The End of the World Came, The End of the World Went

Do these people know how many times they've completely screwed up other peoples plans by making incorrect predictions about the end of the world?  I get why they do it.  There are a few reasons.  I think the main reason is because who doesn't want to be right about something that absolutely huge?  For the rest of time, what little there is left of it, you will be known and revered as "the one" who truly could see the future.  You will have the satisfaction of knowing that what you believed all of your life was worth it.  And maybe, in a farther reaching sense, the sense of if you are able to predict it correctly from enough years away, maybe you will have changed someone's life for the better.

Every time you get it wrong you really get it wrong.  As unhelpful as cults are, for the few ones that really do help people turn their lives around for the better (for whatever insane reason they're able to convince them to change), what happens when you're wrong prediction produces mass suicides?  I think that was the funny and also frustrating thing about this whole Planet X thing.

For a while, I was absolutely thrilled.  Finally, it's over.  How great is it that I'll be able to die!  We're finally checking out, baby!  Free of all guilt about what'll happen to the people's lives you've touched directly or indirectly and free from all sadness about the people that will actually miss you and free from the anger about the people that never had time for you, but will put on a show because they're emotional tourists.  It's over, it's done!  No more bills, no more trying to fit in or getting pissed off with trying to fit in and having to give the world the finger and go your own way only to be dragged back around to trying to fit in because that life gets exhausting and sometimes you just want a damn hug to get through another week.

All of our hopes were running high and the day came and the day went and nothing.  Just a big fat nothing.  More bills.  More bad deals from companies and services that know you can't really go anywhere else and are going to continue to screw you royally because ... well, where else are you going to go?  More stupid rhetoric from Capitol Hill.  More disappointments in policy making.  More losses.  More frustrations.  More "why the hell am I even bothering with this garbage."  We were all supposed to be reduced to superheated plasma two days ago.  Instead we've got more... more... what do you even call the new "this"?  What is this? 

Well, good talk.  I'm going to go to sleep and wake up, I suppose.  Adventure through dreamland until the sun comes up and those businesses open again and we all get on the road and start jogging toward our graves, or maybe just sit down and run out our clocks doing nothing, or try to mate with each other or ourselves.  Maybe I'll just read something.  Or listen to someone read something.  Another day gone by and the world is still turning.  I want out.  I'll wait my turn.  What's the hurry, right?  Not like anything else is happening in this arm of our galaxy.  Might as well go skip some rocks.




///Daedelus - "Special Re:Quest"  bed time.  but I'm not tired!  you've got to get some sleep sweetie.  try for me, would you?  will you leave the christmas lights on?  sure, nite nite.

An Evening With A Friend and Learning What Depression Is

Sitting on a cup cushion chair and listening to.  Days later I understand that.  I understand better that my schizophrenia will run parallel to depression at points and expecting some sort of  bipolar snap to happen and coming back to them to poke them with a "what's wrong" is no way forward.  That's not how it works.  Not even close.  Shadow mimicry.

I have wondered the best way of going about describing the it that governs me.  Is this what you want?  Locked.  Tell me now!  I am afraid that if I do I will be interned again.  I feel small.  I feel frightened.  What is wrong with us?  I want to be bipolar.  I want to be depressed.  I want to be something else without lying about what I am.  Why can't it be that way?  I feel like garbage saying that, knowing the tolls of those pains from meeting them.  The pissing contest cesspool.  The grass is always greener.  Fukkoff.  Listening to each word and understanding dawning, the same loathing and disappointment and anger that froths inside me frothed and boils inside them too (in different ways); similar hiding places and outdoor faces are incorporated to further life.  The panic attacks are the same.

Whenever I talk about it, be the occasion among friends or sibs or to you, I immediately feel defective.  A waste of your time.  How is it you've navigated 32 years of life [28 of them with knowing enough junk to not get run over by a thing called a car out of pure ignorance (22 of them with knowing enough junk to not get run over by a thing called a car out of negligence)] and still fight with normality?  Well, if I knew, I'd put an end to it.

What we are does not need vivisection to be confirmed.  The most frustrating part is being forced to bridge gaps and justify my misgivings and "quirks."

Reality checks and tests.  I don't understand.  Negative!  Negative!  Negative!  Through study, I know how people are supposed to feel when things happen.  That's why I enjoy semaphore so much.  It helps me feel like I am a person too, regardless of what actually is.

