Monday, August 13, 2007

On meditation as an alternative to opium, part 2

So, to pithily (and, perhaps, fairly--I realize I am a bit of a Polonius at times) sum up my previous web log entry: Opium is a fantastic stuff, but it causes constipation of the most serious kind. Thus, after several medical appointments, a stern warning from my doctor, and severe worrying on my part over developing a hideously distended abdomen, I swore to quit. Now, any fool can swear any thing, and if you knew the type of chap I hung around at the time, you would place me at the top of this pile of fools because opium was as natural and essential to us Aesthetes as water: By quitting opium, I was quitting a lifestyle; I was forfeiting my soul; and, worst of all, I was divorcing my goddess-wife Beauty.

You see, when it comes to Beauty, I had only ever felt her curves and listened to her melodies while under the influence; so, by quitting the narcotic, I was murdering my ethereal bride. Often, while in withdrawal, I would dream she was in bed beside me, pale as a wraith, dressed in a see-through nightie, blood trickling out the corner of her mouth. But I was too intoxicated to call an ambulance and thus she died; and, in my state of utter indolence, I continued sleeping with a blissfully stupid smile on my face while a goddess's body rotted beside me.

You may say it's just a dream but I say you're just awake. As I see it, dreams are not a false reality; rather, they are an alternate reality in which truth is symbolic rather than factual. But I will spare you my esoteric ramblings for now and, as they say, "get on with it."

So on with it shall I get... To put a heavy matter lightly, withdrawal is hell, and I am only human. After three days of life in hell, I left the flat where I was recovering and succumbed to the thought of the opium den in the predawn hours. I was like a fiend on the loose, practically frothing at the mouth. But here occurs a most miraculous thing. In the brief period of my recovery, the opium den had been "found-out" by the bobbies (or "policemen," for my North-American friends) and promptly shut-down like my Dell Inspiron when it receives the latest software updates. And, you ponder, what would replace this magical place?

A yoga studio, of all things... More tomorrow. Adieu.


Sean Connery said...

Nigel my old friend. I realize that it has been years since we've spoken, but I wanted to warn you of an impending doom. You have a new enemy. An old acquaintance of ours, I believe we all spent some time at the estate chasing that opiate dragon in the late 1960's but my memories of that time period are somewhat fogged. I refer of course to that strange little man Elton John.

He wants you dead. read on

Nigel Tewksbury said...

Connery you bastard how are you?! Yes Elton has always been a little over-dramatic. I suppose he has a point--too much technology can be a bad thing. But frankly I am just an old bloke trying to tell a few stories. I see no real harm in that.

We should get together and reminisce about the good old days.