Jimmy sat there (there being a scratchy fibered carpeting), and as he retained his Indian-style position, he toyed with the mysteries of the cosmos. Not the obvious, however. What he was examining were the unearthed and unanswered inquests of the abstract, of the transcendental… what he craved absolutely, were the superhuman gospels understood exclusively by the individual, and only the cosmically enlightened individual at that.
His vocals trailed off into what seemed to be nothing short of a whisper, as he exuded to himself an existential conundrum through the repetition of his lyrical poetry.
"And how deep is the penetration of my sleep?" he questioned himself in an undertone. His face was withered from the conscious state he had maintained through the rise and fall of two moons… he was oily, and metaphysically exhausted.
"Where's my fucking fuchsia?" he wondered internally, as he searched wearily but enthusiastically for the pigmented graphite amongst the clutter of his carpet. Jimmy was wide, awake that is, and had for a grotesque expanse of hours, been erupting his creative ebb into the almost seamless interiors of his sketchbook. He had lost circulation entirely in his right thumb. It throbbed, but remained numb… as if it had been prey to a substantial frostbite.
"…To be free…" thought Jimmy, focusing hard and solitarily on his mental dialogue, "One must give up a little part of oneself." He nodded, as if reassuring himself that his statement was on whole correct, without error. The antiquity of Joplin's harmony flooded the background.
"Oh my god… Jesus...," orgasmic ally exclaimed Jimmy, as he had at that exact moment, in that unchangeable air of existence and history, experienced a head-rush of monumental and staggering proportions, the kind that sends waves of awareness sharply through your body's stimuli. He dilated the frequencies within his brain and heart and simultaneously descended backwards onto a down comforter. His landing produced the fuchsia pencil.
Finding the concealed ability to stand, Jimmy crutched his body upward until he had met eye to eye, a vertical stance. He was off balance, jello-like, and all together "helter-skelter". The oxygen composing the confinement of his bedroom had become stark, stifled… and he became convinced that it had been replaced. Perhaps with crystal fumes.
"Where'd I leave that lighter… is it in that drawer?" his silhouette took as a magnet to steel, immediately and without further consideration to his bedside table's shallow drawer. It was, to his relief, there. Eagerly, he grabbed the verdant mechanism and slid open the sheet of glass that was his window. He lit a smoke. Jimmy sat there, perched rather, on the thin slice of wood and drywall separating the interior of his house, with the exterior of his yard. There was a breeze. The large and comforting pine tree just adjacent to his window swayed slightly, causing Jim to beg the inquiry:
"Is that tree unconscious? I wonder if it too holds a place within the framework of zodiac's definition. If so, does it too possess and reflect aspectual characteristics?" He decided that the wise and superior organism (namely the pine), did in fact contribute as well to the higher dictation of our individuality, solicited by the lotus… and also -- the Zodiac. He seemed pleased and completely changed by the personal epiphany… the smoke and carcinogen fumes exhorted by the incineration of his cigarette spiraled and dissolved into the atmosphere. He threw the butt into the rocked and naturally plain landscape below.
Slam… screech. The glass made an eerie and frustratingly loud noise as Jimmy lowered it back into its previous position. He returned to his sketches and literary meanderings. He had been working on a drawing, a social commentary in graphite to be quite specific. The image featured a girl, naked, brown-bagged at the head, and submerged in a claw-foot tub. Above it read "Le Chat Noir" translating from French to mean the Black Pussy, and below were the words: "Mon corps n'est plus son temple", meaning in the same tongue: My body is no longer his temple. Jimmy intended for the visual to allude to society's emphasis on beauty, and the politics of that definition and emphasis… he was on whole, pleased with the concluded product.
"Whether or not 'they' will interpret it right… I don't know. That's a shame." Jimmy spoke, half apathetic, half disappointed… however, in the grand scheme of it all, he never concerned himself with wondering whether others will "get" his work… he simply produced it. The fact that he made it with a purpose, and that he knew that intent, was sufficient. He really did love the color fuchsia.
"Breathe on me."
Jimmy was concentrating without disruption, on the pattern of the shadows cast by the fast-pace of his ceiling fan… it was rhythmic and in a strange way, erotic. Erotic maybe because of its uniformity, but rebellious execution… a contradiction. Jimmy enjoyed contradictions; he found them to be confusing in a collective and understandable kind of way. Even his defined comprehension and interpretation of the contradictory was… well, a contradiction. And the fact that he could neither fathom nor misunderstand the circularly propelling motion of the fan and it's contradictory nature, made it to him… erotic.
