modern memoirs of a mystic journey
"I would not call my life a conversion, merely a version, for there are truths I would not come to understand until after many years ahead of confused digression, false intent, debauchery, idleness, unfaith, and agony.
For me it began as a wild and manic ride of booze and anguish, dope and euphoria, destiny and freedom, psychedelia, mushrooms, madness, humility, and wonder. I would not come to the nothingness that is everything until all the blood had been letted from my putrid corpse, until I had mapped out all the blind alleys within myself, until the heavens had murdered me without pity or concern, until I loved and cursed and followed God, and then was broken from the mold of the manifest, and inhaled back to the Source, like a creature caught in the throat of a Creator who had just begun to breathe.
It was a troubling and euphoric period for me. Life was as bewildering as it was grand. I couldn’t get a hold of it, and I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t get lost because I was always lost. I created it and was created by it. I was caught inside, and trapped outside. I was bored and amazed and worn thin by the background exaltation tapped into the electric din. I tried my best and didn’t give a damn either. I piled it up, and let it crumble. It all fell away and went nowhere. It came back but never quite got to me. The mayhem and order blended in and disproved each other. My senses betrayed my mind, my mind betrayed my heart, my heart betrayed my spirit, and my spirit betrayed them all. It was a witch’s brew of laughter and tears and the nonsense which excited them both. I never really started nor finished and the path went on without direction, goal, nor demand. My self both dissolved and remained, though I could never see anything but that which obstructed it. The vortex tightened, the way widened, the show of consciousness broke open, permeated, shrank and congealed, and all the while the dream-host existence ran on and on without boundary, property, method, nor time.
Had I known then what I was in for, I would perhaps never have chosen to walk down that tunnel. Or perhaps I would have had no other tunnel to choose. No matter. The best thing to do when caught in a whirlpool is to quit struggling toward the vanishing surface, to give your energy to the vortex, and to dive as deep as possible, waiting until you hit bottom and are torn away by the river, at which point you can prepare for your return to the surface.
That is when you come out of it. You come out wild and crazy. You come out hard and ambivalent, finished and yet hardly begun. You come out through the threshold of indifference, of care, of suffering, of life, of death, of meaning, of meaninglessness, of noise, and of silence. You come out from nowhere, out from a person you never were, to a person you no longer are. You run free at these moments when what always mattered finally ends, when life breaks stride with the current of its own disbelief. Out and out you come, all the while falling inward. Falling into the self beyond the self, into the centerless happening where nothing and everything occurs. You come out into it all, broken away from the tether of purpose, the chains of need, the bonds of striving, the shackles of the trapped and abandoned. You come out and the wind licks your wounds through the blood of your losses. There is no need to haunt the world ever again, nor find yourself simple comforts or worth. You belong to no one and nothing, not even yourself. Beyond salvation and damnation, nothing can stop nor hold you now. You are free. And it doesn’t matter. And that is why you are free. ..."
What the critics have said about Jack Haas' books:
"...very strongly recommended reading..." Midwest Book Review
"The Kerouac of the new millennium." Frank Wolf (author of Blind Bay)
"...inspires us to rediscover the mystery of ourselves..." Judine Slaughter (Express Yourself Books)
"...Read in awe." Benjamin Tucker (author of Roadeye)
"...groundbreaking..." Joanne Turner (The Messenger)
"...an embarrassment of riches..." George Fisk (author of A New Sense of Destiny)
"...poetic and stunning..." Nancy Jackson (Dog-Eared Book Reviews)
Books by Jack Haas
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