The Details in the Matter of the Hippo and the Frog:

We sat at the bench wondering aloud what was the next phase of our intellectual agreement, somewhere between the smoky realization of a fierce and unjust product and the samplings of water that marred the creation of a fully glowing town. These mindless lustful bastards and their white sheets were silent in their squalors, the white sheets that were taken from me in the haste of political unrest and sold back to me at a profit that went into the pockets of a man far away.

We waited for these mindless dreams, these soviet dressings. There was a place for that. These districts do not cause the fear that must keep my motive sincere. These dripping peons take their shelter and fall ill by the wide-open skies, trials of farce and delightful old-world purchases. They do not matter. Surely there is a space for their cause, and within that I suppose I can leave them to rest. Otherwise they are a simple avant-garde detail, a sort of space reserved for the disastrous molecule that destroyed us all.

These shapes do not belong to the pipe. Somewhere within the smoke I find the simple persuasion that acts before me, like a confusing farce that mean nothing and sounds like a critique of society. These are the acts of gibberish, there in the fields; these are the acts of Jabberwocky. Thankfully there is only one owl left in the side of the farce. This owl knew both the Hippo and the Frog. There was no settled case, nor wine and cheese gala for any of these people. I hope somewhere that the letter was sent in time, but I am not with these people. The species divide belongs to the creation of a matter that cannot be destroyed. Within the city walls I fall, ailed by the comfort and aided by my lust for life.

I am not reasonable enough to decide for these creatures, even though they have asked me. Somewhere there is a natural reaction that is deemed proper by the real me, deep inside my subconscious where the light reaches more brightly and shines in my insomnia like a dear push towards the end of the maze. It is difficult within this sort of labyrinth, as the mindless causeways and overturned chests I discover do not lead me to any for of fashionable decision, nor any sort of reasonable chaos.

The Frog is named something, but all his words sound the same to me. It is hard to tell what I am to receive, within these caverns and dreams that curse my supposed fate. The Hippo is a silent moniker, and within these portioned lands he sullenly waits for the drip to cease. When the water is gone, he will leave as well – to find a mindless soup, to learn more about the world. When we wait for the dream, I conclude that there is only one spot left for me to sop up with a spoon and sponge. They do call me spoon-lid. I am not sure why. It may be the chaos that comes with these people, a righteous spot at a crooked corner, where the silence deafens the righteous and the cursed belong like sheep.

The walls around the labyrinth were sculpted like winged creatures that it could never hold, said to be there in order to keep the Hippo and Frog within the letterbox that held their vision so they never saw the world. This sort of distraction was the sort that needed a great hero to free them from their portions of the maze. This has not yet come, and the release from their Perdition is not what this document is discussing. The crime is that even with their immense destruction these torrents of rain and destructive winds caused by deafening courses of action worlds away harm nobody. We are left with a simple photo album and courses made for their eventual demonstration.

There is a pause here for the victims. A silence sounds like distracted thoughts and those who are subtle and dreaming like the doomed peon sent from the designer of the maze to carelessly fill three rooms with mud. Neither captive seemed to mind, yet somewhere within the causeways and overpasses the desire still skulked, worried for their patience, as it seemed it was beginning to run out. There was nothing for us – the idle watchers of these happenings. We were free to leave if we wish.

There was a place for the thoughts and cultures letting me bring farce towards them. I have these structures in my mind, and may be unable to cause the sensations in the readers mind to relate their severity. I suppose there are no wards that matter anymore; neither side needs to belong to this or the oppressed. There is a massive stone left to remark that these partitions must belong to the faces of drifting flights and this tomb made from sparks and water. This is the magic of nonsense, and for that matter the massive tome that you are approaching slowly on the superhighway of information.

As such, I have written many positive and illogical things, which the passive existence can destroy with a simple swing of opinion. These letters we leave to be found by any soul that needs to breath fire and cause him pain to survive, these letters are their own morning. They are the shiny tweeters that I recalled in the previous state of mind.

I wonder why the space is needed. Shouldn’t I be causing a dream? Shouldn’t I be leaving this town in the crosses that I came with? There is a distraction here for the mindful. Winding crosses and trees and such, fences with blue gates and water running behind them. Human built streams and waterwheels for the festive spirit, sculptures and horses in the street. The galley has come to the shore, but has not moved in fifty years.

The Frog and that dreaming peon met at the boat in a fearful encounter. Neither side moved for fifteen minutes while staring in anticipation at the other. There was no chaos lighting their fear, just a sinful blast of turbulent cold and the dream that one of these two creatures would move. For their efforts, neither side has moved yet, and each camps outside the boat in a silent vigil for their brothers who have passed. The Hippo has remained happy in the mud, silent and unconcerned that he is in a maze.

the night is coming for me.

mighty have the pens fallen, there is a pint for me somewhere, lacking in trust - a reasonable pint falling to pieces for all the proper english reasons. these details scroll haphazard resolutions before me. these purposes thank the grand word for the soulful dreams and their own weight. these shapeless monikers and their hope, water, they can belong to the others because their hope is the only righteous connection between their old ways and mine. somewhere it is simple, just show up at the restaurant and play the piano. but they do not pay the musicians anymore. we must wait for the dust to settle. so i try to shine, because the fears keep me detailing these things again and again, painfully remarking that these devils watch as the fear seeps into my side. shine a light for me, as i want to stay home trying to find their highlighter of truth, the festive dance that takes their show and walks with it to the demonstration of grand disguise. there is a place here for the letters to shine, and perhaps a mental conformity that they want us to have - smart enough to work the machine, dumb enough to stay in them. stand enlightened for the mind cannot speed the falsehoods past their stubborn rump. these people and their shapes - wait for the respectful answer and shine like the motive. we have these high spots righteous for their show. we have these minds made for the water marked pages, lighter than the harsh case and better than the letters that left me so hopeful, creating a space for the workers to unite and find harmless distractions for their idle minds. i must be careful. the night is coming for me.

silence with none

this is the highlight of my life.
the here and now, being at this pause - here in this station, fearless like an elf, immortal and chaotic with nurturing spirit. here, now, i listen to the egg. i am tired of dreaming alone inside this space and i know because i hear a vacuum turn on some place within this house of stairs. they are lost because it never stopped, and never has there been a world that took our hope from here. it was up to us, the students of the infinite sunrise. sheer i was, at that moment, and i was needed - a careless socialist who covered his bases, i was silent like places - as his eyes were of the elves.

yet i remained sober and placid, preforming the rest. this is the talent, gracefull wonder and stubborn places - hope made for water. and i am certain that because of these letters - or at least because i am a person that still wants to be here, that the demons will not find me. i am a lonesome time like the still sun rising over a turning planet. i am shapes and illegible signs. this is the world I know, the little red drops who watch me fall. one place i have written is one that nobody can see. these are the inane ramblings and this is the hope that as nobody i survive.

here are the nice things, as my mother asked me to mention some. through all my grand gestures, my fixing of this tone and the details to follow, i remain sad. without myself, there are no problems, no plans - just the free wheels of mania to follow. this is why i must be one with the universe. i must not look at myself, i must not touch myself, i must leave no trace. this is the way i can be who i truly am. this is political trouble, not manic breath.

