The word of man is not the word of the above world. This world is tainted. Men have a common trait to waste time slowly. Men are tainted by ego and self-deprecation. The divine think past those menial words. They spew out into a thought that the femme fatale is yet to find. It is of the unknown. It is the elder of the two that is determined to be correct in his varied situation.
This so enraged the gargoyles that they put a guard in the air to follow the man in the black suit and Mother Suzanna as if they raced against him. The goal at the end would be a million dollar purse. The gargoyles had the man pass through empty and invisible gates to track his movement. And there the man sat, in his idling black Cadillac.
So he put the car in drive and moved it through the dirty street when he realized that the gargoyle had set a trap inside his car. He heard two children laughing and it kept him up at night. It didn’t matter much what his personality was like at this point but he lived trying to get it back. It was the same as it ever was, as if he knew any better.
The car turned and was headed west, chasing the sun as it fell behind a skyscraper in the distance. He lowered the blind and adjusted himself in the seat.
He turned the wheel and headed north to a shady thoroughfare.
It was here that he would ask a man for money.
As he pulled into the bar parking lot he noted how empty the block was. He quickly made his way inside, away from the world.
“Could I have a glass or juice,” he croaked, “And perhaps a chocolate chip cookie?”
Enter the two cats from the battle of Emregon. They were two cartoon-like light green balls with goofy eyes and lanky legs and spent their time tracing around the man and his femme fatale. They had brought little reaction from her or the barman. The one on the left held a staff and laughed at bad jokes. There was something about anti-humor. It always seemed to break the ice.
The barman handed him juice and a cookie. “Thank you,” he said grittily. He sipped it as if it were dark scotch and turned to the woman to his right. She placed her hand on the table and the small green men stopped marching.
“Now we’re sucking the government teat,” she said.
The man giggled and asked her to call Whacky Chris.
She pressed a speed dial button on her phone within two rings he was on the other line singing a fancy song.
She asked him to take the two green men from the barroom. The man was sure of this because they laughed and moved towards the doorway.
The man smiled at her, “So the deal is on it’s way through?”
She nodded.
Later he felt like he may have wronged the woman, and it was tearing him up inside. He felt certain that he had a heart. He imagined the way she talked, her attitude, the way she looked, eyes that were tremendously blue and she wore a Government of Canada suit and smock. They were friends of the old tie and demanded the kids to listen. They lived in warehouses on plushy pillows. Their families were the other kids that lived in the warehouse. He had always banked on that. He always wanted those opposite things. He was well fed now but had not always had such luxury.
The light changed and he pulled his vehicle through the intersection. He looked for an audience, smiling as he waved. The distance traveled down the road and back allowed him to unravel. He was passed the asteroid belts and far worlds.
He recalled trips to Vegas as his car slowed down. But a banshee trapped him, wailing towards him so he could murder the poor. A still light and whole worlds left him bare, as if a sectional sofa was left in the deep woods on some island that was only his.
He felt successful and accomplished. He felt disenfranchised and tough. He had a butterfly knife to swing around his knuckles. The banshee wailed just arms length away from him. She was old and haggard around the face. He held his place and swung the knife twice at her. The first she did not flinch, the second swing ripped through her arm. It was another apparition for this man.
And even harder mathematic equations created a torrent. Idle muses haunted him by the evening, as the Gods plan a new sun. He wanted to capture the example he had played by. He thought of other work, but his madness continued with a simple rapping at his window. It was keeping him up at night.
He needed to sell his idea to the subscribers, or perhaps move in and conquer someone else by video taping an artist, asking him interesting questions. If he could mask himself later, this first draft would not hold his own.
This was not our hero’s point, although it may be circumstantial. At this point it might be good to state that the protagonist of this story was the whole time in contact with these varied and symbiotic characters and was in fact a thief.
The others were spellbound by his beliefs, resolve, determination and guile to face the world that treated him so poorly. The inspiration he had promised the other young artists came like a flash and in a moment he had left. For this they could do little else but thank him, not to his face or in a letter. But under their breath they thanked their luck in anger that they had not become so jaded that they treated the charity of others in such a way. This man in effect saved the others from squandering the life they were so blessed to receive.
The man had nothing of value except a blues harp and was motionless sitting in an empty lot of a rail depot that had seen far better days. There was nobody near the man. He held his grip tight and blew in the lonely silence. He had a secure petition and a lovely instrument. And though he had not thought of his mother in years, suddenly she became rather prominent. She was killed early in his life by a man she owed money to.
He was on his own in a tired and dreary world. He found friends in the urgent city somewhere in the poorest depths. But the murder was never investigated. She was his only mother and the police did not recognize the crime. One like so many, flying through the dead bureaucracy in this ill-fated city. She had words like the others but this fell unknown to his self and it made dark reminder of his youth.
He stole to provide a drug habit but never really drank. He never laughed nor cried. He split the page in two. He lit the night sky and looked at his letters. They were unopened and drafts blew into his house and perched on a round glass table. The other chair moved though it was empty and the man approached the second chair. He shivered as a force that would leave him approached. He boarded with energy and noted the door was unmoving and in fact was a deep sphere.
He read his favorite prayer by memory. If hell was what he favored he thought he would be mighty happy. It had no impact but he prayed for insecurity that the man held his aim through. He had prayed for her enough that tidbits of the Lord strained a lonely backseat with roses crumbling at half-mast. He had it this time, he thought of the two friends talking.
They would have been sitting there but they were not. It was probably for the best. But that little smiling girl from Jabberwocky was placed on the window or a turn of the candle. She danced like his world across the wall as the light flickered and landed somewhere beside the man who killed me.
Neither of us showed it, but we would race passed the trees, brooks and fences. We took liberty to slide on the bike tires as we strove to love our Father. We found nothing in obsessing over various trends or mercenary movement. Various people would raise our liberty and show that nobody and no force would take our measure as lead. In the end, your soul with all its earmarks will come to rest like mine. The faithful always claim to live in the light.
“So how do I know you are not a freemason?” the man asked.
“Had they taken them in fascist states?” I replied
“Answer the question,” he spoke firmly.
I stood motionless and surveyed his face. He rapped against the table and stated his demands again flatly. I struggled to respond.
“I believe they are mostly harmless.”
He struck the table again, “You God damned fool, get out!”
Civilization started with indoor plumbing and genocide because the Creator is cool as shit. This is a literal handbook. They hold all of his artists. They each took three days to incorporate the influx. The trouble with humor is that the President and other evil people holding guns drive Cadillacs. Do you think he will kill again? It is a topic that never left our opinion, but perhaps these men are chosen well in advance.
But one hundred years of genocide is enough. The literacy rate is higher now and many are happy to work. He was an accountant once again. Three years of school and he knew the technology of the world before. He was an accountant then, too. It is best to be near money, “Maybe I can hold some,” he thought.
It is a textbook case of literacy.
I suppose he read for the fun of it. A servant of the dire lord, I take it for granted that I eat daily. So thank you. There by I am a disgrace to all living men. I do not live a life, but a series of sexual advances. The only illness you fall into is a blank line spending three days in a coffin. If you fall asleep you chased a demon. This ill will is finally your torture. Did you ever notice the TV screen?
The man’s cigarette broke and the cherry fell out, “Damned thing can’t light,” he muttered under his breath. He was malarkey living like C. S. Lewis writing Alice in Wonderland. And perhaps it was all for a child in the same way.
Of course, near the end of all time, the Actual Freemason is the still around guy. A still around, stuck in a staying around kind of mood, the still around guy at the end. “That’s my goat-boy,” she said.
They asked me to leave and I left rather quickly. I held them to it, saving the last of the paranoid. The overwhelming reality of their true cause made idle small talk with those who were true journalists. They held him to it, folding less of the paranoid. Only the reasonable, the witty and the idle judged the irresponsible. And only the lonely are idle. The red tape and pants are a gonzo truth.
Real writers are much obliged.
Real writers need to be watched.
They told the man nothing. It was utter gibberish, garbage. Magic impulses and manic outcries, though he believed it all. Only the reference held a man half interested in believing. He sat idly searching and pulling words from other’s thoughts. He would never leave Los Angeles again. I take that back, the LA of the north, Vancouver. It is a city of only red cars, but then we found this black Cadillac.
He needed coffee like he needed a bag of hammers to the side of his head but he stopped in anyways. The delusion was grated and the dreams succeeded to make sure he belonged to Mother Suzanna. The whole beverage was on her dime. So he asked to put “The Needle and the Damage Done” in the CD player. He never imagined it would keep him up at night. It was just the scratch of the minute where he stared out the window. But that never kept him up at night. She would, she might grab his arm.
It was a classy joint, he thought, the Devil’s burnouts and white trash. He argued with the cashier enough to turn the next page. The whole restaurant turned on him. It was as if his fly was undone as he paced the counter with a smile. He had to leave and go elsewhere. The highway would be right. He could just drive away.
There was nowhere he could hide. He struck the steering wheel and allowed his car to drive itself down the straight and narrow highway. It was for the best.
His person conquest was one that trailed off. The turnpike was draining him. Traffic was getting worse and he knew that if he wanted to run away he had to do so now. He would do what the doctor would not. The damned were noted and two of the acid trips he had done recently caused an accidental ghoul. The draw of nicotine and coffee would save his note. If he ever left the depression the jitters would come. There was nothing in the middle nor at the window. Nothing would keep him up at night.
11.5.10
This is the start of a new era. Special times and metaphor drop ill with these death kneel. What are the sober men marked through their mindful of work and ultimate old signal or sacrifice. The leaders held their thought trough any pantomime that was the leaders of men held down for significant slaughter. The leaders of these men send their mark into the mainstream and my mighty sword was traveled and the writer pulls a hamstring. The loaded gun is nothing but a fact.
So still at his Smith and Corona a writer stays resting. Easily and modern the man smashes for the Venus if they all settle men on fire than the leaders are to finished. The man of hope and rah are more modern than these parts they seemed more relevant. They seemed a simple outside fall and when they had to hit, they needed the simple ankh man rah. And when the modern man, fell upon their hit there was a simple folk who mentioned that the silver wit could not be explained.
And he would write to that, as something that he don’t, these martyrs seemed legit.
So still at his Smith and Corona a writer stays resting. Easily and modern the man smashes for the Venus if they all settle men on fire than the leaders are to finished. The man of hope and rah are more modern than these parts they seemed more relevant. They seemed a simple outside fall and when they had to hit, they needed the simple ankh man rah. And when the modern man, fell upon their hit there was a simple folk who mentioned that the silver wit could not be explained.
And he would write to that, as something that he don’t, these martyrs seemed legit.
26.4.10
Craft History Ch 103
Four Basic Domains of Material Objects
1. Ancestral – heirlooms
The old violin sits idly in a leather case. The case has deep red plush interior but is covered in a think layer of dust, as it has only been open twice in twenty years. The strings are ragged and have a thin layer of fuzz on them. Every few inches the catgut slips in a sharp line out the side of the strings. The wood below them is finished in a dark brown coating. It is deeply covered in this varnish. It is cut like a small violin, with a light cut in the middle of the body. The bow is long but the horsehair is frayed. It was hand made in Canada in my grandfather’s era. He passed away in 1986. The violin was probably built by hand in a small shop in the Edmonton area in the early 1950s. The violin is simply fragile. It hasn’t been touched in twenty years. Either set of strings might break if they are pulled together. The dust also alludes to this idea.
2. Bestowal or Exchange – social and familial / religious and temporal
There is a three-foot high statue of Shiva that was sold as a cheap forgery to my father about ten years ago. He bought it on eBay and once it arrived we took it out and it was a cheap forgery of the forgery it was sold as. It is black and stands on a square pedestal carved like a master. The numerous heads are stacked atop a small frame and the many arms stick out off the side, hooked together. The left set of arms is broken and varnished over as if it was made of stone. But it has been broken again and one can now see its true nature. It is made of plaster and metal wire as so to look broken and weathered with age in the photographs. It was sold at a reasonable price, about fifty dollars. The statue is an interesting piece in need of minor repair. It has an aesthetic quality of dignity or stature in life. Without seeing the ceramic and wire and plaster, it appears to be a true forgery from 1849. I believe this piece of art is a joke. The decorative properties of Shiva symbolize the eternalness of the moment while the artist is laughing because he was able to sell a forgery as a forgery online.
3. Political – Authority/Investiture/Rulership
I have an old orange t-shirt from Shambala. It signified my authority as a sober person at the music festival. Drugs of all measures circled around me. It is 100 percent cotton and dyed bright orange. The music festival’s logo is about located on the left breast of the shirt. On the back and in larger black lettering the word “Staff” is incredibly apparent. The shirt was perhaps made the same way any shirt of Canadian origin is made. The production of t-shirts is a largely automated process. The fabric is cut in to the shape of the front and back and it is sewn up the side. The neckline and sleeves are then added to the shirt to give it the final look. The t-shirt is very loud in order to attract the attention of the partygoers in need of a sober mind. This is a responsibility that was necessary to uphold. It seems to be the only symbol of authority I can find in my home.
4. Domestic Tools – Functional Tools
There is a garden hand shovel that was gifted to me as a going away present. It has a light maple handle that was about two feet long. In the end it is only about an inch round. The metal spade is wrapped around the thinner end of the long maple shaft. The spade is hammered into a thin yet durable end. Then it was polished to a shiny silver surface and eventually sold to the Princess Auto Corporation. This is evident by the sticker that is stuck to the shaft in a makeshift fashion. The handle was surely machine carved from a log. The spade was surely shaped by a large wheeled machine rolling back and forth over the cut metal to make the end sharper. The aesthetic quality this material object has is a glimmer or shine. The spade and handle both shine with the reflection of any wandering light source. This gives an impression the tool is new and yet to be used.
The Government fed me drugs so I took more. There is something crooked about that system. The issue lay in the pomegranates unique qualities and the hotel room that I couldn’t leave. They were scared minds and bad trips, horrid notice and blasted foreign days that should not be remembered. Now there is little except Schizophrenia and the notice for Dr. David Suzuki. I agree begrudgingly with the “Downside of High.” But those trips will happen to most anyone. The trick is to fall asleep trying.
The government drugs take longer to work but I thought they had the same effect. The night seemed so young but I shouldn’t have taken them. This is from the lighter effects on Vietnam Veterans. I am nothing of that sort. My life has obviously been one of delusions of grandeur and hopeless mornings wondering what I am going to do with my day. If I did more, I wouldn’t have the thoughts that I was this world’s hero.
