"I don’t mind if my wife tells me another man is hot, but it took me a long time to accept her criticism of my writing. We all have many sensitive spots, but one of the most universal is the fear of not being everything to your partner — the fear, in other words, that she might find somebody worthier. It is the fear of being alone..."
--Married, With Infidelities
It's players, both male and female, who are like chain smokers, puffing away, not out of anger or bitterness, but out of fright--alone because if we make ourselves that way no one did it for us.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
War AGainst the Poor
"He's been writing songs speaking out
Against wealth and privilege"
--Alan JackSon"
On a more serious note, while I like this song, I hate country music.
"I'm sure there are plenty of conservatives who want to get rid of Medicaid altogether. If poor old people can't pay for nursing home care then let them die in the street, like they used to. The Tea Party version of government apparently just doesn't believe in helping people who can't help themselves. For the modern Republican Party, it's far far more important to ensure that those who will never need Medicaid -- the richest 1 percent of Americans, the people who are already doing quite fine as their market portfolios swell -- get their big fat tax cuts, adding up to $700 billion over the next 10 years, than that the poorest Americans get another $15 billion a year so that they can die in a manner that befits a nation that dares considers itself civilized."
-- Andrew Leonard is a staff writer at Salon. On Twitter, @koxinga21. More: Andrew Leonard
Reference:
http://www.salon.com/technology/how_the_world_works/2011/01/20/the_gop_war_against_poor_sick_americans
On another note, I vote for sarcasm.
Against wealth and privilege"
--Alan JackSon"
On a more serious note, while I like this song, I hate country music.
"I'm sure there are plenty of conservatives who want to get rid of Medicaid altogether. If poor old people can't pay for nursing home care then let them die in the street, like they used to. The Tea Party version of government apparently just doesn't believe in helping people who can't help themselves. For the modern Republican Party, it's far far more important to ensure that those who will never need Medicaid -- the richest 1 percent of Americans, the people who are already doing quite fine as their market portfolios swell -- get their big fat tax cuts, adding up to $700 billion over the next 10 years, than that the poorest Americans get another $15 billion a year so that they can die in a manner that befits a nation that dares considers itself civilized."
-- Andrew Leonard is a staff writer at Salon. On Twitter, @koxinga21. More: Andrew Leonard
Reference:
http://www.salon.com/technology/how_the_world_works/2011/01/20/the_gop_war_against_poor_sick_americans
On another note, I vote for sarcasm.
DEath by Desert
The only part of my day I could tolerate out in the desert were the walks, so earlier in the year, I went for a lot of walks. Hours. Of walking.
It's not the same here. The traffic is too fast, and there are too many cars.
But in the desert, you can go out into the sand, and sit somewhere where it's completely still, and you can bake. I imagined dying out there of something as common as dehydration. No technology could save me. NO government agency could rescue me. I would just die. These were my thoughts on those walks.
I mostly wanted to disappear, but disappearing is impossible, and baking is not an easy death. Maybe I'm smarter, or maybe I'm just not that stubborn. People have starved themselves literally to death when no other methods were available--but I only wandered around in the desert in the middle of the afternoon for maximum a couple of hours. You get hot quick.
I found a convenience sdtore, and sat there for a good thirty minute or forty-five minutes. Some guy talked in with the Scarlet Letter. Odd. I was bitter to begin with. Convinced I didn't even talk to my real Grandmother over the phone when I called for her to pick me up. Anymore, she wasn't my grandmother when she was sitting in the house right in front of me. She didn't think I was in trouble. How could she not? Aliens from outer space were fucking attacking. This was real. She just went about life as if it was normal. Not normal. Honey. My semi-half-ass attempts at desert suicide were lame. But I sat on the bench, covered in sand, anyway. I couldn't also figure out what was taking so long. The aliens were probably fucking with the phone so more. Switching around grandma's or some shit. I ended up, when Grandma finally arrived--get this? FUCKING APOLOGIZING. To her. Because she didn't think my life was in danger. "I believe you think it's real," she said. okay. I like that qualification.
I took a shower, and didn't try to kill myself by dehydration anymore.
It's not the same here. The traffic is too fast, and there are too many cars.
But in the desert, you can go out into the sand, and sit somewhere where it's completely still, and you can bake. I imagined dying out there of something as common as dehydration. No technology could save me. NO government agency could rescue me. I would just die. These were my thoughts on those walks.
I mostly wanted to disappear, but disappearing is impossible, and baking is not an easy death. Maybe I'm smarter, or maybe I'm just not that stubborn. People have starved themselves literally to death when no other methods were available--but I only wandered around in the desert in the middle of the afternoon for maximum a couple of hours. You get hot quick.
I found a convenience sdtore, and sat there for a good thirty minute or forty-five minutes. Some guy talked in with the Scarlet Letter. Odd. I was bitter to begin with. Convinced I didn't even talk to my real Grandmother over the phone when I called for her to pick me up. Anymore, she wasn't my grandmother when she was sitting in the house right in front of me. She didn't think I was in trouble. How could she not? Aliens from outer space were fucking attacking. This was real. She just went about life as if it was normal. Not normal. Honey. My semi-half-ass attempts at desert suicide were lame. But I sat on the bench, covered in sand, anyway. I couldn't also figure out what was taking so long. The aliens were probably fucking with the phone so more. Switching around grandma's or some shit. I ended up, when Grandma finally arrived--get this? FUCKING APOLOGIZING. To her. Because she didn't think my life was in danger. "I believe you think it's real," she said. okay. I like that qualification.
I took a shower, and didn't try to kill myself by dehydration anymore.
The Pad
"Your grandfather use to write on walls, he'd just keep writing and sometimes he'd just write on the walls," My grandmother told me recently.
I never knew this. LIke this was news to me. Maybe she just said to make me feel better about myself.
You have a lot of days when you look at yourself, "This is bad." ETc. One of those days, I had--this is good--I was writing on one of those giant desk calenders. Lines and circles and names and odd little facts and things that probably didn't matter. All over the fucking calender. Numbers. Too. Connected and then crossed out and then connected again. And then scrabbled over. One day I looked at it, fresh, and thought, "This is the work of someone who is going insane." Truly.
My grandmother helped me, she made little marks over DHS. Like a little pen. Loops, small with a point over DHS. There is a phenomenon, which is rare, were two people share a delusion. I read about that. We share a fever, caught between us.
Over that even then, she was blank. If I ask her if she was in trouble, she said no. Needed help? No.
She tore off the paper from the calender pad, and gave it to me. One step in the madness. I still have it.
I never knew this. LIke this was news to me. Maybe she just said to make me feel better about myself.
You have a lot of days when you look at yourself, "This is bad." ETc. One of those days, I had--this is good--I was writing on one of those giant desk calenders. Lines and circles and names and odd little facts and things that probably didn't matter. All over the fucking calender. Numbers. Too. Connected and then crossed out and then connected again. And then scrabbled over. One day I looked at it, fresh, and thought, "This is the work of someone who is going insane." Truly.
My grandmother helped me, she made little marks over DHS. Like a little pen. Loops, small with a point over DHS. There is a phenomenon, which is rare, were two people share a delusion. I read about that. We share a fever, caught between us.
Over that even then, she was blank. If I ask her if she was in trouble, she said no. Needed help? No.
She tore off the paper from the calender pad, and gave it to me. One step in the madness. I still have it.
Cal Tech
I was going to stretch the delusional diagnosis a little bit more (not that this was needed, mind you), and write on my profile that I got a bioengineering Ph.D. from Cal Tech, but I figured last minute that there was the odd possibility that someone with a real degree from Cal tEch could find me, and then what would I do? I couldn't piss off Cal Tech. They are one of the my favorites, and all.
Hannibal
I left my chair, and when I came back, Hannibal, the Jack Russell, was curled up like that in the blanket.
The Known Risks
In some way, I dared it on. Not in the way that I later plotted with the provoking people over the phone (different issue).
What I'm referring to is in the beginning of January with the alcohol. AT that point, I didn't have much concern for myself. Mixing it with opiates and muscle relaxers because my back hurt, was it bad timing? Yes. But I could have still avoided the booze.
There could have been a pause button. I don't know where it was or how to find it, even now. Maybe if I avoided returning to work. There. No . Here. I don't completely blame myself, as much as I grew up with an "overdeveloped sense of responsibility." I knowingly took risks, some I took because I felt forced out of necessity. In the end, almost a year later, I'm back at "Go."