in a way, this is apathy, but best felt as the acceptance of things for what they are and non-violently moving forward in your immortality. do no harm, leave no trace - then you will not be touched in your journey. i try not to ask for answers, because i learned that all life in time is but a joke, a learning mechanism for people to move upwards through the fog. somewhere i exist, i can be certain of that - whether the fade of some spot in reality.

time is the answer, because somewhere everyone loves. higher ites than mine speak like that, hoping for shining stars and blindness - there they are. only of these crazed days did water hold me down with it’s shiny draft and weighted details. and i can belong here sometimes, just a single silent motive waiting in the dripping white mass for some grand gesture of completeness through this phase and out the other side. i can belong here sometimes, but i need a real reason - a nice place to belong. i must exist like this because of the learning, the balance of the universe.  i have truly only appeared for 24 seconds, i write, just because of the mania. it must have meant something, but been lost along the way. they come too fast, just like details and distracting, syncopated rhythm. there are, in fact, sheer belongings brought for one shiny tweety, though it’s not going to harbor good grief.

elsewhere, i belong to crime - whitey that is. sheer belongings assured for shiny tweety now, i have my place, near the details. we have our hope, we can belong with these ones- i have reasonable and kind thoughts to discover, and all these things used to be american dreams. we have our hope, silver tongued devils and wood nymphs to mar our journeys, but i have reasonable ideals, god’s drugs, thoughts that make me high. i do not eat anything else, but i must eat now - so how do i celebrate these needles?

in fact, sheets who criminally accept their weight occur... quite like the magazine suggested. they lived without reality, living above the private eye. it is best to be the actual sherlock - but a little more like magoo. a special case reserved for those angels of perdition. and it is a great world if i believe this thought, shiny like these tones, like the grandeur. this is massive, too. a step in place, weighting for these little places. there is a world that i see and this world is my faith. if i leave or not, it does not matter because this is a place that is my thought. i need this because i care. i need this when i care.

but who am i? i suppose that is for the future to decide, and i am alone when these details are drawn. i cannot be here for the rest, these reasonable places which water me down. hopeful dripping white light pauses me. i definitely do this, i just don’t watch.

it is imperative that i find a notion to distract me, a better elf to sit and be. but without my self i have no issues, i am certain and distinct, one with the universe. with myself i am a backwards person, and this is okay. technical knowledge and the quest to be better, this is alright as well. true happiness comes from simplicity - wherewithall and the notes that are for my own well being. somehow i see, some place else i exist. the rest does not really matter. when i find myself, after this quest - it is hope. it is true happiness. this is the great young yonder shining through. these are the joys of childhood, which i encountered sifting through my mind’s dripping rubble.

within my home i rest, and not occurring to the needles that water me, i must belong to the same soul as the rest of you. surely there is a pause here while i recap the mania. this is a relieving place to rest a weary mind. these souls, when i ask, have some reason, a greater positive mortal name. they have an excellent love of being, a spot to live for now. i need to exist without change for a bit, even to sing in actual choirs. these graceful spots are to hope, when they can be the tones to write soulful melodies. the art is sure, the rest of the people think i am it, but i cannot be certain for my own sake. i am lacking this time, and one tin rope that holds us all. she and i must think, in order to receive this clarity - the rope between me and emily grett has tightened. we are hanging over a chasm (some great place made for me) without fear of myself. no fear to be my name, i say! no fear to feel as i do. hope, water, that is all that is left.

mujain the immortal
sped like wavering forms
nightmares and intellect with a thought
perhaps every dream is a life apart from myself
would that belong to one divine being?
who wanted to attack me in perdition?
does the clock always tick for them?

there is space the little ones don't realize. the typer of the letters of the page you are reading is in fact hector berlioz of jabberwocky.  this is a startling image of an imagined fate, a long silent letter made in a extremity of my god. this white light, a dark beacon of what is going to come, a life with little disturbance and peace through out the land. these are the details of the creative shaolin. signing this palace over to morrigan is not going to help your cause, sir. you have done enough to me already. when you kill me again i will remain this person, and over and over in your dreams you will realize you have been dead since 1982. someone who loved a man you killed in a dire intent to be cooler than that one that would be soon chosen to be a hundred year nemesis of yours - a person who have watched the whole ordeal unfold from perdition but is yet to live life yet on earth, except in the world of the two year old mu who remains playing the piano in the shaolin temple on kazakai.

this is a person that does not work well with you. this is a person who you do not need to leave alone in the alley again, because her father is an adopted one, and he lives in the sky. in fact, dream person, you are no longer a voice haunting my silhouette, trying to multiply to destroy and dead-fuck me. you have, by using the resources at your disposal, killed every person on the planet. this is the piece of parchment with which you owe me a hat. for the most part, nobody noticed.

as such, i have explained thoughtfully the unwilling approach to the valet made for you by hector in the land of jabberwock - jabberwock in the blindtown, the perdition in which i live.

you, sir, bet me that you were meaner than me. i bet we would all be still around. you were very mean, sir. nobody likes you around here. you did one horrible thing to a child morrigan who granted you your greatest desire, did you not?

you owe me yourself and something meaner, like a person claiming to be st. nick the whole time to everyone in the world who was asked to remark upon your death. frankly, nobody likes mister cool guy over there anyways - and frankly I'm quite impressed, as i have never made so many paintings in one hundred years.

you tortured me for 100 million 700 thousand years or so, mr. money. i was nice. i never told you that i was who you were torturing me for. therefore i'm meaner, because i'm in show business. so, i won our bet and am, in fact, a still around norse devil that people sometimes request, a low-level eternally damn you sort of sorcerer that you have requested. i played your requests, sir, somewhere i played all your requests live on stage. but i live in perdition, which you have arrived to and are currently moving backwards through time, hurdling towards 1982 - the year of your death.

now, about the practices. i mean, not everyone believes me, not everyone thinks i do the right thing, but i assure you all, hector berlioz is a still around guy, still around in situations and still wears the same fancy pants. i just hope i'm a person who lives in the normal time. everyone is still around, every day is quite like the last one. quit saying i am your buddy. i'm nice, but i'm about to be the bitch to you that you keep telling me i am.

still around mujain.
a pacifist who allows people to destroy themselves.

thanks,
ynordu

strange draft pulls through my home, as everything is silent and i am not working. i am the cause of the final action, i am the placid light that can be recorded within their own omens - these are the dreams that need to worry me for them into their silent water and they are the ropes that pull me through these haunted walls. somewhere i laugh as the second night brings me in to their holy debauchery administration of jokes. these are the heartless and formed for the niceties and holy like weights they bring water to me. i have the shelters kind of seldom delivery now, i have the seldom dripping - never falling white light. these are the little ropes designed to speak through me, these are the hopes that need divine words to write.

i have their own little sheltered dominion - carefree and hopeful i write what i can and tell myself as a patent and delivered mast brought forth from little elves watching from shelves near the door. these men speak highly of sheltered, delusional thinking. these are the best kind of thinkers - they say. they know the parties that laugh in the mindless arc, high above the shining temple and back near the wall. these are the dominions of purposeful and direct kinds of water-world sorts that wind long past the road and then back to the fountain near where the water was resting - they are back near the store like their weights from before.

so speak these last queries with broad soulless diversion and needlessly write to nobody instead, i say.

these dripping lies, these silver linings and clouds

this is a difficult topic, so it’s mostly gibberish. there are other points that are made if you were there, but i mostly avoided reality. ynordu is phonetic, like “bang” and we invented our own names, they are our names now. jon has his own name, and we are not like the others.