But when I was younger the government fed me drugs, told me I had to take them and they made me dizzy and sleepy. They were psychoactive pills that changed my perspectives on things. They helped, but that fed my drug use. I took different forms of psychoactive medicine and even found different ways of ingesting my prescription medicine. This was more fun because it wasn’t allowed. Things were strange in those years and I loved all the drugs, the whole slew of them.
I burned out and quit hard drugs by 21. I fell back into them sometimes and hurt myself but never too badly before I quit. But I feel resentment towards the people who initially prescribed my particular mind with heavy psychoactive chemicals. Maybe it was my own decision and this is my vented regret for taking them. Or Maybe I would have lived without the prescription pills had I stayed away from street drugs. Or maybe I would have lived a happy and healthy life without smoking. I have grown up quite a bit in the last year as I just recently turned 25.
I wonder if Dr. Suzuki has ever noted the wonder and absolute manifestation of strange events and series that happens when one is in a manic state. Right there is some magical stuff. What a wondrous world filled with endless possibilities it is. All the scenes fade into some delusion of past live regression and existential angst that is suppressed and unwilling to show itself. You think you are hanging with the true royalty. And I’m sure I was. I think that is how they have parties.
They do them at the psychiatry ward.
Four Basic Domains of Material Objects
1. Ancestral – heirlooms
The old violin sits idly in a leather case. The case has deep red plush interior but is covered in a think layer of dust, as it has only been open twice in twenty years. The strings are ragged and have a thin layer of fuzz on them. Every few inches the catgut slips in a sharp line out the side of the strings. The wood below them is finished in a dark brown coating. It is deeply covered in this varnish. It is cut like a small violin, with a light cut in the middle of the body. The bow is long but the horsehair is frayed. It was hand made in Canada in my grandfather’s era. He passed away in 1986. The violin was probably built by hand in a small shop in the Edmonton area in the early 1950s. The violin is simply fragile. It hasn’t been touched in twenty years. Either set of strings might break if they are pulled together. The dust also alludes to this idea.
2. Bestowal or Exchange – social and familial / religious and temporal
There is a three-foot high statue of Shiva that was sold as a cheap forgery to my father about ten years ago. He bought it on eBay and once it arrived we took it out and it was a cheap forgery of the forgery it was sold as. It is black and stands on a square pedestal carved like a master. The numerous heads are stacked atop a small frame and the many arms stick out off the side, hooked together. The left set of arms is broken and varnished over as if it was made of stone. But it has been broken again and one can now see its true nature. It is made of plaster and metal wire as so to look broken and weathered with age in the photographs. It was sold at a reasonable price, about fifty dollars. The statue is an interesting piece in need of minor repair. It has an aesthetic quality of dignity or stature in life. Without seeing the ceramic and wire and plaster, it appears to be a true forgery from 1849. I believe this piece of art is a joke. The decorative properties of Shiva symbolize the eternalness of the moment while the artist is laughing because he was able to sell a forgery as a forgery online.
3. Political – Authority/Investiture/Rulership
I have an old orange t-shirt from Shambala. It signified my authority as a sober person at the music festival. Drugs of all measures circled around me. It is 100 percent cotton and dyed bright orange. The music festival’s logo is about located on the left breast of the shirt. On the back and in larger black lettering the word “Staff” is incredibly apparent. The shirt was perhaps made the same way any shirt of Canadian origin is made. The production of t-shirts is a largely automated process. The fabric is cut in to the shape of the front and back and it is sewn up the side. The neckline and sleeves are then added to the shirt to give it the final look. The t-shirt is very loud in order to attract the attention of the partygoers in need of a sober mind. This is a responsibility that was necessary to uphold. It seems to be the only symbol of authority I can find in my home.
4. Domestic Tools – Functional Tools
There is a garden hand shovel that was gifted to me as a going away present. It has a light maple handle that was about two feet long. In the end it is only about an inch round. The metal spade is wrapped around the thinner end of the long maple shaft. The spade is hammered into a thin yet durable end. Then it was polished to a shiny silver surface and eventually sold to the Princess Auto Corporation. This is evident by the sticker that is stuck to the shaft in a makeshift fashion. The handle was surely machine carved from a log. The spade was surely shaped by a large wheeled machine rolling back and forth over the cut metal to make the end sharper. The aesthetic quality this material object has is a glimmer or shine. The spade and handle both shine with the reflection of any wandering light source. This gives an impression the tool is new and yet to be used.
The Government fed me drugs so I took more. There is something crooked about that system. The issue lay in the pomegranates unique qualities and the hotel room that I couldn’t leave. They were scared minds and bad trips, horrid notice and blasted foreign days that should not be remembered. Now there is little except Schizophrenia and the notice for Dr. David Suzuki. I agree begrudgingly with the “Downside of High.” But those trips will happen to most anyone. The trick is to fall asleep trying.
The government drugs take longer to work but I thought they had the same effect. The night seemed so young but I shouldn’t have taken them. This is from the lighter effects on Vietnam Veterans. I am nothing of that sort. My life has obviously been one of delusions of grandeur and hopeless mornings wondering what I am going to do with my day. If I did more, I wouldn’t have the thoughts that I was this world’s hero.
But when I was younger the government fed me drugs, told me I had to take them and they made me dizzy and sleepy. They were psychoactive pills that changed my perspectives on things. They helped, but that fed my drug use. I took different forms of psychoactive medicine and even found different ways of ingesting my prescription medicine. This was more fun because it wasn’t allowed. Things were strange in those years and I loved all the drugs, the whole slew of them.
I burned out and quit hard drugs by 21. I fell back into them sometimes and hurt myself but never too badly before I quit. But I feel resentment towards the people who initially prescribed my particular mind with heavy psychoactive chemicals. Maybe it was my own decision and this is my vented regret for taking them. Or Maybe I would have lived without the prescription pills had I stayed away from street drugs. Or maybe I would have lived a happy and healthy life without smoking. I have grown up quite a bit in the last year as I just recently turned 25.
I wonder if Dr. Suzuki has ever noted the wonder and absolute manifestation of strange events and series that happens when one is in a manic state. Right there is some magical stuff. What a wondrous world filled with endless possibilities it is. All the scenes fade into some delusion of past live regression and existential angst that is suppressed and unwilling to show itself. You think you are hanging with the true royalty. And I’m sure I was. I think that is how they have parties.
They do them at the psychiatry ward.
4.4.10
An introduction.
Norman Shins lived in a large bland city known as Festin. It was tall and strong and grey with stunning skyscrapers made of glass but a thick fog that held them from those on the streets below. He was a bookkeeper and wanted to make an honest living. His fame came from his lies that told of two friends that really had their say.
He wrote one note that stated boldly:
“They knew of only one man who stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an otherwise matriarchal household. “
This was odd in Festin, and odd for Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late pushing paper nearly every night.
This would have been lonely to some but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the same small cubicle. But this action was simply because the boss needed to instill fear and power for respect. He thought that nothing that truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of the forks he told Norman every night at dinner.
It was easier to believe in that sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.
Norman sometimes thought aloud that he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of culture to demand people did one’s bidding.
But Norman just kept books. His boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman and his cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their mortal shell. Neither had family to care for. That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Darkened Guards would take all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that you were expecting a birth.
It was argued that this sped the process of growing. Studies backed by the Main Office of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some simply died though the official numbers that were available to the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased the development of their otherwise stable and capable children. Norman turned one night to his only true friend and said, “Harold, we have no mortal shell outside this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block away. Is this what life is?”
Harold refused to answer and did not speak all night, passing even at the end of the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed in opposite directions from the front gate outside the building and into a hazy morning light.
So the next night Norman asked the same question. Still Harold just looked at his books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of luck, or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found a small grey book.
This book appeared old, as the inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his glee and shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline that played tricks with their eyes.
“So You Say You’ve Committed Genocide – A Handbook For Going to Hell.”
He wrote one note that stated boldly:
“They knew of only one man who stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an otherwise matriarchal household. “
This was odd in Festin, and odd for Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late pushing paper nearly every night.
This would have been lonely to some but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the same small cubicle. But this action was simply because the boss needed to instill fear and power for respect. He thought that nothing that truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of the forks he told Norman every night at dinner.
It was easier to believe in that sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.
Norman sometimes thought aloud that he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of culture to demand people did one’s bidding.
But Norman just kept books. His boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman and his cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their mortal shell. Neither had family to care for. That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Darkened Guards would take all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that you were expecting a birth.
It was argued that this sped the process of growing. Studies backed by the Main Office of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some simply died though the official numbers that were available to the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased the development of their otherwise stable and capable children. Norman turned one night to his only true friend and said, “Harold, we have no mortal shell outside this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block away. Is this what life is?”
Harold refused to answer and did not speak all night, passing even at the end of the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed in opposite directions from the front gate outside the building and into a hazy morning light.
So the next night Norman asked the same question. Still Harold just looked at his books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of luck, or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found a small grey book.
This book appeared old, as the inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his glee and shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline that played tricks with their eyes.
“So You Say You’ve Committed Genocide – A Handbook For Going to Hell.”
PART 19:
Richard Channing was in his comfy chair when his roommate arrived, although he had no roommate. The tone was a hushed whisper, “Before I think to leave and travel.” His room mate said hello.
Richard glanced to his side mirror. He sold more money that day than he knew. He was no mere drug dealer, he was a world leader. Our hero loves and before the mightiest sword drawn would be his peoples. This was his true purpose.
Our hero began to ramble. “I am not the beginning of the old world. I have no remark that let them. Let the man have nothing. That is my counter remark. And let the old heathens be lit. If they never marked nothing, they would soldier on as old sorts. They had nothing to lose. The marked men who felt they met the old reason they the marked suits,” Richard heralded.
His roommate asked an awkward man to clarify.
Instead of replying he felt his old typewriter and wondered about it’s previous typist. It was a moment of reason but Richard mentioned, “Washed and marketed to a fool. The old nevermore that took the crows, sir.” But Rick Channing smiled and moved his fingers to type.
The roommate had won.
He won because heaven was waiting for the traveling few. They may not need these people who run away from the room. But he knew it was not that. And the toad knew that too, even third party members out in the hallway played our dear hero the blues.
“I would call on him, my friend,” The roommate said softly, but the remark fell on Dick Cheney’s deaf ears and he replied, “This man belongs in a world for himself.”
This was an odd moment for a man of Richard’s caliber. He would one day be people’s idol. He would be a man that people could look up to and trust. People would follow his will and dance with a traditional sin. And he liked these traits of this man. Richard was not typing and was once again entranced with the Toad’s presence.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Rick asked.
“No I never have one first thing in the morning.”
“A cry is the way to be here every morn, sir.”
Richard laughed and clasped his hands.
The voice continued, “She has left an open wound that needs men of mind and words. You have none though, Richard. Where are your words?”
“Maybe his error was he quit telling lies. That poor woman, she knows nothing of men.”
“Those are no words, Richard.”
“But it is at your request. So please stand and back up. I am a man who has just finally won that thing and may I mention I’ve seen the ghost. You haven’t seen the ghost, Toad.”
“Your ghetto has been awakened in the wee hours. But I will only ask you this once, would you rather destroy Festin or the other worlds? He never acted as if this negative spirit scared him. You grabbed at this woman and fought with her arms. She struggled for a moment and he her for the last dance of the morning, Rick.”
The coffee machine sputtered in the background and an androgynous roommate laughed at Richard’s groan.
“They never had no ghost tour that knew the old and retro was a train,” he said, “I have never done that before. Maybe if he struggled more with the smaller grounds. They would all become much smaller then. We could grow stronger. We could move a little further ahead and into this new technology.”
“But I am not interested in new inventions.”
“Well now you have smoked the cigarettes.” Rick told a shocked roommate.
“I guess not,” The voice replied.
Richard continued, “And when I brushed her bangs back with a strong hand, in a gesture that was synonymous with music. I played her out of her hat. The big band put me in the mood for hard Jack Daniels. I felt that I looked like a middleman for somebody. It was a feeling I never had before. That was the time I stroked my first good looking woman, Toad.”
“Did you kiss her goodnight?”
“She decided not to kiss me that night when I left. Her breath was gross or something, I dunno.”
“And your life would go on forever in this specific series of events. So we suppose you have channeled energy from somewhere. Sometimes it’s a young girl forced to make breakfast for you, sometimes not. You will one day see it. He was a man from our persuasion. He was a man like you who had these ladies held tightly.”
Richard Channing was in his comfy chair when his roommate arrived, although he had no roommate. The tone was a hushed whisper, “Before I think to leave and travel.” His room mate said hello.
Richard glanced to his side mirror. He sold more money that day than he knew. He was no mere drug dealer, he was a world leader. Our hero loves and before the mightiest sword drawn would be his peoples. This was his true purpose.
Our hero began to ramble. “I am not the beginning of the old world. I have no remark that let them. Let the man have nothing. That is my counter remark. And let the old heathens be lit. If they never marked nothing, they would soldier on as old sorts. They had nothing to lose. The marked men who felt they met the old reason they the marked suits,” Richard heralded.
His roommate asked an awkward man to clarify.
Instead of replying he felt his old typewriter and wondered about it’s previous typist. It was a moment of reason but Richard mentioned, “Washed and marketed to a fool. The old nevermore that took the crows, sir.” But Rick Channing smiled and moved his fingers to type.
The roommate had won.
He won because heaven was waiting for the traveling few. They may not need these people who run away from the room. But he knew it was not that. And the toad knew that too, even third party members out in the hallway played our dear hero the blues.
“I would call on him, my friend,” The roommate said softly, but the remark fell on Dick Cheney’s deaf ears and he replied, “This man belongs in a world for himself.”
This was an odd moment for a man of Richard’s caliber. He would one day be people’s idol. He would be a man that people could look up to and trust. People would follow his will and dance with a traditional sin. And he liked these traits of this man. Richard was not typing and was once again entranced with the Toad’s presence.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Rick asked.
“No I never have one first thing in the morning.”
“A cry is the way to be here every morn, sir.”
Richard laughed and clasped his hands.
The voice continued, “She has left an open wound that needs men of mind and words. You have none though, Richard. Where are your words?”
“Maybe his error was he quit telling lies. That poor woman, she knows nothing of men.”
“Those are no words, Richard.”
“But it is at your request. So please stand and back up. I am a man who has just finally won that thing and may I mention I’ve seen the ghost. You haven’t seen the ghost, Toad.”
“Your ghetto has been awakened in the wee hours. But I will only ask you this once, would you rather destroy Festin or the other worlds? He never acted as if this negative spirit scared him. You grabbed at this woman and fought with her arms. She struggled for a moment and he her for the last dance of the morning, Rick.”