Undamaged or compromised, I envy the feeling and find their company saturated and wonderful.  It is selfish.  It is not selfish.  Listening to a good friend helped me learn what actual depression is and what it costs each day.  Listening to a good friend helped me learn the gender multiplier and its complications and callousness.  Between light hearted turns of phrase and spikes of imagination, I grew to understand the true differences between us and I learned more than I ever thought I'd need to know about what that prison is like.  I hope I expressed what the view from inside my bars looks like too.

I am so glad I have the chance to compose this.  I'll try and encapsulate it in a more condensed form:

I try to only project positive.  No I don't LOL.  Can shoot that down in a heartbeat.  I must laugh out loud.  I cannot set the world on fire.  I certainly, however, do not try to project only positive.  The dives are there for the asking.  I do not suffer in silence.  My physical pain tolerance has not kept pace with my mental pain tolerance and that's okay.  I enjoy listening.  It helps me feel more safe and more sane.

I am running.

I am afraid.

The dissimilarities are glaring now.  Punishing heft of ocean swell.  A fair mistake to make?  In speaking with her, traveling the star systems made wonderful sense.  Collapsing interpersonal nonsense into two dimensions, we existed and could map one another in three.  It's kind of weird, bare with me.  Here we go:

For some time, several months, I'd convinced myself I was predominantly bipolar.  Cycling on and off and on and off in stints.  If I could just figure out the timing, I could use it to approach "normal".  Ride with it.  Go with it.  Do not fight it.  Above all, do not try to force the head spaces function and be aware of its gear before you interact with anyone.  I charted up many conversations about mania and engaged in shared tales of its absence in attempts to better understand its dimensions and myself and the loved ones I was engaging with.

Along those veins it became clearer and clearer that I did not know what I thought I knew about them.  What I thought I knew about her.   What I thought I knew about him.  Some beliefs stood pat, many were restructured.  Some were reinforced.  I am susceptible to a high and low line, but the thread that flows through all points on the chart is my schizophrenia.  The simplest and most base way to gauge who I am underneath the layer of my consciousness and awareness is that.  My "it." For her, it is depression.  The hard coded piece of yourself that can not be changed.  That I enjoyed the most about speaking with her is laughing about everyday bullshit.  Seeing the ledge and taking casual portraits for one-another at the edge of the world.  I've known highs and I've known lows, but I've never had to know the tar ocean depression.  I've been and am manic, I've been and am depressed, truth be tolled, I am just schizophrenic. The fabulous shock of the reminder that you are just as much and deserving to be part of the human race as the "normals" is a spark.

I am glad that our worlds have collided.  I will attempt to boil this down later.  I don't have to do this alone.

We are.

We still don't know what our conversion rate is.  We still have no explanation for why we burn so violently and brilliantly and sleeplessly and the only consolation is watching the sun cross the horizon line and light up the atmosphere like a pool of gasoline and scream and sing and howl to it from the highest ground we can find, should we be caught outdoors.  I don't know why.

We are.

I want to heal.  I want to burn. I am understanding depression with greater accuracy than I ever have before.  I am understanding a new kind of helplessness that I've never sensed before in its entirety.  Seeing more of its true scope is deafening and tuning at once.




///there is no replacement for spending time and sharing experience.   The world will never be ready for the damaged.  Us damaged don't have to fight world war prime alone, though.   You do not have to either.  You don't have to either.  Don't understand; do listen.

///El-P & Killer Mike - "Legend Has It"

Born Yesterday

You look terrible.  What, have you been up all night drinking?  No, you self righteous, snide, whisker faced, monkey pawed, salad dicked, piece of shit.  I'm going to tie your legs to opposite rungs of a ladder with surgical tubing, slice open your taint, and plunger fuck you 'til your guts blow out and all you can see are after images of fantasia from when your uncle came to visit, got you drunk, and touched you, you absolute @#$##!%@%#$%%$*%^*%%@#%$#@%!%*(*((^&$^%$$!@# dumpster fire fucker.  I can't sleep.  I'm not a wreck, I just can't sleep.  It's a problem.  I feel like I'm awake all the time.  Is that a problem?  Yes, that's a problem.  Calm down, baby.  It's always a little scarier at night.  I stopped going out with my knife, that's a step in the right direction, right?  Yes.  Okay, bad start.  Let's do this again.

