FUCK YOUR BODY, FREE YOUR MIND!

Biking south on Highland yesterday afternoon, in the thick of my liquid fast-- about 2 days-- my mind wandered to the inevitable foodlessness of the day to come. I wasn't even hungry, but the thought rolled out like a horizon, spreading out into an eternal rug. It was in my head, though, not my stomach. Grappling with no food for the day unconsciously elicited a related string of thought-- could I live without solid food forever? Was I, indeed, already in the belly of that forever? When I quit cigarettes, for example, I embarked on a new eternity; an eternity defined by a lack. Like I said, the effect of the fast is mostly on my mind, rather than my forsaken corporeal bits.

And, in a strange way, the hunger (more aptly, lack), that infected my brain was really creating a soft fence around it, and a cushion of amniotic fluid protected me from the outside world. I was going to work, to see one of my first and oldest clients, who loves to consume all fluids and bodily products of women. The session went fine; I was, after all, nothing but  excessive fluids, draining out in hypertime as my body tried to make sense of my batshit shenanigans. But a strange wax-paper visual-filter somehow became activated so that everything I saw was translated through it. That evening, as I sat at a cafe writing away, I had a spontaneous thought that I wasn't part of the living.

But I was being productive, more productive than normal, because the fast turned my self inwards, so that it wasn't difficult to think, perhaps that was even expedited, but it was difficult to communicate to others. People and faces glided past me, strangers even conversed with me, but they passed over me like oil, and I was left in a state akin to pressing one's face to a mirror. I felt a strange calm, knowing that I would not partake in the activities of these living people, like alcohol consumption or talking excessively.

The thought, that I wasn't part the living, played in a quiet loop the entire night. It played as it occurred to me that this kind of state would be ideal for something like religious contemplation. That monks like St. Augustine, who avidly practiced fasting, were turning them selves inward, much like myself, to press their noses to God and their bums to their earthly neighbors.

My fast, based loosely on the "Master Cleanse" formulated by a crazy man name Burroughs (no no, the other crazy Burroughs) entails consuming many glasses of a strange "lemonade" (lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne paper mixed into lukewarm water) NOTE: to would be cleansers, smoked Paprika looks a lot like cayenne.. juz sayin..., drinking laxative tea, and doing a daily salt water flush (yes, I have flushed and lived to tell the tail). Anywho, today is my third and final day, and most of my ecstasy (mostly experienced on day 1) and delirium has dissipated, giving way to the comfortable realization that I will soon join the ranks of the living, as a solid-foodist no less.