The coffee machine sputtered in the background and an androgynous roommate laughed at Richard’s groan.
“They never had no ghost tour that knew the old and retro was a train,” he said, “I have never done that before. Maybe if he struggled more with the smaller grounds. They would all become much smaller then. We could grow stronger. We could move a little further ahead and into this new technology.”
“But I am not interested in new inventions.”
“Well now you have smoked the cigarettes.” Rick told a shocked roommate.
“I guess not,” The voice replied.
Richard continued, “And when I brushed her bangs back with a strong hand, in a gesture that was synonymous with music. I played her out of her hat. The big band put me in the mood for hard Jack Daniels. I felt that I looked like a middleman for somebody. It was a feeling I never had before. That was the time I stroked my first good looking woman, Toad.”
“Did you kiss her goodnight?”
“She decided not to kiss me that night when I left. Her breath was gross or something, I dunno.”
“And your life would go on forever in this specific series of events. So we suppose you have channeled energy from somewhere. Sometimes it’s a young girl forced to make breakfast for you, sometimes not. You will one day see it. He was a man from our persuasion. He was a man like you who had these ladies held tightly.”
part 18
Our hero sat disposed with grandeur twitching his fingers. Ill will was a reasons to say that all was well. Richard was a man from the league of sincere reasoning and smiled like a mean person. The bad tastes of cigarettes and whisky in his mouth made him say, “I’ll take your soul.” The sentence slipped out of his mouth and traveled across the mind of his friend Bob as he searched for the words to follow. It was simple, so he asked, “Why do they hold men in chambers?”
Our hero continued to twitch his fingers and began to look at them as a measure of mortal men. “Reason and virtue would be best,” he continued. He read the paper and it suggested that he would take their souls. He needed to find a connection to deal with it. That statement made him shake his head. Richard had confidence. It was the path that gave him his high.
“Matters should be recorded,” he suggested, realizing he was still standing on the corner grinding his teeth.
Richard wanted a glass of water. He would sip the rim and calm his internal fires. This is a man trying hard to look wary of the street yet he did not. More than one person saw this young man in prep school garb and held no respect for him.
With this in mind he opened his wallet to check his situation. He lied to himself that it was okay to do this, that nobody here could hurt him and that he was the most feared man on the block. This was because he sent his psychic forces out to set such repute to this city block.
He was making progress in his plans. He pulled a folded piece of paper and made a comment that he was still young. Still nobody was listening and he appeared to be mentally ill, so he was not found out of place when he took another sniff of white powder. He did the rail in a perpetual search for a better word to describe the fear he struck in the hearts of common men. He nearly fell over but let himself think that this was the drug of the kings. It was the drug of the most powerful people.
He repeated the word “powerful” to himself. It was true. He was going to be king.
The moment trapped him so he stood still in some unfinished painting for a number of minutes. He was frozen in the instant like the world was his for the taking. He could do anything he wanted, and spoke softly to himself, “Those that are making the true gains in politics are snorting cocaine right now. I know this because I am. This is the drug that makes one smart and cool. Those that smoke the stuff are below me. They do not actually feel its effects.”
He then walked to find the dealer that he last bought the drug from. Cocaine was expensive. Crack was for the poor. He was cool and he knew that his dealer saw this. He forgot the path that he was going to take. He knew that it would have been a good one, but Richard reasoned that this silence was very interesting as well.
He took a moments glance at the man selling drugs on the corner and sighed. It was his friend and dealer, a man that Richard only knew as Paint. He bought more drug in silence with a smile that was key for the man to know that he could be trusted. Richard left quickly and decided that he should go visit his friend. He could not stay here. He left and felt higher for it. He would be wiser in the future, knowing that his people existed on one side of the tracks and the disenfranchised lived on the other. Our hero knew that every day that he longed for supremecy over his peers was a day wasted, as he was simply longing for it and not truly superior.
He left thinking about a box of soap. The interest of his statements to himself and that city block left him wondering if he would rather exist as one of those actual boxes of soap. He did not make sense of this connection. He just wondered why he thought such things.
The nuisance would be to carry such an object with him. Maybe he could hire help. One of those black men that worked for his family would be perfect. Or maybe an Asian woman. He reasoned that they were used to being set in their place.
Our hero gazed into the distance and made his way back to the affluent section of town without remembering a thing that he said or did.
PART 18:
Our hero had the catchy song of the day in his head. It was a number one hit a few months back but had made its way down the charts back to relative obscurity and impulse purchases of the sorts of people Richard could not make sense of. It was a simple tune and our hero could not help but bob his head.
One day, Richard supposed, he would publish his autobiography. It would be insightful and about his meteoric rise to power and influence. He would have it ghost written, but only because other men were better writers than him. He would make sure it would be insightful and explain how he was right about everything. It would detail his beliefs and people would purchase it and learn about his wise teachings. They will keep good thoughts about him and keep him high on a pedestal above everyone else, especially those who made him an outsider. They would fear him the most, for he would have been their king.
And only those that Richard considered cool would survive. It would be a strange test, our hero thought in a lark. “Do you believe in Richard Channing?” the paper would remark. If they circled yes than they would become his class. If they circled no than they would become slaves until finally they were simply wiped out. Those who did not think our hero cool would be punished and this simple goal would be kept secret. He could not be caught discussing this with anyone.
It could be implied to those who held powerful positions and they would know. Richard knew how politics worked. They would agree with what he meant and it would be easy to become that man.
The key to being cool, Richard figured, was to be just a little badass. He once used the term that he was “In the closet as a bad man,” to explain that the common people should believe that he was a good man in a charade preformed for the mass media. His collegues were a little taken aback by his statement. They sat in silent shock when that series of words left his lips.
Richard laughed it off, as a man should do. He stated for the record, “I didn’t mean like that... It is just that people should believe in their leader because otherwise there will be too much uncertain air around the elections.”
The fellows who sat with him agreed and quickly changed the topic. Dick was unsure whether he had uttered a faux-pas or if he made an important point. Our hero knew that they had picked up his tone and suggestion. They knew what he meant.
Richard looked in the eyes of the people in the room hoping that they did not hear his last thought. It was a silent thought but he understood that his mind could influence people so he hoped these men did not know what was up.
These men were cool. They were a sort of cabal that men at midnight. The claim was that by becoming one of them he could start his quest to be the most powerful man in the world. It was as simple as coming to the meeting and discussing world events. Most of these men had fathers in politics. They were good connections and would serve him wisely in his plans.
But Richard’s mind began to wander.
He could not mention his other wishes, the ones to join crime. If they knew that he wanted to sell drugs while making them illegal for everyone else he would seem too crooked, even for this shadowy group. He would stick to implications regarding ethnic cleansing and the immense superiority of his class and people. They did not realize that he meant only the few that Richard thought were cool would survive. They would understand eventually but he would need to be further entrenched in this cabal to send this idea towards any of them.
Our hero continued to twitch his fingers and began to look at them as a measure of mortal men. “Reason and virtue would be best,” he continued. He read the paper and it suggested that he would take their souls. He needed to find a connection to deal with it. That statement made him shake his head. Richard had confidence. It was the path that gave him his high.
“Matters should be recorded,” he suggested, realizing he was still standing on the corner grinding his teeth.
Richard wanted a glass of water. He would sip the rim and calm his internal fires. This is a man trying hard to look wary of the street yet he did not. More than one person saw this young man in prep school garb and held no respect for him.
With this in mind he opened his wallet to check his situation. He lied to himself that it was okay to do this, that nobody here could hurt him and that he was the most feared man on the block. This was because he sent his psychic forces out to set such repute to this city block.
He was making progress in his plans. He pulled a folded piece of paper and made a comment that he was still young. Still nobody was listening and he appeared to be mentally ill, so he was not found out of place when he took another sniff of white powder. He did the rail in a perpetual search for a better word to describe the fear he struck in the hearts of common men. He nearly fell over but let himself think that this was the drug of the kings. It was the drug of the most powerful people.
He repeated the word “powerful” to himself. It was true. He was going to be king.
The moment trapped him so he stood still in some unfinished painting for a number of minutes. He was frozen in the instant like the world was his for the taking. He could do anything he wanted, and spoke softly to himself, “Those that are making the true gains in politics are snorting cocaine right now. I know this because I am. This is the drug that makes one smart and cool. Those that smoke the stuff are below me. They do not actually feel its effects.”
He then walked to find the dealer that he last bought the drug from. Cocaine was expensive. Crack was for the poor. He was cool and he knew that his dealer saw this. He forgot the path that he was going to take. He knew that it would have been a good one, but Richard reasoned that this silence was very interesting as well.
He took a moments glance at the man selling drugs on the corner and sighed. It was his friend and dealer, a man that Richard only knew as Paint. He bought more drug in silence with a smile that was key for the man to know that he could be trusted. Richard left quickly and decided that he should go visit his friend. He could not stay here. He left and felt higher for it. He would be wiser in the future, knowing that his people existed on one side of the tracks and the disenfranchised lived on the other. Our hero knew that every day that he longed for supremecy over his peers was a day wasted, as he was simply longing for it and not truly superior.
He left thinking about a box of soap. The interest of his statements to himself and that city block left him wondering if he would rather exist as one of those actual boxes of soap. He did not make sense of this connection. He just wondered why he thought such things.
The nuisance would be to carry such an object with him. Maybe he could hire help. One of those black men that worked for his family would be perfect. Or maybe an Asian woman. He reasoned that they were used to being set in their place.
Our hero gazed into the distance and made his way back to the affluent section of town without remembering a thing that he said or did.
PART 18:
Our hero had the catchy song of the day in his head. It was a number one hit a few months back but had made its way down the charts back to relative obscurity and impulse purchases of the sorts of people Richard could not make sense of. It was a simple tune and our hero could not help but bob his head.
One day, Richard supposed, he would publish his autobiography. It would be insightful and about his meteoric rise to power and influence. He would have it ghost written, but only because other men were better writers than him. He would make sure it would be insightful and explain how he was right about everything. It would detail his beliefs and people would purchase it and learn about his wise teachings. They will keep good thoughts about him and keep him high on a pedestal above everyone else, especially those who made him an outsider. They would fear him the most, for he would have been their king.
And only those that Richard considered cool would survive. It would be a strange test, our hero thought in a lark. “Do you believe in Richard Channing?” the paper would remark. If they circled yes than they would become his class. If they circled no than they would become slaves until finally they were simply wiped out. Those who did not think our hero cool would be punished and this simple goal would be kept secret. He could not be caught discussing this with anyone.
It could be implied to those who held powerful positions and they would know. Richard knew how politics worked. They would agree with what he meant and it would be easy to become that man.
The key to being cool, Richard figured, was to be just a little badass. He once used the term that he was “In the closet as a bad man,” to explain that the common people should believe that he was a good man in a charade preformed for the mass media. His collegues were a little taken aback by his statement. They sat in silent shock when that series of words left his lips.
Richard laughed it off, as a man should do. He stated for the record, “I didn’t mean like that... It is just that people should believe in their leader because otherwise there will be too much uncertain air around the elections.”
The fellows who sat with him agreed and quickly changed the topic. Dick was unsure whether he had uttered a faux-pas or if he made an important point. Our hero knew that they had picked up his tone and suggestion. They knew what he meant.
Richard looked in the eyes of the people in the room hoping that they did not hear his last thought. It was a silent thought but he understood that his mind could influence people so he hoped these men did not know what was up.
These men were cool. They were a sort of cabal that men at midnight. The claim was that by becoming one of them he could start his quest to be the most powerful man in the world. It was as simple as coming to the meeting and discussing world events. Most of these men had fathers in politics. They were good connections and would serve him wisely in his plans.
But Richard’s mind began to wander.
He could not mention his other wishes, the ones to join crime. If they knew that he wanted to sell drugs while making them illegal for everyone else he would seem too crooked, even for this shadowy group. He would stick to implications regarding ethnic cleansing and the immense superiority of his class and people. They did not realize that he meant only the few that Richard thought were cool would survive. They would understand eventually but he would need to be further entrenched in this cabal to send this idea towards any of them.
PART FIVE:
Asylums- 350-82
Behavior of patients 520-1
So I sat here talking to some deadheads and needing a bowl of soup. Tell the men that left our head that our hero was filled with words. But we need some heroes and criminals to grow and learn and tell them an entertaining story.
I hope I haven’t left you with the impression that this book is about me.
This book is about a strange young man that lives in this turn of the millennium. This man will grow up to become the president of the United States of America. His life started with quite the bang.
“Each word is longer than the next,” he said, “So I need a drink.”
The man at the counter glanced at him and said, “There are three things direly wrong with that statement. First, you are not yet twenty-one. Second, you are at work. And third, it is noon, you fool.”
And Richard Channing stammered, “But I need a drink. I do own this hall, page. I am the first born son of the Channing family.”
“There is a beer in the fridge,” a sullen old black man told him.
When the old black remembered this event later, thinking as well of a memory. He still saw tracers from the last time he had looked at the sun.
It had been years since he had seen young Master Channing as the man had fired him for writing and singing that song. Or maybe it was one to the tone of, “Jesus, just put away their guns. Before they kill someone, I remember thinking this, so I stared into the sun. And sir, ask him if you want to keep your son.”
Somewhere around the time he was last able to sing the whole song, an awkward man in a funny hat showed himself to him as a silhouette.
The skinny black man smiled and whispered, “He is this silence, my dear friend.”
And the butler left Richard Channing; never knowing whom the awkward man was until they met again in Summerland. The young white man who fired him did not know what he had done. It was best that they had left when they did. There was little the old servant could do but smile.
Though Richard Channing remembers this day quite differently. “You are an angry teen,” he was saying to himself. He was worried that every schoolmate he passed could hear his awkward and peculiar thoughts. He grew concerned when they looked as if they did.
“You were happy,” he choked in order to stifle what he knew was coming, “You were nice… And unabashedly homosexual for three full days, but your playground superiors do not approve of your sexual revelation. So you turn black. You are pulled into a rage. You quickly stormed out of this school.” While saying this, he pushed a younger student on the stairs and spilled his books to the ground dramatically.
He also committed his first murder.
Our hero quickly called a cab from the street and takes it home to his father’s large mansion. The driver left him at the end of a winding driveway. He marched past a guard, cursing in some daze about the lush grounds surrounding his palace.
As he passed the front porch the maid had not brought the American cheddar cheese squares on sticks, so he smashed the overhead light. It fell to the ground and he stomped it with two feet sure to twist the ruins of the broken glass into dust and marking the expensively varnished wood.
