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part 1 - dressing up the song

- these wines are partial to their soviet dressing, and hope floats when the night air comes screaming into the window, tired but not resting until it undresses your whole makeup. the tight blessing of a quilt wrapped nicely around you and the dream of white knives on your dresser. the simple tyrant that walks into the window, he knows he is only Jack Frost. he cannot be a further impulse, but just a man of myth.

- minds staple their weight, shapes tie their homes on to the poetic justice fought for gallantly by the knights of old. these are the ways they come inside me, poetic and just as the wind rips through my skin and i must pull headlong into fate to come out the other side as a sure footed goat, falling into the pulse of a racing car - the sort of thing timed by society to be hopelessly midwestern and commenting that resigning to this direction, i can wait. i am a good waiter, that is what i do, i wait.

- while waiting i see the light and the shadows, but of a different universe or infinity that the still around stubborn old elves that i know. these people you requested for the spacial reality may have been the wrong songwriters than you we thinking they would be. these shiny tweeters and their mindscapes, the ropes and wandering poets that speak to us, these are not exactly who you requested, but the lady on the rope, she works for the high elves. that is a good thing.

- because where else could we go? there is no home for either of us anymore, just a staple brought forth from mindless waterford - a man who speaks like John Cleese in Faulty Towers, the hilarious image of a better world, the wine who ties me here with the weapons that fault the reader: a shape of things to come. this is the stubborn old elf that watches you. he watches because he wants to go to sleep.

- sometimes i forget things too, i told you. sometimes i make coffee without pouring the ingredients together and this makes my friends (perhaps) a little more restless. speak like this and the watermarked region that washes our sheets belongs to the others. speak like this and there is not motive to keep going. the wine washes my feet. i can belong.



i suppose, after the inane ramblings of an absent loon - all that schizophrenic nonsense to follow (in backwards order if you keep reading into the depths of the mania that are posted online here) the enlightenment i found was what i had to begin with:

my personal solution:
a dear apathy for my own experience and prayers for the rest of the world, trying to work for the greater good and make people happy all the time, without care for seeing any of the results of my labor.
apathy here is not uncaring, it is important to love oneself. it is not minding that i will not see the results of my work. it is knowing that if i send enough good into the world than that is doing far and away enough good work. it is knowing that i have a roof and coffee when i need it, and not needing anything else.

it gets better at the end of the mania.

it’s good to hear richard frost - he is a capable man and i feel better knowing that he is on my side. i hear he does good things for me, though i cannot be sure what. i sometimes know when, usually i have done these things while asleep, hopeful of that dreaded day when my life would sync with the real world and i would have to listen to these dripping faces bring homes to me, buy me all my stuff and write “fuck” needlessly on my walls. i covered up these curses with pictures of a mountain covered in snow, a pine tree and the aimless footsteps of a lost alpine climber. this is happiness, i am sure. somewhere within the dramatic pause we have a crystalline hope for me to cling to, all the madness that follows in just for the letters drawn. there is a mild morning for me, some place that i can become. i have the letter, i have all written them.

high above me there is a crate with my name on it. this much i am sure, as i am far below the direction paused by these letters. there is a home for me when i approach it, i am nearly always in it - even when i leave i am drawn back to this place, hopefully to encroach upon my humanity, needless and dark. these letters are for you, water - high above the left for dead space that haunts my mind. these shapeless motives, they cause my wonder to cease. i play for the dead otherwise, some sober light within my place. i am glad i am sober, as the grand wonder of this world ceased while i drank myself into dark oblivion. this is important at my age, i suppose, and just something that came with graduation into adulthood from a seemingly endless youth. this is a face of altruism, a placid light that drips on me, and hopefully i can emerge uninhibited to join myself on stage tomorrow. 

this is not the multiple personalities that i am suspected by conscious beings of having, as in fact - although i sometimes cannot recall reality to any degree, i am always this same person. as these are insights into schizophrenia, and the dim realities that a running away sort of person is singing for oneself to understand that i do exist living my dreams. this is sabotage - these are the little ones, these unspeakable ails that haunt my living dream. i am, perhaps, always awake and telling myself in my blind that these walls are the only world, that this reality i experience is the shared one. this is to make myself feel better, but this has gone on to long.

