Last Words

What is left in these minds? Very little of value to me or anyone I can relate to. “All my relations,” as the Indians say. Like the drug anti’s in Malaysia say: “dealers are not human to him.”

And he—Mohathir Mohamed, Prime Minister—is not human to me. I curse him with my whole heart. There is nothing in him I feel for, or with.

Same goes for the firestorm impresarios.

So as this inglorious chapter in the USA draws to a dreary close with Clinton squeaking like the rat he turned out to be, that [in] Arizona and California together courts [are] quasi-legalizing marijuana for medical or any other purpose ….

You must mark it to its place. It is an ILLEGAL drug and by illegal, beyond question.

Tuesday, December 31, 1996.

I will start my auto—

you know—

If he—

Then I felt the touch of a higher power and I became a morphine addict. Best thing I ever did for myself. Without God’s Own Medicine I could well have ended up one of those “Write the Great American Novel” [types] that never get off the ground, or an alcoholic academic:

“Will he get tenure? Will he break up with his lover of ten years?”

It is one tired soap opera and thanks to G.O.M. I didn’t slip on it.

“Will he get tenure? Will the bank approve his application for a second mortgage? Should he make (risk) a pass at young Prescott, in violation of his own rule?”

He will write the Great American Novel someday, simply dripping with “high seriousness,” that will pose and probe momentous questions.

In Egyptian hieroglyphs the idea of “question” is reeds and water.

The touch (nudge) of God’s Own Medicine led me to Junky, [to] Naked Lunch, to finding a vacation—I mean, of course, vocation. A place in life. My place in life—and it opened my eyes to the evil that lurks behind the war against drugs. Illegal drugs. Not just any drugs. Once a drug becomes illegal, it acquires a sulfurous glow from the depths of Hell.

So through G.O.M. I gained self-respect—and in so doing, the respect of others.

I am an unabashed cultural Icon. I stand for the truth. I hate liars.

My familiar is the White Cat, formed of searing white moonlight under which all hidden plots, all lies and deceits, are brought to the light of The Hunting Cat. He can’t be bought. Stack it to the ceiling. He can’t be scared. He is light right through. Fear is deviousness. We march under the banner of The Hunting Cat.

What I mean by truth: I mean what is there when all the bullshit is gone. Not one lie left. All gone away.

And what, if anything, remains is TRUTH and consequences.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Hell, I gotta big mouth, what would happen to me if I lost it—”

Good Old Boy. These are unsightly tricks.

“It has happened. You have lost it.”

The day of the liar is done.

Truth is here when all the words are rubbed out. Words were made to lie with.

(“I will go and laugh with my wife.”)

Wherever that come from it was there.

Now, brothers and sisters, this is not done quick or easy. You find one lie in yourself and shove it out, and three more quicker than him come in. It’s something you have to do every day, every hour, every second.

Trace down those lies. The White Cat will do the rest. The Hunting Cat.

We are—and by “we” I mean [we] who are sick of lies and bullshit—

Clinton—what a wrong number he turns out to be—won by default—better than Dole—says:

“There will be no RX’s for illegal drugs like marijuana for medical or any other purposes.”

An illegal drug is fucking illegal.

The whole Freudian Fraud was embraced by the upper middle ad[vertising and] pub[lishing] executives, because they knew they were compacted of lies. And they foolishly (fondly) thought some Yid from Frankurt-am-Main could straighten the whole mess out.

(Shoot a little G.O.M. and maybe the mess won’t seem so messy.)

Remember Phil White saying about getting on junk:

“Worst thing can happen to a man.”

Or he’d say:

“If God made anything better, He kept it for Himself.”

Take no. 2:

I never regretted junk habit. Those lying bastards have the gall to ask me to speak about the evils of junk—I told them: “shallow pretext for police state,” and they was off-line quick, lest they become contaminated by such evil dissent.

Well, Truth Party knows Evil when and where they see it.

“Talking is a woman.”

Old, old song.

Any group—Black, Jew, woman, white, Arab, Chinese—that sets itself up as the superior creatures, end up as humorless (Communist) doctrinaire (atheists).

Any group puts out lying pamphlets like Scab—(“We at Scab”)—are all “evil-hearted bores.”

So who can prove that I didn’t on my vacations go to Tangier and rape children?

They got some of the rudiments of the Big Lie. But too far off the mark.