I'm losing my shit.  I don't understand everything.  In fact, I don't understand a lot of things.  In fact, I understand very few things and some of what I do is pure emulation.  Some of it is learned.  The things that I do when I'm not alone.  When I'm trying to communicate and rub elbows and socialize and allow myself to be socialized.  From a pure experiential stand point, I am always still catching up.  Especially when it comes to purely adult things like paying bills and writing checks and progressively more complex responsibilities that  come with age.  Learning on the fly.  Is part of why I am perpetually referring to near and distant past interactions and outcomes to judge and play into and inform and explicate the more recent and definite present ones.  I need snow.  I need cold weather.  I need Winter.  I need to trap my insides in and wear my skin all over again.  Compression wraps.  I'm trying to learn so many things on my own.

What do I need to do to suppress the monster?  It's a puzzle game again.  It's the puzzle game again.  And I don't want to play.  Even if I did, I can't if I can't get over there.  Reconsidering therapy for the hundredth time.

I am dense.  Dumb.  I get that.  So ask for help.  I do, the problem, however, is that half the time I do ask for help with X and Y I get bitten.  Look, okay, no one ever taught me how to be a grown up.  I'm fucking trying.  Okay, calm down.  I'm trying and learning how to be an adult.  How to take care of myself.  How to be a part of other people's lives and, more over, part of society and a functioning member no less.  It takes practice and it takes patience and sometimes other people are not as patient with me as I would like.  I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but blunt objects get the job done pretty good.  I'm good at things.  I know that.  I can do some things pretty well.  Other things not so good.  But why come no patience on their part?  They must know I'm being patient with them and their remarks and their assumptions.  They must know by now that I'm doing the best I can and that's all I've got by now.  Granted the repertoire grows yearly, monthly, sometimes daily, but it's never going to grow fast enough to get on their level.  I mean someone has to bring up the rear.  Who else will be there to pick up the leaders when they stumble and fall and roll their ankle and have to be dragged until they can stand up and break the trail again?  I serve a purpose, gotdamnit.

I'm not a doormat, or inferior, but I kind of am in many respects.  In terms of tangibles.  A state of perpetual repair.  800 brake horsepower on the dyno and shit tires.  Steel struts for shock absorbers.  The ride is harsh, but give me enough straight asphalt and I'll burn straight through to the vanishing point.  I've been thinking my siblings and I relied on and alternately hated each other through the years, but before everyone dove off the edge to lives and relationships and variables apart from the smoking hole in the ground where our lives blew up, we were complementary parts.

Are you really happy?  I'm happier than I've ever been.  I swear I cannot fuse myselves together.  It's like some kind of micro field acting over exceptionally short distances and so they gravitate and hang loosely together if I, when I, can manage to coerce them into the same headspace, but any further, any fucking further, and they fly apart.  Driven like body parts from a weatherman's over packed pipe bomb and a warning two hours too late.  Reduce the casualties, she says.  We're not terrorists he says.  Y'all can go suck a dick he says.

I chewed through my lip the other day.  I'm not the strongest man in the world, or the tallest.  But weapons are all around me.  Tools, you know?  A weapon is a tool.  We should spend some quality time together some day.  I know this place where the street lights have gone out.  It's a stretch of road really.  The headaches have gotten a little worse, but sometimes I can convince myself.  Heavy industrial works and general cause.  It's kind of funny sometimes.  Let's play cards.  Let's play Spades.  I'll never go board.  In my dream I was shot four times through the back, it was pretty amazing.  Not the getting shot part.  That part hurt a lot.  More than anything I've felt in life.  What felt amazing was the increasing inability to breath while my lungs filled up and my brain started to die and became unable to process pain.  I started to think about how screwed up it was that my first DMT trip would also be my last, but then I started to look forward to at least being able to do that.  And then someone else came up and  they passed the gun and held it up between my eyes and blew my head apart before I could enjoy it.  And I died, but didn't wake up and they left.  And I waited and I waited and I waited for my life to start over.  For reincarnation.  For hell.  For heaven.  Nothing.  And so, inside that dream still, I simply stood up, with half a skull from the nasal bones down to my neck, and walked out and woke up into an afternoon.  Disappointed.

I am me.  And you are you.  The greatest form of flattery.  The finest grains of abandonment.  In the soles of my shoes.  The cities crumbled.  Many people died.  The pain never goes away entirely, but honestly, that's asking too much.  Who and what you are is no concern of mine.  The man with the crystalline mind and the watch maker's hands with browns for whites of eyes and a head more water than land and no docks to be found.  I don't know.  I don't know and I cannot tell you if I wanted to.  Steps in right directions.  I need cold weather.  I need something to cool the pile.  Carbon rods?  Is that what does it?  The machine to help me understand and define the horror?  Parcels of molecules and reckless atomic connections.