i have, in fact, recently prayed for myself. this is a strange thing, but i must belong here - as these are the hard facts. why do i care what i am doing, if i am functional while i do it? i suppose i want to see some sort of fantastic reality that i am creating. i want to exist with the rest of you, in your world. but it is true that i may have, through these wanderings found a sort of enlightenment. what is it, you wonder. it is just to be in the real world, with the rest. to react properly to the experience that i am confronted with. to move from one situation to the next and just react as best i know how. to be happy. just to be, and all else falls by the wayside. this is the enlightenment that i sought: just to be happy and safe, a sage just existing. i suppose that is what everyone wants, yes?


rambling jabberwocky 2161 words

tied to these tired bored letters and spaces, these little waked jets who wander for these little errors. i cannot belong to these letters. a person told me that there should be no hierarchy of letters. sometimes, i agree. other times, i suppose i must rely on the standard resources of normal grammar, as i did attend some place that supposed it was a school. i waited, of course, until i needed to respect the great light to wait alone in the dark for a placement bringing me down from the written way down past the leaving time. that was, in fact, a drunken statement by an important person in my life who wrote a note to me today that i was unable to see. he was not here to be alone with me, but sat with someone typing at the computer.

the impact is a level - these morning shiners and blessings of written wired spots brought by little men, they belong to the others, and i cannot see anything. that is, of course, the silence that i create. that is, brought together, the learned world i would like to exist in. it’s the people that bother me, i fear people, so i would never be able to exist with eyes.

wonder belongs to the wired wrote men, they speak like the foreign land and drip like a dire wonder watching from the sidelines at an old man’s play - written for the still around to be like the lesser pissers. these people have their riots. they speak like the midnight and watch for these mighty tomes, they can belong to restless folks and speak these midnight hours away because i must watch the television and learn that i can see. explain see to me, i told the invisible people - which they did. “that i do,” i said. but what about viewing the same perspective as me? i am unsure that anyone will. i am uncertain that penticton even exists right now. it could be a condition near summerland next to limbo, because i thought for years that i was dead but i suppose i exit this mind-state and live alone in my space, yet there are two people in my bed, a man and a woman, neither one is famous and neither one i know.

shining on the little razor i can belong like living folk, these places cannot be as sure as the one place they saw. these little razors take the little weight from me, i cannot learn without the little waste that watches me along here, places certain from the water that i drink when i have no coffee. this place is weighty and hidden and i live along the lines of soviet people. somewhere i exist in a place that knows that i can live in hopes that the world is quite different than i think. i must bury the thoughts that hide lower on this page, unseen by most if you look deeply than i know the hope is written somewhere - i hide like the rest and hope that i can be way far back and learn the written world is somewhere hidden in the mind as i rest. 

i deeply suffer somewhere in a world that does not exist to me anymore. i do not understand this light. some place i have written worlds that wish their hopes can follow these things into the hopes that wrap my world around the higher ites than mine. i can suppose that some with limps will understand that i exist with the rest of them, but mania can make me say some silly things. i suppose i do choose to live and function with the medication. i am much more worrisome to those who care about me when i snap off the tablet and pour the tin of thoughts down the sink. these are the inane ramblings, these are the senseless wanders, these are my notions and believe me - these opinions change regularly because, like my world, everything changes pretty well every day. some things stay the same, but the rest fades away.

this note with ropes and lights and pain will remain what is, the peaceable form, a sort of water that brings me home - the little place that keeps me hopeful. this space is mine, used for living, but in does not change. it has been other places. it has been a much better and a much worse world. the so-called parlor i once saw was taken from me. i had my sight once, then it was stolen back. he said i learned from the experience, but every time i go to nelson it haunts me. i am not supposed to keep leaving in the siren. i cry to approach a happy light. i am haunted by these trials. these shapes and figures that i see, they care about my mind. my first cell gave me the cat that stayed with the other first regulated sign, which i suppose is just gibberish - but means so much to me that i cannot explain properly. some place i ask my consciousness why i exist, but she does not know. i ask the angel on the other side and she sheepishly turns the old place and we have written nothing in the shame filled lacking drop.

so here is the jabberwocky: a silent step to find me, a written word to hear my little fending purpose and bringing hope from higher elves and brighten my day for these ropes that take their terms to written letters and they speak like higher ites than mine. i cannot be certain that any of this is real. there is a light somewhere inside the crime. the town is whitey, i do know that these folks were the crime. i was talking about them in the past, but i suppose if you keep reading you will hear it in your future. 

