Of course the obsession could be your conscience.  Laws to your mind addressing a problem, an error, something out of range.  A problem that needs to be addressed according to the laws of your mind if the world of your mind is to exist, and feel right.  It’s when you get the feeling that something needs to change, but you don’t want to change, and you look for changes in your circumstances, your environment.  Curious, really—the hunger for new surroundings and the stubborn resistance of habits.  Because that’s what we’re really talking about—bad habits.  How they sneak in as temporary cures to feeling good in bad situations, to feeling better in good situations, and like a virus take over other routines, good routines—those laws to your mind that make up a normal, healthy day.  And then you get older.  And the laws become amended, some crossed out, with notes in the indentations—each of us our histories from different neighborhoods.  And soon our bodies tell us.  They tell us the consequences of what needed to change that didn’t.  What changes despite all our preventions.  This long after our souls reflect on it in the imaginations of our choices, and the dramas that ensue from this—that crisis where we are watched and on trial, harrowing the first time it happens in that transition from youth to adulthood, as the laws in our mind become dirty, the pages where they are written smeared by too many revisions.  A crisis sometimes happening many times, but you older now—not really surprised, because you’ve become used to making revisions.  David Threnody wasn’t sure what he did.  He only knew what he had to keep on doing.  To live with who he was now.  And in guarding Schultz he gained a new awareness into who he was by seeing someone different.  And he knew.  He knew someday his body would tell him all about it.  It would tell him all about his habits.  It would remind him.  The same body that felt good doing them.  And how that’s judged.  Outwardly and inwardly.  Inwardly for all of us the same.  Outwardly simplified by differences.  Like the color of your skin.           

            I guess it took me a long time to know.  I didn’t know my body, and for a long time I didn’t give it much thought.  It was always just strange to me—something to use.  I thought it was other things, other problems—spiritual maybe—I don’t know.  But those processes were wonderful then—a mystery.  And my imagination could work on them.  How everything was apparent, but you never spoke of it.  And to me it was either evil or good.  I wondered how I could be evil or good.  And I saw how I was both.  How I did evil things and thought bad things, and how I did good sometimes, and those moments when that was clear, even after taking that ride at the crossroads…  Now it all just seems natural.  Just chemicals.  How you feel when your blood sugar is low.  After too much sleep or not enough.  It’s what you surround yourself with.  And really the whole world is just a drug.  You walk around in it and it just seeps into you.  Through the pores of your skin.  Perceive one thing and something gets fired in your brain, and if you like it you want more of it, until you get too much of it, and then you don’t like it…  You like fighting?  Then you’ll fight until you don’t like fighting no more.  You like making love?  Then you’ll make love until that too is over.  Your days and nights is just drugs.  Pains and pleasures.  Too much of one becoming the other.  Too little of one becoming the other.  And fear.  Jealousy.  Hatred.  These too drugs—addictive.  And so it to me it wasn’t about bad and good no more.  Why a black man gets judged as being this or that, already something before he is anything—it’s what drug you want.  It’s what drug you want at that particular time…  In Mississippi, when I was there before the war—I saw it.  And I saw what prison does to you.  What it does to your body, and what drugs you want.  Funny how it’s meant to be a punishment.  How it’s meant to make you change.  It makes you change alright.  And it ain’t no good habits that come out of it.  No good habits come from idle time.  Bodies just rot that way.  And what color’s the skin of a dead man anyway?

            –David Threnody, writing on his marijuana habit—from his journals 1966 to 1975

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