Plato's cave has many hollers. I wonder if he was just trying to keep it simple, keep it short, or it that was a leap for his thinking, his time. If there are forms, how many forms are there? How many beyond the shadows of our perception?
I think the truth is somewhere mashed and meshed within the all, the continuum coming back to the beginning, back to the torches of illumination, be they light, meditiation, or the ethereal, the temporary of mind altering drugs. The idea of hell or heaven is part of the same mix, the idea of the physical and spiritual the same. No dichotomies - only what we can experience as now, and know as now, spheres.
People who taste the divine, as should be described, through mind-altering drug experiences represent, to me, lassitude. Who cares if you took elephant tranquilizer, snorted more than anyone else, and found that you had an out of body experience, that you had a transcendent drug experience? Acid, mushrooms - whatever. How is it affecting your mind now? It's akin to people begging for, or bragging about celebrity because they once saw James Caan at a Chicago restaurant. What are you doing now with that glimpse of the divine? Most are doing nothing. But talking about it. Talking about how altered conciousness will lead to an evolutionary step. Talking, talking, talking. Hermetic religion. The occult. Nirvana. And it's all just another scam, another panacea - the torch on the cave wall being worshipped as the answer, rather than one source of many sources of illumination, limited to that segment of illuminable dirt.
I don't have the answers, but I feel I know enough that I'm not susceptible to being a true believer in any cult. Any cult, perhaps, save my own.
People who worry about my not being engaged in the search for a girlfriend, for getting laid miss the fact that I'll leave a party faster to come home and write than I will for sex. Ideas only last so long. And you can't ever trust your memory. Sex will wait. Someone who loves you will wait. Finding someone who loves you will wait. Thoughts are a cruel taskmaster, more mercurial than any lover.
The post-party for the Russell Gunn show was climactic and anti-climactic. It was people hanging out, like people hang out. The band members, the old high school friends playing cards. Drinking Jans mead. Listening to music. Simple. Took me home. Expecting something much different. Not sure what. But this is semi-celebrity in St. Louis, not some paparazzi ridden coast party.
2:42:45 AM 
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