What I'm referring to is in the beginning of January with the alcohol. AT that point, I didn't have much concern for myself. Mixing it with opiates and muscle relaxers because my back hurt, was it bad timing? Yes. But I could have still avoided the booze.
There could have been a pause button. I don't know where it was or how to find it, even now. Maybe if I avoided returning to work. There. No . Here. I don't completely blame myself, as much as I grew up with an "overdeveloped sense of responsibility." I knowingly took risks, some I took because I felt forced out of necessity. In the end, almost a year later, I'm back at "Go."
The Dog
People try too hard. Have you noticed that?
And then, when they insult you, they call you a dog.
Dogs are lazy. Sleep a lot. But dogs, dogs give people a lot of joy. And dog people, remember dogs.
You remember your favorite dog, right? Spot. You use to play with him all the time, every afternoon when you got home from school. YOu loved that dog. You cried when he either died or had to be euthanized at the vets.
This is because people prioritize success weird. You cuddle a dog, you feel better, but dogs are animals. They don't do anything. They don't have a job, they don't run a bank, they don't own a home or a car.
Humans, we are consumed by doing. We must do. Every day. We forget a lot of things along the way by doing. Spot never did. Every time you came home from school. He was always there. Wagging his tail. He didn't have to worry about running the bank.
And then, when they insult you, they call you a dog.
Dogs are lazy. Sleep a lot. But dogs, dogs give people a lot of joy. And dog people, remember dogs.
You remember your favorite dog, right? Spot. You use to play with him all the time, every afternoon when you got home from school. YOu loved that dog. You cried when he either died or had to be euthanized at the vets.
This is because people prioritize success weird. You cuddle a dog, you feel better, but dogs are animals. They don't do anything. They don't have a job, they don't run a bank, they don't own a home or a car.
Humans, we are consumed by doing. We must do. Every day. We forget a lot of things along the way by doing. Spot never did. Every time you came home from school. He was always there. Wagging his tail. He didn't have to worry about running the bank.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Fiction
Fiction is about writing someone else's tragedy. Not because life is too boring or tedious, but because yours is too searing to meld into a single weld--so your story is a character's dialogue. A few lines here, a few lines there, most of it made up, but all of it really you.
Lauren Slater did it. Lying.
She couldn't tell the truth, so she said she was lying, and then told her lies.
Lauren Slater did it. Lying.
She couldn't tell the truth, so she said she was lying, and then told her lies.
Hijacked
I never read about my Switchboard Concept in any book. I figure there's probably a reason for this. I have roughly an idea how it could work, but no details, much less on why.
Lately, I debate if this is my sole evidence for any true delusional diagnosis, not to mention me losing what remains to be my last friend. How far am I willing to go on something I've never even heard of before.
If I went to a psychologist, and said, "I have this idea, now listen--" All of them, almost without exception, would give me the same answer--another label. Even though the technology for this, hacking into telecommunications is old.
It's the warped nature of the idea--talking to someone who is pretending to be someone else--that is so difficult to believe. MOnths later, I tell you, Randy isn't Randy. Why? Lacye isn't Lacey. Either. If I told you someone hijacked parts of me, would you believe me? Probably not.
"My husband is not my husband."
--Wendy, "The Invasion (2007)"
Lately, I debate if this is my sole evidence for any true delusional diagnosis, not to mention me losing what remains to be my last friend. How far am I willing to go on something I've never even heard of before.
If I went to a psychologist, and said, "I have this idea, now listen--" All of them, almost without exception, would give me the same answer--another label. Even though the technology for this, hacking into telecommunications is old.
It's the warped nature of the idea--talking to someone who is pretending to be someone else--that is so difficult to believe. MOnths later, I tell you, Randy isn't Randy. Why? Lacye isn't Lacey. Either. If I told you someone hijacked parts of me, would you believe me? Probably not.
"My husband is not my husband."
--Wendy, "The Invasion (2007)"
Ithaca, NY
Marya HOrnbacher once wrote about taking a shower fully dressed and then driving somewhere, I believe, it was to see her husband. She was still wet.
AT least I didn't do that, I tell myself. Wurtzel did coke, and then with tweezers, picked out individual hairs out of her legs. For some reason, at the time, this was of absolute importance instead of finishing her book.
Bitch got finished, she wrote, either in her agent's office or the publisher's office. ON the floor.
In the end, I did a lot of dumb things, said even dumber, hoping some magical guy would appear, and say, "Yes, I know. Okay, well, we can all go home now." But that never happened. That's my fantasy.
For a while, I couldn't tell if I was acting dumb or just being dumb or really dumb, or if I had them fooled or just me fooled or if it even mattered. Today, the end result probably would have been the same if I just sat home in this chair the whole time. And not moved. LIke this.
The only possibility that is real, that affects me is if I get on the plane to Ithaca, NY and stay there. Forever. Lost. YOu can't run away from the internet, but you can run away. People lie when they say you can't run away, but they only lie to you. Because, they once had a dream they lost too. And if they lie to you, well, then they can believe they never lost it. It just never existed. That way they can spread their bitterness a little more. Or engulf you in theirs.
AT least I didn't do that, I tell myself. Wurtzel did coke, and then with tweezers, picked out individual hairs out of her legs. For some reason, at the time, this was of absolute importance instead of finishing her book.
Bitch got finished, she wrote, either in her agent's office or the publisher's office. ON the floor.
In the end, I did a lot of dumb things, said even dumber, hoping some magical guy would appear, and say, "Yes, I know. Okay, well, we can all go home now." But that never happened. That's my fantasy.
For a while, I couldn't tell if I was acting dumb or just being dumb or really dumb, or if I had them fooled or just me fooled or if it even mattered. Today, the end result probably would have been the same if I just sat home in this chair the whole time. And not moved. LIke this.
The only possibility that is real, that affects me is if I get on the plane to Ithaca, NY and stay there. Forever. Lost. YOu can't run away from the internet, but you can run away. People lie when they say you can't run away, but they only lie to you. Because, they once had a dream they lost too. And if they lie to you, well, then they can believe they never lost it. It just never existed. That way they can spread their bitterness a little more. Or engulf you in theirs.
Sugar Pills
LIke most delusional patients, those who seek treatment, I refuse to take antipsychotics. In the beginning, I was willing to do so for an experiment, testing a theory, the idea being, if I was truly delusional, all my life's problems would go away in approximately weeks. If only days. SEe?
After a few days of being on one I had never tried before, I realized how ridiculous this concept was, and stopped. I still take my bipolar meds as prescribed. Although I went through a time period where I delusionally believed they were swapped for sugar pills until I drank with them, and then--only then--did the experiment at last work. Because they still interact with alcohol. Science prevails.
Every bipolar questions the bipolar diagnosis until he or she finds him/herself manic again. Then, sugar pills or not, stupid, maybe all those doctors were right. You forget how bad it was, which means you forget how good it was, as if mental illness is not a curse but a gift, and good people don't know how good they've got it, and all the bad people are here to remind them. Mania, I don't remember.
Which means, I question the bipolar diagnosis a lot lately. No bipolar ever really wants to be stable, no matter how much we whine and cry about it. Because you give it to us, and we're unhappy. We're still fucking bored with it. We forget the bad, which means we forget the good. If the doctors let us be bad, and fucking miserable all the time, how we're supposed to be,
upon sudden insight,
WE'd take our sugar pills,
Probably still with a few shots of Grey Goose too.
After a few days of being on one I had never tried before, I realized how ridiculous this concept was, and stopped. I still take my bipolar meds as prescribed. Although I went through a time period where I delusionally believed they were swapped for sugar pills until I drank with them, and then--only then--did the experiment at last work. Because they still interact with alcohol. Science prevails.
Every bipolar questions the bipolar diagnosis until he or she finds him/herself manic again. Then, sugar pills or not, stupid, maybe all those doctors were right. You forget how bad it was, which means you forget how good it was, as if mental illness is not a curse but a gift, and good people don't know how good they've got it, and all the bad people are here to remind them. Mania, I don't remember.
Which means, I question the bipolar diagnosis a lot lately. No bipolar ever really wants to be stable, no matter how much we whine and cry about it. Because you give it to us, and we're unhappy. We're still fucking bored with it. We forget the bad, which means we forget the good. If the doctors let us be bad, and fucking miserable all the time, how we're supposed to be,
upon sudden insight,
WE'd take our sugar pills,
Probably still with a few shots of Grey Goose too.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
If you know anything about people, if they won't help themselves, you can't help them either.
