The following is an excerpt from the Dream Dialectic: The New Aesthetic.
Sell your soul for less than it’s worth, the man says. Stay off the roads and be afraid of strangers. There is nothing good for you out there in the world of creativity. You must work, work, work or else this whole thing you’ve grown to understand will come crashing down with no hope in surrender.
These are the delusions of reality that you will begin to dismiss as the car kicks into a higher gear and Zen Lunacy takes hold of the drive giving truth to the road. Your outward appearance appears well composed as the language rattles beatenly and erratically around wind turbines in your mind. The inner words set off soft chords of alarm for rationale down the line only to open up new neuro spaces and passageways spewing enlightened dialectics out into the light.
The practice of Zen Lunacy is simple to subsidize. Consume 1-2 mushrooms a day, practice yoga in a wide open field, cough abruptly and breath deeply, carry on with strange new acquaintances as if you’ve known them your whole lifetime, and make sure not to overstay your welcome but instead when the moment is right hit the road at a goddened speed.
The pursuits of the Zen Maniac are language and the clarity of expression. No Hum-drummer can talk him out of this ecstatic peace. Though some may try, his existence cannot be categorized out of the real. His imaginary predilections swoon and sway even the strongest minds into a dream like ecstasy marveling his floating glow as he plummets through inspiration and exaggerated flow.
The teacher student union transcends any normal platitudes for hierarchy. Any and all words he speaks are insightful and magical. Pick his brain and you will soon find the counterpart to his knowledge: he learns just as he teaches. You are the story he will tell the next troupe of students. Your presence is magical and existence is meaningful. You are the dharma bums he has come to exchange education with.
The world for the Zen Lunatic consists of plenty of young wandering souls waiting to impart their knowledge on a whole cast of other creatures. He is there like a monk his shaved crown perspiring as it fills to the brim with words. Time lies flat as his reach expands outwards. Highways and dirt roads are short subdued meditations bound for conversation following the curvature of the landscape. His spaceship hurtles at full speed down the alleyways of American wastelands and sublime rivers. Cigarette smoke expels from its windows. The paisley daze and tie dyed haze emits at high frequencies enraging otherwise tunnel-visioned middle roaders.
They shout at top volume, shaking their middle fingers rapidly out rolled down windows exchanging road violence for cooler breezes.
The Zen Lunatic is unaffected by these breaches with reality. His flying saucer equipped with the congo lines of Nigerian mambattiyana. Nodding his head and shaking highly the rhythms of nature. He waves back at these passer-bys with mirth-filled inflection glowing inwardly and outwardly a stupefied rapture.
At the colleges he is welcomed as a traveling writer. He is living the student’s dream. His colleagues back home believe he is on a far out bender that they will never have time for. His detractors ask Who pays for this? Who pays your rent? He responds calmly I pay for this. I pay my rent. I make things work and I create my reality.
Contrasting the 9 to 5 he sleeps four hours a night and extends his days from 24 to 36 and sometimes as far as 48 or 96. He is wide awake but always sleeping. He is conscious but always dreaming. The land he walks in is lucid. He dominates his atmosphere with jumps that turn to flight. His aura mixes with the fermentations of wanderers. He is a tree and at the same time a man and at the same time nothing but always everything undaunting. He speaks in proverbs of the vernacular. Life is sweet to him and he forecasts it is sweet to us all as soon as we open our eyes and look inward.