© MMXVII Agimar N. Edelgranberget
Ok. Now listen, this is what I heard: There was this group of people, somewhere in the countryside nearby. About a hundred of them, in the end. But it all started with that couple. Two lost souls, seekers, sensation collecting addicts, yet complementary enough to experience a deeper sense of connection between them; call it love if you will.
They were tripping a lot together, using any natural drug they could get their hands on. They did that for some time, apparently. Now, what exactly they made I do not know, nor does anyone still alive. But fact is, they came up with an ointment, which they would apply onto wounds they’d cut into their left underarms.
O. and I. were their names, by the way. O. had a crush on plants and organisms of all sort, while I. hungrily enjoyed the most selected and exotic of all animals. So, having travelled a lot together – not only virtually but in reality, too – it came up rather unexpectedly, but inevitably just as a logical consequence of their life together as well as their everyday demeanor.
Anyway. The rush was supposed to be relentless, merciless. A heavy, ten ton kick in the ass, followed by a gang of ferocious bitches slapping your face numb, thus activating all your senses at once, granting you total clarity about your intergalactic whereabouts, inspiring you to be active, productive, you were said to be manically overwhelmed by your sheer sense of impression, that clairvoyance converting you into a waterfall of ideas.
In the beginning that effect may have lasted, incredibly, for up to seventy two hours of you being a crazy, but overall happy artist. There were a lot of sexual activities involved in the process of creating the art, and there often was a palpable feeling of open love in the air. It was O. and l. in extraordinary, sometimes even perfect unity.
But when the candle had burned down, the side effects would kick in. First, you’d never know – never know, what’s up next. It would begin to scare you, and you’d come to the conclusion, that you probably might have more things to do, than one could possibly manage in but one life to live. So you’d become extremely depressed. Side effects ranged from sheer angst, catatonia, repetitive actions like constantly washing one’s own dirty hands, to drowsiness and sleepiness, followed by episodes of fruitless insomnia turning them into ghosts.
I don’t need to tell you that, imagine you feel sick and you got the cure right at hand – you’d use it. And boy did they cure themselves. O. and I….
So, story goes they owned this house, that refuge, that asylum, this oasis, way off the public roads, hidden in nature but yet offering all the commodities of modern life. Like electricity, warm water and so on, you name it. They were completely self sufficient, so they could live their lives off the record. It was the perfect spot for a drug enthusiast. And here, not far away from that lake over there, they had found their paradise. And the air really is so pristine there.
Of course they had friends. A lot of friends, some of them even had their own friends with them. It was come and go. It was like a drive thru at macDonald’s at midnight, but it was also home to some serious individuals. Former sports icons, a crossdressing forensic psychiatrist, some seasoned drug dealers, a posse of male sluts and female bitches in white underwear, corrupt bureaucratic politicians, shady lawyers, unemployed and smelling actors, some students of psychology and anthropology, some rich kids and a whole lot of other dwellers of the twilight zone, but basically evenly male and female.
At first, a small group had lived by the same heartbeat of either cutting their arm with a razor blade, – ‘the deeper you cut, the faster it kicks off’, they’d say – then smearing the ointment into the cut or simply by rubbing it ready to go onto carefully kept open elder cuts, which were mildly salted to preserve the access. Therefore it was quite harmonious; but the more people came bunburying by, the more the two faces of the drug would show up simultaneously.
That was when the darkened tripping started. Completely randomly people would be either manic or depressed. Depressed masturbators in a bursting hurricane of a sex gang gone wild, pictures being drawn, taken, filmed, commented on, written down, music was composed or nothing being noticed or done at all, people getting absolutely crazy, while others, in sheer terror, search for some ointment or a razor blade. But the worst off were those who can’t find any of it. Horrified creatures. Repulsed from the orgies, the orgasms and kicks, secluded from life itself.
O. and I. were busy like the honey bees, but still it could take a lot of time for some to get hold on their cut of ointment. And the sharing of razor blades was not an improvement to anything either. Slowly the dining tables of the feast began to fester.
Soon after, it seemed to become like a medieval triptych showing the merry, yet stony road to hell with candid angels in the background turning their faces away in disgust. But eventually everybody was getting organized, all resources were used the best way. Unconditional love conquered the sick, one used to care for one another, it had also much of a communist utopia. O. and I. produced pots and pots of ointment, the much needed ointment, because consumption was steadily rising and the plan always was condemned to fail because of careless calculations in advance. So finally, encircled by wolves, they stripped the recipe down, blended other more common ingredients in. Therefor the effect lasted shorter and shortest, the side effects grew worse and worst.
After four months lethality was so high, corpses were lying about everywhere. Spontaneously people would kill themselves in anger, in defeat, in search for an exit door in whatever eerie way one can think of. The first one was D., followed by E., A., Þ. and then it became more and bottomlessly more. The cocktail of the cure induced mental conundrums might have been one reason for their suicides.
All hell broke loose the morning O. was found, pronounced dead, killed by no one else than I., who had fled the scene of the crime – he had redeemed her in an act of mercy, as he stated in a note found near her pale, haggard remains. When people got to hear about her, it was already all too late, because I. had cut his very throat only some hours later, when the rumors just began to spread. Public desperation, deprivation and Todesangst had everyone in a tight grip, why, because there was no more ointment, you see. And without the ointment, the exhausted bodies would no longer be willing to work for free, the soul would no longer receive the warmth of light, the sun. It was simply over, and everybody knew it, knew it quickly and all too well. Like an epiphany of a life that once had been lived, that had been more productive than the lives of any other people, that now had an end, that must silently vanish for good. The aggressively twisted and empty eyes of the disciples glittered in a necrotic shimmer: the wish to die. It then became a frozen in time still life, when finally the last one was passing out, beautiful N. Not only the owls did cry.
Undoubtedly – they had experienced a unity and fulfillment that was unmatched before and ever after. They had witnessed the resolution of the opposites. None of it will ever see the surface of this planet again, will it? Everything is lost, yet monumental in itself.
I can’t stop thinking: pretty much all of the women had been pregnant. They all committed suicide while unhealthily manic or depressed. So eventually there might be some fifty or so more dead fetuses to be mourned. O. and I….
Well, what a mess. Now, what is it you want to tell me all the time?
Dang, why the heck would I want to shut up in the middle of the sentence???
Ein Kommentar zu “… [deliberately untitled]”
Of course, this story is about drugs. Drugs CAN be awesome, if used responsibly. It‘s about freedom. It‘s our bodies, not the bodies of cults, politicians or entrepreneurs.
Legalize ALL drugs!