After 2008, I was wiped out. Completely. I never fully recovered. Financially. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I'll make improvements. And then slide down again.
This is more of the same now. Hackers. Nerve pain. Mania. Same. Bullshit. All the same.
IN that way, there's no excuse, but me. I'm the one to blame, which means I have to fix it. Except a box or two of Zyprexa won't. Just like morphine won't kill nerve pain. It's just a patch. What do you do? WAit around? Hope it goes away forever?
After 2008, I was wiped out. Completely. I never fully recovered. Financially. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I'll make improvements. And then slide down again.
This is more of the same now. Hackers. Nerve pain. Mania. Same. Bullshit. All the same.
IN that way, there's no excuse, but me. I'm the one to blame, which means I have to fix it. Except a box or two of Zyprexa won't. Just like morphine won't kill nerve pain. It's just a patch. What do you do? WAit around? Hope it goes away forever?
No Big
To me, it's pathetic to pick on the little people.
I kept thinking there was like money involved or the blog secretly got like 2,000 hits a day, and the hacker, being the ingenious person he was, hid it from me. He didn't want me to know I was fucking famous. I was so famous, I didn't even know it! It had to be kept from me, right? That's logical. Because, of course, I don't want fame. I'm like that.
I live off of disability. I make, "make," about $1,100 a month from the government that I claim to hate so much. I can't remember if I'm supposed to pay taxes or not. I couldn't tell you. I have a lot of bills, the total amount, I don't know. Mostly they're medical. Some of which, about $5,000, is credit card. That's fairly minor. On a relative scale, I'm a small person. Recognizing my smallness in life has saved me more than once. This, here, however is not small, expressing that like the fear of death gets me nowheres.
To my knowledge, like friends, I have no powerful enemies. I have met relatively famous people because of where I live. That's it. Being a dancer is a particularly dangerous job, people in the industry know this, you collect bad guys over a time. I never had a problem. No stalkers, no bad ex-boyfriends, etc. I went without a driver to all but a handful of my shows.
I stayed small. I keep waiting for the big sign that says, "BIG." This has not happened.
I kept thinking there was like money involved or the blog secretly got like 2,000 hits a day, and the hacker, being the ingenious person he was, hid it from me. He didn't want me to know I was fucking famous. I was so famous, I didn't even know it! It had to be kept from me, right? That's logical. Because, of course, I don't want fame. I'm like that.
I live off of disability. I make, "make," about $1,100 a month from the government that I claim to hate so much. I can't remember if I'm supposed to pay taxes or not. I couldn't tell you. I have a lot of bills, the total amount, I don't know. Mostly they're medical. Some of which, about $5,000, is credit card. That's fairly minor. On a relative scale, I'm a small person. Recognizing my smallness in life has saved me more than once. This, here, however is not small, expressing that like the fear of death gets me nowheres.
To my knowledge, like friends, I have no powerful enemies. I have met relatively famous people because of where I live. That's it. Being a dancer is a particularly dangerous job, people in the industry know this, you collect bad guys over a time. I never had a problem. No stalkers, no bad ex-boyfriends, etc. I went without a driver to all but a handful of my shows.
I stayed small. I keep waiting for the big sign that says, "BIG." This has not happened.
I Love ARe
The story can't all be about love--
Because the fragments I love are my memories.
Backwards.
The story got lost when--
EAch day passes like it's already old. LIke we've been here before, and we're sighing through each evening.
A war on time. For those of us who think we have too little, for those of us who foolishly think we can starve and wait, for those of us who are patient. WE are all at war with each other. WE can't pick a side. We are in a circle, and no one is in the middle, one steps out of line, we all fold.
Because the fragments I love are my memories.
Backwards.
The story got lost when--
EAch day passes like it's already old. LIke we've been here before, and we're sighing through each evening.
A war on time. For those of us who think we have too little, for those of us who foolishly think we can starve and wait, for those of us who are patient. WE are all at war with each other. WE can't pick a side. We are in a circle, and no one is in the middle, one steps out of line, we all fold.
Mom KNows
My mother said it best, when she said, "You don't know what's going on."
I secretly think that one of the aliens, in a black out drunken phone call, told her everything. And made her swear never to tell a soul. So, Mom being the person she is, will take it to the grave.
Sometimes, I want to do my usual interrogation routine on Mom, but I don't, figuring the Sheriffs will just end up coming out or I'll end up at county or STanford. If I ever get black out drunk myself, maybe I'll slur, "Mom, what did the aliens tell you, Mom, what did they say?"
I secretly think that one of the aliens, in a black out drunken phone call, told her everything. And made her swear never to tell a soul. So, Mom being the person she is, will take it to the grave.
Sometimes, I want to do my usual interrogation routine on Mom, but I don't, figuring the Sheriffs will just end up coming out or I'll end up at county or STanford. If I ever get black out drunk myself, maybe I'll slur, "Mom, what did the aliens tell you, Mom, what did they say?"
Geometry
When there's a story, you assume (you must first assume things in solving proofs) that the story has two sides, and if it has two sides, you don't know the two sides. If there's a cover up, one of the sides at least was bad. Do you assume both sides were bad? Isn't that safer? Which side was bad, the side needing the cover up or the side doing the cover up, and wouldn't that--well--make both sides bad? Really bad?
What if there's a third side, and it's a triangle? AT least in geometry, you know how many sides you have.
What if there's a third side, and it's a triangle? AT least in geometry, you know how many sides you have.
I Trust STrangers
I've become more trusting in some ways. I trust strangers more. They know things I don't know, and therefore, they can tell me something I may need to know.
I end up talking to a lot of strangers, on the street, in retail stores, in bars, random or not-so-random because he or she could be anyone. We tend to dismiss people based on appearances, and people in the know play on this.
Smart people, though, don't hide very well, why? Because even when they play dumb, they talk like they're smart. It's in the way they organize thoughts, how eloquent their speech is--not the content. Sometimes I wonder about this--your gardener or the guy driving the dump truck. Do they choose not to speak at all? In moments of frustration, do they just switch to Spanish? Hoping to fool us?
In true, genuine psychosis, speech is gone. I haven't been around too many psychotic patients, but I have been around a few of those "no one believes me" hysterical ones. They were in pain, but the doctors couldn't find the source. To me, this is the same-the big EE. Out there, invisible, we know it exists, but does it for you? Why can't we find it for YOU? You have to provide a REASON FOR YOU.
You're the fucking doctor, not me. Do I look like I graduated fucking medical school? What the fuck.
I end up talking to a lot of strangers, on the street, in retail stores, in bars, random or not-so-random because he or she could be anyone. We tend to dismiss people based on appearances, and people in the know play on this.
Smart people, though, don't hide very well, why? Because even when they play dumb, they talk like they're smart. It's in the way they organize thoughts, how eloquent their speech is--not the content. Sometimes I wonder about this--your gardener or the guy driving the dump truck. Do they choose not to speak at all? In moments of frustration, do they just switch to Spanish? Hoping to fool us?
In true, genuine psychosis, speech is gone. I haven't been around too many psychotic patients, but I have been around a few of those "no one believes me" hysterical ones. They were in pain, but the doctors couldn't find the source. To me, this is the same-the big EE. Out there, invisible, we know it exists, but does it for you? Why can't we find it for YOU? You have to provide a REASON FOR YOU.
You're the fucking doctor, not me. Do I look like I graduated fucking medical school? What the fuck.
We Desire
We desire what we cannot take by force--yet our desire makes us forceful.
Love will wait.
There.
And come to you.
Backwards.
And tell you, over again,
NOw.
Love will wait.
There.
And come to you.
Backwards.
And tell you, over again,
NOw.
Wasted
These people trust no one. So, in order to trust you more, they have to make you trust people less.
It's a psychological experiment. They'll put you under stress. Bring out every bad thought in your head. This way, they know. Knowledge is trust like a bridge from you to me. Your weaknesses, your strengths. What your really feel, all that you hide, out there.
You get use to be naked all the time, but not being monitored. Not your words. Eventually, I imagine the world of you, outside world, the other people involved in it, and then all the way in towards the heart and soul--it just collapses, you become only this product which is watched.
That's it. Waste.
The US government, paranoia or not, is headed that way because technology is growing. WE're growing outside our boundaries and our laws, faster and faster.
It's a psychological experiment. They'll put you under stress. Bring out every bad thought in your head. This way, they know. Knowledge is trust like a bridge from you to me. Your weaknesses, your strengths. What your really feel, all that you hide, out there.
