In Alice's Tree

I'm not trying to be quiet, I swear I'm not. It's only that I am rushing from thing to thing, and composing little fragments in my head while I'm on the bike, or while I'm falling asleep half-thinking about the old mystery novel I'm reading, whose pages are on the verge of crumbling but whose words still feel fresh.

And because we lack the technology for direct brain-to-blog transfer, there they sit, little postlets, flitting about in the nether regions of my brain, tangled up in Lord Peter Wimsey's long legs.

It's 3:17 am, and I like writing (or doing practically anything) at 3:17 am. Anything I put my mind to seems filled with extra juice in those precious "wee" hours. I have never been able to adequately explain why I seek out the deep night, though people who don't know me often ask, once they find out.

I usually say something like, "It's quiet. I have the world to myself." Neither of which is exactly true, nor is it the whole reason.

I have this feeling, you see, that it's those hours that lend themselves to magic. Perhaps because those are the hours in which the rest of the world dreams, and dreams hard. I prefer to use that dream-time for conscious thought; maybe I sense that the wider possibilities of dream-worlds cling to those hours, and invest whatever I'm working on with extra shine.

Yeah, I like the pixie dust. What can I say?

I'll tell you this - I had an unusual experience recently, which, without giving too much detail, involved being in a slightly altered state. And since then I find that I can, at will, conjure up some of the perceptions that made it special.

Strangely, this ability is related to why I don't normally seek out altered states. Make that artificially altered states - we all know how I feel about endorphins.

I've always felt, simply put, that my brain was quite interesting enough, thank you, and didn't need artificial enhancement.

I still think that's true. What I also think is that a little light artificial enhancement* can be interesting, not just in the moment, but later. I can remember how things looked or felt, and in a sense, those doors of perception (to borrow from Blake) are still open to me. This is the magic of my brain. It goes so easily to Alice in Wonderland.

Reading this over, it occurs to me that this is what it is to be an artist. It's not news to me, but I'll say it anyway. You spend your life - as much of it as you can manage - out on the border between fantasy and reality, between awake and asleep. It's like sleeping in a tree.

*Before you ask, I wasn't doing hallucinogens. It takes so very little to entertain me.