotten Bond movie. The one with the Yin-Yang voodoo villain.
Alerted to the tune by digital notification, on a deeply forgettable murky morning where the sun was hidden beyond the pale, it was a like a breath of chilled air.
So, as the morning vapourised into noon, the RZA v’s Bobby Digital, or I & I, as some might coin it, was a wise and timely reminder to my deeper Self of the internal kung fu battle of the inner Self.
6-3-2022: Day 269
The eerie bumps in the night kicked-off somewhere above my head, from beyond the loft hatch, in the jet-black shadows where the angels fear to strut, and the demons come out to play.
I woke bolt upright, in a shook state of mind, where supernatural forces seem to collide, and even the improbable seems probable.
The noise – scratching, shunting, and scabrous – was getting more persistent, more urgent, more devilish.
It was too loud for a mouse, a giant rat, or even a predatory fox, I internally debated in the darkness. The identity of the intruder was causing some trouble, as the black mists of paranoia began to roll in, suffocating all rhyme and reason. I was picturing the psycho killer scene in ‘Luther’ who lurked with evil intent in the attic above the nuclear family home.
After an age of deliberation and careful consideration, I found myself dressed, opening the wooden hatch, and scanning the loft by torchlight. And, with a quiet prayer to fake-arse gods, entered the twilight realms of the unknown.