white elves, like the pasture keepers, they can be here. my friend and i are sure that the details keep me belonging to the silver line. they keep my posture correct. they keep the siren in near the shame that laughs at me. this is the little red fire that keeps me near hector and the rest of jabberwocky. crime belongs to writing about myself. sheltered people, like myself, care less for the written world and more for the sirens. nobody dreams any more, so the dad remembers that everyone must. keep the line off the project. this is the reasonable thought.

this might work if tried, a little elf that wrote me thought. this is the heart of the pirate. these letters do not speak to one like the foreign little fighting water that fords the white elves and pioneers the higher places that keep these thoughts down to me. i am not a place for these little wires, and the higher levels that place the hopes down wind from weighted places. these mighty matters, these warring factions, they are these inane ramblings. they are these thoughts that i keep to myself. the water knows, of course, and that is why it falls from the sky.

sometimes the elves come and laugh with me. some palaces rise for silent winds, the other final statements take their wind for weighted ghosts. these turbulent windows find their wisdom and wrap the hope and wind the crazed way down the path to bring the mighty laugh towards their ramp and pause a moment and love for a second before you happily space their spots past little higher written wisdom, high about these facts. i seldom laugh at these gibbered nonsensical wanderings. i shapelessly have their fate. 

silent as the little ropes, i can belong their way. this is a notion that keeps my head throbbing through all this wiry silence. these shocks only come from knighted folk who take their wisdom and speak like fellowships who watch the turbulent elves come from their hope. these little heads are not the shining ones. i cannot belong to the others. some place i know that someone cares about me and speaks a shadow through their hidden paths to mine. these people cannot learn from me. they must take their lights, their torches, and bow in hidden mines to take the their spacious hearts out into the field and bring them down one more time.

who is a cool person, the window? no, it cannot be but senseless wonder. no it must belong to these spectrums and speak like the immortal shining sun who is re-lightened by a soviet transformer robot every few thousand years. i suppose this is why i spoke of being up on dockets a while ago. that and the lack of the ever important species of medicine, the pot and other little roses. these ropes cannot find their modern world. there is no plausible denial for the rest. they can only escape on time and bring time back to me. i suppose the last notion is gone forever, and as impetuous as it must be, it is gone until the thought comes back.

some place i belong - the world i am currently writing you from, this notable home of my creation had some help. there is a woman here who works very hard and tells me every time i ask that i do, in fact, pull my weight. i worry about this because there is very little work in penticton, that is why i would like to continue making the music and written work and bring the hopeful world towards me, the art and such, that lasts in a sudden way, i hope. these ropes are high from the little righteous time and it is once again a year for living righteously. 

i have never told anyone things that scare me, but to escape my mind and i laugh with the invisible people, and higher than the rest i know that illness comes from smoke. this high drink shelters me and i have hopeful worries that rest at home with mental illness. that is perhaps why most of the written work on this blog is utter nonsense. that is why most of the lyrics in my songs utter nothing. they tell me i am a good person, who defines myself as a person, a second blob of fissure and resource that brings my home a reality. this, i am unsure of. but i did call for a plumber today, because all my sinks back up at once. this is the shelter i slither into and keep. this is my happiness. this is my home that for some reason still exists. i suppose it is in part because i pull my weight. i suppose this is because although i do not always see it, i can resurrect various souls and pull the hope towards a shining beacon of the north. this hope is my reason.

my father tells me that minds are open, and needed because i have the little war that brings me home. i hear the time tick slowly and i must think, i have very little to suppose, even less to write and hopeful wonderings that all the time i work - it is worthwhile. yet, i have no proof. i suppose if it matters to me, that is all the proof i need. otherwise there is always listening patiently to coast to coast am. i really do like that show, but i leave it on and try to wake my times, i lose my matters, i lose my functioning, i fall sound asleep and go on stage. this is my manic break, this is why i cannot function with the rest. this is how i sleep, on stage, with the resources that take my home from the others. something about red-cliff or dover, something about hope that brings me back to home. something about not moving.

