Hey bro,

I’m in Asia, Southeast Asia. Bali, Indonesia to be more specific. They call Bali ‘the island of the Gods’, it’s one of eighteen thousand islands that comprises the Indonesian archipelago, which happens to be the largest in the world. I wonder if Bali was dubbed ‘The Island of the Gods’ by locals or foreigners? I know that Indonesia contains the worlds largest muslim population and also has a deeply rich hindu/buddhist past as well as present. Much of the architecture that I see, expressed in mandalas and statues of avatars and deities both peaceful and terrifying, inspirational and interesting, is indicative of a spiritualist culture. The locals place small offerings to the g(G)ods all over the streets. They appear to be bamboo leaves folded into concave squares that contain items of cultural and spiritual signifcance. Primarily, rice, candy, cigarettes, and some other items I have yet to identify. They are probably six inches long and 4 inches wide. Regardless of who created the nick name for the island, from what I can tell it is littered with active and dormant temples, primarily buddhist and hindu, but also some muslim mosques. As I thumb around on google maps, I see that the buddhist temples are marked by an icon of the dharma wheel; hindu temples are marked by the ubiquitous and frequently culturally appropriated “Om/Aum” symbol; and the muslim mosques are marked by the usual crescent moon and star, which was in fact attributed to the religion as an identifying mark by the Ottoman Empire.

It’s hard for me not to think of you in such place as this. Not only have you been to this side of the world, you were (and now, ineffably and transcendentally, are) one of the most powerfully god touched humans I have ever known. The irony of your hedonic shadow nature is not lost on me. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” William Blake gets it, man. You got high. A lot. And what goes up must come down. It is through experiencing peaks beyond Everest and chasms deeper than the Marina trench that you lived the entire spectrum of human feeling. The problem with your approach is that it lacked discipline. It was a shortcut. It provided you with the feelings that normally come equipped with, and symptomatic of, an experience. It was essentially a form of bypass. You got the milk and honey with out the laborious toil of blood and sweat. You cruised the waves of nirvanic bliss without walking the path of the spiritual warrior. The irony is that you did bleed and you did sweat. So, I guess in this way it became your own sort of system or dharma. What I would call a perverse and apoplectic and languorous system, but a system nonethless. A sort of madness where you compulsively touched the hot stove over, and over, and over again. A masturbatory flicking of the clitoral god head over, and over again until it was dried, withered, shriveled, and devoid of vigor.

Drugs were for you an escape from your internal hell. They acted as a helicopter ride around the top of the mountain. But in your case the helicopter didn’t land safely at the base. It ran out of fuel, was struck by lightning, and careened into a ravine filled with hyenas, serpents, and shadows. Anytime you began to realize the folly of your path, you would steel yourself for the long trek back to the base of the mountain, to forsake hedonism and embrace discipline. But, at some point in your journey, while battling vipers and carnivores, you would become weary with the realization of how far you had to go just to reach the base of the mountain where you started to begin with. Because you were so deep in the darkness of the valley, there was practically no one to turn to that could be of compassionate service, for all who was left were those who were forsaken, such as yourself. This frigid fact insured your abandonment of hope. Therefore, you hopped back into the wreckage of the hedonic helicopter and pursued another flight to the mountain top, only to crash even deeper and harder than before. Over, and over, and over, and over again.

In writing this, I find myself more properly equipped to understand the nature of addiction, isolation, and hopelessness.

You probably already know this, but you’re here, in Bali, too. You’re in my bag, in a locker, in my dormitory. Mom and I used a spoon to scoop some of you into a tupperware container that dad usually uses for salad dressing. He loves his balsamic vinaigrette. Don’t worry, I got all of the oil out before putting you in there, I know you were more of a creamy dressing kind of guy yourself. You always told me to use lots of oils and butters and fatty foods for my cooking. You told me how important those fats were for neurological health, plasticity, and communication. Considering you were someone who did more damage to your brain than good, it’s ironic that you had such a profound understanding of how to keep it healthy. I guess it makes sense. Shooting up that much methamphetamine and drinking that much cough syrup would require one to have a more complete understanding than most of how to keep the brain lubricated and nourished. I thank you for your knowledge of nootropics. I continue to benefit from it.

Today is Nyepi. Balinese new year. It’s a day of silence. You can’t be in the streets or you will be arrested. All of the ATMS and businesses are closed. I am locked in my Hostel with probably thirty other backpackers from all over the world. Tonight, we play drinking games and celebrate the non-consensual restriction of our minds and bodies in observance of a religion that we do not, nor want to, believe in.

CHEERS!

Manically and Sporadically Yours,

Dillan