You get use to be naked all the time, but not being monitored. Not your words. Eventually, I imagine the world of you, outside world, the other people involved in it, and then all the way in towards the heart and soul--it just collapses, you become only this product which is watched.
That's it. Waste.
The US government, paranoia or not, is headed that way because technology is growing. WE're growing outside our boundaries and our laws, faster and faster.
The Fear Of Death
Expressing the fear of death is pointless. Which is why I refuse to see another psychologist. For a while, I waived between being afraid to die, disgusted that I was afraid, humiliated, and then suicidal.
If others can't see the threat themselves, they say it's not there. There's no empathy because to empathize is to be afraid to die too. To be swallowed up, perhaps, in that delusion.
Evolution, if anything, protects us from that. And, in a way, kills us faster in some cases.
Modern psychology and the DSM says, we get to decide which bear is real and which bear is fake.
I wrote about this more in my other blog, but found that people still read it, and when I wrote to them, found that they commented to me in emails on the entries. I found that strange. Why read it? If you're not going to believe it (aka, the threat is real). Or why write to me at all?
My crime is even worse, if Randy is RAndy, always and no one else, am I not the biggest asshole on the planet? Knowingly doing what I do? Because I always retain logic and reason, the anti-delusion. Perhaps he just forgot.
What he was wearing during sex. Perhaps the rest of it was sound effects over the phone, over the months. Perhaps the rest of it was a big fucking bad set of coincidences. Perhaps in six more months, the initials on my shower will magically disappear. Like the fucking hacker HPV. Someday, I will test negative. All will be gone.
If others can't see the threat themselves, they say it's not there. There's no empathy because to empathize is to be afraid to die too. To be swallowed up, perhaps, in that delusion.
Evolution, if anything, protects us from that. And, in a way, kills us faster in some cases.
Modern psychology and the DSM says, we get to decide which bear is real and which bear is fake.
I wrote about this more in my other blog, but found that people still read it, and when I wrote to them, found that they commented to me in emails on the entries. I found that strange. Why read it? If you're not going to believe it (aka, the threat is real). Or why write to me at all?
My crime is even worse, if Randy is RAndy, always and no one else, am I not the biggest asshole on the planet? Knowingly doing what I do? Because I always retain logic and reason, the anti-delusion. Perhaps he just forgot.
What he was wearing during sex. Perhaps the rest of it was sound effects over the phone, over the months. Perhaps the rest of it was a big fucking bad set of coincidences. Perhaps in six more months, the initials on my shower will magically disappear. Like the fucking hacker HPV. Someday, I will test negative. All will be gone.
One of the "Randy's" or the man himself has suggested recruitment.
A quick look through the intelligence community book confirmed what I knew already from common knowledge.
The government agencies that do actively recruit like people who are educated and in positions of advantage and opportunity.
I never even finished my Bachelor's. I have no particular genius even without the formal education.
A quick look through the intelligence community book confirmed what I knew already from common knowledge.
The government agencies that do actively recruit like people who are educated and in positions of advantage and opportunity.
I never even finished my Bachelor's. I have no particular genius even without the formal education.
The MIssing FBI
My first theory, the most reasonable considering all known facts and my given situation, ended up being wrong. I figured it was a large and lengthy criminal investigation by the FBI, one of which can take up to years.
No FBI agent ever approached me. In fact, no one ever did at all. As far as I know, nothing has changed as far as the people I used to work for, the last dance agency.
After a while, this doesn't fit. Nothing ever moved. No arrests were ever made. NOthing ever made sense to me.
When I lost that theory, you can say, really, I lost my mind. Because that's when I started thinking I was in trouble. Real trouble, the kind of trouble you wake up one night in the bed of a old hotel, and someone turns on his headlights outside in the parking lot, and you think he's waiting for you to just walk outside--
And die.
That kind of trouble.
No FBI agent ever approached me. In fact, no one ever did at all. As far as I know, nothing has changed as far as the people I used to work for, the last dance agency.
After a while, this doesn't fit. Nothing ever moved. No arrests were ever made. NOthing ever made sense to me.
When I lost that theory, you can say, really, I lost my mind. Because that's when I started thinking I was in trouble. Real trouble, the kind of trouble you wake up one night in the bed of a old hotel, and someone turns on his headlights outside in the parking lot, and you think he's waiting for you to just walk outside--
And die.
That kind of trouble.
"The chick was in the way."
--The Forever War by Dexter Filkins
One of my favorite writers. All time. When I was manic, and not all together sane, imagine this? I decided I would pull a Dexter and go to Afghanistan too! Only as a Marine. WRite a book. Because this, surely would make the military happy. Filkins wrote mostly about Iraq, not Afghanistan in the Forever WAr. Dying there? Who cares. It's all about the writing. Only an idiot would do this. One guy did it.
I use to carry my copy of the book around in the car, and show people. SEe? Isn't this cool? Gave it to the Advisor. REad it. You have to. You can't write about trauma unless you've been traumatized. That's the problem. Unless you've been there. with them. Or you're one of them. I took it to class. Showed it to professors.
--The Forever War by Dexter Filkins
One of my favorite writers. All time. When I was manic, and not all together sane, imagine this? I decided I would pull a Dexter and go to Afghanistan too! Only as a Marine. WRite a book. Because this, surely would make the military happy. Filkins wrote mostly about Iraq, not Afghanistan in the Forever WAr. Dying there? Who cares. It's all about the writing. Only an idiot would do this. One guy did it.
I use to carry my copy of the book around in the car, and show people. SEe? Isn't this cool? Gave it to the Advisor. REad it. You have to. You can't write about trauma unless you've been traumatized. That's the problem. Unless you've been there. with them. Or you're one of them. I took it to class. Showed it to professors.
Not Everything
The truth about Morpheus is the truth that everyone hides what sincerity exists about him.
Or the truth that he told me once, perhaps the only truth to tell--
"Not everything was lies."
Or the truth that he told me once, perhaps the only truth to tell--
"Not everything was lies."
The Husband, Brother, and Boyfriend Theory
My favorite theory is the Husband, Brother, and Boyfriend theory. Even if there is zero truth to it.
In a way, I wasn't interested in finding the truth because I knew I couldn't. Hence, theories. You can't have facts, you have theories. Or concepts. People find investigation to be wrong, particularly when they're subjected to it--but finding a hacker or hackers unless he or she wants to be found takes a much greater skill set than what I have. That's a fact.
It was interesting that when I presented that fact to county that DR. Pait labeled me with a delusional disorder.
You can literally go mad chasing down the rabbit. You can make it about Jack or Benedict Smith or Howard or Morpheus or any one of those guys, but you're still the greyhound chasing the fucking stuffed rabbit.
I do make up my stories. I can't quite tell if there's a point besides keeping myself entertained or not.
In a way, I wasn't interested in finding the truth because I knew I couldn't. Hence, theories. You can't have facts, you have theories. Or concepts. People find investigation to be wrong, particularly when they're subjected to it--but finding a hacker or hackers unless he or she wants to be found takes a much greater skill set than what I have. That's a fact.
It was interesting that when I presented that fact to county that DR. Pait labeled me with a delusional disorder.
You can literally go mad chasing down the rabbit. You can make it about Jack or Benedict Smith or Howard or Morpheus or any one of those guys, but you're still the greyhound chasing the fucking stuffed rabbit.
I do make up my stories. I can't quite tell if there's a point besides keeping myself entertained or not.
Even If It Was Bad
Psychotic episodes only last so long. A few months. Six maybe. Tops. How long? This would be my first. I'm relatively healthy on the psycho scale. WE're looking at a different comparative. Not the bipolar, but something else. My friends already believe I'm there, so we don't have to worry about them.
When I think of this, I think of Marya. The writer. She still had friends every time she got out. She even had a couple of husbands. Of course, she had more money too. In the beginning. Hardly ever towards the end. Hard to keep it towards the end. My favorite picture of her is drinking her coffee while the mostly eaten apple is still sitting inside the coffee cup. And she's writing. She always wrote, even sick. Even if it was bad.
When I think of this, I think of Marya. The writer. She still had friends every time she got out. She even had a couple of husbands. Of course, she had more money too. In the beginning. Hardly ever towards the end. Hard to keep it towards the end. My favorite picture of her is drinking her coffee while the mostly eaten apple is still sitting inside the coffee cup. And she's writing. She always wrote, even sick. Even if it was bad.
No More PHone CAlls
god says, kids break it up.