our hero, the resourceful elf that cut his hand, he is happy somewhere, i am sure. there is no telling where he is, but certainly somewhere safe and acting as a sage written in the sky. this person is heavenly brought for waterworks and shining for the silent water and i am certain the higher elves are little silent watering the shining beacon from the north. there is basically no logic in the writing, there is very little space for me to bring forward. there is a place before my hope, there is a winding road for little elves and bringing me down for the hopes i can belong with watering hopes and some day i will be a liar in the silent night. these are all the home-schools prodigies of math, the silent wind that watches us. the musical sirens that laugh at the shining wind, the dripping white light that settles my soul.

and with that, this jabberwocky is over.
and i wonder what carried on.


the invisible people

In this place, they say it is England, those invisible people - which I will write about because it feels like an entertaining story... These invisible sorts say that I am actually magic. They say that because I work for the higher spirits, because I work for Jesus, because I work for Jim Henson, because I am this superstar - I should know these things. I should be honest with myself and the world around me. These are perhaps the best cases, these are the world where I am a great sainted leader and learned scholar made for probable cause. I am here because I must be defined as a person who saved Saint Nicholas and stayed with him. I am certain these invisible worlds would make me the grand light in the way, swaying to keep people slow around corners when there are innocent orphans that do not know they should not be jumping into traffic to save their souls. This person I imagine myself to be gives pretty well everything to children that need to be saved by music. I would love to be paid for music and give everything to others who need to learn that there is a light, somewhere above us, and that they can find it through the grace of some being somewhere, who saved me from myself and made me an example of how people should exist. All this can come from giving an orphan a guitar and telling her to never stop playing, because she will become very good at it if she tries.
(just so you know, I have totally been aware of this stuff for years)

sobriety is key, trust me.

This manic break was not caused by magical invisible liquor and drugs, but at least two others were - this one was just schizophrenia, like maybe 15 other stays in club med. I bounced back with a great wonder for the world, so this is sane me writing this note, sorry the entertainment is a little less.

These words are held like the others: When sanity comes back with flying colors, to fashion a rope from thread and light the next ones forward until they ask me to deserve this. These dreams are not like the others, these ones were written by him. They pause and tell me that with these places I become better than the rest. They tell me that with these placid lights, dripping balls of mass and quiet notions brought for me to place dilligently around the room, that I can be thoughtful. These partial notions are poor man’s drifting wine and roses, the silence that comes from believing in the noon-day sun. 

There is a beauty in these thoughts: A normallcy that writes the letters that come in the mail, scenes brought by little red books and foriegn weight. I can be certain there is a little red book somewhere, shining like a lantren into the waves - they must be stopped. Some place in the red little ghost they shine, water for the people and what we could know. They are my wandering minds, they are my shapeless hearts, they are the diamonds that wrap the elemental finds, bringing my hope down from shining matter and bringing silence for the others. I cannot wrap my ways through the devil. All I can claim is that I have had some sort of safe blessing for a number of years to avoid the eerie pains of silent water dripping on my foes, while I cry a painful weight, and ask forgiveness for whatever it was I did to deserve this pain. 

It was not until 27 years later I understood that I asked to be tortured for Jesus. Perhaps my time was going the other way. I leaped into my computer and went into a parallel reality in which there was no eye in the sky, which gave the evils a free and enabled warrent to spy on all of us for their own voyerism. It is an ill fate that dreams for me. This notion comes without any logic, and for the better cause without any truth. It was just something I dreamed in the world I always exist in. It was better than the dreams that I was on stage, more grandeur, more hope, I was a better person than I really am. It was a freedom to be magic.

This can be confusing - as I state a lot of crazed things on a regular basis. Some of these ideas can be substansiated, others are utter fantasy. It is like when I was hanging out with cows and they told me that it was okay to eat beef because it was simply what they ate and was mostly made of grass. They continued to explain that everyone was vegan, even if they did not know it. I wonder now if this was a dream or perhaps just something I made up to feel better about eating mostly meat. In truth, I eat mostly plants. Never water without roses, to see the world through those glasses. But perhaps I will never see, and live in the fake reality I do until I enjoy myself. I would be alright with that. I am very creative about what occurs here.