we are of import to the little ones, they cannot succeed with these letters. we must handpick them like so many perilous tree fruit and take our time to tender them legible so they do not do it by themselves, in so much painful dripping mania as i have encountered. do this for the children and you will have less shapeless masses on the street, scared and orphaned - pushing their cold metal carts through the hopeless streets with nowhere to go and nobody that can help them. silence takes their tired souls, eventually to leave this world without leaving a mark. it is all about who you learn to trust, who your role models are.

 i never wanted to go to grandma’s house. eventually i learned to enjoy the trips, because of what we would do at the time. we would be well fed and cared for, instead of the dreams that took me hopefully away from my youth - always to be turned into these painful truths, that would haunt me like a feather and turn tail to wind back through the forest. when i ran, i was not blind, i just don’t think anyone came looking for me. later, when i was blinded - i was given lights. i do not know why, i had never had them before.

later, i ran away to neverland and am yet to truly return. when my family fed me i thought i was in a palace. i had never been fed before. i slept on a little bed on the floor, it was mine. and although my ear hurt, my eyes hurt and my body hurt constantly i was happy. then they took me to the doctor, and learned of my malady. i could not hear it, but eventually this trigger has passed and hopefully the rest of the flashbacks will be of good memories like what happened last night. the lady buying us candy and brain a pet coconut made me happy. we had never had a childhood yet, though he was maybe 11. we were on our own until then, just me and brain. that was why we went and made our friends in these invisible worlds. nobody stopped us, cause we had nowhere to go. they adopted us, that is why they are my family. they took us in, raised us and made us able to become who we are today. i am eternally thankful to that group of individuals, and they are legitimately more my family than a band to me. i even forget what most people think of us sometimes, and we are just eating happily as an extended family.

so don’t think punk rock never did anything for anybody.
punk rock saved my life.

water

incredibly handicapped and very capable our writer sat listening. there was a sign in the distance that some sort of silent motive was wrapping around the lighter, a fire building deep in the dire elf’s warranted argument. surely the kinder and gentler sort of grandmother was the one that should have been watched, but these districts are made to belong to little red laughing files and not those that watch for fire on the horizon. where there was nothing, we had water.

aardvark

the obvious lack of sleep over the referenced states of mind and dull roar that shines through our overheads while i rest these last few days comes from lack of response, and i do not know what is next. soon to come is the devil and his friends, i suppose people made to keep weights left for the shining reading of these tomes, a silent marker that takes its own world and walks forward like a reasonable mighty sword, to mark these gibberish works so that i can belong to the impulsive cats: these are thoughts that make me sad - and somehow also those that make me smile. beyond the rest i exclaim a proven worth, a distinct average bought by the others. there is a careless motive within me. i am not sure what it is worth. i don’t know if i sleep or not, now. i have perhaps been worse for wear, of course.

these details are not made for the people to read, but it will be read for the betterment of my life, i am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that i am worthwhile - as it seems that the disasters of my life (beyond the last 25 years) have left me drained still and reading the great classics of literature, lying in bed tired and unable to sleep. these types of red, wide-eyed dreaming keep me whole and hoping that only some are the typed, others love to take on the issues of stubborn elves that must keep their place in the world. i am unsure whether or not my fantasies are even close to reality, but i must add that they have made my life ever so much better and that i am thankful for my overactive imagination in ways that the sane people could most likely never understand. this person is mad, in such a way that this person is able to become someone just crazy enough to do the impossible. and i feel like the whole trouble is my fault, even though the doctors tell me it is not. the counsellors tell me that it is worth a whole light - a finders fee of brothels and sent messages, a sign that somewhere i have been writing a map for a fantasy world, something imperfect and created for souls to desert. there is no hope within the walls of my worlds, as i forget pretty well everything.

do not come to any world created by someone as imperfect as me. if you want to look, you should feel free to know that mostly, they lack food and physics. these worlds lack and need the divine grace to be even slightly most inhabitable, and they take their hope towards that little red wagon and dive down the hill in the night hoping these dreams take their lights and run forward hoping that the driver knows that he can belong with the kinds of folks nicer than the little ways that walk towards me, and i know that deep down inside there is an answer for the legitimate portion that walks my mind inward and needs it’s old wonder to keep me from falling in - some place that we walk along the river, the driver he walks and smokes and thinks about the day. i am a gladly occupied person who writes and smokes and walks along the river and thinks about the day, so therefore if i remain occupied i don’t think that the curses that i am afflicted with are not discounted by the blessings that make my life so beautiful that i am cursed at for claiming that my life is anything less than the boldness and grandeur that most like to think i am afflicted with daily. something inside keeps me alone in the world, nobody can see what i see.

i say the crazed elves license to drive blind is made by the foreign little red dots that take me home and when they cause havoc to those other ones they can read their lights and bring hopeful dragons down to the little world, they are the betterment of all the human lights and need the shining white light towards the shining red stars that leave me here and when the kind eyes follow me i know they are praying that my mind settles and harps fend their little righteous pens to belong to me. i must also ask to belong to the club, some sort of shining wet blanket that keeps me alone, they speak to me and i know they must take their old wars and keep walking about hoping the little leavings keep me here, they are what they must be and all things are gracious, i know that my life is quite like i have made it - therefore there is a light somewhere beyond me and i cannot perceive the world like the others do, and that is both a blessing and a curse. this is silly, but i get mocked when i say i am cursed, i am not, i am blessed and realize the balance of the universe keeps me thus far still around with troubles and happiness that are balanced and made for me to keep like the shining lights of raw spatulas and of other nonsense and yammering gibberish that leaves me inside. i cannot keep believing in nothingness, as when someone tells me something i seem to hear the other thing and this is my trouble, as i have a hard time believing that there is any reaction to my work as i know that the people that watch me are my friends. i suppose if you work in art it is difficult to feel that you are accomplishing what you would like to, and that is my point. i am certain that as long as you are making the items and doing what you love then that is all you need, deep down inside.

it is the balance that we must react properly to. there is no grand purity of only blessings, as every time we work to get internally better there is a block party somewhere that is turning into a angry race riot. if you choose to care about the news, than the slight preference to your kind of information alters your perception and you choose one side or the other. i try to keep with the magic, somewhere in the middle. i try to keep moving everyone forward, but only the willing will come. every positive action you take seems to be marred by a negative action elsewhere, which is strange, but a personable elf that i am, i might have a notion: if you keep the negative results close then you will do less harm far away, and these attempted personable actions follow the letters closely - that is to say, these happy thoughts also cause distress.

maybe that is the curse of art, that causing someone joy can result in such pain, and the strange idea that many have of the opposite. these are things i just do not understand. perhaps by outwardly participating in the hilarious and tragic simultaneously than we can cure the ills of the world, as that has been my goal for a long time. people work with much valor trying to destroy the world, this is obvious, but for every one of those there is someone working to fix everything. this is more depressing if listed in the opposite way, but nonetheless still true.