Screeching, screeching--almost like a fax machine sound, but the sound is longer between breaks.
This to me is more interesting than the conversation. What happens when aliens misbehave. Every time MOrpheus calls back, this is what I get--and it hurts my ears.
Screeching, screeching--almost like a fax machine sound, but the sound is longer between breaks.
This to me is more interesting than the conversation. What happens when aliens misbehave. Every time MOrpheus calls back, this is what I get--and it hurts my ears.
I woke up this morning with this new sense of self-loathing. LIke Randy was given a new button from the aliens, who said, okay, press this, and you can help out Morpheus, and he got on the machine one night, and left a message,
"I. do. Love. You."
I. love. you. Forwards.
All the time you think it's another alien, and it's just Randy.
"I. do. Love. You."
I. love. you. Forwards.
All the time you think it's another alien, and it's just Randy.
I wonder if I beat the odds, and had a psychotic break at 27 years old.
It would be cosmic justice if the only man who could still tolerate me after six months of my psychological torture was RAndy, a guy I dumped after being with him for a year and then re-dumped over a fight with/about Morpheus. A guy who can't hack computers, who is average looking, who you really couldn't write a novel about, and frankly, prefers to love me from a distance--because,
well,
look what happened.
It would be cosmic justice if the only man who could still tolerate me after six months of my psychological torture was RAndy, a guy I dumped after being with him for a year and then re-dumped over a fight with/about Morpheus. A guy who can't hack computers, who is average looking, who you really couldn't write a novel about, and frankly, prefers to love me from a distance--because,
well,
look what happened.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Play Ball
It could be argued that the delusion is purely that I made the connections between each piece when each piece denies even knowing about the other pieces--cyberspace is a mad kingdom. You can one name at the end of one email, and insanity is a plant that grows.
You assume there's some cohesive plan in the beginning, but maybe there's not, maybe they don't even know--maybe it's a trial-and-error approach, a poke-and-prod to cyberattack. Maybe they didn't need to know--they roll a ball down a dark alley way, and it makes a lot of noise--it wasn't the ball, it was the bam, crash and bang! That was the trick. Hence why machines are made, not human intelligence, but machines, a ghost here and there, not a man, but a machine was after you the whole time.
He capitalized a few things, but he was just a rolling, crashing ball. Playing along.
You assume there's some cohesive plan in the beginning, but maybe there's not, maybe they don't even know--maybe it's a trial-and-error approach, a poke-and-prod to cyberattack. Maybe they didn't need to know--they roll a ball down a dark alley way, and it makes a lot of noise--it wasn't the ball, it was the bam, crash and bang! That was the trick. Hence why machines are made, not human intelligence, but machines, a ghost here and there, not a man, but a machine was after you the whole time.
He capitalized a few things, but he was just a rolling, crashing ball. Playing along.
The Grudge
I told him to wake up, but this was before Facebook was invented.
But he doesn't remember this either.
And now, now it's a little too late.
But he doesn't remember this either.
And now, now it's a little too late.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Welcome to the Modern AGe
Hey, deluded or not, people get attached. You don’t have to see the person. It’s true. This is why cyberstalking is such a problem. Before you know it, he’s crawling through your windows and watching you sleep at night. He says he loves you, wants to marry you, be with you fucking forever. He means it too. Your boyfriend for five years doesn’t even say that shit. Welcome to the modern age.
Friday, June 24, 2011
I originally made the decision to re-enter the Heart of Darkness because of Morpheus. This was not a well thought out plan, but one of love. STupid considering my lack of knowledge, skills and resources. A TV show once said that you do not provoke an enemy larger than you. I should have listened. I didn't.
If you're a rat in a maze, you follow the maze until the maze dead ends. In the game of life, this only means one thing.
Unlike the rat, I can always leave, but I never do. For reasons that I haven't clarified even to myself. I never put them down on paper or even mulled them over in my head. MOney is one obstacle, but only that--something to overcome. I came back, didn't I? KNowing that it would be worse. From here on out. Was it to steal glances through a two-way mirror? Was it to find Jack? Was it to battle the unknown?
Or was it even simpler than that because I was too afraid to just leave--like I was back in January and February?
If you're a rat in a maze, you follow the maze until the maze dead ends. In the game of life, this only means one thing.
Unlike the rat, I can always leave, but I never do. For reasons that I haven't clarified even to myself. I never put them down on paper or even mulled them over in my head. MOney is one obstacle, but only that--something to overcome. I came back, didn't I? KNowing that it would be worse. From here on out. Was it to steal glances through a two-way mirror? Was it to find Jack? Was it to battle the unknown?
Or was it even simpler than that because I was too afraid to just leave--like I was back in January and February?
ONI
Under normal circumstances, a psychiatrist would be worried. The Case Manager isn't that worried, no one is really worried. I'm probably less worried because they're not worried, but still I'm
worried.
I can't tell if this is apathy, or just because the threat is nonexistent. Like your fear is causing physiological changes, which we can control with drugs, but the bear isn't running up behind you.
There are so many bears in life and there are so many patients that a psychiatrist should be worried.
No matter what. Expressing this worry only makes me sound more nuts. I tried, trust me, this tactic first. Many times. To my family first. They didn't care. It was either out of ignorance on their part or out of knowledge of something I didn't have. I guess at the latter. LIke the bear is a trained, tamed, circus bear. He's harmless. He gives hugs, not claw marks.
But a bear is a fucking bear, I said. No, everyone said back.
All the while from a VErizon Wireless bill, I got from the missing letters ONI, who is Admiral Jack.
And then, you wonder what happened to you.
worried.
I can't tell if this is apathy, or just because the threat is nonexistent. Like your fear is causing physiological changes, which we can control with drugs, but the bear isn't running up behind you.
There are so many bears in life and there are so many patients that a psychiatrist should be worried.
No matter what. Expressing this worry only makes me sound more nuts. I tried, trust me, this tactic first. Many times. To my family first. They didn't care. It was either out of ignorance on their part or out of knowledge of something I didn't have. I guess at the latter. LIke the bear is a trained, tamed, circus bear. He's harmless. He gives hugs, not claw marks.
But a bear is a fucking bear, I said. No, everyone said back.
All the while from a VErizon Wireless bill, I got from the missing letters ONI, who is Admiral Jack.
And then, you wonder what happened to you.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The CRazy Scale
On the functional scale, I'm not doing well.
I don't work. I haven't since February. Back then, I was working two part time jobs, one was dancing, and then other was whatever temporary work I could pick up through an agency. I haven't had a full time job since 2005 that was decent, working for my parents and going to school I'm not counting.
I have no reason to leave home anymore, not that I'm afraid. So, I don't drive because the car is in need of repairs and isn't insured.
I refuse to send most emails because of the hacking. I don't like making many phone calls. I've almost isolated myself completely. I use to have one "friend," but the screaming and yelling has gotten out of hand. We had to stop that. "He" recently asked me to stop TXT-messaging him so I'm respecting that. I can't tell who's who over the internet, phones, etc. This is either because I'm completely fucking nuts or because the hacking is that bad or a mixture of the two, which is basically the fucking same. All because--I don't know. I don't know why. I wish I did, if I did, I could control it better--circumvent some of the arguments. Avoid some topics. NOt suck someone's dick next time. Not bring up "Howard." Etc. Who knows?
The Case Manager just gave me a box of Zyprexa and told me this should get rid of my "problem." If it fucking cures computer problems, spread that shit around. Around, dude.
I'm left to my own devices--what do you give a girl who is having hacker problems? Okay--well--
In the larger scope, you have to face facts. I'm bipolar I anyway. Whatever may or may not be going on is going to interact with disease.
Isolation in the long run is counterproductive. It's down right dangerous. You can't just hide in the cave, as I've stated before.
I don't work. I haven't since February. Back then, I was working two part time jobs, one was dancing, and then other was whatever temporary work I could pick up through an agency. I haven't had a full time job since 2005 that was decent, working for my parents and going to school I'm not counting.
I have no reason to leave home anymore, not that I'm afraid. So, I don't drive because the car is in need of repairs and isn't insured.
I refuse to send most emails because of the hacking. I don't like making many phone calls. I've almost isolated myself completely. I use to have one "friend," but the screaming and yelling has gotten out of hand. We had to stop that. "He" recently asked me to stop TXT-messaging him so I'm respecting that. I can't tell who's who over the internet, phones, etc. This is either because I'm completely fucking nuts or because the hacking is that bad or a mixture of the two, which is basically the fucking same. All because--I don't know. I don't know why. I wish I did, if I did, I could control it better--circumvent some of the arguments. Avoid some topics. NOt suck someone's dick next time. Not bring up "Howard." Etc. Who knows?