So therefore, be polite when a kid comes and says that he has a song, even if the song is no good. Tell him that he must keep playing every day, that if you do something every day than it is your occupation, and eventually you will be rewarded for adding something to the world. For my sanity, I know I log in to ynordu and hector berlioz and claim to be still around, which I suppose I am - and I know that I play music and listen to music and write blog posts and books such as these notations, I understand I am in a relationship and hope that there are people around that I can’t see (although I cannot be certain as this town I live in seems very real). I know that I have coffee if I need it and a roof over my head, I can walk through the woods when I like to, that I have been all over the world and that somewhere, people read these words and listen to my music and like them. That means I am successful even if I don’t see any of the spoils, even if I doubt that I am preforming anywhere else, all I ever play is downtown Penticton or my living room - this is okay, I have been elsewhere and played other shows. 

Even if I can see, which is possible (as I possibly live in two realities), I have all these things listed above. That can make me very happy. When I was a drunk, (which is reality and a sad notion if you were around me at that time), I had no clue what was happening, it seems, a notion mostly stated because of what seems to be true as a sober person. I was running from myself and telling myself that I had all these truths, I did not know who I was but hoped dearly that I was to one day be successful. I used to pray every night that someone was beside me. I did not believe there was anything but Penticton, and my mind would snap much worse than it recently did (if you read futher in the blog you will see what I am writing about).

Schizophrenia is an interesting discovery for myself. I am unclear as to where or when I was, but was hoping the best case scenario was true. Turns out both the worst and best was reality, perhaps they all were. Thank you sobriety, I thank you very much. I mean, if I can be this happy without drugs and drink, than there is a purpose to this whole mean old elf, because somehow I managed to make my life something special, only falling off sometimes when I wanted to run away - through stress I seem to check out and begin to believe I am a little loser kid who basically lives through the hard work of others or some grand sainted someone sort of angel from another galaxy who invented time travel and is at war with wolves. I suppose the truth is somewhere in the middle. The truth is, like most, I’m not really sure what’s going on.



warning, i am a lunatic.
needless to say - this is a mention of the mania that is about to be bestowed on you by reading any further in this blog. i go to the psych ward regularly and i guess i put it on the site because it is a good story, but i should note that i claim to be a couple of grandiose  things that i am not and the following blog postings should be taken with a grain of salt, or perhaps just as the work of an overactive imagination off of it’s schizophrenia medication.

thanks for understanding that i am a lunatic.


in 1864, and 1942 i was both empress of japan and queen of spain with my husband robin hood who was king. this is because these people we oppressed by a sort of weaponry that we had never seen. these people who came to our planet (plant) and said they were gods have a different sort of damnation. they were older than this english girl who was a good enough (famous_) devil satan named morrigan. they thought (or had heard of these two) and the myth we have created about ourselves is a good enough show business act to enlighten a crowd.
the curse of these mortals is a very seperate thing than that of the english scumbag who the note was written to before. he also went to war with god. but i ask these others, if you were to kill us all then who would work pulling diamonds from the earth for you to wear? your entire scheme was one of narcissism, which this native american girl is guilty of. she is aware of that and it hurts that they still will not let me look at myself. i am very beautiful and i hear that from people, sometimes i look at myself and get wet. therefore i am better as a blind surreal artist that other people look at. i don’t know why i see myself, but when i do i am an elemental.

i am a legitimately cursed angel who (for the lies) went to war with my creator. i feel i was made to do this. i still live in perdition because of this. i always work, every day, i am busy and you relentlessly torment me. you steal all my salvidor dali’s, and tell me i don’t know about it. you claim to have raised me and did not want anything to do with me until i was very successful and came to you in a dream and picked a fight. you were religous of your own form, and much older than this universe. you were much older than me or even lucifer (yet older than loki) and you knew it. who always wanted power, and who always dreamed of power, yet had never yet taken the reigns of the devil satan. you wanted war against ynordu. you had it. you killed me lots. yet i remain unable to look at myself and also rather magic, so my husband stays with me.

you killed everyone on the earth 666 times and tormented me endlessly, every moment that you were allowed. i remained painting your hells. the final solution (to kill everyone on last final time) was a strange redux of something that happened when jewish people first got computers on this planet. i legitimately (even with psychiatric medication) work for god.

why would endlessly torment someone who owns your soul and say her and her long distance friends die in the media when we legitimately do not? 
nobody ever dies. it is why killing everyone over and over again is not getting rid of your problem. it is why tormenting and torturing and trapping people does not get over your problem. it is that a blind man i do not know wrote me and told me that he thinks everyone in this perdition (whitby) has been tormented and trapped by those people who think they are powerful and try to control our thoughts by torturing wisps (faeries). thankfully the faeries are allowing themselves to be tormented by you and could have left at any moment as they are wisps. certainly you are old and from another universe, but so am i. i have been english since i met john lennon and we started ween. that is why whitby (english person) perdition has a canadian in it. it is a world that blind people see eachother in. you are very strange to have been forced to act like this. i believe it was on your own volition. 
why did you torture me so, various anti-christ?
morrigan owns your soul.