Richard Channing’s grey suit pants were covered in dust and he suddenly burst into tears. The crying lasted but a moment, until he slapped his own face. “Bitch!” he screamed at himself before running inside, catching his pressed pants on a sliver he made in the varnished wood and tearing the leg up the side.
He began to do what most teenagers would, jumping towards the couch to try and break his neck. If he had truly wanted to he would have. But there our hero rested, holding a throw pillow and twisting back and forth.
So he stood from the couch and stormed towards the kitchen. He grabbed a knife from the drawer and ran back to the living room. Well he stabbed through the pillow little Rick smiled, pausing to carve through the couch on the other side. He pulled the knife through the middle of the cushion and tore the blade back towards himself.
He nearly cut his suit pants and threw the knife to the floor before running crying up the nearest stairs.
He found his thoughts in an upstairs bedroom. It was on the left at the end of the hall furthest from the stairs. It was the first time in ages that he sat on that bed cross-legged and crying. When he stopped his tears he was shaking back and forth with his eyes fixed tight on the mirror behind the dresser.
He sat there still after a moment and mouthed words at his reflection, “Yeah, man. Keep crying. Ladies like that.”
He had learned from his father that strong words make strong people. It is okay to be hard on yourself once in a while. Always be faithful. Learn from tough words. Do so with fortitude. That is the right thing to do.
So Rick Channing stood from his bed and straightened his sheets out.
He took off his school suit and began to speak his actions as he preformed them, “You slip out from here and put on a ragged tracksuit. You put on your fine leather dress shoe and stomp down the stairs. You pick the knife up off the living room floor. You stomp your way through the down remains of the couch.”
And of course our hero began to narrate, “White feathers mark the floor around the room and the gash in the couch seems remarkable. You think that you will have to blame the oldest Mexican servant for you, of course, were at school. For this purpose I smile at the idea of the woman who raised you to be hurt by your actions.”
He strolled out the front door of your family’s mansion, “This means you are better than the servant. So you slide the kitchen knife into your kangaroo pocket and begin the march down the driveway to that big black gate. When you reach the end of the driveway you step past the guard, mentioning in passing that you must get back to school…”
This was a lie but it made him feel good.
His hooded sweatshirt is grey, like the clouds above his bitter world’s sky.
He knew that he should go back to his private school. The next course was math, taught by that sexy long-legged redhead. Dick had told a few students that he had bought her dinner and jewelry in exchange for some tutoring and housekeeping.
None of that matters now. They all heard what he said. The funny thing was she hadn’t rebutted. The people at school must have known it was rude to discuss a pretty teachers history with students. The student he had told felt he had a chance with this teacher if only he kept silent. He spent most of his classes grinning. He would wink when he answered a question, quite as Richard suggested. And Dick Channing smiled his half a smile, crooked on the right of his face in such a way rumors of his health sometimes surfaced.
But Dick Channing would cringe at the thought that people in those hallways heard him when his thoughts drifted to fantasies of his father’s military brigade. The old black and white photo had his fathers face burned out. Our hero had told friend he did that in a fight with him and he regretted it. The truth was he regretted it for other reasons.
He even doubted that the classmates even believed such tales of such a redhead.
The truth was, he didn’t even know if she was cute. It came from a conversation overheard in the hallway between classes. A calm terror he had to repress made his left eye twitch once. Richard cracked his half a smile instead.
Asylums- 350-82
Behavior of patients 520-1
So I sat here talking to some deadheads and needing a bowl of soup. Tell the men that left our head that our hero was filled with words. But we need some heroes and criminals to grow and learn and tell them an entertaining story.
I hope I haven’t left you with the impression that this book is about me.
This book is about a strange young man that lives in this turn of the millennium. This man will grow up to become the president of the United States of America. His life started with quite the bang.
“Each word is longer than the next,” he said, “So I need a drink.”
The man at the counter glanced at him and said, “There are three things direly wrong with that statement. First, you are not yet twenty-one. Second, you are at work. And third, it is noon, you fool.”
And Richard Channing stammered, “But I need a drink. I do own this hall, page. I am the first born son of the Channing family.”
“There is a beer in the fridge,” a sullen old black man told him.
When the old black remembered this event later, thinking as well of a memory. He still saw tracers from the last time he had looked at the sun.
It had been years since he had seen young Master Channing as the man had fired him for writing and singing that song. Or maybe it was one to the tone of, “Jesus, just put away their guns. Before they kill someone, I remember thinking this, so I stared into the sun. And sir, ask him if you want to keep your son.”
Somewhere around the time he was last able to sing the whole song, an awkward man in a funny hat showed himself to him as a silhouette.
The skinny black man smiled and whispered, “He is this silence, my dear friend.”
And the butler left Richard Channing; never knowing whom the awkward man was until they met again in Summerland. The young white man who fired him did not know what he had done. It was best that they had left when they did. There was little the old servant could do but smile.
Though Richard Channing remembers this day quite differently. “You are an angry teen,” he was saying to himself. He was worried that every schoolmate he passed could hear his awkward and peculiar thoughts. He grew concerned when they looked as if they did.
“You were happy,” he choked in order to stifle what he knew was coming, “You were nice… And unabashedly homosexual for three full days, but your playground superiors do not approve of your sexual revelation. So you turn black. You are pulled into a rage. You quickly stormed out of this school.” While saying this, he pushed a younger student on the stairs and spilled his books to the ground dramatically.
He also committed his first murder.
Our hero quickly called a cab from the street and takes it home to his father’s large mansion. The driver left him at the end of a winding driveway. He marched past a guard, cursing in some daze about the lush grounds surrounding his palace.
As he passed the front porch the maid had not brought the American cheddar cheese squares on sticks, so he smashed the overhead light. It fell to the ground and he stomped it with two feet sure to twist the ruins of the broken glass into dust and marking the expensively varnished wood.
Richard Channing’s grey suit pants were covered in dust and he suddenly burst into tears. The crying lasted but a moment, until he slapped his own face. “Bitch!” he screamed at himself before running inside, catching his pressed pants on a sliver he made in the varnished wood and tearing the leg up the side.
He began to do what most teenagers would, jumping towards the couch to try and break his neck. If he had truly wanted to he would have. But there our hero rested, holding a throw pillow and twisting back and forth.
So he stood from the couch and stormed towards the kitchen. He grabbed a knife from the drawer and ran back to the living room. Well he stabbed through the pillow little Rick smiled, pausing to carve through the couch on the other side. He pulled the knife through the middle of the cushion and tore the blade back towards himself.
He nearly cut his suit pants and threw the knife to the floor before running crying up the nearest stairs.
He found his thoughts in an upstairs bedroom. It was on the left at the end of the hall furthest from the stairs. It was the first time in ages that he sat on that bed cross-legged and crying. When he stopped his tears he was shaking back and forth with his eyes fixed tight on the mirror behind the dresser.
He sat there still after a moment and mouthed words at his reflection, “Yeah, man. Keep crying. Ladies like that.”
He had learned from his father that strong words make strong people. It is okay to be hard on yourself once in a while. Always be faithful. Learn from tough words. Do so with fortitude. That is the right thing to do.
So Rick Channing stood from his bed and straightened his sheets out.
He took off his school suit and began to speak his actions as he preformed them, “You slip out from here and put on a ragged tracksuit. You put on your fine leather dress shoe and stomp down the stairs. You pick the knife up off the living room floor. You stomp your way through the down remains of the couch.”
And of course our hero began to narrate, “White feathers mark the floor around the room and the gash in the couch seems remarkable. You think that you will have to blame the oldest Mexican servant for you, of course, were at school. For this purpose I smile at the idea of the woman who raised you to be hurt by your actions.”
He strolled out the front door of your family’s mansion, “This means you are better than the servant. So you slide the kitchen knife into your kangaroo pocket and begin the march down the driveway to that big black gate. When you reach the end of the driveway you step past the guard, mentioning in passing that you must get back to school…”
This was a lie but it made him feel good.
His hooded sweatshirt is grey, like the clouds above his bitter world’s sky.
He knew that he should go back to his private school. The next course was math, taught by that sexy long-legged redhead. Dick had told a few students that he had bought her dinner and jewelry in exchange for some tutoring and housekeeping.
None of that matters now. They all heard what he said. The funny thing was she hadn’t rebutted. The people at school must have known it was rude to discuss a pretty teachers history with students. The student he had told felt he had a chance with this teacher if only he kept silent. He spent most of his classes grinning. He would wink when he answered a question, quite as Richard suggested. And Dick Channing smiled his half a smile, crooked on the right of his face in such a way rumors of his health sometimes surfaced.
But Dick Channing would cringe at the thought that people in those hallways heard him when his thoughts drifted to fantasies of his father’s military brigade. The old black and white photo had his fathers face burned out. Our hero had told friend he did that in a fight with him and he regretted it. The truth was he regretted it for other reasons.
He even doubted that the classmates even believed such tales of such a redhead.
The truth was, he didn’t even know if she was cute. It came from a conversation overheard in the hallway between classes. A calm terror he had to repress made his left eye twitch once. Richard cracked his half a smile instead.
PART FOUR:
Because I figured that I had been lying about what everything I told myself, I decided to listen to this spirit who was physically doing the writing and drew a over emphasized game of checkers.
I drew a chessboard and lied that if one placed other objects on a large surface that held other objects to the same basic shapes than the effect would show that I was correct. I swore in what I believed was madness to confirm a doctrine of abbreviation; a tone and phrase that I should keep in my head.
It may have been psychosomatic.
But psychosomatic beliefs I am thankful for.
“Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of perspective.”
Robert Green – The 48 Laws of Power
I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a variety of things including an unwritten tone sales pitch for the ideas that follow.
I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for past woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that we had been friends the whole time. That was heroin withdrawal at 15.
When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other three would not make me an antisocial lightweight. But I was cool, for what I had done before this point in my life.
These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were there to make cure me of this affliction but I don’t remember having that one any time before or after the use of psychiatric medicine. Either way, at the time I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA.
I was having dreams that my floor was filled with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place earthquake could bring them down. I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.
But I don’t want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn’t realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have devised a plan to keep it to myself.
It was that people with mechanical minds don’t know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every three hundred thousand years or so. When I hear of this legend I consider a scene from Independence Day, hope that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.
People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every three hundred thousand years or so something like both Bell and Gray inventing the telephone simultaneously happens and the world is in better shape because of it. This may have been represented as giants blessing kings. But the servants where blessed and brought to the king.
Maybe it has been that long since the invention of steel. This could give credible thought to the development of the various ages of human civilization, (the Iron Age, the Bronze Age, etc.)
We have just gone through a series of incredibly fast technological developments.
Robotics has made of science fiction every day use in just less than 40 years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses our path in an odd elongated orbit every so often. This seems similar to the personification of lightning by our ancestors. I reflect next to my computer about what wonders we will be blessed with.
One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain attachment a person can see a modern looking glass. Has magic always been this sort of technology? Is it that just now we are beginning to understand those ways of thinking?
Perhaps this time these chilly space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again. The mystery is if it will occur before or after our dire impending apocalypse.
If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply drive to the coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable to find a car or Internet Café, you could fly to a region with these resources at hand so you can see these intriguing movies.
But I recommend learning in any field. It is also important to read and watch creative works.
With this in mind and dissertating a video about the subject of Niberu, I rebut. Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon, and certain people choose not to believe in irony.
To lose track of this thought, is the study of irony somewhat like the study of creativity?
They both seem indefinable.
But I have an actual book for you, too.
I am proud of it and hope you will enjoy it.
Because I figured that I had been lying about what everything I told myself, I decided to listen to this spirit who was physically doing the writing and drew a over emphasized game of checkers.
I drew a chessboard and lied that if one placed other objects on a large surface that held other objects to the same basic shapes than the effect would show that I was correct. I swore in what I believed was madness to confirm a doctrine of abbreviation; a tone and phrase that I should keep in my head.
It may have been psychosomatic.
But psychosomatic beliefs I am thankful for.
“Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of perspective.”
Robert Green – The 48 Laws of Power
I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a variety of things including an unwritten tone sales pitch for the ideas that follow.
I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for past woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that we had been friends the whole time. That was heroin withdrawal at 15.
When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other three would not make me an antisocial lightweight. But I was cool, for what I had done before this point in my life.
These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were there to make cure me of this affliction but I don’t remember having that one any time before or after the use of psychiatric medicine. Either way, at the time I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA.
I was having dreams that my floor was filled with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place earthquake could bring them down. I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.
But I don’t want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn’t realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have devised a plan to keep it to myself.
It was that people with mechanical minds don’t know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every three hundred thousand years or so. When I hear of this legend I consider a scene from Independence Day, hope that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.
People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every three hundred thousand years or so something like both Bell and Gray inventing the telephone simultaneously happens and the world is in better shape because of it. This may have been represented as giants blessing kings. But the servants where blessed and brought to the king.
Maybe it has been that long since the invention of steel. This could give credible thought to the development of the various ages of human civilization, (the Iron Age, the Bronze Age, etc.)
We have just gone through a series of incredibly fast technological developments.
Robotics has made of science fiction every day use in just less than 40 years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses our path in an odd elongated orbit every so often. This seems similar to the personification of lightning by our ancestors. I reflect next to my computer about what wonders we will be blessed with.
One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain attachment a person can see a modern looking glass. Has magic always been this sort of technology? Is it that just now we are beginning to understand those ways of thinking?
Perhaps this time these chilly space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again. The mystery is if it will occur before or after our dire impending apocalypse.
If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply drive to the coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable to find a car or Internet Café, you could fly to a region with these resources at hand so you can see these intriguing movies.
But I recommend learning in any field. It is also important to read and watch creative works.
With this in mind and dissertating a video about the subject of Niberu, I rebut. Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon, and certain people choose not to believe in irony.
To lose track of this thought, is the study of irony somewhat like the study of creativity?
They both seem indefinable.
But I have an actual book for you, too.
I am proud of it and hope you will enjoy it.
PART TWO:
True man laughed at him and the others watched his horrid dreams with token, clear, still nights. But that was just fine. His family had been living in Houston, Texas for a while now.
The name she spoke was one that reminded her of the man she lived with in a false castle in a deep before confederation south. She had always been spiritual. That’s what he loved about her, and it didn’t need to be a statement. It just needed to face these opening words. He found when he share these words she would at least get angry. When he did not she sat silently and drank tea.
Their engagement was considered their modern dilemma; a mindscape scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and truth in scientific study. They will take lives from those who spoke lively of certain situations. He knew she did not understand. That was what he liked most about her.
And for those reasons specifically our hero had never wanted to kill in his life.