The Case Manager just gave me a box of Zyprexa and told me this should get rid of my "problem." If it fucking cures computer problems, spread that shit around. Around, dude.
I'm left to my own devices--what do you give a girl who is having hacker problems? Okay--well--
In the larger scope, you have to face facts. I'm bipolar I anyway. Whatever may or may not be going on is going to interact with disease.
Isolation in the long run is counterproductive. It's down right dangerous. You can't just hide in the cave, as I've stated before.
For me, theories were easy to come by, but reality sticks. Things happened for now what seems to be no apparent reason because I'm tired of digging myself into an early grave, a pursuit that is not only joyless but also tiring and redundant. You run out of the creativity that drives madness, all that is left is bones.
No one likes me much anymore either. Whether it's because they initially thought I was nuts or they later decided because the concepts got too bizarre even for them. The only thing I have going for me is that I laugh at myself, a quality that everyone else seems to lack.
Deep down, I don't like myself lately. No one wants to leave five drunk messages on his/her ex's phone, delusional or not. No one likes screaming and yelling and throwing things. Speeding excessively. Or provoking people into assault. It's just not sane. Doing it knowingly? Smart or really stupid/
I'm on the fence myself.
No one likes me much anymore either. Whether it's because they initially thought I was nuts or they later decided because the concepts got too bizarre even for them. The only thing I have going for me is that I laugh at myself, a quality that everyone else seems to lack.
Deep down, I don't like myself lately. No one wants to leave five drunk messages on his/her ex's phone, delusional or not. No one likes screaming and yelling and throwing things. Speeding excessively. Or provoking people into assault. It's just not sane. Doing it knowingly? Smart or really stupid/
I'm on the fence myself.
Summer of 2007
Howard is, liek the General, almost entirely fictional. Men like him, you want to think, are.
According to the story, he was born and/or raised in Penn. He was living at the time in Florida. We met at a bar. We had a one night stand. He took my email address, and then disappeared.
This part is boring. I decided to make him Jack because--he sat down on the floor of the hotel room, and he talks.
But Howard, not being his real name of course, never shows back up four years later. You can't write your own story even if you're a writer, not even if you're god.
What isn't boring, perhaps, is what we read into other people, into writing. Jack never knew Howard. Never spoke to the man, has no idea who he is. I was the only person who saw the resemblance. In this way, you can say, Jack doesn't exist to me anymore, just Howard. Just that night. Sometimes, that's the worst cruelty of the whole last six months. Realizing that, and realizing I still love MOrpheus.
According to the story, he was born and/or raised in Penn. He was living at the time in Florida. We met at a bar. We had a one night stand. He took my email address, and then disappeared.
This part is boring. I decided to make him Jack because--he sat down on the floor of the hotel room, and he talks.
But Howard, not being his real name of course, never shows back up four years later. You can't write your own story even if you're a writer, not even if you're god.
What isn't boring, perhaps, is what we read into other people, into writing. Jack never knew Howard. Never spoke to the man, has no idea who he is. I was the only person who saw the resemblance. In this way, you can say, Jack doesn't exist to me anymore, just Howard. Just that night. Sometimes, that's the worst cruelty of the whole last six months. Realizing that, and realizing I still love MOrpheus.
Jesse
I use to ride horses. That was my first love, and then writing, or writing about horses. And if you want to write or talk about love, Jesse was true love. In my story, god bought Jesse back, for some outrageous amount of money just to embarrass the people so much they couldn't refuse it, and the gelding is sitting in a pasture, waiting so that when things are normal again, I can go see him.
I can go see him.
Backwards.
I can go see him.
Backwards.
The wives all think they're smarter than the girlfriends and the girlfriends all think they're smarter than the wives, and the dancers think they're sharper than both, and the whores--the whores are street smarter than all of them.
But the porn stars, the porn stars really know what it's like to be used. Right?
How would I know?
But the porn stars, the porn stars really know what it's like to be used. Right?
How would I know?
If I had one dream left, I'd fly out to Ithaca, NY with just my cell phone and laptop and one bag. That's it. It's like going back in time. And then the BIG D would be over. It's nice there, the weather during the summer.
No one would be there waiting at the airport. Here. Or there. To stop me. Or wish me on my way.
What is, after all, an anon goodbye?
No one would be there waiting at the airport. Here. Or there. To stop me. Or wish me on my way.
What is, after all, an anon goodbye?
My FAvorite
You name it, I think it's been trolled: email accounts, TXT-messages, blogs (although mine has been for the most part left alone), the phone lines, and on. My car was even rear ended, although not hard enough to do any damage. It's a giant conspiracy to drive me mad except no one agrees with me. I had my grandmother reported to the sheriffs, who didn't quite laugh at me, but close because she did say that she was going to kill me, a threat that was not not real in intention.
It's all about the big D word, delusional or die or divorce, but I haven't decided which. There's some pretty guy out there who loves me most but he's going through a nasty divorce.
Someday, he says, someday we'll be together. But the kids. And the wife. Honey, I love you. The MOST.
The BIG FUCKING D.
Honey. ALL ABOUT YOU.
He says. Love you backwards.
It's all about the big D word, delusional or die or divorce, but I haven't decided which. There's some pretty guy out there who loves me most but he's going through a nasty divorce.
Someday, he says, someday we'll be together. But the kids. And the wife. Honey, I love you. The MOST.
The BIG FUCKING D.
Honey. ALL ABOUT YOU.
He says. Love you backwards.
No One Wants to be The Dumb Alien
If you think trolls over the internet are bad, imagine them over phone lines, impossible to catch, conference calls, three-way,
"I'm single, you stupid bitch..." Suddenly over the line.
After a while, the voices are just voices, inside the skull and out--and they say, that's the beginning of insanity. If you read any psychology, there's such a fine line between the self and the perceived outside world. Voices of the psyche and voices heard. Just about anything can be manipulated--to disguise you even to yourself.
You wonder what would be worth it? Love? Depends on the love. To most people, perhaps, they'd give up, because I will say love wouldn't be enough. You have to have something more than that.
You tell me what that something more is, and I would like to know.
"I'm single, you stupid bitch..." Suddenly over the line.
After a while, the voices are just voices, inside the skull and out--and they say, that's the beginning of insanity. If you read any psychology, there's such a fine line between the self and the perceived outside world. Voices of the psyche and voices heard. Just about anything can be manipulated--to disguise you even to yourself.
You wonder what would be worth it? Love? Depends on the love. To most people, perhaps, they'd give up, because I will say love wouldn't be enough. You have to have something more than that.
You tell me what that something more is, and I would like to know.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Trust No One's Name
Your life becomes a game of "Who Am I?" or behaviometrics, and not a fun one at that. Identifying people of your present, past and making feeble attempts to pardon your own mess of this foolish coming future.
If I've learned one thing, and this about myself, trust no one's name. Mine has been changed. Court records sealed. But we cling to names. We want to call you someone consistently. In this way, you belong to me. Consistently. Always. Forever. I have made you mine. Today. Tomorrow. Yesterday.
Backwards.
Forwards.
Again.
And yes, more.
If I've learned one thing, and this about myself, trust no one's name. Mine has been changed. Court records sealed. But we cling to names. We want to call you someone consistently. In this way, you belong to me. Consistently. Always. Forever. I have made you mine. Today. Tomorrow. Yesterday.
Backwards.
Forwards.
Again.
And yes, more.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The General
The theory grew after much thought to be something like this: who is the can opener? And then someone opened the can, and the worms came out. The can opener, now might not be the most personally interested, but he is a key to the whole delusional process.
I assumed in the beginning, one must assume something in the beginning, that the CAn Opener was The General. HOwever, no data could be collected. How do you ask? Hello, are you a Master Hacker? Are you the super alien? Are you Head Alien? Because I need to know. For personal satisfaction.
I assumed in the beginning, one must assume something in the beginning, that the CAn Opener was The General. HOwever, no data could be collected. How do you ask? Hello, are you a Master Hacker? Are you the super alien? Are you Head Alien? Because I need to know. For personal satisfaction.
I hear the voice again, beneath the Randy, "I do love you," it was tired at six o' clock in the evening. And then, we hung up.
