Miserable Miracle: Mescaline Book

You go from little death to little death for hours on end, from shipwreck to rescue, succumbing every three or four minutes without the least apprehension, only to be gently, marvelously resuscitated once more. A deep sigh, which speaks volumes to those who know, is the only intimation of new rescues, but the voyage continues, a new death is preparing from which you will emerge in the same way. It is as though you had another heart whose systole and diastole occurred fifteen or twenty times an hour.

Homesick for himself. Three weeks in the wake of mescaline's demands of submission. Three months for the troll to get back to his under the belly goat's bridge. Michaux surrendered for a memory of stealing his wool weaving to see through. I don't have nothing but I am relishing/writhing in the envy of his born visions. I don't ever want to try mescaline, or any drug for this. I give in/pick up a sleeping pill problem. Oblivion, rather fooling myself that this time it will be possible to set down on the other side. Hibernating bears have it all. It doesn't work that way. The nothing doesn't burn on nothing. Something like in the Neverending Story and taunting wolfs offering nothing for something. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to relate to the "fun part" of drug taking instead of the rock drowning, leaving the bereft that knows me. Going under for surgery was a blackhole too. The cosmic floating happened, yet I was deaf to tastes and blind to sounds. A contextless black hole. I'm terrified of the spiritual leprosy of returning to the same cliff, anyway. Yet it is almost tempting, to think about the are they the same figments of cats. I have seen them before, on bridges. Are they the same as Anna Kavan's leopards from inside and the tigers prowling Robert Smith. Michaux's psuedo cats, long after the three months. When Russian bears break into airports for the jet fuel fumes are they communicating with their spirit animals? It's a colorblindness in the flying solo world (to hell with that. Fever dreams float over horrors and can't-tear-away-wrecks). I want to know why the mescaline colors could be the same from one head orbit to another celestial homing pigeon. Does the mystery lose anything if you can go, oh that's just the mescaline? Or the contrasting hashish. Michaux was willing to follow hashish as he tooth and nailed the imprisming of mescaline. I liked how he describes the massaging laughter in the bodies of its users. I don't believe in a tomorrow and a tomorrow and a tomorrow this way any more than I do any other drug. I see empty cages and pacing great outdoors prisons. But I liked it like this. Feed my nest. The closest to this I've ever had must have been when my sister and I were babies. My aunt said we laughed in our sleep. Must be the same tigers, under the glassy fish and spirit bears.

I didn't know about the Zilla spiders. I love Michaux for saying the psychiatrists should have tested the marijuana and urine of schizophrenics on themselves rather than on the spiders.
I also tested what he said how it is impossible to envision colors and hear music with your inner ears. The colors went sun spots (I called staring at the sun and lamps and bringing forth the popping inside out colors "my magic powers" when I was a small girl). If I do my insomniac standby of boats it's an awareness of colors more than sensual vividness of the music.... (Spiders have the highest success rate for stupors. I can't wait to get mixed up about zilla spiders.) I get the one foot in the realm of the living and the let's see if we can get it away with it experimentation. I loved his bridges. I want Michaux bridges. I don't know about the heat of hashish versus frozen alive of mescaline.... It has to be a hearing aid and not the big, big picture. That's how it works to do the body's own chemistry.... (There have to be the dead inside the drug robots. Laika can't always make it up above the world.)

Offer what is of little importance, mental images, little everyday ideas.
Otherwise you will be wholly uninhabitable, horrifying to yourself, your house in the torrent, an object of ridicule in your own eyes.

The illustrations reminded me of jacob's ladder on skin, your only home walled in.... I want to know the whole work, though I can't read French and all.... Michaux's I-wanted-to-say when it was happening.