So the woman decides it is best to walk to her sisters to talk. It was a lively afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by trees. Big poplars lined her stone tile walkway and they always shook in the wind at this time of year. Otherwise things were soft and calm house around the house that day.
The fourteen who answered the door was excited and shouted, “Aunty Alice, is Richard here?”
“No,” Alice replied, “I need to talk to your mother.”
She was let in the house and her sister came to the corner of the door. They greet each other politely.
The woman stands in front of white lights. Her forward leg is bend at the knee and high in the air in front of a flashing behind her. The surrounding yard reflects her motions with long narrow shadows the people in the doorway.
She smiles, “I’m losing it, sis. I need to settle down.” The niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban home.
“Talk to me, Stanly,” she says. Alice’s sister used to call her Stanly often. It came from a game that they would play together. It was one that needed those silly hats and cardboard boxes. She kept it secret until later but began to call her younger sister by that at sixteen. It was just what she needed.
Alice’s sister had stopped using that name again by eighteen because she got into the club scene. This was the first time in 20 years that she made that snide reference. It makes her smile.
“It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced by outside forces that meet men of former glory.” Aunt Alice began, “If men of words and men of action are taken in distinct directions, and men of face are sent for glory than the only man of face that exists is some one true God. The one that the Gods all claim is their God. He was lying to us because the one that hides so far behind a tree that you could only see layers. These are of the beings followers but they guard you as they show you that the creator is behind them. And you know to trust these men. But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The other that left us open, sister. That one. Richard was wrong.”
The sister listened politely and asked Alice inside. Alice politely declined. She wished her family a good night, making the best smile she could and walked down the shaded boulevard.
The road was beginning to face the end of summer now. There was only one word to feed that hymn. And she thought of another benefit to bureaucracy. Commoners appreciate the security in one million people between you and the man you made the law.
True man laughed at him and the others watched his horrid dreams with token, clear, still nights. But that was just fine. His family had been living in Houston, Texas for a while now.
The name she spoke was one that reminded her of the man she lived with in a false castle in a deep before confederation south. She had always been spiritual. That’s what he loved about her, and it didn’t need to be a statement. It just needed to face these opening words. He found when he share these words she would at least get angry. When he did not she sat silently and drank tea.
Their engagement was considered their modern dilemma; a mindscape scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and truth in scientific study. They will take lives from those who spoke lively of certain situations. He knew she did not understand. That was what he liked most about her.
And for those reasons specifically our hero had never wanted to kill in his life.
So the woman decides it is best to walk to her sisters to talk. It was a lively afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by trees. Big poplars lined her stone tile walkway and they always shook in the wind at this time of year. Otherwise things were soft and calm house around the house that day.
The fourteen who answered the door was excited and shouted, “Aunty Alice, is Richard here?”
“No,” Alice replied, “I need to talk to your mother.”
She was let in the house and her sister came to the corner of the door. They greet each other politely.
The woman stands in front of white lights. Her forward leg is bend at the knee and high in the air in front of a flashing behind her. The surrounding yard reflects her motions with long narrow shadows the people in the doorway.
She smiles, “I’m losing it, sis. I need to settle down.” The niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban home.
“Talk to me, Stanly,” she says. Alice’s sister used to call her Stanly often. It came from a game that they would play together. It was one that needed those silly hats and cardboard boxes. She kept it secret until later but began to call her younger sister by that at sixteen. It was just what she needed.
Alice’s sister had stopped using that name again by eighteen because she got into the club scene. This was the first time in 20 years that she made that snide reference. It makes her smile.
“It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced by outside forces that meet men of former glory.” Aunt Alice began, “If men of words and men of action are taken in distinct directions, and men of face are sent for glory than the only man of face that exists is some one true God. The one that the Gods all claim is their God. He was lying to us because the one that hides so far behind a tree that you could only see layers. These are of the beings followers but they guard you as they show you that the creator is behind them. And you know to trust these men. But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The other that left us open, sister. That one. Richard was wrong.”
The sister listened politely and asked Alice inside. Alice politely declined. She wished her family a good night, making the best smile she could and walked down the shaded boulevard.
The road was beginning to face the end of summer now. There was only one word to feed that hymn. And she thought of another benefit to bureaucracy. Commoners appreciate the security in one million people between you and the man you made the law.
the book read like this:
The book read like this:
I walked through the dense forest on a beaten path. The moss on either side was hanging about three inches from the dirt so we stepped through to find the lake. The tall evergreen trees surrounding us were all a foot in diameter and the underbrush was thick with green bushes. And we saw a small yellow flower growing through the moss covering a trunk. So I reached down to my belt and pulled a flask of water to her lips. She asked me to fill out a form.
1.
What do we know about Whitey the Crime?
What is his/her name?
Emily Grett
Favourite breakfast food.
Those small apple cakes you can buy at the store.
Where does he/she live?
She lives about 6 blocks from the bay, in a small cottage with a cement garden. It has been over grown for years and the lush tree hanging over her circular rock garden in falling towards the grass.
Open his/her fridge and list what you see and smell.
Ice and mist. The white metallic box opens from the top.
Look under his/her bed and list what is there.
Dust, wood flooring and paneling that is darkened red.
Open his/her medicine cabinet and list what is there. Of course you would never do this in real life, would you?
Placebos of various shapes in marked prescription bottles.
What books and magazines does he/she read?
These old dusty books, with black covers and faded letters. She likes them with rounded edges.
What lie does she/he tell about self?
That she deserves this.
What secret does she/he hold?
A gem, red with a cross on the back. She keeps it in a cigar box in a desk in her basement.
What is her/his greatest desire or ambition?
To see paradise.
What gets in the way of achieving this?
Meditation, prayer.
What does s/he like to do while alone?
Read, write, play her small brown piano.
How does s/he move? ie. degree of tension.
She is calm with no need for disguises. She is in denial of her self so she remains very respectful of her superiors.
So make up your own question and answer it.
What does she do for a living?
Dances.
Disclamer:
Although we know more that this about Whitey the Crime a simple silent moment that one has alone with or without a reflective surface can send numerous thoughts towards a sovereign people who refuse to believe what they are told.
This is an unintentional dissonance.
The idea that Whitey the Crime’s beliefs are better than someone who disagrees should be read as an ironic statement about the balance of the universe. Everything seems to have two schools of thought, those with it and those against it.
The wise understand that the equilibrium of these meetings is apparent in every day life. Repression causes violent outbursts in the most psychological sense. Perhaps this idea embarrasses us. But repressed memories of our past do come to our minds from time to time. These embarrassing secrets challenge our code of behavior, as it seems we wish we could be altruistic in our convictions. Dr. Phil taught me that, amongst other things.
Due to understood and misunderstood circumstances, or perhaps the content of my early writing I was told I was under the influence of the Devil. In my most altruistic tone, perhaps to explain that I didn’t feel I was.
I feel by now he was trying to save my soul, as people do. For a number of reasons, including this rude statement and the form of poetry that I was writing, my claims of reincarnation, philosophical questions other art that were deemed notably out of place, stupid, insane, wrong and preachy.
I eventually felt the need to leave and I grew up.
I walked through the dense forest on a beaten path. The moss on either side was hanging about three inches from the dirt so we stepped through to find the lake. The tall evergreen trees surrounding us were all a foot in diameter and the underbrush was thick with green bushes. And we saw a small yellow flower growing through the moss covering a trunk. So I reached down to my belt and pulled a flask of water to her lips. She asked me to fill out a form.
1.
What do we know about Whitey the Crime?
What is his/her name?
Emily Grett
Favourite breakfast food.
Those small apple cakes you can buy at the store.
Where does he/she live?
She lives about 6 blocks from the bay, in a small cottage with a cement garden. It has been over grown for years and the lush tree hanging over her circular rock garden in falling towards the grass.
Open his/her fridge and list what you see and smell.
Ice and mist. The white metallic box opens from the top.
Look under his/her bed and list what is there.
Dust, wood flooring and paneling that is darkened red.
Open his/her medicine cabinet and list what is there. Of course you would never do this in real life, would you?
Placebos of various shapes in marked prescription bottles.
What books and magazines does he/she read?
These old dusty books, with black covers and faded letters. She likes them with rounded edges.
What lie does she/he tell about self?
That she deserves this.
What secret does she/he hold?
A gem, red with a cross on the back. She keeps it in a cigar box in a desk in her basement.
What is her/his greatest desire or ambition?
To see paradise.
What gets in the way of achieving this?
Meditation, prayer.
What does s/he like to do while alone?
Read, write, play her small brown piano.
How does s/he move? ie. degree of tension.
She is calm with no need for disguises. She is in denial of her self so she remains very respectful of her superiors.
So make up your own question and answer it.
What does she do for a living?
Dances.
Disclamer:
Although we know more that this about Whitey the Crime a simple silent moment that one has alone with or without a reflective surface can send numerous thoughts towards a sovereign people who refuse to believe what they are told.
This is an unintentional dissonance.
The idea that Whitey the Crime’s beliefs are better than someone who disagrees should be read as an ironic statement about the balance of the universe. Everything seems to have two schools of thought, those with it and those against it.
The wise understand that the equilibrium of these meetings is apparent in every day life. Repression causes violent outbursts in the most psychological sense. Perhaps this idea embarrasses us. But repressed memories of our past do come to our minds from time to time. These embarrassing secrets challenge our code of behavior, as it seems we wish we could be altruistic in our convictions. Dr. Phil taught me that, amongst other things.
Due to understood and misunderstood circumstances, or perhaps the content of my early writing I was told I was under the influence of the Devil. In my most altruistic tone, perhaps to explain that I didn’t feel I was.
I feel by now he was trying to save my soul, as people do. For a number of reasons, including this rude statement and the form of poetry that I was writing, my claims of reincarnation, philosophical questions other art that were deemed notably out of place, stupid, insane, wrong and preachy.
I eventually felt the need to leave and I grew up.
... what i have been trying to write. now i can move on.
It began as a pivot point. It was a dichotomy that I could not get away from.
I want to be writer and that thought places it out of my reach.
These words are not motives but I cannot grasp why I have trouble with them. I wanted nobodies help, but I needed an agent. Yet I only wrote a couple of pages a week. I told myself that I was famous and loud. I convinced myself that I was making a difference.
And then the Doctors told me I was. It was like finding out that a joke is a lie.
Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days go faster and one has to grab tight just to catch up. This was the issue with my role in show business. I hadn’t toured nor played shows.
It was a simple metaphor and I motioned towards some grassy plain that led me home.
The trick was to find what was necessary.
So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working life up until this point.
I am happy. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an acclaimed writer and musician and sometimes I take that to me I am a crime-solving Norse Devil requested who invented the clock. You know, some gonzo journalist of manic non-fiction.
But this is schizophrenia. Thus I took part in creating a man of limitless creative fodder.
I needed to be sent forward in a Martian landscape. I needed to try something new. That was my state of mania.
Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City, although I would have floated around asking some questions and I may have been eaten alive. This small town has continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young and still relevant.
At 25, I get lost and depressed because I have not impacted the world in a positive way.
When payday comes around I wonder why it is I stay at this God forsaken coffee shop with manic friends exclaiming the invisible is to be trusted and those teachers at the psych ward are not.
In my mind, I am not successful. These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols that I leave on stages. These symbols are not seen, though when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So the forces tell me I am successful at written words and music. I feel it is hard to write for nobody.
So it begs the question: Why do I act the way I do?
This is hard to answer because I cannot always be sure of how I am acting. I have a tendency to attribute traits to people and this reflects my affliction. I become embarrassed when I need to rescind these ideas. They are reflections of what I am doing at the time. This is sometimes a good thing because I create epic landscapes under the guise of someone I am not. The truth is I remain who I want to be.
But to be fair, I am not anyone special. I did not have puppets working for cameras as I took three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing around raising money for legal defense and charity with every intention in the world to save humanity.
I don’t know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job with him again.
So I played music instead. I fought impulses to drink because I knew that I was the only fool that could see that in me. But I told myself that I wanted to be a hero. I was not lazy. I wrote and played music all day. It became the woe of man. I had nothing that did not seem unreliable or partially faked. And I wanted to write, but I didn’t.
It began like this, but in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually crassly shouted at the innocent. Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight back? Why do I allow these thieves into my space in the first place?
I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence cannot be found by paraphrasing greater writers than me.
A wise man says, “He who does not imitate does not create.”
So I light another cigarette and wonder why I am happy with my accomplishments.
The silver lining on these clouds is apparent when I realize that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now. My goals have been met and I have reasons for stubbornly hoping that I am credited in my own time for my artistic work. They say that even Pablo Picasso needed to burn his own paintings to keep warm. I have no right to complain because I have everything I need.
But I jest because this topic warrants strange impulses towards a backlit porch I imagine. Unclear anarchy is not what I want to be remembered for.
The misplaced memories were self-induced thoughts that made this change of wind in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as important as inventing the clock. Is this my lack of hard work or do I not think highly enough of myself? Am I making a difference?
Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is life after death and you are on the latter’s side. You still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are still sitting in the old world.
These works are not at issue now and I am glad that I have practiced my trade so much. I know that people do not need to read the ramblings of a loon unless he is claiming to be someone special. When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have, the inner trials of my long running and untreated schizophrenia, or the workings of my subconscious I soon repent and claim that I am not interesting and nobody cares.
But someone is reading it. And they will recall me as a hero of lighted strange paths who can help them through troubles by being insightful and leaving a trail of paper in the past. Have I done lots of writing about strange hands that lead with a loaded discussion? Or am I the turbulent man who said something that needed to be recorded with strange valor?
I am nothing but a Signal Hill reject and a member of Fancy or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The answer is that eternal questions should be thought about on Sunday and the rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone. I cannot be sure where I would be without my manias and it is best not to look.
I wish that I knew that I was some certain relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke. It is a classic example: I am writing over these words in my mind because I think I’d be better off. And I have no right to complain because I am able to do this somehow.
But I was painting a church, not on television.
And what did I do to be murdered on stage?
These are delusions that I have gained critical acclaim and lost jobs for.
These words are lines that leave a simple platform. They mark my working life. I am a diligent worker. I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these edited lines that are marked and taken out.
If these poetic little pieces of nonsense are motions of old hearts somewhere then perhaps I am better for it. I am unsure if schizophrenia is a curse or a blessing. There are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many reasons to write and play music.
Sometimes I think that I should just pick one of my hobbies and make it my vocation. And other times I think that I have.
I want to be writer and that thought places it out of my reach.