I imagine chasing a voice--all through the phone lines--this is my nightmare. Because it's not good enough to find a man, you have to find his voice, his footprint, his pieces, he left them.
I imagine chasing a voice--all through the phone lines--this is my nightmare. Because it's not good enough to find a man, you have to find his voice, his footprint, his pieces, he left them.
God's Creation
On my worst moments, and there are many of those any more, I imagine the hijacking of Morpheus's voice, the conversations we had over the phone, the words he spoke to me, all of which could have been made not by one person but by multiple, and I think about the message:
I. do. love. you.
Who left it?
I live in a world of insanity. But I still question who created it.
I. do. love. you.
Who left it?
I live in a world of insanity. But I still question who created it.
Pressed
Whenever pressed for an answer, he never responds.
The others? What do they sy? "I odn't know. Anymore." [What do they sAy? "I don't...]
If there's a global network about love, everyone knows what I don't--everyone must know a lot. And no one will say.
This is perhaps either because my answer is the most obvious or the lesat. [least]
I hear fighting over the phone, but wonder if it's just in my head. LIke wild dogs over a dying besat [beast]. Perhaps it's just me who's conflicted and has been from the start--like my typos are only the id now clawing over the superego. Out and away. Today, we shall win.
The others? What do they sy? "I odn't know. Anymore." [What do they sAy? "I don't...]
If there's a global network about love, everyone knows what I don't--everyone must know a lot. And no one will say.
This is perhaps either because my answer is the most obvious or the lesat. [least]
I hear fighting over the phone, but wonder if it's just in my head. LIke wild dogs over a dying besat [beast]. Perhaps it's just me who's conflicted and has been from the start--like my typos are only the id now clawing over the superego. Out and away. Today, we shall win.
Read Beck
You ever read Beck? You should read Beck. He was a smart dude.
You get sucked into the anger of other people, and before you know it, you're just like one of them. The Bad Aliens. You're a fucking BAd Alien. Except you didn't graduate from some fancy school, and you don't have any money, and what else? You don't have a life or a car anymore or a phone. You're just into getting off on the anger. That's what consumes you.
You get sucked into the anger of other people, and before you know it, you're just like one of them. The Bad Aliens. You're a fucking BAd Alien. Except you didn't graduate from some fancy school, and you don't have any money, and what else? You don't have a life or a car anymore or a phone. You're just into getting off on the anger. That's what consumes you.
Some Entry
You don't want to become some entry in some blog somewheres, but what's worse: you don't want to never be mentioned in a writer's course in history when he wrote about everything. You were just skipped over, blazed through. Even if it was bad, even if he spilled about the bad sex, and your horrible cooking, and the fact you never liked his mother. Even if he wrote your real name, and someone hacked your blog, and then your computer, and then broke into your car, and then stole your mother's dog, and then before you know it, you're crazy, and delusional, and all your friends stay away because they think they'll catch it like Angry Jack Syndrome. NO, better I say, better that at least he wrote about your crazy, bullshit fights and that time you threw his favorite shit into the trash.
At least he was thinking of you when he wrote.
AT least when your car got broke into it--it was for some damn good reason.
Not like this. Not like this.
At least he was thinking of you when he wrote.
AT least when your car got broke into it--it was for some damn good reason.
Not like this. Not like this.
Time Travel
Every time, I walked into a bar, there was a military guy. god set it up. They always travel in packs.
"Okay, Lacey, there you go, what about these ones?" god would say.
I imagine that there's some purpose and plan for the random. That life wasn't chaos. That it was just a network of emails, blog links and, if you want to be silly, good will. god made it so.
MOst of them I didn't like. A few of them I strongly disliked. Unfortunately for me, I fell in love with a couple.
In the Bible, God doesn't notice time. In real life, perhaps god forgets time, but the rest of us remember each passing moment without the person we love. We re-work our own worries. We find more guys at bars, military or civilians. We drink less and then more. We're sad and then happy again. WE fill up endless, empty seconds with minutes and hours. Soon, we too forget for a time, what time that is, until someone reminds us. What it's like to be with someone we care for. The clock begins again.
"Okay, Lacey, there you go, what about these ones?" god would say.
I imagine that there's some purpose and plan for the random. That life wasn't chaos. That it was just a network of emails, blog links and, if you want to be silly, good will. god made it so.
MOst of them I didn't like. A few of them I strongly disliked. Unfortunately for me, I fell in love with a couple.
In the Bible, God doesn't notice time. In real life, perhaps god forgets time, but the rest of us remember each passing moment without the person we love. We re-work our own worries. We find more guys at bars, military or civilians. We drink less and then more. We're sad and then happy again. WE fill up endless, empty seconds with minutes and hours. Soon, we too forget for a time, what time that is, until someone reminds us. What it's like to be with someone we care for. The clock begins again.
Since I make up things, I think that my grandfather is really god, he put all of this together, and he said, Lacey, I want you to be with a military guy, but he has to be a good guy, you know? A smart guy, a nice guy, but not too nice. So, I'm going to fix you up with all of these guys because your father is obviously not watching out fory ou.
And he's some scientist still on some hill somewheres, and he makes all the decisions about the guys, and he likes Navy guys the best.
Except my brilliant grandfather is dead.
And he's some scientist still on some hill somewheres, and he makes all the decisions about the guys, and he likes Navy guys the best.
Except my brilliant grandfather is dead.
Who are you most in love with? The truth. But the truth is a weave of people, and you need those people to make the truth, and so you rely on those people more than you ever thought before.
And so each time you lose a person, you lose part of the truth, and the truth slips away into a vacuum of ignorance.
What are you most afraid of? To slip into the vacuum yourself.
And so each time you lose a person, you lose part of the truth, and the truth slips away into a vacuum of ignorance.
What are you most afraid of? To slip into the vacuum yourself.
Massive Amount of Words For You
YOu wonder where all the letters go that you write, and you never press send, or you just leave them in drafts, or they're saved in Word (fucking Word), and for years, you think no one reads them. The letters you do send, but no one responds, letters after letters and letters and letters and no one writes back, where is he? Does he get them? Does he just not like me? And then, months later, he writes back, two words, three words, barely what would be called a sentences, "sure. blah." Huh? Okay. Letters. "blah. blah. sure." More, more letters. Always the letters. Never do they make any sense.
I laugh now and call it the delusional process. LIke you can magically send out love into outer space, and the aliens catch it, and send it back down to earth.
It's the massive amount of words, and yet it is the senselessness of the process that is the genuine insanity. Not the people involved. They're probably all too sane. It's like building a machine which is faulty, and they having people who are skilled and capable try to run it--well, soon you'll have them hitting it and fucking it up more. They hate it. Why? It's fucked up. But man made it. Not God. All man made. You write the words, but they mean nothing but words, and words say nothing but I remember you--except on this fucked up planet, you don't know who remembers you or not. Hence, I love you--backwards.
Tomorrow, you'll know I loved you yesterday. And today, you're just pissed off at me.
I laugh now and call it the delusional process. LIke you can magically send out love into outer space, and the aliens catch it, and send it back down to earth.
It's the massive amount of words, and yet it is the senselessness of the process that is the genuine insanity. Not the people involved. They're probably all too sane. It's like building a machine which is faulty, and they having people who are skilled and capable try to run it--well, soon you'll have them hitting it and fucking it up more. They hate it. Why? It's fucked up. But man made it. Not God. All man made. You write the words, but they mean nothing but words, and words say nothing but I remember you--except on this fucked up planet, you don't know who remembers you or not. Hence, I love you--backwards.
Tomorrow, you'll know I loved you yesterday. And today, you're just pissed off at me.
In beginning, I asked everyone the same question: what is the most important thing to you?
MOst people responded family. Which to me was dumb. Or if you really thought about it, secondary. To health, your personal freedoms, etc. YOu put someone in pain, their priorities might change. In prison. I got so sick of hearing even about houses that I eventually stop asking the question.
What's so important?
I never received a good answer. EVer.
MOst people responded family. Which to me was dumb. Or if you really thought about it, secondary. To health, your personal freedoms, etc. YOu put someone in pain, their priorities might change. In prison. I got so sick of hearing even about houses that I eventually stop asking the question.
What's so important?
I never received a good answer. EVer.
Life Sucks And then It's a Bitch
"I was on the phoen with you as much as I could be."
You know he's lying. The REal Randy was. Who is now gone. And irony suits us all because you're pissed at him too. YOu won't talk to him either. Because of Morpheus. So, if life is a game of dividing up loyalties, you really fucking suck at it.