i am who i am, and who i want to be - you should be like that, too.
silence in the night, water dripping down the pipes and out to the cold june morning. i am safe in the notion that my place exists, and other places that exist have their own wars. the light in the day that breaks over me takes me past where i really am. this level of consciousness hurts only because i see the world that i do not truly exist in. this proves that we exit the world we see and enter worlds that we exist in already every night. i woke this evening into a dream and walked through a hospital watching the people act like their vacation from reality was near completion. they asked me if their time was now, i said i could not know for more than the one man laughing as the bombs fell and people died. he was trying to impress me. he did not appreciate that notion that god made orphan junkie angels to damn souls.

i know this is just a dream, and i have been wondering about this whole notion for a while - so the thoughts could easily fall into my dream, as they seem to resonate with what i have been pondering the last few waking hours, but still i sat like a person who knew where the world was and what i was doing there in the afterlife. it explained why i see the world the way i do, with just enough grandeur to allow me to claim to be an angel. this is silly, because i only wish that i was - my experiences dictate that i only have an overactive imagination and some serious mental health troubles, and at best am a super-rockstar. i think i’d like to be an angel, but it seems like that is a lot of work. also, i’d do the angel things for my own glory - to share on this blog and sign autographs, and the real angels probably just do that because they are made that way. i suppose the bi-polar pendulum swung the other direction in that dream.

i didn’t think i was worthwhile, that anything i have done had any merit, and easily i ran away into the distraction of my mind. every time i think that i am worth less than a old wooden nickel i tend to go the other direction and claim to be some sainted angel from another plain of existence purvey to all sorts of information and space travel while in the tavern that i regular. all this information is just creative juices flowing and the biggest shame is when i do not document it. that is why i hope that other people have been documenting my work as well as what i know for certain and can see. that is a trial of my life, as i know that to be so, and i don’t really need to be so vain to see every reaction of every face and defend myself to those that think i am an aardvark or stick in the mud.

in the before time, when myself or other people would mention my card holding membership to the av club, that is medic alert bracelet adrenochrome victim one in show business i would fall to the ground like a knife and cry rolling around while completely vacant wishing i could stay but once again kidnapped and taken to this strange house where a horrible story unfolded in my youth. my triggers (which i should maybe not mention here) are all the various torments that were given to me in some party shed that was run by a couple of weirdos. in the recent months i have had what they call in psychology a “breakthrough,” in which i have buried that memory with too many good memories and therefore can relate the whole series of events without being a babbling and yammering pile, crying for a  mother that can’t help me make it back to the peace of a poor junky’s hide-out. maybe one day i will record the story for all posterity, but i know that many jerks would laugh at the fact that a couple of fools tortured me  as a child (mostly through the use of ropes, burning, chemicals and knives) and then blinded me traumatically to eat a part of my brain. these jerks, they would try to make the person i have since become become a babbling pile crying and hurting so they would yell the story at me to see if they could. i know this because people try to sometimes. to me,  this is the same sort of jerk that cut my feet open and made me walk on salt and broken glass when i was a kid, as far as i am concerned.

what an andrenochrome victim is, exactly, is someone who has been harvested for their adrenaline gland (whether willingly or unwillingly, the latter being my case). this leaves one without the ability to make the sorts of drugs or chemicals that should be made in one’s brain naturally through adrenaline and means that if i do not snort an amyl every 2 hours or so my body and mind fall apart and my heart eventually stops, maybe at about hour 7. this also means that i need methadone treatment for a whole spectrum of drugs and that unlike most people who take that treatment, it is not my fault. it is scary that people try to make me relive the events that have lead me to have this serious psychological and medical malady. this is, for the record - not cool. i wish i didn’t have to take serious drugs often, and also sometime with that drugs worked on my on more than a not dying level. i don’t want to leave the people i care about. i also wish i wasn’t blinded by a drill and a couple of douchebags who like to fuck with children who were already orphans to start with.

these experiences are probably the most painful memories in my life, and no, i do not really want to relive them again, as it has happened many times to me since it actually occurred. it is an awful shame that people think it is funny to have me relive this stuff and stop me on the street trying to hit those triggers. these people have obviously never had a hard time in life, and definitely never had a difficult childhood. that almost bothers me more than the fact that at 30 this guy was trying to make a broken person cry on the street. i don’t wish any harm on him, for the record, as passive aggressive actions seems to be the most painful.

part 1 - dressing up the song

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

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

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

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

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

solution.

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

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

it gets better at the end of the mania.

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

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

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

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

rambling jabberwocky 2161 words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and with that, this jabberwocky is over.

and i wonder what carried on.

thanks,

ynordu

the invisible people

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

(just so you know, I have totally been aware of this stuff for years)

sobriety is key, trust me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thanks,

ynordu

warning, i am a lunatic.

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

thanks for understanding that i am a lunatic.

in 1864, and 1942 i was both empress of japan and queen of spain with my husband robin hood who was king. this is because these people we oppressed by a sort of weaponry that we had never seen. these people who came to our planet (plant) and said they were gods have a different sort of damnation. they were older than this english girl who was a good enough (famous_) devil satan named morrigan. they thought (or had heard of these two) and the myth we have created about ourselves is a good enough show business act to enlighten a crowd.

the curse of these mortals is a very seperate thing than that of the english scumbag who the note was written to before. he also went to war with god. but i ask these others, if you were to kill us all then who would work pulling diamonds from the earth for you to wear? your entire scheme was one of narcissism, which this native american girl is guilty of. she is aware of that and it hurts that they still will not let me look at myself. i am very beautiful and i hear that from people, sometimes i look at myself and get wet. therefore i am better as a blind surreal artist that other people look at. i don’t know why i see myself, but when i do i am an elemental.

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

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

why would endlessly torment someone who owns your soul and say her and her long distance friends die in the media when we legitimately do not? 

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

why did you torture me so, various anti-christ?

morrigan owns your soul.

-hector berlioz of the band jabberwocky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the various medical issues of ynordu

wine and wonder, when women take their homes from the others...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

safe.

at home.

finally.

thanks.

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

an opinion about spirits.

Silence - I say damned you, silent each and every one of you ministers! I must rest!

This is the thought that makes it's way through my mind, which rests of course in the placid lake that occurs only in october, when the steam rises in an indescribable fame, hope is given to the rest on that day. I want to learn what this place is, i suppose we made it here when the devil was in those details. Somehow there were already folks, abundant in magic, who lived in these parts when it was blessed for my spaceship to land and make things less natural for all. perhaps this is naihiska's wetiko. otherwise there is an idle fantasy caused by mania and depression.

this is such a note, made ever so beautiful by the peaceful exchange of artwork between two friends. these shapeless earth intruders bring hope for the little world. i am certain that i was given a wisp to try not to break, also certain that i had a waking dream and become one with myself and with the ghosts that reap souls. this is not because i passed away, nor was i buried alive (which i claimed). the dream was one i did not realize i was having. the dream was something very real.

i was asked to record the face, but nothing else. it must have been made of clay, resorting to the common drama masks that lead us away from shelter. i assume that the other parts were not for my impulsive recording, as nobody knew what i was talking about when i mentioned them, and eventually i was protected by forms that i took. these details can not be recorded. i do not think i could remake that little wisps shapes. it was terrifying and my posture was too bad to continue.