These words are not motives but I cannot grasp why I have trouble with them. I wanted nobodies help, but I needed an agent. Yet I only wrote a couple of pages a week. I told myself that I was famous and loud. I convinced myself that I was making a difference.
And then the Doctors told me I was. It was like finding out that a joke is a lie.
Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days go faster and one has to grab tight just to catch up. This was the issue with my role in show business. I hadn’t toured nor played shows.
It was a simple metaphor and I motioned towards some grassy plain that led me home.
The trick was to find what was necessary.
So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working life up until this point.
I am happy. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an acclaimed writer and musician and sometimes I take that to me I am a crime-solving Norse Devil requested who invented the clock. You know, some gonzo journalist of manic non-fiction.
But this is schizophrenia. Thus I took part in creating a man of limitless creative fodder.
I needed to be sent forward in a Martian landscape. I needed to try something new. That was my state of mania.
Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City, although I would have floated around asking some questions and I may have been eaten alive. This small town has continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young and still relevant.
At 25, I get lost and depressed because I have not impacted the world in a positive way.
When payday comes around I wonder why it is I stay at this God forsaken coffee shop with manic friends exclaiming the invisible is to be trusted and those teachers at the psych ward are not.
In my mind, I am not successful. These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols that I leave on stages. These symbols are not seen, though when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So the forces tell me I am successful at written words and music. I feel it is hard to write for nobody.
So it begs the question: Why do I act the way I do?
This is hard to answer because I cannot always be sure of how I am acting. I have a tendency to attribute traits to people and this reflects my affliction. I become embarrassed when I need to rescind these ideas. They are reflections of what I am doing at the time. This is sometimes a good thing because I create epic landscapes under the guise of someone I am not. The truth is I remain who I want to be.
But to be fair, I am not anyone special. I did not have puppets working for cameras as I took three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing around raising money for legal defense and charity with every intention in the world to save humanity.
I don’t know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job with him again.
So I played music instead. I fought impulses to drink because I knew that I was the only fool that could see that in me. But I told myself that I wanted to be a hero. I was not lazy. I wrote and played music all day. It became the woe of man. I had nothing that did not seem unreliable or partially faked. And I wanted to write, but I didn’t.
It began like this, but in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually crassly shouted at the innocent. Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight back? Why do I allow these thieves into my space in the first place?
I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence cannot be found by paraphrasing greater writers than me.
A wise man says, “He who does not imitate does not create.”
So I light another cigarette and wonder why I am happy with my accomplishments.
The silver lining on these clouds is apparent when I realize that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now. My goals have been met and I have reasons for stubbornly hoping that I am credited in my own time for my artistic work. They say that even Pablo Picasso needed to burn his own paintings to keep warm. I have no right to complain because I have everything I need.
But I jest because this topic warrants strange impulses towards a backlit porch I imagine. Unclear anarchy is not what I want to be remembered for.
The misplaced memories were self-induced thoughts that made this change of wind in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as important as inventing the clock. Is this my lack of hard work or do I not think highly enough of myself? Am I making a difference?
Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is life after death and you are on the latter’s side. You still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are still sitting in the old world.
These works are not at issue now and I am glad that I have practiced my trade so much. I know that people do not need to read the ramblings of a loon unless he is claiming to be someone special. When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have, the inner trials of my long running and untreated schizophrenia, or the workings of my subconscious I soon repent and claim that I am not interesting and nobody cares.
But someone is reading it. And they will recall me as a hero of lighted strange paths who can help them through troubles by being insightful and leaving a trail of paper in the past. Have I done lots of writing about strange hands that lead with a loaded discussion? Or am I the turbulent man who said something that needed to be recorded with strange valor?
I am nothing but a Signal Hill reject and a member of Fancy or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The answer is that eternal questions should be thought about on Sunday and the rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone. I cannot be sure where I would be without my manias and it is best not to look.
I wish that I knew that I was some certain relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke. It is a classic example: I am writing over these words in my mind because I think I’d be better off. And I have no right to complain because I am able to do this somehow.
But I was painting a church, not on television.
And what did I do to be murdered on stage?
These are delusions that I have gained critical acclaim and lost jobs for.
These words are lines that leave a simple platform. They mark my working life. I am a diligent worker. I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these edited lines that are marked and taken out.
If these poetic little pieces of nonsense are motions of old hearts somewhere then perhaps I am better for it. I am unsure if schizophrenia is a curse or a blessing. There are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many reasons to write and play music.
Sometimes I think that I should just pick one of my hobbies and make it my vocation. And other times I think that I have.
30.3.10
a nice long hot bath
I do not do this. The not don’t take them. The mindful ninja always learns from battle. I said to the servant. The name of the servant was Rico. He had silverware in his pocket. The guest was a boring and alternative person. The needle was just a palace location and mortar was fired in stable old low draft rooms with white curtains. The normal is breached and they find themselves standing knee deep in water.
So I summon a Saint. I believe this is okay because the leaders of the home world were easy to please. All one had to do was sit and talk. Everyone else was famous. The others were replaced as Motorhead on CBC. I am not Lemmy from Motorhead. I never have claimed to be. The partial token was resourceful and I strode tall into the room. The needles have taken their tole.
The residence was submitted as a partial consequential pass or play towards their ulcers. It was good to sit and think about the move I am to make. I decided to say null. This does as much as it could until they pressured me. I hadn’t learned more than the water said or the jesters took toil and woe for their mortar. The clay that marked the sidewalk. That is all she said.
So did the master serve his fireball? No not in that world. Stay away from liars and thieves because the master said nothing. "Former detergent salesman,” I said, passing the chips. Tomorrow we have the different disaster. The soldiers marching will be a nice sound. The drummer is meant to play his song.
They called massive tank towards the mighty syndrome of social norms. The never and fitting drafted doorman was a social code of haunted and symbiotic desires. The leader held the whole world up for the rafts and drafts are haunting my psyche. I am afraid of these people. They step in and walk all over me.
The way the seconds tick I’m fucking up the preamp. It is the way the mountains crash into the sea. I phone in much hostile waistcoat freedom and his mental way.
He chose to smoke weed every day so his mind was littered with lies. He told himself that they could be sovereign and knew the little marks on paper.
They suggested he was king. He did not read the paper. He settled in like an average monk and pulled his hair out. It was long and when it came down he roped braids and told of men satyrs and illusions. These divorced his social normalcy. The credited are Mormon missionaries who invested a lot in fear of an outsider. He lived in a grand world that settled on his pin that God wanted him to be a Good Man.
He recited a statement that served his own papers or settled a servitude and faith with the lord. He chose to take a trembling hand that was scared and not used to what the leader was doing. This caused revolt amongst his people.
And all I writer can do is settle in to a very nice long hot bath.
So I summon a Saint. I believe this is okay because the leaders of the home world were easy to please. All one had to do was sit and talk. Everyone else was famous. The others were replaced as Motorhead on CBC. I am not Lemmy from Motorhead. I never have claimed to be. The partial token was resourceful and I strode tall into the room. The needles have taken their tole.
The residence was submitted as a partial consequential pass or play towards their ulcers. It was good to sit and think about the move I am to make. I decided to say null. This does as much as it could until they pressured me. I hadn’t learned more than the water said or the jesters took toil and woe for their mortar. The clay that marked the sidewalk. That is all she said.
So did the master serve his fireball? No not in that world. Stay away from liars and thieves because the master said nothing. "Former detergent salesman,” I said, passing the chips. Tomorrow we have the different disaster. The soldiers marching will be a nice sound. The drummer is meant to play his song.
They called massive tank towards the mighty syndrome of social norms. The never and fitting drafted doorman was a social code of haunted and symbiotic desires. The leader held the whole world up for the rafts and drafts are haunting my psyche. I am afraid of these people. They step in and walk all over me.
The way the seconds tick I’m fucking up the preamp. It is the way the mountains crash into the sea. I phone in much hostile waistcoat freedom and his mental way.
He chose to smoke weed every day so his mind was littered with lies. He told himself that they could be sovereign and knew the little marks on paper.
They suggested he was king. He did not read the paper. He settled in like an average monk and pulled his hair out. It was long and when it came down he roped braids and told of men satyrs and illusions. These divorced his social normalcy. The credited are Mormon missionaries who invested a lot in fear of an outsider. He lived in a grand world that settled on his pin that God wanted him to be a Good Man.
He recited a statement that served his own papers or settled a servitude and faith with the lord. He chose to take a trembling hand that was scared and not used to what the leader was doing. This caused revolt amongst his people.
And all I writer can do is settle in to a very nice long hot bath.
new post 1
The lighter was a morning man who wandered. He lit it with a blow of fame and white jacket. He felt funny and good. There was something about God in the air. The license was written in peaceable pen. He took the license. They played in jam band so it was ok.
So he walked out of the store, lit a cigarette and wandered out the morning light. The space between them knew as if hind manic thoughts obliged him. This was a fantasy and he knew that it was calm. This is the shape of his room because the study of linden labs was an octagon. The zebra destroys.
Killer magnet of wonder said, “Decide what you’ve got to do.”
The move was a fast one, so a writer transposed, Heuy Lewis and the News were formed in 1979. Huey Lewis, Chris Hayes, Mario Cipollina, Bill Gibson, Sean Hopper, and Johnny Colla were on stage. Lewis remained as an actor in movies. The next reading of The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll is of Jerry Lee Lewis. After that comes Linda Lewis. Then there is Ramsey Lewis. After that we have Smiley Lewis.
Then without warning we have Gordon Lightfoot.
Gordon Lightfoot was born November 17, 1938 in Orillia, Ontario, Canada.
The next act is Lindisfrarne. This is an odd trace. And I wonder why I cannot make it in a world. I should be a person able to glance at the living but I wonder why I cannot make it in and stubborn world. It is because I don’t tour regularly. I don’t want to. So I choose to be remembered as an entertainer.
Perhaps my music will be nice. I hear voices. I have to rely on the teachers of mental health in Penticton. My mistake is thinking that people won’t even know me because I am on stage. I sometimes begin to believe I am acting in television shows and dancing around saving souls or perhaps damning my own. It was a strange thing that began as a curse. I had a curse because the leader of homeland security were appearing invisible to me. They jabbed me with needles and I cried as I acting as if I was Frank Zappa.
This was my last stay at the psych ward. I have needed to be heavily medicated three times and all three were marked with invisible people who told me I was famous. I had invented some device when I was five that led to me as Sir Jester of Buckingham fame. I ride on helicopters and dance with glee. Then I do peyote and drugs, but I don’t. These odd delusions haunt me for three months every year.
I feel like tobacco is pot and that I am allowed to smoke legally. All my mistakes and misfortunes are blessings and I attribute that the people were in some high section of show business and I tear at the eye because something happens with my pain and I begin to believe that the television show is real. There are puppets and cameras.
And it happens every year around the same time.
But God saves me with blessings as I turn towards these friends at Mental Health. If something is wrong it is because I should not tour. I should write. I can’t complain. The CBC is discussing Schizophrenia so I should be writing and typing and not standing over the sink washing dishes and thinking there are people that are standing their with cameras or that people can hear the voices in my head. People with schizophrenia should hang out with other people. I think that schizophrenia is about believing that the ailments technical name has a T when it is spelled.
I have little monsters lacking their own sort of fame. I have nothing but a promise that these little grey men are coming into my space and telling me it is the CIA. The story of possible genetic romance was the detail of phonetic space. This recent episode I was invited to visit the queen without the pope. It was a party that I was playing in my band, some wedding of distinguished princes. I was unsure which one it was.
I was dancing around a church being video taped. I was asked not to paint another church because the insight was a lie. And only the cool would have survived. It would be a strange test. Our hero thought for a lark. Do you believe in Dick Cheney? Did someone really go into show business doing that and dressed with such a name? It was a strange thing. Those who did not find our hero cool would be punished. This was a simple goal that this man possessed with the marched and held men who based riots and refined the old Sigmund Freud research that changed my life and I did not hold on to.
This man was marching all over me. He was paradise and savior to very large groups of people holding guns and in fear over alkaline simplicity. The monsters of Christian Rock spoke out against their wars. They were banned from lots of shows and they were told to be because every man is fabled to be able to be President. And if a man works hard enough to impress the right people to become the President then he motioned that the shelter broke borders and some people have it better in life. It is a disaster of life that I don’t know or really understand. But the fable is that anyone can become a world leader in democracy. I suppose that is true. You just have to start with municipal elections. It is the conquest of your acceptance by people socially in mentality.
So he walked out of the store, lit a cigarette and wandered out the morning light. The space between them knew as if hind manic thoughts obliged him. This was a fantasy and he knew that it was calm. This is the shape of his room because the study of linden labs was an octagon. The zebra destroys.
Killer magnet of wonder said, “Decide what you’ve got to do.”
The move was a fast one, so a writer transposed, Heuy Lewis and the News were formed in 1979. Huey Lewis, Chris Hayes, Mario Cipollina, Bill Gibson, Sean Hopper, and Johnny Colla were on stage. Lewis remained as an actor in movies. The next reading of The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll is of Jerry Lee Lewis. After that comes Linda Lewis. Then there is Ramsey Lewis. After that we have Smiley Lewis.
Then without warning we have Gordon Lightfoot.
Gordon Lightfoot was born November 17, 1938 in Orillia, Ontario, Canada.
The next act is Lindisfrarne. This is an odd trace. And I wonder why I cannot make it in a world. I should be a person able to glance at the living but I wonder why I cannot make it in and stubborn world. It is because I don’t tour regularly. I don’t want to. So I choose to be remembered as an entertainer.
Perhaps my music will be nice. I hear voices. I have to rely on the teachers of mental health in Penticton. My mistake is thinking that people won’t even know me because I am on stage. I sometimes begin to believe I am acting in television shows and dancing around saving souls or perhaps damning my own. It was a strange thing that began as a curse. I had a curse because the leader of homeland security were appearing invisible to me. They jabbed me with needles and I cried as I acting as if I was Frank Zappa.
This was my last stay at the psych ward. I have needed to be heavily medicated three times and all three were marked with invisible people who told me I was famous. I had invented some device when I was five that led to me as Sir Jester of Buckingham fame. I ride on helicopters and dance with glee. Then I do peyote and drugs, but I don’t. These odd delusions haunt me for three months every year.
I feel like tobacco is pot and that I am allowed to smoke legally. All my mistakes and misfortunes are blessings and I attribute that the people were in some high section of show business and I tear at the eye because something happens with my pain and I begin to believe that the television show is real. There are puppets and cameras.
And it happens every year around the same time.
