Sometimes Hippie Law requires that when faced with horrible circumstances one must delve deeply into one's own soul and psyche in order to get high as illustrated in a scene from J. P. Dooley's not-yet-published tales of Vietnam, Sergeant on the Wall:
"Dust from our approach was settling on his eyes and flies crawled over his lips and into his wounds. The wrack of his legs was particularly unsettling. "I'm glad it's you and not me, bro…" I said softly.
I was stuck there for a long time; Markus decided to change tactics and bring the tracks around before going on. It had been a hot night, and Mr. Charles had been dead for almost eight hours. As the heat of the day really came on,he began to change and melt, right before my eyes. His stomach began to swell and the rest of him to leak and further deflate, breaking down into essential fluids with their separate recognizable smells: blood, bile, piss, shit, mucous, saliva, lymph, fats, waxes and oils.
I found myself staring at him fixedly, at first with growing horror and distaste, my head spinning; my body saw its fate and cringed. But then I began to feel something else: a liberation from the flesh, a clear space, a deep peace. Then I was barely breathing, looking at the whole scene at once, the light filtering through the trees, so beautiful, and the corpse melting into the sand."
No comments:
Post a Comment