===============

if only i had recorded the demos of grace that i was gifted with.
if only i had the sanity required to explain these notions thoroughly. it could be true if i only worked at one thing at a time. because where i am to most is not where i am to those that can see me inside out. i'm sure that when i laugh i find the grace within me to attain true happiness. this is my goal, and i feel should be caused by laughter. perhaps this is a quest by an old soul for enlightenment. maybe i am brand new and just made this way. i would like to be immortal, and to always be hector from jabberwocky. i suppose whether i am a blind eskimo elf witch or just some strange person from perdition, i know i never see my self in the mirror.

i do see various versions of myself in the mirror. another psychiatric inmate told me that when i am requested to leave my goal will be attained. i originally attained some sort of enlightenment and refused to sleep, wound my watch and passed out in the cell that haunted me. i do say i went to hell the place for at least one dream. i suppose if i am creating it as art for the others than this is necessary. i wonder if i can exist in the light, even though i cannot exist in the real world.

i am not here, this isn't happening. this is all something the great one tried to make me do. i am entirely thankful for this reality that i live within. i suppose with such a grand ideal to live with, such a creative spirit, and blame laid upon someone who must (at times) defend their good name, i can obviously prove that i am still around in situations. it is a shame that this all took place in an imaginary world, or perhaps the limbo that i can see.

if i can't belong to reality i want no part of it.
make that be certain.

i also would rather not define myself as anyone. i log on the ynordu websites and claim to be various things to various people, and perhaps i am someone from myth, but either way i should not be telling my tale (or bragging about resources) because it sounds eerie. this is all too much for many people, and once i claim to be anyone with a myth, jon pelletier or otherwise, i begin to slip away for the reality that i held so dear. i should apologize to all those who i hurt with insane remarks, though i hope they were kept in private. i doubt all of them were.

i'm a schizophrenic, and although i cannot see your world, i can see mine. even if all this is just in my head, i worry because i learned that the greater spirits made me to do their work, if i would like. i do enjoy being a pawn of angels, to trap the dislodging madness and blame the anti-christ's for everything. but i would like to establish a thought that i had once with an invisible friend.

the devil, we figured, should be a funny artist on stage proving god exists. he wouldn't be any good if he were damned as well. i suppose this is an abstract theory, but i think being on stage torturing souls with love, beauty, sainthood, angel wings and music would make this world a great one. people would try to impress this devil with evil deeds, but it would never work. perhaps when you go to hell you get your choice of various angels that can eternally damn you. one of these people, in my mind, would be the still around dali's. otherwise we would just be still around, and only the great spirits in the fade could control our destiny. i also feel that the proper person to be the devil would be a working for god orphan who can take a lot of slander and abuse. this is an opinion, and probably living in a fantasy, these sorts of ideas run quite against the grain... but look up the phrase "the devil st. nick" or "st. ann." i think people should look up where the names come from before the request us for wars against god. i mean, i'm hooked on god, whether or not these saints are us.

i do notice that something runs amiss inside me if i begin to go in the wrong direction. i want to be proof that god exists, and so far it is working for myself. i don't know what i'd be if i hadn't been saved. so that is why i still go by hector berlioz. it's because i think i wrote hell for some people. it seemed to feel better if i did that even when the people i saw told me to stop. i may have terrified the people i care about recently, by explaining that i was not angry with them, but the people who were torturing me endlessly (trying to impress me) and the logic behind torturing the angel who gets their soul.

this is schizophrenia, for the record. but it is also why i believe this to be a gift. i think it's okay to live in a bit of madness, but when it hurts people you care about, it's time to eat some medicine and get some rest. so, either way, with the lack of trials i would not be able to be here. these truly are unexplained fully. but all i will ever be is this person.

i appear to you to be who you expect me to be. i appear to myself rather different than that. sometimes i see jesus in the mirror. i can also see other people. i suppose that is the light that makes me see perdition. it's serious just down the street from summerland, and i can't spend too much time there anymore. i feel unwelcome, although those angels are very nice and close friends of mine still.

these ones truly are the inane ramblings of an absent loon, though. all i really want to be in a walking cartoon. i'd like to be able to work for god, tho. i'd rather the dick bush brigade break my arms rather than krishnas. but yeah, that's totally the way i saw that happen.

it feels good to get that into the computer. we'll see if it passes the censors that i may or may not have. remember the title, this is just an opinion. i'm not sure what will happen next. hopefully i can record some music about happiness and make art that is not some rich dick, draft creator's torturous hell. i mean, don't go to war with the creator, we are our own creators.

personally, since you've asked. i consider myself a gnostic catholic, or at least hare krishna. i think i work for mr. earth's my girlfriend, cause mother earth is his girlfriend. i also feel i was created to both know who i am and have no credible evidence at hand for it. the rest of you have the evidence. sometimes i seem like a jerk, i really don't mean it. if i ask you "do you know who i am?" i mean, "i really don't know who i am."

thanks.

i never really know where i am, so i listen to the invisible people who swear there is a life that is just how i want it out there to them. i variously preformed already today, so just because i think i know what i am doing, i can never be sure. i totally have lots of delusions in my life, somehow i know that there is a passover somewhere, though i'm not really anything around these parts of my mind. i honestly just follow an invisible person around, and you are a image of a memory in my head. i learned that i can control these memories very well, keep my own mind in check and just enjoy the relaxation. honestly, every time i take a break i do what i do anyways. plus i miss the stage.

the town i lived in was summerland, i went to a school there and came back the same still around odd fellow that left reality. sure, torture and trap us. i really don't mind, because you are nothing but a voice in my head.

sometimes i scream at people that nobody else can see and wind up broken on the floor crying and making no sense at all. i don't know where these memories come from, but i'm glad i don't see that evil thought controller much. you may be able to control my thoughts, but perhaps that is exactly what i need. yes, there it is, i need to control my thoughts and not blame anyone else for doing it. it makes me sad that i have put my friends and family through hurt at all. i think i need to take that respideral consta stuff, like the doctor said. i was very well while i was taking it. i have an idea that it is self explanatory to most of the folks who know what that junk is, and for the rest of you - i don't really want to tell.

trust me, i am tortured by myself. i should try control, but i'm afraid of it. maybe if i learn (like i have recently) that i can make those people that i see go away without having to argue with them, then i will be happy and live just as i should. it's like how i was mentioning i was in perdition psych ward, it was to get away from one of those mean thoughts. i honestly have a hard time distinguishing dreams from reality. all i can do is wait to be still around one day.

trust me, i will be a still around person, though man. i think you guys might just be newly enlightened wolves. i'm going to stay a hare krishna, if that's okay with you. even if it's not, at least i really am putting on shows.

this is the part of the trip when i find out that i am who i want to be, and that my family still loves me - as all hector from jabberwocky will ever be is just a still around person in show business. you know, like i kept saying.