But God saves me with blessings as I turn towards these friends at Mental Health. If something is wrong it is because I should not tour. I should write. I can’t complain. The CBC is discussing Schizophrenia so I should be writing and typing and not standing over the sink washing dishes and thinking there are people that are standing their with cameras or that people can hear the voices in my head. People with schizophrenia should hang out with other people. I think that schizophrenia is about believing that the ailments technical name has a T when it is spelled.
I have little monsters lacking their own sort of fame. I have nothing but a promise that these little grey men are coming into my space and telling me it is the CIA. The story of possible genetic romance was the detail of phonetic space. This recent episode I was invited to visit the queen without the pope. It was a party that I was playing in my band, some wedding of distinguished princes. I was unsure which one it was.
I was dancing around a church being video taped. I was asked not to paint another church because the insight was a lie. And only the cool would have survived. It would be a strange test. Our hero thought for a lark. Do you believe in Dick Cheney? Did someone really go into show business doing that and dressed with such a name? It was a strange thing. Those who did not find our hero cool would be punished. This was a simple goal that this man possessed with the marched and held men who based riots and refined the old Sigmund Freud research that changed my life and I did not hold on to.
This man was marching all over me. He was paradise and savior to very large groups of people holding guns and in fear over alkaline simplicity. The monsters of Christian Rock spoke out against their wars. They were banned from lots of shows and they were told to be because every man is fabled to be able to be President. And if a man works hard enough to impress the right people to become the President then he motioned that the shelter broke borders and some people have it better in life. It is a disaster of life that I don’t know or really understand. But the fable is that anyone can become a world leader in democracy. I suppose that is true. You just have to start with municipal elections. It is the conquest of your acceptance by people socially in mentality.
new post 2
The key to being cool, Dick Cheney Figured, was to be a little badass. And a philosopher said, “I think therefore I am.” That thought was first studied under Descartes.
I believe, as liars and saints
That we the people
Only have eyes for you
I am a product of my television and that is why Coca-Cola is a product for me.
I also believe that the only reason I took street drugs was because people I figured worked for the Government prescribed my medication for a fright I had one year. I considered that I was much older and I needed to take the American Presidents soul. It was odd because it was as if God was telling me that was what I needed to do for the world. I remember believing in these odd and epic dreams that included rushing over in a dream to help with people at 9/11. One was in a post-apocalyptic New York City and it felt like I had a mission to find my wife. When I found her she was old and happy with her life. The memory suggests that I also found my brother and I remember the ending like an odd statement. I was flying a rocket ship and there was a woman with a gun. She was singing an old French song when she committed suicide.
Then I denied for a number of years that I had mental illness. There was an odd event in the past was a lie. This is more for myself than anyone. The childhood marked with odd minds of haunting and direct flight. The water marked social circles stated their name.
The results were on fire. There was nobody standing there and the whole world of light.
I had no sandals. This was because I did not work. I was scared and the whole world took his statement as a mark but I was of the belief of the chemicals that made a man write and the many old writers and painters who partook in Absinthe and the tree of life. These men were my heroes and I took the prescription. I slept until I noticed I hadn’t a friend in the world. This was a shame because I still had only three people I really encountered. Street drugs were available and I took them because I thought the people that were on them were on them for the same reasons as me. Genuinely they were not. Not at that point in my life. I was an unsung hero, writing work of the curse of the Christ complex. That witch had cursed me. Why do they fight in my head?
The story on CBC is of a jazz musician. He is schizophrenic and is speaking of the demons in his head. I fear that I have become like that rather cautiously, though I write of it often. So I should transpose some advice I was given, “They say wisdom comes with age, but fortunately Beavis and Butt-head don’t grow any older.” Hume says that “Errors in religion are dangerous, those in philosophy only ridiculous.”
Immanuel Kant, from Germany, says, “ Two things fill my mind with ever increasing wonder and awe, the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” This says he was a man who lived his life in a precise routine. Also from Germany came Hegel. He believed that “All knowledge is human knowledge.”
Communications is the study of how meaning is made in a range of contexts.
So I should go back to school. The best way to get by as a writer is to get a full time position in a community of writers. These courses will teach me how to do this. The women that want to help me will because that is what they want to do with their time.
I have done so much wrong that I have luck in my life. This is no serious command of time, just as most of these phrases can be dissertated. The balance of the universe is apparent it many forms. This is just one of those balances. If one tries to explain that every force has an equal and opposite reaction then I assume that most of what is sent will pause and laugh for a moment. That is not to say that the dissertation is depressing but to consider that the typing in this room is creating waves on the other side of the ocean, or at least my movement is like all movement and is a part of the commune that this magnet that we live on should be. We all influence the world in everything we do. The question I am faced with is karmic in nature. Do I draw people towards my space with my actions? This opens this debate to the metaphysical.
I believe, as liars and saints
That we the people
Only have eyes for you
I am a product of my television and that is why Coca-Cola is a product for me.
I also believe that the only reason I took street drugs was because people I figured worked for the Government prescribed my medication for a fright I had one year. I considered that I was much older and I needed to take the American Presidents soul. It was odd because it was as if God was telling me that was what I needed to do for the world. I remember believing in these odd and epic dreams that included rushing over in a dream to help with people at 9/11. One was in a post-apocalyptic New York City and it felt like I had a mission to find my wife. When I found her she was old and happy with her life. The memory suggests that I also found my brother and I remember the ending like an odd statement. I was flying a rocket ship and there was a woman with a gun. She was singing an old French song when she committed suicide.
Then I denied for a number of years that I had mental illness. There was an odd event in the past was a lie. This is more for myself than anyone. The childhood marked with odd minds of haunting and direct flight. The water marked social circles stated their name.
The results were on fire. There was nobody standing there and the whole world of light.
I had no sandals. This was because I did not work. I was scared and the whole world took his statement as a mark but I was of the belief of the chemicals that made a man write and the many old writers and painters who partook in Absinthe and the tree of life. These men were my heroes and I took the prescription. I slept until I noticed I hadn’t a friend in the world. This was a shame because I still had only three people I really encountered. Street drugs were available and I took them because I thought the people that were on them were on them for the same reasons as me. Genuinely they were not. Not at that point in my life. I was an unsung hero, writing work of the curse of the Christ complex. That witch had cursed me. Why do they fight in my head?
The story on CBC is of a jazz musician. He is schizophrenic and is speaking of the demons in his head. I fear that I have become like that rather cautiously, though I write of it often. So I should transpose some advice I was given, “They say wisdom comes with age, but fortunately Beavis and Butt-head don’t grow any older.” Hume says that “Errors in religion are dangerous, those in philosophy only ridiculous.”
Immanuel Kant, from Germany, says, “ Two things fill my mind with ever increasing wonder and awe, the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” This says he was a man who lived his life in a precise routine. Also from Germany came Hegel. He believed that “All knowledge is human knowledge.”
Communications is the study of how meaning is made in a range of contexts.
So I should go back to school. The best way to get by as a writer is to get a full time position in a community of writers. These courses will teach me how to do this. The women that want to help me will because that is what they want to do with their time.
I have done so much wrong that I have luck in my life. This is no serious command of time, just as most of these phrases can be dissertated. The balance of the universe is apparent it many forms. This is just one of those balances. If one tries to explain that every force has an equal and opposite reaction then I assume that most of what is sent will pause and laugh for a moment. That is not to say that the dissertation is depressing but to consider that the typing in this room is creating waves on the other side of the ocean, or at least my movement is like all movement and is a part of the commune that this magnet that we live on should be. We all influence the world in everything we do. The question I am faced with is karmic in nature. Do I draw people towards my space with my actions? This opens this debate to the metaphysical.
new post 3
It is better than “Why am I here?” Plato asked, “Is there a perfect world?” because this one is not it. This may be a divine world in many ways because there is this balance in the universe. But in schizophrenic states I have began to fear my actions. I do not want my success to be someone’s misfortune. Is that why the Christian church call all people sinners? I know that the best way for good fortune is to truly deserve it.
But that is a belief.
But so is science. That reflection suggests that there is not a grand unified theory of everything. That explains that human consciousness is a reflection of the world around the subject and vice versa. This could suggest that people should have assumed karmic principles over the eons. It would be scientifically valid for these ideas to have been considered even if the rigid scientific brain may not agree.
The mark is see is on my own skin. These thoughts can be confusing. It is best not to try to explain this is just a reflection of my own world.
The return of Ed. The man from the toaster video said to some nice children that grew to become well-adjusted adults. I imagine that all these signs are shows of people that have men and women in shackles or between their soft heavenly existence like myself. I will wonder one day why a good man like me is in a world that is tormented and bullet filled. I am sure, but that is because I believe in the eternal soul and the balance of my own personality. I am trying to love this peaceful world I inhabit while it is here because one day I will assume the balance and create something like I have in the past. The pain of such a world creates great art. Sometimes the dichotomy is necessary because the eternal wise older spirits learn the balance in them, so that we could become a mortal man they haunt us with threats. I do not believe that good actions lead to peaceful worlds. The balance does not let a human remain altruistic. I hurt my own psyche angry because I was not able to be so. The toast was better than the noodles that I ate. I was happy to eat the food and made sure to be thankful for the blessings I have. Life is a struggle and when it is too good the balance makes it difficult to understand why nobody can relate. This is like my teenage years. I needed to learn and build character, I assume. That is why I believe in the balance and intelligence of the universe.
Man is the problem because we are not divine. We strive for it but fall short and tell ourselves that other men are there to be happy. These other people who can explain the divine to us. There are artists that we raise high above us as people that are better at the things we want to do. That is the thing they do. The Gods did not do that, man did. And that is humanity at our finest. The better air is that only some people share mission or faith of that Lord that made decrepit people doing horrible things.
It is a wonder we can speak at all. What is different about man and animal? And what of the agreement that is the sound of the word animal?
It is better to leave this page here with the smarter mortal who led a lie.
He is often smarter.
But that is a belief.
But so is science. That reflection suggests that there is not a grand unified theory of everything. That explains that human consciousness is a reflection of the world around the subject and vice versa. This could suggest that people should have assumed karmic principles over the eons. It would be scientifically valid for these ideas to have been considered even if the rigid scientific brain may not agree.
The mark is see is on my own skin. These thoughts can be confusing. It is best not to try to explain this is just a reflection of my own world.
The return of Ed. The man from the toaster video said to some nice children that grew to become well-adjusted adults. I imagine that all these signs are shows of people that have men and women in shackles or between their soft heavenly existence like myself. I will wonder one day why a good man like me is in a world that is tormented and bullet filled. I am sure, but that is because I believe in the eternal soul and the balance of my own personality. I am trying to love this peaceful world I inhabit while it is here because one day I will assume the balance and create something like I have in the past. The pain of such a world creates great art. Sometimes the dichotomy is necessary because the eternal wise older spirits learn the balance in them, so that we could become a mortal man they haunt us with threats. I do not believe that good actions lead to peaceful worlds. The balance does not let a human remain altruistic. I hurt my own psyche angry because I was not able to be so. The toast was better than the noodles that I ate. I was happy to eat the food and made sure to be thankful for the blessings I have. Life is a struggle and when it is too good the balance makes it difficult to understand why nobody can relate. This is like my teenage years. I needed to learn and build character, I assume. That is why I believe in the balance and intelligence of the universe.
Man is the problem because we are not divine. We strive for it but fall short and tell ourselves that other men are there to be happy. These other people who can explain the divine to us. There are artists that we raise high above us as people that are better at the things we want to do. That is the thing they do. The Gods did not do that, man did. And that is humanity at our finest. The better air is that only some people share mission or faith of that Lord that made decrepit people doing horrible things.
It is a wonder we can speak at all. What is different about man and animal? And what of the agreement that is the sound of the word animal?
It is better to leave this page here with the smarter mortal who led a lie.
He is often smarter.
21.2.10
Life is fleeting as you count sixteen gold skulls is another mans book and claim that you wrote it. It is the connection between cigarettes and mania. Covering up that it’s harming your body may create delusions. So I wonder whether all those who smoke are crazy or if all those that are crazy choose to smoke.
And these are my bold paragraphs.
So I wonder aloud who I am as a writer.
It is possible that I died and chose not to accept it. I lived a wonderful life in a town called Summerland and I can think of nothing but hard times before it. But what is it that I am trying to say. A pseudonym like Hector from Jabberwocky doesn’t really ring bells with people in Whitby, sir. That is what the postman said. These are all just delusion of the highest order. Pay attention to your shipments. Keep yours bases covered.
But covering your tracks hoping that someone loved me in a past life is sheltered and blue of me. I can’t take time for myself anymore; I can’t find the words to pass me through these bland old bus shelters. I have tried for years to be someone that people like to pass through for humor or strange insights. I need more characteristics. It seems any of the readers are laughing for these are the rambling trails of a schizophrenic. I find that sharing my thoughts with people seems to sooth them.
I need to find shelter from my internal storms as they are all self inflicted. A much cooler man would have shared a harrowing journey, cats that jump and bounce and play for some, that would have been better. But I am the kind of guy that writes an entire book and waits too long to rewrite it. A true writer needs to be watched. He also needs something besides his own internal wars to talk about.
The key is to leave this train of thought. I am not that interesting. It has been 10 years since the day I decided that I would be a smoker. In that time I have told myself many things but capped the moment off with the lie that smoking cigarettes really isn’t that bad for me. Since I started this action my days have been rife with far more ups and downs than most. Is this my own chemical imbalance? I wonder if it truly had cropped up since my infatuation with tobacco began.
I don’t remember these nervous rickets before then.
My smoking has made me outside the general community as I nervously try to decide where my next pack is coming from. But these are my own social rules and I admit I create the world I live in. This world is rather good, but one might add that the expense of buying these smokes far outweighs any benefit to smoking. So I tell myself that I should quit. But I don’t.
This procrastination stinks with the other ideas that I cannot change my habits. These ideas stay with me from day to day, creating a foul air about me. It may be the very chemicals in the cigarettes. I think it is the denial. It is best to say that if I truly wanted to quit smoking I would. So do I like the habit? No, I want to quit.
And this mania that I stay in seems to have began with that phrase.
I am a stubborn old kook, level headed at most occasions and for ten years found with a coffee and cigarette. I am twenty-five years old and only began smoking at age fifteen. It was a thing to do to make me cooler. This didn’t work. I feel that it is a habit that reminds me of both good and bad things, mostly of wasted youth and primal triumph.
I have been diagnosed schizophrenic since the age 15 as well when I started to find that I was having delusions of grandeur and mashed nonsense. I thought things were coming to an end for a bit, but it seemed to balance out finally one time with a cigarette.
