A story of one soul during two lives

Maybe this is the wrong approach. There is opportunity, true, to embrace death in my own fashion; but do I thereby win? Is blinking out with a minimum of discomfort and maximum dignity the only available goal? It seems meager.

Quincy Jones may not have the answers; but Western allopathy is not the final word on healthcare, and is hardly the most venerable tradition. A Taoist or Ayurvedic healer might have a different opinion.

Acupuncture. Spirit healing. Orgone boxes. Peyote ceremonies. Cleansing herbs. Colon hydrotherapy. Full-coven spells. Antioxidants. Alien intervention. Cloning. Cryogenics. Computer storage of my brain matrix.

Hope! Opiate of the soul! Just an idea, really. The willingness to believe in a pleasant future, in spite of all the evidence. Faith. Not my strong suit. Such a temporary feeling.

I am alone. This seems inappropriate.

I must call Llewellyn Reece. I scroll to that number and press “send.”

No answer. Chime, and greeting. Protracted beep. “It’s Victor. I need to talk to you. Please call me. It’s important.” An empty feeling, talking to a voicemail, when what you really need is a human. I start the engine. May as well head home. Home is where the drugs are.

I think we’ll get things started by dropping, deep, deep into a K-hole. Half a vial should do the trick. I think I still have that much Japanese Red Label; if not, I have three of Anasket and a Green Label Ketacet. Maybe even a plastic seal with a quarter V or so of Hydrochloride, the creme de la creme.

I flip on the radio. “Come on baby, don’t fear the Reaper-”

Exasperated, I hit the search button as I light a cigarette.

“And when I die, and when I’m gone, there’ll be one child born in this world  to carry on, to carry on-”

Search.

“Knock, knock knockin’ on Heaven’s door…”

Search.

“Goodbye life, goodbye sweet caress, I think I’m going to die, bye-bye my life goodbye.”

Enough of this shit. And they play nothing but love songs after you’ve had your heart broken. Radio stations have an uncanny knack for playing what I don’t want to hear. I pop in a Ziggy Marley tape as I torch a spliff. That should lift my spirits. Irie, mon.

“All things have come to an end, now I be mindful of prayer…I’m goin away/To a place where there is no night or day-” Surrendering, I switch off the stereo and drive in silence.