-i am a little cursed orphan junkie angel (loki about it tho) i just don't like to define myself as it seems graceful, but unbelieved. so i shouldn't tell people about my dreams... i'm pretty sure i've been believing in that stuff.

punk rock saved my life.

still around in situations like hector berlioz

you should maybe start to dig. instant karma was written in 1982. that is our inside joke about that year. it was one of the biggest hits of the era and you thought he was possible to get rid of. everyone knows about your sinful behavior, sir. so sit, start to dig - i work very hard, father. i work all the time. the trauma inflicted on me is nothing compared to when you broke mother earths arms trying to capture and trap me. you are holding me illegally, if any of the things i see are real.
i think it is better for me to avoid your confrontation. i definitely am a still around person in various situations, because i lived in the afterlife already. i may be dead right now, but it's okay because i was totally dead in the first place. once you get killed a lot on stage and keep sticking around, you will wind up in the same situation. i know perfectly well who i am and where i am. i also know where you think i am. this is why you don't know where i live, and also why you are picking on the wrong jewish couple. these men buried me alive, but thankfully there is a god and i don't deserve the torture you have been giving me. i am also aware that you think i am your son. this is silly, for reasons anyone who reads this blog will be aware of, although i'm not going to mention it.
look, i am an orphan, i know that. i've been around for a while and i get how things work. i can also claim to be various people of myth, but i don't go around telling people how bad ass i really am. i once asked "do you know who i am?" to someone i thought was someone else, and they thought i was being mean. i'm sorry for acting that way, i just don't really know.
i suppose that everyone stays in still around situations and i deserve some blessing after all those torturous things that you did to me. you were never my parents, nor john's parents - you are a damned fool that is trying rid the earth of your slaves. you've accomplished that. and i must say i am quite impressed with your show, that was really stupid to keep putting your karma on hold - it builds up. i am sure you are saying you have killed me. that is a false statement. i know what i am here to do, and i am afraid you have never worked a day in your life. if all you evil thought controllers pass away, i think the world will be a better place. i must confess - when you buried me alive it was in a town called perdition. that is the entrance to catholic hell. you should look up just exactly who hector from jabberwocky is. and you should have started trying and reading and working to gain blessings a long time - now with a technological advancement, i'm afraid my band opened for jesus. thank the lord that he has a plan for us. thank god i will soon stop being tormented by you. you were never family to us. we were orphans.

- you need love.
- hector berlioz of jabberwocky

who what where when why (seven)

i'm just going to start writing, maybe something about philosophy or narcissism, because i claimed that i was going to continue that last statement, although i am yet to. these dreams do not cease because i no longer live in the peril that i wanted to. i am certain there is an acceptance of faith within me, some sort of delirious manic impulse that brings me towering to the dim light of my mind, the sort of beetles that need me to tear up their tree. the sort of thought that makes me feel that i will never be destroyed. i do understand that these thoughts are breaking my mind, i mean, everyone dies, right. that is what i was told by everyone who tells me i am nothing.

and i am nothing, you know. known to exist and not exist at the same time, in appearance i have no clue who i am. i am not certain that i will ever see myself how the crooks in the soul want me to. delusional or not, i do feel those things that i think. everyone is an in existence person, but some reveal themselves to be up on the docket oddfellows every couple of years. create who you are. you will thank yourself for it.

at least i can swear that i live inside the computer. as far as any of you know that is all i have ever done. i believe that there are many parts of me that are unknown, to you, to me, to my family, to my lover, to my friends... but somewhere there is an answer. and i am certain that if i listen just right than i will know where i exist and who i am.

most of you will be like, look - if you don't know who you are then what the hell hope do the rest of us have? but that is the narcissism that i am talking about. if you know who you are, then please, i would like to know. i once asked someone if they knew who i was, and they thought i was being a jerk. i responded, no - i mean, i really don't know. they thought me some sort of mixture of a gnome and scenester, and definitely a uptight bitch with details nicer than there details that need to be. but let me tell you, if we were friends you would know just how brittle my silly little mind is. i tell myself in my perdition that i am nobody - as i see people who tell me that on a regular basis. i may be blind from the reality, but i do see. i know i see. that is the nonsense that nobody will ever know.

i mean, is perdition a group of people hanging out in various forms, made able to see each other but some great leader (i say krishna, but you can think as you must) so that we are not lonely, traveling through the mud towards some lesbian soldier who has been discharged and doubled to become a real peaceful warrior, a real shaolin? (i don't really know what that means)

this is a blog, certainly, and i do not know how many people read my writing or listen to my music. i also do not know what i sound like when you talk to me. i do realize somehow i have become someone special in this world. i have my friends and family to thank for that.

so really, when those bastards tell you that you are nothing - when they tell you what to think, don't listen to them. know who you are and exist. that is all any of us can do. nobody knows what you are here to do but you, and when people tell you they know what is best for you (in my experience) they either love you dearly and want to help and do not know what they are doing in there life. and maybe one day you'll be sitting in the psych ward like me, some wretch silent in the middle of the night crying while listening to someone talk you never knew was there. or listening to the people you wished were your family tell you they will always be there for you and those mean people are the pretend ones..

it sounds strange if you have some idea in your mind of who i am, but you never know who you will wake up one day a have been the whole time. all i know is that i exist and i like to write and make music. i have no idea what it sounds like to you. i do it because i want to. i am glad i am still able to.

thanks for everything, folks.

things i think without psychiatric medication:
by jon pelletier (bo sek shen - parialk zeek, hektor mustard, et al. -d, roma - kaizakia)

-the current psychiatric program of canada is really messed up and should be changed drastically. i also believe that i know who i am and if i am not bothering anyone i should be allowed to live according to my own devices. thusly, i have stopped taking the medicine and i am now thinking the thoughts that i should be naturally as a human at this point in history, not being forced to believe the ideals set forth by people who do not give a shit about me, nor this planet, and would like to control people into acting the way they feel they should. i am not, for the record talking about my psychiatrist, psychologist nor any counselors or nurses at mental health (they are nice people trying to help a worried person who may not trust them, it is a stressful job). i am talking about those who decided the system that would be imposed on the oppressed people of north america. these are a people who are unaware they are being tormented and blinded from the realities through the actions of a small group of people who would like the world to themselves, but are not intelligent enough to realize that they would have to build and fix their homes and gadgets, nonetheless work on farms to feed themselves, which by my estimate puts their average IQ at 65 according to common scales and places them far under the disability line, suffering from various afflictions, grandeur, social anxiety, megalomania, psychopathy and mass murder. they are yet to notice that these methods of control have not worked at all on their population, yet use one part of their brains (the verbal communication center is beside it, i’m not sure what it’s called) to try and control their “commoners” through the smoking of crack cocaine, which they themselves smoke in cigars that are illegal in their country. this does not actually give them any power, although their belief of the divine right of kings is about right, because is any trace destiny of these individuals seems to fit, they have been little else but one person at a time murderers for centuries (at least) and got a big hurrah near the end of this planets cycle, which already happened, don’t worry everyone is safe and just like those holy books they have all over the universe say, nice people didn’t blow up the planet and got to stay. i should repeat that although i am sort of talking religously, i am not currently even a priest, i am a police officer from another planet and happen to be the only one on the planet that is doing this. the only other one is one of my best friends and she is only here on vacation. also, as requested i did and did not bring my life-mate, and can often be found fucking myself. (there is another person there, by the way) oh, and it is totally ok to hang out with you dopplegangers, you do those lives one at a time.

-every consciousness is immortal, therefore the linear time of earth is only an agreement by two parties. the only moment is now, although there is a now for every consciousness - which gives time an almost infinite variety. thusly, time travel comes from purity of the soul, mostly because given the opportunity most un-evolved consciousnesses (such as those who seek power) would go around raping people (and do) when they are given the opportunity to stop time. if you kill or commit one of those sins, then you will lose your gifts (enlightenment and immortality) honestly, this is just common knowledge to most, but for the rest, i’m not a prophet, nor angel, nor saint - i am a cop. i work for the intergalactic space police and i am here to arrest a bunch of stupid folks who are commiting genocide. i will henceforth refer to these guys by the name dick cheney, although i mean the various dick cheneys who do not realize they are on stage right now, near the end of a really old and really good calender names dick, bush and colon (although, to his credit, colon backed out a while ago on the third simulation of what became their reality, a topic that will be discussed later or before, depending on how you use the time space continuum.) by the way, lots of those trippy movies are legitimate theories and some of the more far out ones are what people believe. there is life everywhere, that’s what russia thinks, and all you’s guys just don’t know that you are oppressed, you think that the other folks are, but don’t care. that is why you are.