Once I remember thinking that we were finally one, the cigarette and I. Making time to practice every day for a year I could finally claim to puff like the rest of them.
This was bad planning on my part, but I think the best thing to do is allow extra words in drafts now. Because the best things in life are free but the rest of the world needs to earn their own money. The delusion that sings now is the one that you are simply an old man compared to your crafty youth. A twelve year old me would have never thought that I would be here.
For some reason I am trapped in a thought and can’t get out of it. This is because of non-compliance with reason and a dream that you were wouldn’t you. The grandeur in the statement is off. It seems true. The question remains, does smoking make one simply delusional or do the delusional simply smoke more frequently?
And there is a societal gap, too. “So what have you done?” She asks, “What is your occupation?” I have little to reply except, “I am a smoker.”
And these are my bold paragraphs.
So I wonder aloud who I am as a writer.
It is possible that I died and chose not to accept it. I lived a wonderful life in a town called Summerland and I can think of nothing but hard times before it. But what is it that I am trying to say. A pseudonym like Hector from Jabberwocky doesn’t really ring bells with people in Whitby, sir. That is what the postman said. These are all just delusion of the highest order. Pay attention to your shipments. Keep yours bases covered.
But covering your tracks hoping that someone loved me in a past life is sheltered and blue of me. I can’t take time for myself anymore; I can’t find the words to pass me through these bland old bus shelters. I have tried for years to be someone that people like to pass through for humor or strange insights. I need more characteristics. It seems any of the readers are laughing for these are the rambling trails of a schizophrenic. I find that sharing my thoughts with people seems to sooth them.
I need to find shelter from my internal storms as they are all self inflicted. A much cooler man would have shared a harrowing journey, cats that jump and bounce and play for some, that would have been better. But I am the kind of guy that writes an entire book and waits too long to rewrite it. A true writer needs to be watched. He also needs something besides his own internal wars to talk about.
The key is to leave this train of thought. I am not that interesting. It has been 10 years since the day I decided that I would be a smoker. In that time I have told myself many things but capped the moment off with the lie that smoking cigarettes really isn’t that bad for me. Since I started this action my days have been rife with far more ups and downs than most. Is this my own chemical imbalance? I wonder if it truly had cropped up since my infatuation with tobacco began.
I don’t remember these nervous rickets before then.
My smoking has made me outside the general community as I nervously try to decide where my next pack is coming from. But these are my own social rules and I admit I create the world I live in. This world is rather good, but one might add that the expense of buying these smokes far outweighs any benefit to smoking. So I tell myself that I should quit. But I don’t.
This procrastination stinks with the other ideas that I cannot change my habits. These ideas stay with me from day to day, creating a foul air about me. It may be the very chemicals in the cigarettes. I think it is the denial. It is best to say that if I truly wanted to quit smoking I would. So do I like the habit? No, I want to quit.
And this mania that I stay in seems to have began with that phrase.
I am a stubborn old kook, level headed at most occasions and for ten years found with a coffee and cigarette. I am twenty-five years old and only began smoking at age fifteen. It was a thing to do to make me cooler. This didn’t work. I feel that it is a habit that reminds me of both good and bad things, mostly of wasted youth and primal triumph.
I have been diagnosed schizophrenic since the age 15 as well when I started to find that I was having delusions of grandeur and mashed nonsense. I thought things were coming to an end for a bit, but it seemed to balance out finally one time with a cigarette.
Once I remember thinking that we were finally one, the cigarette and I. Making time to practice every day for a year I could finally claim to puff like the rest of them.
This was bad planning on my part, but I think the best thing to do is allow extra words in drafts now. Because the best things in life are free but the rest of the world needs to earn their own money. The delusion that sings now is the one that you are simply an old man compared to your crafty youth. A twelve year old me would have never thought that I would be here.
For some reason I am trapped in a thought and can’t get out of it. This is because of non-compliance with reason and a dream that you were wouldn’t you. The grandeur in the statement is off. It seems true. The question remains, does smoking make one simply delusional or do the delusional simply smoke more frequently?
And there is a societal gap, too. “So what have you done?” She asks, “What is your occupation?” I have little to reply except, “I am a smoker.”
16.2.10
saving grace
The saving grace and all the other instances that led to this peculiar definition.
I am unsure of the others. The dilemma is to just write fast enough to edit using the spell check that let me in the first time. Otherwise it is just pants less drama.
I have been a person without medication and acting like a loon for about five years now. I refused to accept that there was anything wrong. When I finally decided to ask, for the most part they told me the answers that I wanted to hear. It was a strange vacation that led me to their care. I am very glad those people were there to pull me out of the haunted building that caused my quick and immediate demise. That was worst-case scenario.
The best case was that I had worked vigilantly to create a body of work that I could be proud of and I was speaking to people who were not there. This happened again last night. I remember ranting and raving for the last few years mindlessly, bridging the psyche’s gap for myself and then acting in silly and stupid funny ways. Sometimes my art was tremendous, but to the real of my friends I was acting like a fifteen year old who began to live at twenty-five and began to beg for my saving grace.
A saving grace is one of those complex ideas that mark the path that anyone takes in light and happy sovereignty. My saving grace has always been music. And this mania has led to a very good place where I realize that I should listen to the doctors. When I had been up for a week talking about those strange things like AIDS has been made in a lab and our shadowy rulers being anyone but the trees or the whims of the great magnet it was me in a manic state.
Our shadowy rulers are the mountains and the trees because we have the free will to listen or not to any manic man who had been radio before his fuzzy state. I hope those that read and listened to my manic and rude musings about such cruel things as the home that Richard Channing destroyed while being scared to be gay will realize that I am just telling lies on stage. It is what I do.
I have imagined our leader to be some cruel nemesis mostly because he has decided that he should wield power over me. This is common. So just as he had told us that we are not committing war crimes I should add that I look at the world differently than most. The doctors have proclaimed that I look at the work I have done wrong. I honestly didn’t think anyone was listening.
The doctors that know me say the cure is to work on my music and media. And that is important, because I can’t be sure what I said while thinking I was a still around King of Spain. I met interesting people and made a long progress out of these thoughts. The background is an actual schizophrenic. I have to admit that now. I was just on the train I planned with my friends. We played music every night. Before my father told me that was all a lie. He said the doctors were not to be listened to and that I must respect him. If there was one thing that I can do is that.
My saving grace is this article.
Still Alive,
Jon Pelletier
Still Alive,
Jon Pelletier
10.2.10
The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.
Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.
So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.
I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.
So perhaps this is a career. It is surely a body of work.
There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see.
That world is just a distraction. The world I see is a momentary lapse of reason and thought. That world is mandatory and the other worlds are not real was my belief.
I had regressed about six years ago and I could not be the man I wanted. It was a constant struggle of good and evil, I thought I had passed. I suppose I thought that before but I thought that now.
I had regressed about six years ago and I could not be the man I wanted. It was a constant struggle of good and evil, I thought I had passed. I suppose I thought that before but I thought that now.
9.2.10
This should be taken as an open summary on life and everything because this book is about the new beginnings and the world revolving around the low watt light bulb.
This is the sort of diagram that a siren named Lost Tiger devised. She would discuss life and everything with interesting people all day and get paid for it by the government. The idea relied on an eternal soul though she was she had very small answers when asked by her husband. They both found it better that way as they rarely came to the slightest bitterness in their voices during their discussions, which included the world as it lay in a box and some little caves that surrounded the very real mountain.
They say there is gold in the caves, hidden during the last passing band of Juggernauts that by now are far into the backcountry and singing their merry songs. But all the common country folk avoided the land of the Juggernauts. This particular troll was strange and an avid learner so all the back trade letters that and the other temped you empty. Formal words and that little rose that made him more like a devil and tired in the heart. The poetic justice that needed to help the people was 60 years in the past and they now lived in peace.
Each side had great heroes and in the end of the recent one hundred years war they simply could not recall who had struck first. The mothers of children regaled stories of the heroes in the hat room or barrooms to sustain brawls between two men of the same race in order to keep the metaphysical balance.
Two other men are charged with an offence where needles and monikers reined.
They needed to be battle weary and play tunes to a different tone. The best men knew where and why they needed to crawl. But the phenomenal to mention is about these two children, but the book should not be like them at all. The man wanted to leave stage for a while and write. He is allowed to do that. And maybe he will be with grace. Perhaps he can carry the old world draft roads and quarries that lined the route to where the great battles had their end.
For sixty years ago two men like Sampson were born on either side of the long valley and each became king among the valley dwelling men.
The nomadic trolls are awkward and subtle and little else. All parties are at peace though they know they are stronger. Or there is a wizard and he is saying nothing to the men. I see him real and modern like the pest that would go away. His manners are Soviet and he carries a light goatee, and light to the touch he is briskly walking my way.
I have little else to be less than a socialite and blessed in the touched of everything worn. They tell me my name and I am left to the house and they march in and take care of the champagne. This had to be work, it had to be real and if it was not funny than it could not be for children. It could be for children and the children that came next, they are whom this tale is about.
The latter part spent for the mention of sentences slept and an ounce over the snide bouncing is out. The martyrs are conscious and light their old ounce with it and he past the dockside in a drab little stride and looked as the bouncers led another drunk man out the bar. It was too early in the morning for a character like that. He must have been up all night. They were elders and humble about their beginnings. He had little red cigarettes bounced before his eyes. I had nothing of the sort. All that he gave to me was his regret. He said he sounded rather like a musician in there, I’ve surmised.
And letters where there should have been men and letters that they had about a drafted colleague that lived in Festin too. The place that nary a man left in Festin was made for a message or moniker still. The parameters left in a world such as this could be foggy cold days and much time spent inside. The drip on the rain from the large tumbling pines lets him settle and be right tonight. He felt better than he ever had. He never knew the war, and had met many Juggernauts in his travels. He felt like an outsider over there but no one truly tried to harm him. There wasn’t the hate they told him their used to be. He had told him they used to be because of the men that she’d rather fancy.
The hairpiece he had was a metaphor for the symbolic relations of fierce accusations that led the people to believe that only a few men had accomplished that much. If otherwise occupied men settle in they have Montreal mindsets and are much better for it. They symbolize the nomenclature that haunted this desk and the typist of these words. The Trident stood strong and exterior agents felt wrong those words held his wrists as if it laid some sort of prayer. The chief and his men approached a dropping point and needed to bury all that they had. These metal machines are behind me and they leave their old rocking horse pastures that push you from the edge. This world was lit by on single light bulb, and the unruly men had their hands on the power.
So fear him, no I would never fear him. I have all my faith in the church. They will and always have been right. Do the right thing. Hold your heart strong and you will flutter but the nonsense is quivering and lit by this light bulb. It was all he had. Without the bulb he had nothing. Yet it scared him, he would have rather had nothing. These were the ones who walked away. These however drastically needed to make this man over. All those that settled his wary soul. Breathless she replied, “I will.”
Only the pattern in my mind holds me back. The spinning of the looking glass and her awkward medicine that needed to lay down the open in doors and freeways and the like a bit of the answers that sheltered his mindset they wanted to be fair and were monitored by the license that held their vase open and needed the overrun to be lit by the fire. But this meant they would go too slow. Or would they run to fast? It was something in the middle. They knew not, but this trip would be somewhere around average in every aspect.
Nothing to vicious went array. Jack Platt would have it the other way. They all sat in line waiting for Jack. He was late often and wore a suit with a black fedora. “Everything looked better through a black fedora,” Jack would say.
In agents of ceiling fans buzzed and the doors spun him through to the bank in front of him. He marched across the floor and waited in line near the teller. They knew every step was in the wrong direction; the men faced their doom. It was three in the morning. Blissfully the sheep were told that minds and hearts matter. I fear that the poetic justice perused by my character should be harmless.
The poet justice of this character must be harmless. And with that Decree I proclaim that the one true road north is the table salt and pilgrimage to Bethlehem.
This is a religious man. I fell no need for the near and sideways glances that giving this sheet to an editor would do. The best way to write is to catch yourself writing and then find your old journals and counter their actions. The only way to start writing is to move past the first barrier and then face the barriers that come later on. And with this I should smoke, as my eyes are beginning to hurt and I feel like a poet in need of opening drafts. The writer is the character in all recently read journals but the self-righteous struggle is epochs in scale at times. This is another muse I have about mental illness. These states lead to a perpetually wiser and safer conclusion. These conclusions are difficult to grasp and I suppose the normal person who let such ideas just be. The mad mind is the one to reach inside. So even as weaker minds do not prevail I wonder in writing what I’m doing to my world I have found the brief manuscript and by chance I read that one. It told me what I’m doing I am doing right.
Though I try a simpler note. A smoke, yes a smoke. That is what I need. At any rate a smoke makes me want to discuss literal things. Why? Or study the word why. I should do a brief synopsis on the word ‘Why.’ Lets look up the definition: “Interrogative adverb asking for what reason or purpose.” Why do we do the things we do? That is a question she asks me. Why do you put that there and not someplace else? Well I suppose that is just the best-shaped drawer for that. Yes, It would fit somewhere else.
Why do I live in Penticton? Is Penticton a real place? Is it my indoctrination in some world that lasts more so in thought than in image. I think it is that idea the doctors are telling me is that simple idea that I am a musician and writer with my time. I am leaving a trail of designs and templates for people to enjoy. The doctors convinced me I was there, truly doing it. They told me I am successful.
This breakthrough can be found initially in a repressed memory that flooded into my subconscious about seven years ago. Since then I had only heard one strange image of a horrid man who kept me locked in the relationship, both these men acted the same. They took pictures of my subconscious and abused me with nattering names. The whole time I thought these two people were real and the invisible world should not be trusted. The time before that I thought I was in Primus.
So is Penticton a real place? I don’t know. It seems to have an economy and society of people doing likeminded things. It seems to have a coffee shop for those who dream. The lights and glitter that is show business show that some men play stadiums and some men can see them. To be fair, quite a large number of people in show business can see the audience. I haven’t really yet. I remember I used to draw a crowd to a small place called Voodoo’s near purgatory bus stop. The spooky numbers were drawn out of that dive.
I never played a stadium but it was because I never saw it. So I had a revelation.
Because I know there is an audience, I don’t know if I could do it if I could see the thousands. I am now discussing not touring and sitting at home writing a book. And thank you for all the memories. It was a wonderful time with friends for me. Hopefully it was for you too. For now, pals, I am going to sit and write something that sounds like the above chapter. It will lead to me writing something of some sense. I just want to be like Frank Zappa.
But do I really? That is the question.
But do I really? That is the question.
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