this is it

In A New Alchemy, Alan Watts relates a breakthrough moment in an LSD experience where found himself dancing in the grass in his moccasins with the stars:

All at once it became obvious that the whole thing was loveplay, where love means everything that the word can mean, a spectrum ranging from the red of erotic delight, through the green of human endearment, to the violet of divine charity, from Freud's libido to Dante's "love that moves the sun and other stars." All were so many colors issuing from a single white light, and, what was more, this single source was not just love as we ordinarily understand it: it was also intelligence, not only Eros and Agape but also Logos. I could see that the intricate organization both of the plants and of my own nervous system, alike symphonies of branching complexity, were not just manifestations of intelligence—as if things like intelligence and love were in themselves substances or formless forces. It was rather that the pattern itself is intelligence and is love, and this somehow in spite of all its outwardly stupid and cruel distortions.

To any existential question, loveplay is the answer. Purpose, origin, process, mechanism, drive, goal, objective, attainment, insight, enlightenment: all resolve into loveplay.

Depression is on the lonesome navy end of the spectrum, anxiety glitters with nauseating neon greens and pinks. Even violence arises from loveplay, jealousy, longing, ecstasy, bitterness, impostor syndrome.

I don't know how to spell imposter. I say you're either the sauce or the pasta, to Watts' goo or prickles. Nobody wants to admit to being prickles at first, they even prickle at the name itself, which delights goo. Goo has no hesistation, where resistance meets hesitation. Prickles live at the intersections, to distinguish, to earmark and structure, to taxonomize, to find difference. And goo does the rest. We find the similarities.

And surely we each exhibit a blend of goo and prickles in varying scenarios. But you know what team you're on. You might even trade your allegience to pasta for a while, for a nice salary, good benefits, insurance. But you'll always be goo, down deep. You love it. You love that sauce.

Turbulence on our flight has me and everyone onboard suddenly distracted. I notice that the acceptance I feel for reality undermines fear. We have already made it. This is it. All we have left to do is enjoy it. Dance and sing in it. Feast and rest. We have enough. We are sustainable. Grasping for more can't hurt us. Neither would it be hazardous to rest on our laurels. No one is coming for us. There are no others.

We are all the same self, infinite facets of the same gem of Continuousness, the only thing and everything, boundless, shapeless, dimensionless, wonderful, delightful, breathtaking and breathgiving. All I have left to do is wonder, to celebrate with us, when this plane lands, of course, in San Francisco where I can find many of my favorite sparks of the Continuousness.

[this is it]