"Whooooa…!" An exasperated and euphoric Jimmy regurgitated. "That was ALL KINDS OF INTENSE!" He extroverted without thought, his sheer and immense excitement… his blissful state of ecstasy, and the metaphysical comprehension he grasped, made possible largely by his isolation and altered perception.
"I want to wade in a steady stream," Jimmy concluded as he sported a grin spanning ear to ear, cheeks wrinkled.
"…and, when I am in that stream, I think I'll ask the ecosystem more importantly the inhalers of hydrogen vitality, how exactly they feel about the malicious siege of their habitual perimeters by the murkish and oily haunt of contamination."
"I am pretty sure they're pissed. No. Positive. I would be too, pissed I mean…" offered Jimmy to nobody in particular, as he was his only company.
"I wonder? Do they… or any animal at that… clutch and express knowledge of the charka? I smudge my negative energy with a bundle of lit sage. Do they, by chance? I don't suppose they need to? They initiate no bad chi by way of any means… so I guess it's not necessary for an animal to cleanse? Still I wouldn't and don't really know. Maybe they scatter blossoms about in offering?" Jimmy was meandering…
To any spectator, or outside mind, his questions and ramblings would be no doubt diluted… potentially erratic or without doubt: conceived and born of insanity. They were, and they weren't. He began to colorize a pair of lips within a new sketch… making them fuchsia. He liked the color fuchsia.
Jimmy was traveling… traveling to the spectrums of fields, made whimsical by the light they cast, they vibrancy of their pigments, and their unholy (but equally impressive) ability to heal through what wasn't seen… through a super-mundane and existential miracle witnessed unaccompanied by any fictitious psalm. Absorbing this unparalleled realm of what may have been hallucinations, Jimmy curled himself into the creases of his blankets, enjoying but partly fearing the dimension of hazy droplets.
"…When will the rest of you realize the Patron-Saint of a subconscious atmosphere?" He pushed his question into the abyss… expecting no reply, but interrogating just the same, hoping deeply that at least one lemming might intercept it.
"FEEL THE 'LOVE PROFUSION'!!"
It was at this point during his quest for higher knowledge and spiritual intellect that he stumbled across a tantalizing melody made of psychedelic-phunk notes and vocal transmitters which leaked with the "original language", the one devised and spoken by Adam and Eve. The tongue being emitted was no doubt silenced by the serpent, the one whom rested on… or within the forbidden fruit. It was, as of now however, being reborn through the visuals of psychotically opiate expression, that expression was the hark of Janis… and she was the divine.
Outside, it was still dark… still overcast, and the clock caddy-corner to Jimmy was irrelevant amidst the daze of his illusionary awakening. The clock was as useless to him as a sundial would have been, for all he need know to continue on was: One. It was still dark, and therefore night. Two, the gentle anonymity of the breeze just outside was too comfortable to have to soon fade into daylight. Three, his inquest and expedition was as far as he was concerned, still employed… and will have to observe a cease at daybreak. And four, as a result of Jimmy's state, minutes merged into minutes and the idea of time as he understood it previously was now nothing but a distant and almost unqualified theory. Similar to God. To Jesus.
"Smoke Break," grinned Jimmy to himself. He again (but this time without thought) stood to enact the task at hand, which was a nicotine fix. He retraced the steps necessary to light a cig, and was not two minutes later in a familiar crouch on the windowsill, inhaling quickly… exhaling smoothly, relaxed. He remained there, there upon the sill… observing and taking in the serene silhouette of nature and its inhabitants, made calm by their casual exchanges of white noise, and of untainted visuals. Jimmy looked up, and as soon as his sight was fixed upon the night's sky, the very instant his gaze met its illumination… his stare was drawn to one solitary star. Not the brightest star, the largest star, not the most brilliant or vibrant in its coloration… but a star. He gazed upward at it for a degree of time unknown to him then, and to us now… he stared at it without hesitation, distraction or aversion… then, sometime later, still fixed on it's iridescence, he understood.
"…Oh my God…" sputtered Jimmy quietly, in awe and captivation… in complete understanding and uncontrollable sobs. Within the star, he recognized a smile both loving and familiar, as well as a smile distant and cold. The features were of Jimmy's long since parted father… and as they exchanged mutual glimpses, the subject of his excursion into the enchanted, and disenchanted preternatural cosmos was fed to him in one swift lighting bolt, and contiguously he had achieved the intellectually spiritual and existential blossoming of himself he so thoroughly sought.
"Was this an audition?" Jimmy pondered as he settled back inside his room.
"There are too many questions. There is not one solution. There is no resurrection. There is so much confusion."
TO THE "LOVE PROFUSION!"
… and the existential ebb we all so seek. Even if it's only temporarily napping at your curiosity, congruent to a subdermal irritant. I know, when will you?