The Prison of the Mind is the Skull of the Dead
"We are all guilty of crime, the great crime of not living life to the full. But we are all potentially free. We can stop thinking of what we have failed to do and do whatever lies within our power. What those powers that are in us may be no one has truly dared to imagine. That they are infinite we will realise the day we admit to ourselves that imagination is everything. Imagination is the voice of daring."
You could keep on asking me questions pertaining to your innermost fears, to the most repressed anxieties, and I would not answer you. It is your own damned fault that you are in the state you are in, either that or you had a nasty repressed childhood forced on you by puritanical parents who where possibly bible-bashing rattlesnake-Baptist cooks who were fit for the bughouse. Now you are the only one who is fit for the asylum and I would ask you to join me here, but I am having such a good time on my own, entertaining myself with my crazy thoughts and conning the geeks in the white coats into believing that I have lost every single stone marble which was ever brought into creation by God, marbles the Almighty uses to entertain his nephews on boring Sunday afternoons when he has to do a bit of child-minding for the arch-angels. But, for this once, I will relent, I will let you in, and, mark my words, I will introduce you to a little bit of shock therapy. Once in a while it does the soul a world of good to be introduced to alternatives which might lead to the road to sanity. So place the electrodes on your balls and put your trust in Dr Henry the Second.
It is now unfortunately true that a lot of people just do not like Henry. When I recently mentioned to my aunt that I was not only a Henry fan, but a devotee of his cult of the mind and body she gave me a look of disgust which betrayed an unbridgeable gap between us. If I would then have added, as I was so desperate to do so, that I was also a budding little writer with a Henryesque orientation she would have run to the cupboard to get the holy water out in a vain attempt to purge me of my so-called sins. I can understand this reaction, but I cannot help being filled with nausea and disgust due to the weight of the sheer small-mindedness it portrays. Just because Henry, like me, does not accept the hypocrisy which the middle-class has made their own, just because Henry wants to get to the bottom of a truth which is so massive it crushes the minds of lesser-beings when they allow such a contemplation into their skull, just because Henry is a complete and utter hero he is vilified, he is ostracised, he is intellectually circumcised by do-gooding vermin. These petty little bastards should just stay at home and continue to read their right-wing Sunday papers whilst revelling in the supposed injustice that they have had inflicted upon themselves such as the time the expensive coffee-table was scratched by Uncle Albert who then refused to pay for a French polisher. It is such people who are the enemies of freedom and the foes of human expression. If you think that this tirade is a little extreme then do me a favour and pour some beer down the back of your computer whilst it is still on. For years I have been thinking about life, about human sexuality and the way it connects with the good honest soul which resides somewhere in every single person on this God-forsaken planet. For years I was searching for the answer to questions which plagued me like a swarm of foul-smelling insects. When I then finally bought Tropic of Cancer, a tip my good friend George Orwell had given me, I was presented with all the answers I needed. It told me that I was right and that everyone else was wrong, at least to a certain degree. It was my Bible of Smut, of utmost physical and intellectual reality. I had always known that having sex was no different to punching someone in the head or for that matter taking a nasty whack off someone in a drunken bar brawl. It is all just the sort of undeniably unadulterated physical reality that most of the so-called civilised world spends its life running away from. Why do we then not return to the Victorian age where the legs of tables and pianos had to be covered up because they encouraged depravity? The only sort of depravity which was evident was the strange perversion of furniture fetishism. It is these people, all of them sexually illiterate and suffering from strange perversions of varying severity, who are responsible for the general lack of mental health which is evident in today's western society. These are strange ghosts of a time which should have by now long since been extinguished but which is being artificially kept alive by a machine powered only by hypocrisy and sanctimony. Like a post-modern Luddite I will throw a spanner into the mental works of these ghosts, I will destroy their machine and in doing so free the whole world of sexual repression. As a good and honest Henry devotee it is the least I can do.
