Exorcism Ritual Part 2

Last week on Friday 13th July 2012, I played a gig. It was alright. I had fun but some people in the audience thought it wasn't so funny. I have no idea why.

If you won't come to the temple, the temple will come to you.

During the show, I used a number of stompboxes to get the effects necessary to facilitate and convey particular passages in the short set we did.

But one pedal I will never ever use again, is this one:

Turns awesome distortion power into whiny bitch. But no more!

Achievement unlocked.

Post-modernism & the Art of Addiction

 

Behemoth - Despotic glutton or helpless addict?
Answers on a postcard in less than 25 words.

The addict tells himself "One more. Just one more hit, man. One more high then I'll go straight. Swear to God, man…I'm gonna get myself clean after this one."

I tell myself the same thing each time.

The stark truth that I live with on a daily basis, the repugnant scar that threatens what last remaining shreds of self-respect & dignity that I have; the painful, cringe-inducing reminder when I look in the mirror each morning & as these eyes chance upon the image on random reflective surfaces through the day - that I too, am an addict.

The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge that there is a problem to begin with. That part is easy-peasy lemon squeezy.

The next step & this is where it gets rather complicated, is to do something to ADDRESS the problem.

I can't afford to check myself into a rehabilitation facility. I just can't.

Last Saturday night I made the decision to stop this addiction once & for all. And like the model addict that I've always been, I wanted to mark that monumental decision with one last bender, one final throw of the dice, one glorious free-for-all that if it didn't make me want to stop for good, would kill me.

Now that I think about it, I'd rather that it would render me dead because to act on something that you've depended on for so long is akin to dismembering a vital part of your anatomy. In my time of need, it has always been there for me; when I'm happy, when I'm depressed, when things go right, when things go tragically wrong (especially). I turn to this addiction for comfort & tellingly so, end up feeling dirty, hating myself & promising time and again - THIS IS THE LAST TIME.

All this while, very much like an Ingmar Bergman classic movie - God remains silent. 

So just like Antonius Block tempts Death repeatedly with the proverbial game of chess while yearning for the voice of his Creator to tell him something; anything, if this was all worth it…I tempted fate by pushing it a little further each time. The high gets higher, I wanted desperately for the high to go on a little bit longer but the reality is when you get that high & keep on getting higher, the distance to where the ground is gets bigger and with that so too does the impact of the crash.

I seek neither sympathy nor understanding, neither tolerance nor acceptance. True to character as the hardened addict I've grown to become, the staring eyes of those around me mean nothing as I indulge, publicly. No shame, no remorse; just am empty gaze from lifeless eyes as I scratch the proverbial itch even as the flesh turns red and then raw, blood-letting a foregone conclusion by then.

Getting back to where I mentioned about last Saturday night: It finally happened. The camel's back broke. It had to end before it spelt my end. And this was what the last hurrah looked like:

The Last Hurrah - minus the cockles & prawns (obviously).

Compared to the artery-blocking, gut-busting smorgasbord of swine-like proportions one would normally associate with "the final meal", this simple bowl of laksa is akin to ending with a whimper. Well, a whimper it might have been but most importantly, it was the end.


The end of a 4-year binge that threatened to destroy the vessel before the spirit within could come into full bloom.

What is consumed, becomes.

Drink from poisoned chalices and spew forth venom.

Slake your thirst with all that is good and worthy

And never will your throat be parched for another waking hour.

Think about what I have not said.

- Zachariah Elias, August 2007                                                                                                   

The long hard road to recovery has begun for The True Zachariah Elias. 

Exorcism Ritual Part 1

Muchsin & Titiek Sandhora, I'm not sorry.

On Buddha's deathday,
wrinkled tough old hands pray -
the prayer beads' sound


- Matsuo Basho

I had intended to start off this current literary undertaking with the following line:

*cue Shaw Brothers Films' trumpet fanfare*

"Some years ago I had an online journal ....."

And that is where I stopped myself before I committed the second greatest criminal act that one could pull on oneself: to reminisce fondly upon past "glories", to never escape from the constrictive comfort zone built on past "successes", to LI(V)E IN THE PAST.

"Some years ago" has gone. So what now?

If anything, this blog is only a small part of a multi-faceted, many-pronged approach & attempt at a massive exorcism ritual; an intricate, drawn-out ceremonial proceeding full of symbolism & meaning, all designed to banish the ghosts which have long threatened to hold back my progress as a "human becoming" (because I am not content to just "be", improvement & evolution is integral to survival & growth).

You see, if immersing yourself & getting lost in that rose-tinted haze of past glory is the second greatest injustice that you could do to yourself, then the greatest injustice ever is to let the FAILURES of the past prevent you from achieving all the SUCCESS that was always meant to be yours.

Yesterday I said tomorrow; it has come & gone. 

This serves as a snapshot in time; a documentation of a healing process, a record of growth & if all else fails; a randomly put-together literary collage of stories, rants & sweet-nothings whispered softly into the ears of an unwilling audience whose hands & legs are fastidiously tied with duct tape; a rusty pen-knife wielded with such delicate poise & lovingly held with sublime pressure against taut, dry, nervous throats.

Sweet.

My name is The True Zachariah Elias & I am a very, very naughty brown boy.