How to Worship the One-Eyed God
July 13, 1996
From memories of a long-gone time....
What is it like to worship the one eyed God? You stand in the kitchen cooking the magic snow cone. It started as much as a half or even a whole ounce of cocaine. You bring the water up to a boil in your favorite small pan. You get the soup ladle and drop the cocaine as crystal and rock into the ladle. Then you add 1/3 of the amount by weight of baking soda. Next you spoon in enough of the boiling water to bring the bubbling magic into solution.
I could sit here and explain how the baking soda shears the chlorine and hydrogen atoms off of the cocaine hydrochloride. You would still not understand the bubbles unless you have seen and smelled them. The magic of it and the wonder. The sickening despair of dread that you feel at your core.
The cocaine separates from the rest and floats as a blob of oil on the surface of the boiling water in the ladle. You lower the ladle carefully into the boiling water in the pan on the burner. After the cocaine is completely separated you lift the ladle out of the pan of boiling water and add ice to the brew within the ladle to cool it off rapidly. As it cools you reach into the blob with a cool metal probe that you swirl, it condenses into a hard rock that sticks to the end of the probe. It looks for all the world like the top of a swirled snow cone that has condensed in the ladle.
You drop the main chunk that is stuck to the probe onto a plate, it clinks and you listen for the sound. You pour the beautiful mess through a pair of stockings, or nylon underwear stretched over another cup to catch the waste liquid. Later when desperate you can usually recook the water and get some more back out of it.
Chances are by this time you are wearing panty hose and high heels, nipple clamps...all in sweet anticipation. Now, now you are to impatient to get the first blast to worry about minor issues. You feel sick and excited. The bouquet is turning the keys to locks in the places in your mind that remind you of every other time that you have done this. You drop the rest of the rock onto a plate, it clinks. You can't believe how beautiful and white and pure it looks. You love and despise it and yourself. You and everyone who is with you are salivating, they feel sick in their stomach.
You bust it by pushing the ball of your thumb down onto the rock. If you have done everything just right it is solid all the way through. If not a core of hot liquid oil leaks out of the cracked chunk and sticks to your thumb. If that is the case you grab a knife and scrape it off of your thumb. It leaves a white residue behind on the skin of your thumb. Your heart is beating fast and hard. Someone has their hand on your ass and is sticking their tongue in your ear. You don't care about this just then.
You pick your favorite blackened spoon from the case and place it on one of the front burners of the stove. You turn the electric burner on high and wait impatiently for it to glow red. This is the source of the name, The One Eyed God, in the dark of the kitchen it looks like a single red glowing eye. You do worship it, you spend hour after hour taking match head sized pieces of the pure cocaine now returned to an alkaloid base and throwing them onto the red hot spoon. As the vapor rises you inhale it thru the cardboard core from the center of the paper towel roll. No little shitty glass pipes or cola cans converted to a pipe. No smoking of the sacrament with the filthy ashes of tobacco for you. Now you worship in purity. No cut. No waste. It vaporizes instantly and rushes up the tube as you inhale forcefully. All of the paper towel packages in your closet have been ripped open and the core of cardboard removed one by one. You are chasing the rush. It can not run around. It is your servant and your master. It calls you back to worship over and over again.
The rush is beyond description. I have tried to describe it many times. It is most like having every intense feeling that your body can feel, you want to puke, have an orgasm, piss, shit, sweat, scream all at the same time. Sometimes you do. The first blast is like the best thing that you have ever felt. From then on it is a study in maintenance, all that you want is to feel that same rush again. Again. Again. Again. Then the madness from the toxicity starts.
The burning madness can take any form or desire. Imagine standing in your own front yard at three or four AM in your underwear or even naked. It is winter and cold, you are steaming with sweat. Your heart pounds. In one hand you have a syringe filled with air. It is hidden behind your back. Strapped at your side is a shiny stainless steel .44 mag Smith and Wesson. Your eyes are bulging out of your head. Your eyebrows are trying to climb up over your hair line. In short you are insane. Toxic with cocaine toxicity.
It can happen very fast, the toxic madness. You wander around in fear. You are looking for the face and the name of your faceless and nameless fear. You are prepared to pump a syringe full of air into the face of nameless fear. The gun is no comfort, you are paranoid in a way that can not be described, only experienced. You run in and out of your home looking for whoever it is that is spying on you. There is no one there. Still you see them in the shadows, you hear them behind you no matter which way that you turn. You are sure that there are microphones in every object in your home. You begin to take things apart looking for the wires in the wall.
First your wife is begging you to come in the house then she is begging you to stop. You crawl on your belly through a puddle of freezing water on the front porch. You crawl on the floor of the house with a flashlight looking for fragments that you know that you must have dropped. Now you know that there is a plate with an ounce of base on the kitchen counter and yet here you are looking for flakes on the floor. The peep hole at your door is surrounded by a black sweat stain from you looking out it over and over again. Same with the drapes, black stains at the places where you have parted them a thousand times a thousand times to look out for the nameless fear's face. Your breathing is rapid though shallow. You sweat continuously, needing a towel with you and even then leaving drops of sweat everywhere that you walk.