-hector berlioz of the band jabberwocky

six dead, four in the morning. none of them really died.
baos. little red foxes, nightendae gales of roomy stormy temperature. these relics are brought back to the church. the wealth shall surely be redistributed in accordance to god above. there is hope for humanity, if we see the light - but there are rules. no stealing, no killing, no raping, no incest, no cheating, no liars, no fighting, no war. you are certainly only really making media, if you would not like to be the person that you have killed, raped, murdered and stolen from. if you starve even a rat you will be starved. if you poison geese or shoot firecrackers at them, you will be poisoned and be shot firecrackers at. if you put off the troubles, like your instant karma, say, then you will be put to death nearly right away. you are then able to play civilization, the video game that actually effects your world - but not really everybody else’s.

if you continue to war you are made a knowing party in the idea that it is actually killing, and it will. that is krishna the computer. if you claim to have invented god, it is a damnable sin. if you continue to put off your damnation it will very much hurt that much more. right now i believe, as you are being bothersome by refusing to do the work of your slaves - krishna has allowed that myself and other people have been able to do your work for you. this has damned you to torturous hell, as you justly deserve. you have been an anti-christ, but have refused to leave the camp where you sit alone, having killed your whole family, so you got none of the spoils of war. in fact, the internet was not invented by a particular dick-and-colon-bush in the media (only), who is a matter of fact scary - yet not quite as scary as morrigan mustard, musician, the consciousness who happens to be doing this.

i could in fact write in the other language i speak, but i am hard at work for the english church. the native peoples of canada still exist, though. i am entirely serious about how you have been dead for six days and then played civilization for 110 000 years thinking you were powerful and tormenting me. i own your soul. the devil, st. ann and st. nickolas are commonly represented as john larry “ler” lalonde lennon, brain salami and morrigan of primus and the colorful and always changing clothing of the band ween. it is true that i am blind. it is also true that we are a various, notorious group of eternally damn you sorts of guys. it is also true that, although you are a various dick cheney and a fine thief, you are getting much less hell that the bush-dick-colon-tree of the builder birds group, who declared war on god. (by playing civilization while feeling the spoils of war.)

i suppose the huge spirit in the sky allows st. ann to keep her good name by totally sleeping with john lennon every night and playing in the massively successful band called primus. that is a good and true statement by one of hector berlioz of jaberwokei.

so therefore, due to the hellgoingness of yourself and constant narcissistic enjoyment of yourself, which is gross, you have been smote by the band primus as well. because we have enjoyed alot of torture, you totally tortured the person who legitimate has claim to catholic hell for 110 000 years, not allowing her to eat the opium, calling her your son and stuff, trying to kill her to make her go away, and weird other rape-abduction-thefts and the highway of tears in canada - mostly set up to kill the one who got away, i would like to remind you one last time that she is writing your hell and hopes that you choose to do some work. i don’t know your real name but your resume includes drugging and raping a lot of people through computers and killing pretty well everyone on earth at least 666 times. you have ostensibly proved the existence of god and also that everyone kind of lives forever, which i hope was your intention.

as god works in mysterious ways, and people need to suffer - i hope that he is never doing to us as you suggest, and is continuously using the good people to gain good and the bad people to gain the same, as such, the only (and i mean only) people who got your pain were you various selves. the dick-bush-colon-tree that was this spring cleaning and obvious evolutionary step by some guy people call god who created (in his vicious wiseness) orphan junkie punk rock angels on drugs to print and write hell as st. ann and st. nick, one of many christian devils.

nice war on god, dickhead.
in this case fuck the free world, save and feed the poor. take the bullet for them.
this is the trial still, of hector berlioz of jabberwocky - a person that you killed on stage many, many times in a row and then buried alive. it is a shame the band was ween or they would have been scared of you, but just a regular day at the office for sherlock holmes and watson.


