New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:
“Okay, let’s take a moment together,” Pappo said. “That story means something to you, doesn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Well, we’re supposed to be here in preparation to take the lotus fruit into us, and you jumped right into the story.”
“It’s entertaining. And it’s a habit, I guess.” I missed Pan all of a sudden, but only by a pinch. The little beast had such rapt attention for this tale while Pappo held my ramblings at arm’s length. What my mentor was actually asking was, “Are you done?” All with this patient smile and quiet confidence that signaled that there was no doubt in his mind that eventually I would stop talking and understand this was supposed to be a more inward moment.
Right. So silence.
Well…this fucking sucks.
I’ve always found that having a glass of wine in my hand smooths these moments. Some stage business. Finding a way to organize one’s hands was half the battle. Come to think of it, why would I give up wine?
You know, I wonder if I left the front door open.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen my wife. I miss Ariadne. She’s cool. Too bad I haven’t seen her in years.
My scalp itches, and the ground is hard. I should have worn something softer.
At the very least, I probably do need to cut back on all the partying.
And on and on the commentary marched. It was sweet relief when Pappo finally spoke up an eternity later. Like the song of distant champagne corks beckoning me to a party. I was beginning to worry that our silent stillness in preparation for taking the lotus fruit would be like a couple of years endured amongst Trappist monks.
“Dionysus,” he said, “how are you holding up over there?”
I’m fairly certain he didn’t expect me to say, “Alright.” Thus, my fashionable confession instead: “Well, you know.”
That “you know” signaled there was a lot unspoken, obviously: creeping alcoholism, psychotic friendships, collapse-of-divine-structure anxiety, solitary despair, boredom, rage—it’s just…that’s so much.
And they shouldn’t cluster like that!
A polite smile from Pappo.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I elaborated. “Interminable assaults going on upstairs. Chatter, chatter, chatter. Caught up in my own story.”
“Is it making you stronger or weaker to do that?”
“To do what?”
“To get caught up. To get lost in your own mind.”
I shook my head. “It makes me…I don’t know.”
“Then contemplate it.”
I concentrated.
“It makes me feel manic. Like I can’t stop. Sometimes it feels like my whole life is devoted to keeping my mind busy. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve been alone, not doing anything. Everything is one big distraction.”
“From what?”
I shrugged. “From myself, maybe?”
“And why do you want to run away from yourself?” he asked. “What’s so bad about it?”
“C’mon, Pappo, you know it’s uncomfortable for me.”
“What is?”
“Solitude.”
“Why?”
“Because when I’m alone, there’s nothing to do! If I’m left alone with myself, all I want to do is get away from myself. I’m always wanting to get away from who I am. That’s why I go to parties. That’s why I get into shenanigans with Pan and chase nymphs. Or anything that I do. Get drunk. Whatever. I don’t want to be with myself.”
I wallowed in that admittance for a moment. It was akin to staring at a flock of my own middle fingers.
“Let me deliver you from this worry and guilt,” Pappo said. “You are an extraordinary phenomenon of nature. A god—divinity incarnate. As noble as say, trees, clouds, or the arrangement of the stars. And there is nothing wrong with you, even though you may think that. You are simply addicted to thoughts, my little compulsive thinker. All you have to do is stop thinking so much.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“No clue,” he said with this hearty laugh. “But I do know where to start looking, at least.”
Pappo peeled back the skins of the pods in his hands and passed over some of the bare lotus fruit. “This will help us on our journey. It’s a new strand I’ve been growing that projects your mind into the world. I haven’t tested it out yet.”
His warning label didn’t stop us from knocking the fleshy pods together, as we had done before, years ago, except with chalices of wine. Because no matter what was ahead, having him by my side always emboldened me, even though the paths we now walked were different.
In reality, Pappo looked like a humble man, but he was a dragon in spirit. It was all in his energy—this immense power where he held no doubt that I would change. And by the mere fact that I showed up, I was ready.
As soon as I ate of the honey-sweet fruit, I no longer felt burdened by the weight of everything. It all spit out of me: the nonstop revelry, the looming war, and, above all else, the constant churning of thoughts. For one bright, impossible moment, there was nothing upstairs at all. I was a tabula rasa. I wanted to stay in that state of mental spaciousness, floating and forgetting everything.
But as this tranquility gently cradled my consciousness, a forest cathedral sprouted from the ground. Its ascension marked the resurgence of commentary, a phoenix birthed from the ashes of something forgotten.
Clumps of the earth began a wondrous dance around the sacred building, threading themselves in mid-air and morphing into an elegant velvet rope that cordoned off the shrine’s entrance.
Tiny beings, iridescent under the forest’s dappled sunlight, descended from the apparently thriving, hidden lotus tree community. They huddled around us and spoke to us. The lyrical melody of their speech was foreign yet strangely soothing. In all innocence, I followed the darling little druids’ high and sweet notes to stand in line before their earthen structure.
After all, if you’re going to join a cult, might as well get into a good one. And a waiting list was always a good sign. I opened my mouth to ask Pappo something but found I couldn’t speak. I tried to touch my lips but couldn’t remember my body being around anymore. I had no hands, no feet. No sense of physical self aside from a pair of floating eyes.
Pappo was shrouded in some form of dense light. A nice light that felt like hanging out with people you love, like warming your hands by a fire. Jolly and cheery, you know?
After we finally floated in, I honestly expected the leader of the cult to burn some weird oils, administer a concoction and, of course, mutter some fucking chants. Then the spiritual orgies would begin. This was, after all, my mind.
Inside, there was just empty space. And a voice warbling through it. Familiar.
Mine.