Yeah, yeah, I have to tell you again, every day when I wake up I ask myself, "Why don't I kill myself today?" I didn't end up with the fabulous life that I dreamed I'd have when I was a kid; that is, I didn't become a movie star and travel to a galaxy far, far away. But I did get pretty far-out into the light, I must admit. Yet each day feels so tortuous to drag my weary arse thru, and the history of the human race reeks of such horror it would put Nosferatu off his blood-suck, so how to keep going?
When I was a young man I nursed my yoga teacher while he was dying of a deadly Eastern disease called Kalazu, and he insisted on spending his last days walking amongst the Himalayan snowy fastnesses. He was hoping the arduous trek in the high mountains would kill him, and he would spend his last moments overlooked by those glorious guardian-peaks and gazing into the Milky Way that seemed within arm's reach. He ended up dying down below in Rishikesh due to my temper tantrums forcing us to turn back for I couldn't face dealing with a dead body so far from civilization. But ever since then I've had the fantasy that when totally weary of life, I too would trek into the icy Himalayan wastes, like Frankenstein's monster in the Arctic desert, and disappear from the pages of history, because I wouldn't even rate a footnote after all my artistic efforts, and I was so sick of it all: the venality, exigency and stupidity of the human condition.
I also had the fantasy that I might be taken into the Secret Community, that Utopia of Shangri-la hidden in the Himalayan heights, where I would experience true human love and profound wisdom. I have had repetitive dreams wherein I am welcomed by such a community of high souls, a group I seem to recognize from previous astral journeys, who caress me, feed and console me, and with whom I study esoteric lessons of the Universe in their cosmic oasis in the snow. I fantasize that one day I will truly meet this mysterious crew, and every time I go up high in the Himalayas I peer up every valley and defile hoping to catch a glimpse of their sacred monasteries and glowing auras. It never happens, and instead I imagine I wander amongst the cold mountain vales, lie down somewhere hidden from view, cut my wrists, take sleeping pills and feel the last rays of sunshine on my tear-streaked face, the Ganges river roaring not far off, and slowly, blessedly I melt away.
Thinking about this, one morning I walked out of a village high in the Himalayas, far up the mountain road, snow-caps looming around, and an icy sleet falling. There was no sunshine for me to melt into, it was a real drag to try to feel blissed-out in the freezing rain. I'd left my Indian mate behind in the hotel and he would cause a grand hullabaloo on discovering my disappearance, would rouse the whole village up to search the mountain-sides, for weeks if need be, such was his loving loyalty. I couldn't do it to him, and the hospitable villagers neither. I'm heavily hard-wired to survive, having lasted all these years and overcome many disasters. Always I disclaim, "One more day, grant me one more day." Maybe tomorrow I will walk thru that white-light door. But not today. There's yet more to achieve, and always more to experience, something marvelous may come around the corner, and looking back, cool things have come, and what a piss-off if I had missed out on them.
The last 12 years have been particularly stunning, wandering the world like a dharma bum, feted in France as a happening artist, chased down the alleys of Amsterdam by eager hustlers, consoling the ghosts of slaves in fortress dungeons in the high mountains of Morocco while smoking golden hash and listening to the wind from Africa sing siren songs of "Come to me!"
I traipsed the seven hills of Lisbon and the endless road from the source of the Ganges River down thru ancient Delhi with its Mughal mausoleums to Rajasthan forts and then Mumbai by the Arabian sea, the nightclubs and picture-palaces that mirrored my fantasy of flying on the back of a genii to esoteric temples high in the Hindu Kush. The sleeper-bus to Goa and ecstatic dancing in the coconut groves to techno beats, tranced-out with the international freak-set, all one tribe, throbbing, thriving, thrilling, into the heart of which I am pumping. The whole world is there for our embrace, it's stupid to give in to entropy and indolence, what a waste of potential, to remain in bed, wrists cut, bleeding eternally.
And maybe, just maybe, I still have things to contribute to this crazy world, it's not over yet baby! And as my soul is whisked back there to the Himalayan heights, I looked about me at the unwelcoming mountain crags where I thought to spend my last few hours in misery on this uncaring earth. I shivered, it wasn't halcyon or honorable to die half-young, and, anyway, I was too gutless and vivacious to give up my ghost. I walked back down that infinite, winding highway, back into the klunky village, to the welcoming smile of my Indian companion waiting at the hotel. I would have further adventures, for a few years more at least. Oh what an awesome Universe IT IS! Buried in this rave are my 21 reasons why I won't be committing suicide just yet.
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anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and
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