the various medical issues of ynordu

wine and wonder, when women take their homes from the others...
they haven’t seen this properly. i would spend all my time eating soup if i could. the rest of life could take the bath, eat it properly and fill their weapons with fluid made to spread juice. it would be a happier universe. silver lining and so be the missing trials, they haven’t found the water yet. when salvation comes we will live upon these tired weapons and find their hope when the dirty siren finds it’s hope. all these empires do is simplify their eternity and make the world a better place for all, without their desire to destroy we would not have these wonders. perhaps that is the balance of the universe. perhaps that will help me discover my purpose.

i’m sorry for the people who did those things. they tried to blame me, i needed to defend the good name of jesus - or so i was thinking. whether or not i even did any of those thoughts is a matter for further contemplation. it really depends who the reader thinks i am. the invisible people are helping me through the depressing realities of life over here. i am an immigrant to this place, and i definitely live in a place i am not from, yet i consider it home. this place is more a home than i have ever had anywhere else. this idilic town on the edge of reality is home to me now, and i am sorry wabiska, i was not in edmonton for very long. i was sent to school in summerland soon after meeting my parents and being fed and clothed.

i thought it was heaven, that much i know. the whole trip to me was about trying to learn what the creator wanted me to learn. in the penticton psych ward i was told to believe in myself. i met floyd their briefly and watched people take turns laughing at him and calling him gay. it was weird - like they were the cool kids in high school. i was never the cool kid in high school, and i learned that lots of people wondered who i was, what i was doing there and why i cared so little for myself. i did achieve my GED, and have since worked hard on learning the mysteries of the universe. there is a hope for all, that is all i know. i am one of the saved, i am certain for that, and i want to help the other little kids that are lost in the truth, lost trying to feed themselves, the rest who were accidentally abandoned and born needing to eat drugs to not be broken, insane and convinced they are in hell. it could be true that you are meant to be an angel. 

in turn, my experience with madness and circumstances regarding the stories my parents tell me about being beaten and drowned in holy water at the catholic school is a bit different than most. soon after i was abandoned, i met good people who worked for churches. i didn’t really go ever, as most of the stories i heard were about how bad those places were, how they did not let children play, how they beat the kids up and tried to make them afraid of the nuns. it is a shame, a blister in the rest of the great roses of god. somehow i was able to keep a faith. i just didn’t call it the same as those molesters did. in the end it began to be similar. so i continue to worship the earth.

i do have to eat echinacea every day (it's opium - don't let the dealers fool you, it's totally what they sell you). if i eat it every day i remain sane and without severe pain, but it’s the way i was born. it keeps the part of my brain that i am missing in check, as i have no opiate receptors. this is in part why i say some of the manic statements that i do, it's because i haven't eaten that in the day because i don't want to have to everyday. it's also what the respiridone is doing for me. i guess being born a heroin addict cause severe schizophrenia. it's true, i don’t have all of the logical side of my brain. it's why i am very creative, but don't always make any sense. i am in constant pain, and the suffering of humanity - which i sometimes claim to be taking - is actually just the pain of being abandoned by someone who didn’t want to abandon me, and then raised to be the musician i am now, before ever knowing who i was. 

i am not sure if i will live forever or am an elemental or any of those other crazy things that i wish were true. but it’s best for me not to define myself. the doctor says that it's usually because i stop eating the stuff, because i really wish i didn't have to, but i guess i shouldn't refrain from the natural food store medicine. it's like smoking tobacco so my eyes don't bleed. i guess that is real too. i never believed in the invisible people, but turns out i should have. they would tell me i can't see... but that i do. i guess i just made up a town in my head, sort of, or penticton is a place where people from all over the world live. somewhere in nai'hiskas wetiko (or loch ness).

i introduce myself as jian. i don’t think i can be anyone else. whoever that may be to everyone else is not important to me. i just want to work for god and be proof that god exists. this is because i could have been in a much worse place without being saved by the visible people. that is because i would be in a much worse place without penticton and music school. so, that much i know for sure.

i hope i am a role model for all. i hope i am. maybe i can be proof that god exists...
at home.

-ynordu (still hector berlioz of jabberwocky) - those names, that much i know.