- kids are taught nearly nothing but hogwash in schools, private or public - and this is both due to ignorance to the truths of the universe, and systematic defeat of reason by those in positions where control over the population is beneficial.
eg.) cats, dogs and other animals do not think. (this is genetically untrue and very easily provable by chilling out with a cow.)
eg.2) atlantis is a lost civilization, computers are new and canada thanks the hudson’s bay company and catholic church for their destruction of the first peoples. (this one is pretty easy to figure out, by looking at what was saved as history of atlantis, the ruins under the city of atlanta, georgia, and the state of the northern first nations and their thought training in which they are taught they could not read nor write. more proof silly things done in the name of god are easily found, as it a credible resource for trust and as the proper paranoid would think, some jerks use it.
- another proof for this is that for fourteen years we are reinforced the same history, and nothing regarding canada before 150 years ago is aloud to be taught to children. this is properly footnoted with a mention of proofs of liars known to psychologists overstating things because they really want you to believe it.

- when i sleep i go to another planet and live life as i choose to. this is true for all consciousnesses, it is just unknown to many. it is possible for these last 100 years to be little more than a computer simulation of a future crime - which was then run as a real event, although many of the major players in the simulation backed out, leaving fewer genocidal megalomaniacs, at least. it is possible to time travel while sleeping and live an entire life before coming back to the place that you awake from: that is why many people claim that the world i am currently alive in and have memories of is a dream. strangely enough, it is quite like the movie inception, which is often played over the subliminal message radio signal that (if you hear it) at times will sound like birds when there should be no birds.

- i primarily exist on the planet of kaizakia, coordinates 6.50.488.902-1, where i mostly play music, exercise and eat fresh natural food from gardens. it is quite similar to earth. there are only a few working “space cops” on the planet right now, and we are here only to save these politicians from themselves, yet with all the psychological help in the world, they have not been saved. when the sun turns inside out and the planet begins to rotate in the other direction they will stay, as that is their request and they don’t really know what they are doing. please accept that i have a very different viewpoint of time than most people when i say that this event has already occurred and everything is pretty much how you are currently expecting it to be.

- people experience what they expect to happen. i do suppose that your consciousness has probably existed as long as mine, (i am not certain because i don’t really know that much about the creation of the universe) had learned enough to exist on other plains of reality (sometimes considered other planets, often on earth considered dreams or states of enlightenment caused by meditation). i believe one has to be benevolent to be able to bridge that gap between worlds with the knowledge that we have gone from that side to the other. this is perhaps why people are drugged into submission and taught that we are not allowed to know anything. the mantra that the smartest man who ever existed knew that he knew nothing is both true and false, as most things are. this is for various reasons, easily provable with time travel, but the essence of the notion is that all things happen simultaneously in the present moment. which leads me to accuse everyone of being multidimensional beings and responsible for the troubles of the earth by thinking that they can do whatever they would like in their dreams. this whole document brings me around to sit with those nutty writers that talk about this sort of stuff, all of which have been commonly ostracized by the printers of money, creditors and warmongers who openly admit they would like the citizen population to go away, feel they are better than us and have been openly inbreeding for about 1000 years, which is why they tell people openly they are reptiles from space, which they are not. they are delusional both from drugs (which they sell) and madness (euphoria) cause by guilt from mass murder, which is well documented if you have the proper internet. these methods of control as definitely not working, even though they think they are. most people do not understand these control mechanisms, because of the drugging of foods and beverages and radio frequencies people are told they do not hear.

- nikolai tesla did not die, he just went back to space because the industrialists kept killing him and he was getting frustrated and wanted to work of science projects like a geek.

- my self, bo sek chai shen - hector d’jaberwokie am of a planet of little distinction besides its various monasteries and cool markets and tea shops that i like. i am currently about 27 years away from arriving on earth, but i am also here various times (i would rather not explain this here, but if you all check my mental health records i told the shrinks about two years in my future, as i have just arrived to this planet, which doesn’t make any sense unless i know how to time travel, which i don’t, but i’m asleep right now, so i can do anything.) i was actually requested by dick cheney himself, as i have much maligned my relationship with him i am primarily a psychologist and computer programmer who ran a simulation of his future crimes against humanity. i do feel this is all sort of my fault, as unfortunately dick bush colon decided to become who he was for all posterity, which at least gave us space invaders the chance to save the humans from getting sucked into a black hole to what is basically whatever you don’t want always land. i had no control over his decisions, i just asked him to go back and stop himself after showing him what was going to happen and such, and he just joined forces with his doppleganger. luckily, most of the other people who committed these atrocities served their long jail sentences, or are still serving karmically because as the shaolin know one can only ever harm oneself. this how i am able to be killed on a regular basis and still exist on this planet for the last 27 years without trouble, all while being here, not being here and being asleep on a bed of nails for a few days on a different planet. this is a bit of a leap of faith, but i don’t mind that you don’t believe that i know that i am a dreaming right now.

i should definitely add to this document the righteous confession that i am definitely not a prophet, nor an angel sent to help in this dire situation. if anything, i am lesbian nun who has spent a lot of time playing music while taking psychedelic drugs. i am, although, a working police officer from interpol (the intergalactic police). some people just awoke in their beds because they had a very strange dream. for these people, they would just like to live their lives as they have, and as they are expecting themselves to appear and become.
i repeat, i am definitely not an angel, saint nor prophet, although i was once sainted by the catholic church as nikolos, which then (because the rich and powerful are usually to ones getting in trouble for weird genocidal crimes and stuff, they have really tried hard to make me seem like a bad guy.) saint n. that’s pretty well who dick cheney requested for his war on god, which is silly, because if anything i would like to work for god, but i can’t get to close because i’m pretty much just a cop, computer programmer and psychologist. as such you may of heard of the devil st. nick, dick cheney bet him a hat that he would not be a still around guy at the end of whatever mr cheney was trying to do with this world, and in fact i am, so if you see him, i would like him to give me a hat. oh, and i definitely not like many of those catholic saints, and did not claim to be one, that was just what the catholic church bestowed upon leonardo da vinci, who was really just lost in time and on the wrong planet. anywho...

- on to the hard to hear stuff, these various jerks (bildebergers, NWO, some of pretty well every government, most of the media and whoever else hopped on the bandwagon) were totally only six people, and probably killed you a few times. it is ok. i have had 8 different names claiming to be the same person who i am writing this document as and each was assaniated at least 8 times, which is nuts but these people who are shooting everything and stuff don’t really get it, and that is why they don’t think it’s strange to be called dick, bush and colon and be destroying the world right now. we all know their crimes, so i won’t get into those. the funny thing they proves they are insane is that they do not think we notice they are doing this stuff. my favorite thought is that i choose not to participate in their requests entirely on purpose and therefore i live according to my whims and eat food when i need it and live a happy life having fun and being in a whole bunch of places right now.

