The Ishmael Gradsdovic Papers, part eighteen


Part eighteen of the Ishmael Gradsdovic papers has our protagonist discovering a pasta recipe in a fever dream, and giving a tutorial on dadaist spiritual guidance...


Date: Wed, 11 May 94 10:42:17 PST

Friday I alternated vomiting with sleeping with nausea. Instant stomach flu. Played softball Thursday night, felt fine, slept well. Woke up the next morning and realized almost as soon as I remembered my name that I was very sick. Saturday I slept, mostly. Didn't eat a full meal until Monday. But Friday night or was it Saturday, a fever vision came to me. The most unlikely fever vision -- the perfect pasta recipe. With dry Japanese peppers, no less. I never cook with peppers.

Frozen spinach, thawed and rinsed. The peppers soaked with sliced garlic in vermouth and olive oil, then simmered. Add cream. Cook up that kind of pasta that's a couple of inches long, a half inch in diameter and cylindrical -- I forget what it's called. A sprinkle of whadidiuse... cumin? tumeric? one of those. Plenty of grated parmesan on hand.

I wasn't even remotely hungry, but it sounded appealing anyway. When I got well I went to the store to gather what I needed. As an afterthought I considered getting some exotic mushrooms of some sort, but all they had at Scolari's were shittake, and that seemed a little harsh.

I got home and threw the ingredients together with no measurement or recipe other than the memory of my vision. Served with San Luis Sourdough. It was fabulous. Ten out of ten. And just like the vision said it would be. Got rave reviews from the roommate. It had four flavors. When it first hit the tongue it was sweet and rich from the vermouth and cream. Then the spices and spinach hit you with an earthy thing salted by the parmesan. Then zing the peppers spread like a dizzy spell. Then a fourth flavor comes on after you swallow, that's somehow bigger than the combination of its parts.

Good conversation as well. The roomie and I share an interest in the psychedelic state, and tend to use it vigorously for spiritual growth and such. We've taken to initiating others and to evaluating their experiences from a distance and trying to come up with ways to push them in the right direction ("Here, look at this! Try that!").

But the language we use together to explain where we've been and what the lay of the land is in the psychedelic dimension -- what the bogs look like and how to check for signs of psychic quicksand and poison oak -- must seem fabulously nonsensical to those listening in on the microphones installed in the living room by the Narcotics Task Force. Reminds me sometimes of the weird imagery of religion.

I imagine two Buddhist teachers sitting around discussing a problem student. "It's like he's captivated by one facet in this wonderful lotus jewel of the timeless, multidimensional vajri net of infinite blueness." "I know what you mean. Try hitting him across the chakra with the dharma sword of compassionate severing force." "I tried that, but the multitudinous strands of impenetrable karmic debt kept gumming up the blade." "Oh. Try Simple Green. Works wonders on the kitchen counter."

There's one case especially which troubles us. He trips often, but doesn't seem to get as much out of it as we do. Instead of rocking his foundation and opening him to the wonder of Everything, the experience is carefully used by him as a tool to put new and pretty pictures up on his philosophical façade.

Of course, it's His Trip, Babe, and we have to be aware that our dharmically-tinged trips aren't The Way to do it. We're trying to learn from his way of experiencing things, but can't seem to shake the idea that he's just not really getting the point.

"We've got to bring his right brain out somehow."

"Yeah, but every time it comes out, his left brain whips up a metaphor or an analogy or something and chokes it to death."

"We could try to trip up the left brain somehow."

"Hit it with The Game, maybe?"

The Game is something we play occasionally on our trips. We set up pieces and a board with whatever is handy in what bears a superficial resemblance to some other game -- Chess, checkers, whatever. Then we start moving the pieces deliberately but with no rules and no purpose. Sometimes several minutes go by as one person deliberates over the correct move. Each move is purposeless unless it isn't. No pieces belong to any player unless they do. People who don't think they're in the game often are. Things that are extra-game parameters often aren't. Sometimes you have to be reminded, "it's your move," if you don't realize that the other person smelling something carried in on a breeze constituted that person's move.

It's an Expedient Vehicle® for killing the "left brain." It takes a while to teach, though. The subject at first tries to find patterns. You put the salt shaker on top of the checker for your first move. You put your hat on the table for the second move. He thinks it must have something to do with putting things on top of other things. He sees the game tokens moving from one configuration to another and tries to see symbols in those configurations. The Game Player may encourage this with fake patterns and portentious nonsense. Then it all vanishes. The player swings to the other extreme of thinking it's all random sillyness. He puts a chess piece on the top of his head and flaps his arms like a chicken. The Game Player laughs, throws the Queen across the room and yells "CHECK!" The student is almost There.

A good Game Player will put The Game in the context of THE GAME at some crucial moment. If a student does that, s/he graduates and everybody shares a laugh. If we can get our problem child this far, we'll be very pleased. If we learn something from him along the way, we'll be blessed. If we get good and stoned, it at least won't be a waste of time.




email Ishmael