I can remember going in for the scans and the EMG and the warmth of the dye they injected into my veins and waiting quietly in the wheel chair for it to get pumped throughout before they put me inside and trying to stay awake while feeling like my entire nervous system was wrapped in an electric blanket.  It was a gorgeous feeling.  That was years ago.  I've been thinking about dating again.  I know I'm not and will probably never be ready.  I also know what I want is something I can't have.  It's a catch two two.  I can't bank on getting away with it twice.  I just wish I  could have thought of that the first time.  Says everyone at some point in their life.  It's been difficult.  I won't suppose.  I know.  Reaching out to other schizophrenics is like picking up someone else's phone, pounding the numbers until it rings, and saying "hello, it's me.  You know me, right?"  Asking someone to come in, when the sign on the door clearly reads "get the fuck out."

I'm trying.  Please be patient.  The heat has been stifling.  Crush, baby.  Crush.  Who loves you?  I do.  You still keeping odd hours?  That depends.  Are you still on vacation?  I don't know.  Maybe you should think about writing during daylight hours.  Maybe you should think about the kinds of questions you ask me.  The city is large and I'm just one man.  The country is larger, but I'm still just one man.  Come with me if you want to see or don't.  I won't fault you either way.  Do you remember how you laughed in 2005 at that concert?  No.  But the tears have been uncontrollable since.  A right sort riot.  I can't go back, but I have to. Keep it down.  Where are your sunglasses?  I don't know.  Let's get it right this time.  I was born yesterday.


///Lo-Fidelity Allstars - "Valentine Boast" ... the greatest romance of the 21st century...

///The Orb - "Secrets"  awed by tradition

Musicality

I'm trying to find the music in common sense.  Not just that, but I'm trying to find the fun.  I believe one of my greatest fears is writing ending being an occupation.   Do what you love and everything else will come is largely a lie.  Taking bobby pins out of my hair.

I don't know what I want to be, but I know I can't be an astronaut or a race car driver or a stuntman.  Well maybe stuntman.  Childhood dreams still haunt me, but at least I know (my third pick) I can be a writer given the right circumstances.  I can be a bass junkie.  That works too.

I know we had a lot of conversations about this

so I will stop there.

All we ever wanted to be was loved.   That's a lie.  Trying to find a good way to coda this.  And I can't find one.  The scrap yard has been busy today.  Train noises.  Bright lights.  I feel I am aging inside beyond my years and I don't like it.  Precipitation begging the clouds, but sometimes you have to look up

My condition is getting worse.  Ghosts in the back room.  And all I have to look forward to is the worsening of my schizophrenia.   Fuck.  I don't know.  I don't know.  I don't know.  It hurts.  I just want others around me to be happy and to kill them at the same time.   I suppose in another life things worked out slightly differently because at this point it is a game of edges.  I cannot imagine how things would have worked out otherwise.  If I got the help I needed when I needed it instead of, no offense, Jesus.

the highs keep getting higher and the lows lower.  There's only so much equipment a frame can carry.  But all in all you just try to stay on the human side of things.

Double tracks pending.


///DJ? Acucrack - "In Yer Mind"  all the pills

Not Again. Yes Again

  I pretty much exploded just about every single breaker on my mind this past weekend.  It was rough.  Massive overload.  Massive violence.  Memory loss.  Found things in my apartment that did not belong to me that were covered in blood that was not mine.  Strange stuff.  Just a complete collapse that was punctuated by a friend in bad straits and there was nothing I could do really to help her, but god damn it I tried and I will try again if it happens again.  Powerlessness.  Is a terrible thing.  Drives me to do and exercise the things I can do.  Which are few.  And most of those things lead to bad circumstances.

I know at some point my luck is going to run out and things will not go anywhere near the way I planned them.  I will be on the wrong end of the violence and rage.  Over my head without even knowing it.  Without realizing it until it happens.  I don't think I'll be all that upset though.  A way out.  Not the way out I would want, but how far I would go to resist is questionable.  I don't think I would, beyond reflex.  I did set out to specifically kill someone.  Ended up in tears and bloodless.  I suppose that was the second time.  I don't remember what happened the first time.  The point is I've got stop letting go like that.  Gotta stop letting myself be provoked.

Control.  Without control there is nothing.  I can't afford to lose like that.  Not yet.  Still too much work to do.  Gotta get my head back on straight if I'm going to live through the bull shit and the slippage and the blow outs and the


///Tosca - "Oscar"  I've had the most fantastic dreams over the last two days about stories I need to write.  I need to do it.  I'm not really afraid of running out of time.  I just know that time is running out of me like blood from a head wound.