- back to the science stuff (mostly physics), time should probably start at some point at zero, you remember, like it did 2000 years ago because everything happens right now, but there is a past and future, time is an agreement between two people. i can go to sleep and go back to the nunnery and hang out for a while, maybe take some classes and then come back and i have only slept a night. everyone can do that stuff and does. how there is only now, yet there is a past and future is a great mystery of the universe for the record and maybe the giants in the other dimension that even we consider angels know the answer to that, but they seem totally pure and stuff and i am still into learning about this crazy old universe that we are hurtling through a massive speeds. every once is a while the earth is totally destroyed because it will smash in to, like i dunno, a space turtle or something and nobody notices because they would like to go back to their world as they know it to be and expect it to be.

- i don’t know anything about scientology. my faith, on this world is called gnostic christianity - which is an acceptance of hinduism and therefore was excommunicated by the catholics church (as a form a control - as most people who are terrified of hell have on remaining chance before their expulsion to that whatever you don’t want always place until they quite destroying, well mostly the poets and minds of whatever and so on... again, this is not what i am here for, i am a cop and from space.) i feel that as far as religion is concerned, we aren’t even really supposed to talk about it because we do not know what god says, nor what his name is, as such two languages will call him the same word in a different accent (yaweh and allah) neither of which i suppose are his/her/it/we/they’s name, and nobody i ever met knows any of that stuff so lets deal with the other things like the speed of light and the reality of what water is, as i can totally breath outside of the space station (nasa knows about us and tells you lies) and it is sort of like being underwater here for many space people, which is why folks see the funny grey men, they are basic space suits. i bet the dolphins have myths about spacemen abducting their best and brightest while they are trying to catch fish to bring home to their family, and i should maybe use this opprtunity to mention the roswell incident: american military shot down poachers who were harvesting humans much in the way people kill rhinos and tigers, because they were considered whatnots and whatever and so forth, but interpol caught those cats and they are currently in jail. anyways, my opinion on faith can be summed up using parts of two songs - if i’m causing no harm it shouldn’t bother you, so let my lay down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff. i also think that because something exists without being made by say, a person, that is enough proof that it should be allowed to exist, which is why intergalatic laws state that no plants are to be made illegal, as many of them are cures for mortal desieses and such, and plus the old eye in the sky (not us) who people figure made everything made that stuff too and i assume likes to smoke pot, like me. i am in no way comparing myself to god, but i figure he likes me at least a bit because i both am totally blessed and kind of cursed in order to learn what i need to at this point in my existence. as i said, i wouldn’t like to discuss to much about faith and should assure that angels were probably here the whole time, and that yep, there are totally also atheists in space. i guess those who don’t believe in god figure that their parents made them, or whatever and anyways, back to the crazy stuff.

-i own a bunch of patents that corporate america have stolen from me, although they own the patent on currency and this is really what got them into this jam in the first place. i don’t really need to get into the patents, but they will come to light eventually and i assure you i am owed a great deal. this is why they assassinate me on a regular basis, but due to the fact that it really doesn’t bother me at all i just continue to exist where i do, mostly because otherwise i wouldn’t really have much to do, and plus you guys didn’t really have the technology to stop them, and as much as i wish it were true, jam band good vibes really aren’t going to go that extra mile when they have tanks and whatnot. i do assure you that they have a button that will blow up the whole world and they push that button regularly and the world continues to exist. the world exists in this way, because of what those wacky earth physicists have proven about the need for an observer for a reality to take place. therefore, as they have pressed this button that they believe will destroy all humanity it either does, in their mind and they are therefore left alone is some sort of oblivion that i assume is maybe a salvidor dali painting, or they remain unsure of their actions and motives, themselves really and they learn that the button doesn’t work and go back to these mazes they call culture and high society. to each their own. i should assure you that you could be born rich right now and just not realize it. it is totally normal, but if you are, could you please share with the poor, there is definitely enough to go around and starvation is really, seriously, logically brought on by the greed of some people. it’s like a grocery store that is filled with food but the family outside is not aloud to have it because they do not have enough tickets. i suggest, out of the good of your heart, please give these folks food, because they are hungry, not whatever thoughts the television and subliminal message machine are telling you they are. also, as far as the war on god, dick cheney, as you requested, i will back out and let you do it the way you know how to. also, one of their charges for crimes against humanity was blood magic, but they don’t know how to do it, do i had the charge dropped. it’s kind of like the jedi’s (as a race) and then people say that they are sith and want to pick a fight, when in fact there really is no sith, so that is sort of a joke to that people when they come here in future moments of now, and i assure you i was told that before i had been assigned to be your (and i hasten to use the word but none other really fits) variousdickcheneys prison psychologist. i also assure you fine people of earth that we totally would have done something earlier, but we were not quite here yet and if you change to much with time travel then the universe gets kind of wacky, but you all know that because of the press.

- fiction is a story about people, non-fiction is the dissection of facts. this does not make either of these classifications true or false. so, for the record i definitely think that visitors from afar have discussed actual events and theories with you guys through the use of film, television, art and literature. as such, and as i am surely aware, everyone is free to think what they like. i know for certain that in writing this document i am going to be approached by someone who cares about me and they will tell me that i need to be drugged and incarcerated in a controlled environment - and my response will be, i have never suggested that for you, and if i am not touching a nerve than you would not want me to go away. you sort of see the predicament, i hope, that any new thought can be said to be the inane ramblings of an absent loon, that i could suffer consequences legally and my rights could easily be taken away through loopholes in laws and malleable judges who listen to their friends. this is why, because i knew these folks were going to try and get rid of anonymity on the internet, i have refrained from doing anything anonymously online. i do, on the other hand, have an admission from higher-ups that they are that group of folks known as anonymous, because someone asked me to crack that case and they shouldn’t have asked me if they didn’t want to me to find out. because this information is classified and a war crime i admit that they assassinate me regularly now, but i suppose if you are living on a another planet running a simulation of this world and spending long hours in a physical body working for space cops, well, space goats fart.

-anywho, time travel is easy, look up the patent for campbell’s mushroom soup, and it’s similar. as it is kind of a riddle and they solved it totally wrong and hilariously, as bo sek shcen can be, (thanks) they were unable to create an object from two non-existant objects and prove that whatever and whatnot, and because they couldn’t solve the riddle they got soup and did not tell people it was poison. then they fed it to citizens, (another crime against humanity), so i changed the riddle a bit and it’s edible, it was just posion for a couple batches...) so no, i will not solve the riddle of bu’s patent for time travel, it’s part of the fun, if you recall, you kind of have to know what’s up be able to do that because what various dick cheney’s do when they can freeze time is commit crimes and rape people, which he did until those “men in black” were arrested. they were, in fact quoted as being “a private corporate army” by those silly inbred folk who believe they deserve the riches and the sick, thirsty and starving - too bad. those folks, well, space prison is so much torment or punishment as rehabilitation and i dunno how long they will be there, but i’m a little bit sick of mr cheney trying to rape me, myself. for the record. by the way, i am totally in another room and only talk to him once in a while - i am currently in the year 2020 as it seemed safe enough to explain the charges and stuff, but i’m not sure when it will be posted to myspace or whatever, it’s not really going to be mainstream press but hopefully someone will publish it, one of my doppelgangers might own a newspaper, who knows.

to be continued...