You ever heard of that moment when pure enlightenment hits ya? Nirvana they call it. I ain’t met nobody who’s done it. I don’t know many bald headed buddhists or know anybody who does, so chances are slim that I ever talked to someone, or someone two degrees apart from one that’s hit upon it.
Now, they say that none of what I’ve done is conducive to reaching that elated moment. I mean all the boozing, the womanizing, the card-playing or the occasional toke of whatever you got; they say none of that is living well. From what I heard, to be fully immersed in being one with the universe, one must behave as though purity was the one sacred pathway to feeling bliss. This lady in lycra told me to treat the body like temple, so that it may receive the knowledge of unity with the whole. Truth, she called it.
I don’t really know if she had her head up her ass or if she really knew what she was talking about. She’s the kind that works out at 10am, while her husband and most people are out working. In any case, elasticity like hers has its own rewards.
Had I been born at a time before our own, I might have been a warrior. When you’re shaped like an ox, it behooves you to entertain these thoughts. It’s the politics now that made such a life forbidding for me, and the fact that there are others more foolish or brave to carry out the bloody designs of forces far beyond our control. I never understood how darkness might bring light, how the tip of a sword could herald hope for those who carry on nine to fives. It’s been a long time since it stopped making sense to follow the commands of the powerful; for all the repetition of their good intentions and how their actions would bring about a greater wellbeing, there was always murkiness and sadness that could never be redeemed. Call me cynical, or call them sinister, whatever it may be.
Not fighting and all, I took the time to think about whatever lies within me, whatever might bring peace and meaning to someone like me. I do my part as far as making ends meet goes. As I said, I indulge in my vices and I’ve drowned my senses from time to time, enough not to feel, but I don’t make it a habit, or it’s only a habit that’s a little bit dear. It’s not much more than what every man does to persuade himself that he can enjoy a life worth living, perhaps forgetting what he does for a living or the demands of a country full of broken spirits. It’s the mead after the plunder, if only we could feel proud of the trite achievements of utter submission to our status quo.
I don’t have a drinking problem.
But I must be getting old or wishful that I have not become entirely banal when I think that even I have been pierced by shards of what they call enlightenment. Like when I’ve been fucking real good, like when I’m riding her hard and the sort of elation we feel is all over every inch of us and damn near unbearably perfect. How could it get any better than that? For me and the other human being with whom I’m dissolving into the most ecstatic oblivion, what could be more ephemeral? We play with energy, my partner and I, roll it around our nakedness and raise our consciousness far beyond the planes of every day life, and I think it don’t get much better than that. What can lift you up beyond this feeling? How would you ever feel in greater unity with anything else in the universe than with the one person with whom you can really fuck?
All the yoga she’s done has really payed off, I tell you. It’s even got me thinking there’s more to feeling than I ever thought.