Los Angeles

John Boskovich

Rosamund Felsen Gallery

The lack of an interior life is less often the root of suffering than one might imagine. Usually, it’s an excess of interiority, an obscene plenitude of psychic involution, that sends sensitive souls spiraling downward into the vortex of depression, madness, and rage. You think too much; you dwell morbidly on yourself. Get out of the house, they (your friends, your business associates, your psychiatrist) say; rejoin the world. Maybe you should join a support group.

You think about: friends who have died gruesome deaths; your own death; your loneliness and your fear of other people; sex as momentary relief and long-term sorrow; drugs as pleasant enablers of oblivion; indifference, the loveliest mental disposition. But you think, you know, really think, about other things, too: about Buddha, who said desire is the origin of suffering. You wonder, would Buddha be pro or con re: hallucinogens?

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