She is disgusted with you. It is not the first time and it will not be the last. You are disgusting even to yourself. Still you chase the one eyed God and pray that you will have that one last good rush before you run out of cocaine. This is the impossible mission. You see, there never is enough. No matter how much money, no matter how much cocaine. The emptiness in you can not be filled with cocaine. You have not realized that yet. If you have, you push it to the back of your mind. If it pokes its head up, you slam it back down. You live in fear.
You shower, as the sweat rolls down your body to the drain you peek continuously out of the shower curtain. You live in fear of the nameless fear. You are sick. You will die if you pursue this madness. Yet you pursue and pursue, the sun eventually comes up. When that happens you nail black cloth over the windows. You nail the windows and doors shut. You wait in fear for the cops to kick the door down. While you wait you have endless and meaningless, twisted sex with anyone willing.
She screams her anger and frustration at you as you crawl on the floor. She walks along beside you begging you to stop. You pray that you will die and you fear that you will live. In a moment the focus changes from the cocaine to some sex thing that you want to do or you want someone to do to you. The next hit is much the same. You want everything and nothing. You turn the lights out all through the house. You wander through it like some spirit of mad desire and sickness. Madness at your core. The black death. The little death that feels like a million orgasms. The One Eyed God waits...you pray that you will die and fear that you will live...The One Eyed God waits...as long as there is dope or a way to get more you continue, days...merge into nights...weeks merge into months...months merge into years and the years go by.
Do you see what you are becoming? What you are? You hide from the truth. You love the taste of the sweet death in your mouth. You pray for death. Left to your own you will die. For whatever reason someone or something, some God decides that it needs you here for a while longer. It reaches its hand out to you and when that slime that has been running into your eyes drips clear you see me standing there bright, bright as light. Hands outstretched wanting more always more.
From that darkness you rise into the light. The desire can sleep but it never really goes away. It waits in the dark and whispers sweet nothings about promised pleasure. You sink into it over and over again. Thinking that you are free you fall into the sweet crystal garden of your lovers arms. You wallow in it with complete abandon, wanton, desire is your every act and thought. The door is as convenient a lover as the chair and a tool. Men and women, clay that is flesh, you mold and shape to your desire. You are mad with desire. The darkness comes again and the sex feels so good. You are mad. With the feelings of sensual delight roaming across your skin as the hot tip of a lit cigarette is pressed against your nipple. Your lips form a beautiful bow that you wish to color red with dark lipstick.
The cinnamon shaft dream is sweet cream in your cup and you drink so deeply that it fills you from the backside to the front you feel the shaft filling every recess and spreading you, this is but one dream. There are a million more to make happen...a never ending stream of fantasy fulfilled in the wells of pleasure that wait in the temple of the One Eyed God. It calls softly and whispers of love and worship. Come to me, this time will be different...I promise my love. It will, I promise. It will be different.
You butterfly in and out of consciousness unsure what is happening only knowing that you want. The want can not be filled and yet you can not stop trying. It feels so dark and safe so sweet and sick. The sex is good. The sex is good. The sex is so good. You wallow in it until it is no longer any fun. The One Eyed God is an eyeless liar. Do not listen to the whispers of promised pleasure. It is a lie. The sex is a lie. The rush is a lie. Believe. Find freedom where you least expect to find it. I feel that I think to much. She is gone. The wounds bleed on. The wounds bleed. I live in bliss and joy in harmony with my desire. It is God, whatever is at the center of you is your God!
The first year is a gift. Do not scorn the gift. It is hard to keep coming back after one has fallen into the same glittering death bouquet and come up smelling like blood and bruises. Fire and ice, hothouse flowers and blood. It never ends. I have destroyed so much time and love with that harsh mistress. You slap my ass as you fuck me. Yes. Yes... now the cock in my mouth yes, yes, yes, yes, more, more, more, it taste like honey and sweat. I love the way that you smell when you are horny and have been snorting cocaine. You lift my legs and pierce me with your artificial maleness.
Your eyes glitter, you are angry with me...in our real lives I am dominant. In our fantasy life you spread my legs and fuck me...I love it. It must be wrapped up with some thing. Fuck Freud! Must still be focused on a dominant male figure...No not abuse. Dominance. I needed to be dominated in bed, to balance the dominance that I held in my fist like a weapon. Too damn cerebral just fuck me.
We both love and despise this whole sick fantasy that I have developed over the years. There is no limit to it. I used to drive the streets dressed like a street walker, meeting pretty young men that would take me in their arms and use me. I loved kneeling before them with their hands on the back of my head fucking my mouth like a pussy. Just thinking about all those wondrous and horrible nights I got so horny I had to go and masturbate. I am not quite divine just yet....