You know he's lying. The REal Randy was. Who is now gone. And irony suits us all because you're pissed at him too. YOu won't talk to him either. Because of Morpheus. So, if life is a game of dividing up loyalties, you really fucking suck at it.
If there is a solution to the Jack puzzle, it is letting go of one's past. That's the box. AFter that, the rest is just sorting out one's heartache.
You meet a guy at a bar, and you fall in love with him, and wish he'd come back, but he never does. Maybe he's Jack, but how long are you going to wreck your life looking for him? Six months? A year? TWo? Maybe four?
If there's a question which haunts me more than anything, what am I going to find when I find it? Considering all events up to date. What if everyone lied because the truth wasn't so horrible to them, but rather disappointing? And you fight so hard to find it, only to be killed by it--not as in someone kills you, but you are murdered in a symbolic way or by suicide. Your psyche dies when it can't make sense of its world. Bit by bit. d. Eventually, psychosis or suicide are options.
What is being proactive? Isolation? Locking yourself away? To lessen the noise? STay at home? Is that healthy? No. Because it's like the man who was driven into a cave by the outside world, out of the cave by the sound of dribbling water which was coming from a creek inside. Eventually, you have to re-join society.
You meet a guy at a bar, and you fall in love with him, and wish he'd come back, but he never does. Maybe he's Jack, but how long are you going to wreck your life looking for him? Six months? A year? TWo? Maybe four?
If there's a question which haunts me more than anything, what am I going to find when I find it? Considering all events up to date. What if everyone lied because the truth wasn't so horrible to them, but rather disappointing? And you fight so hard to find it, only to be killed by it--not as in someone kills you, but you are murdered in a symbolic way or by suicide. Your psyche dies when it can't make sense of its world. Bit by bit. d. Eventually, psychosis or suicide are options.
What is being proactive? Isolation? Locking yourself away? To lessen the noise? STay at home? Is that healthy? No. Because it's like the man who was driven into a cave by the outside world, out of the cave by the sound of dribbling water which was coming from a creek inside. Eventually, you have to re-join society.
Backwards
Truths, to me, are vague, while lies are hard and sharp. Perhaps this is because now, love is backwards, not forwards, and as a writer would say, I yell because I care. Or the logic is always twisted because no one is standing straight.
I love you backwards.
Because backwards is all we have. Forwards is time lost. Forwards is just a factory for more lies I will have to make, don't make me do it, because I will try not to, but I will. I will do it. For you. For us.
I love you backwards.
Romance is easy in hindsight, which is perhaps why we prefer the past, never the present, and we gaze so longingly at hope and the future. You can forgive the past, never the present, never the shit going on now, but tomorrow, I will forgive you tomorrow and then, it's over with, and then it's in the past--
I love you backwards. I won't be with you now, but backwards.
I love you backwards.
Because backwards is all we have. Forwards is time lost. Forwards is just a factory for more lies I will have to make, don't make me do it, because I will try not to, but I will. I will do it. For you. For us.
I love you backwards.
Romance is easy in hindsight, which is perhaps why we prefer the past, never the present, and we gaze so longingly at hope and the future. You can forgive the past, never the present, never the shit going on now, but tomorrow, I will forgive you tomorrow and then, it's over with, and then it's in the past--
I love you backwards. I won't be with you now, but backwards.
SToli
Were you throw the coffee cup angry? Were you that angry? WAtch it shatter all over the kitchen. In pieces. Because he's screaming over the phone at you, "YOU LIE!"
"I DON'T LIE!!" You say. Then you're throwing things. First the cup, then the sports drink bottle, then the pepper shaker which is luckily aluminum. Vodka spilled on the counter. Stoli.
"I DON'T LIE!!" You say. Then you're throwing things. First the cup, then the sports drink bottle, then the pepper shaker which is luckily aluminum. Vodka spilled on the counter. Stoli.
The Power of Suggestion and Psychological Torture
You were angry, but were you throw the cell phone angry?
a delusion is nothing more than a lie on some type of warped, large scale, massive enough that you believe yourself so deeply that everything becomes that lie--the whole world engulfed into that lie.
The problem is when people lie, they can't take back their lies. It's like putting out water, reversing the fire, the flame and undoing the ashes.
The problem is when people lie, they can't take back their lies. It's like putting out water, reversing the fire, the flame and undoing the ashes.
Monday, June 20, 2011
The Can Do
You should be the kind of blogger or writer who has to change your anon once or twice or three or five times--this is the writer you should aspire to be. WRiting isn't a threat or a promise, it is a do, a will, a can, a make, an order, a power.
Right Kind
Mom: You cannot call up people and harass them.
ONly if they're the right kind of people, though, Mom.
ONly if they're the right kind of people, though, Mom.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Uncensored Existence
"...I think because for me blogging is sort of the virtual embodiment of an uncensored existence..."
--Susannah Breslin
--Susannah Breslin
The Event
Eventually you have to commit to the idea that you have exhausted all reasonable possibilities, and that there are no theories left. The monkey has to stop typing at the typewriter.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Function
You have to love those who can’t love themselves. Because they don’t know how to love themselves, and therefore don’t know how to accept love for themselves. Hence, Angry Jack.
Love is a function. Not a feeling.
Love is a function. Not a feeling.
America in Iraq
"...the sense that there was madness and truth in her all at once."
--The Assassins' Gate by George Packer, pg. 5
--The Assassins' Gate by George Packer, pg. 5
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Mystery of Howard
...but if there's a hacker out there, how come HE DIDN'T FUCKING FIND HOWARD??!!
"Fatal Personal Inadequacies"
"...he was a wise man. Great failure had made him so."
--about F. Scott Fitzgerald, pg. 210, Cultural Amnesia by Clive James
--about F. Scott Fitzgerald, pg. 210, Cultural Amnesia by Clive James
"The Occasional Sane-Sounding Letter Inform..."
"...it is possible, if one has the time, to reply with the truth..."
--pg. 314, Cultural Amnesia by Clive James
--pg. 314, Cultural Amnesia by Clive James
"Beat the Drum, Drum of Nature!"
"...so he never had to see what became of his subtle theories. What became of them was nothing. They had never mattered..."
--Cultural Amnesia, pg. 326, by Clive James
--Cultural Amnesia, pg. 326, by Clive James
Danger and the Missing Puzzle Box
There’s a danger in deciding anything because no one wants a decision to be made. And you can’t until you receive confirmation. And that’s why a diagnosis like delusional disorder can be reached.
And that in and of itself is how insanity is created.
And that in and of itself is how insanity is created.
Wrong
Karl Popper..."things get really interesting just when it is wrong."
--Cultural Amnesia, pg. 676, by Clive James
--Cultural Amnesia, pg. 676, by Clive James
About Sartre
"He might have known that he was debarred by nature from telling the truth for long about anything that mattered, because telling the truth was something that ordinary men didd, and his urge to be extraordinary was, for him, more of a motive force than merely to see the world as it was. This perversity--and he was perverse whether he realized it or not--made him the most conspicuous single example in the twentieth century of a fully qualified intellectual aiding and abetting the opponents of civilization."
--Cultural Amnesia by Clive James [emphasis is not the author's], pg. 671
--Cultural Amnesia by Clive James [emphasis is not the author's], pg. 671
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Not Knowing
The cellphone moved. About an inch. No one touched it. It just moved. How did it move?
I Love You Connie
Just another name--there are a lot of name's. Associations.
"Do you hear that?"
"What?"
"I hear a dog barking."
"Do you hear that?"
"What?"
"I hear a dog barking."
After Another Friend Drops Off the Radar
This must be the delusional process hard at work.
AGain.
I'm going to fuckin' patent it.
--Conversations with the General
AGain.
I'm going to fuckin' patent it.
--Conversations with the General
Monday, June 13, 2011
Grey Goose and OJ
...I love him [Morpheus] still. You don’t want to be in love with two people at the same time. Even if you can’t prove who the second person is. Even if they’re the same person.
--in reference to Morpheus and the possibilities, one hundred and one, of who is Jack
--in reference to Morpheus and the possibilities, one hundred and one, of who is Jack
FEAR [Fuck Everything And Run - Stephen King]
What is reasonable doubt? And what is fear of belief? Even in oneself?
Right or Not
"Whether he’s [The Case Manager] right or not, it doesn’t matter. The result is the same. You’re here."
--in reference to my diagnosis of a delusional disorder
--in reference to my diagnosis of a delusional disorder
Don't Ask
What's this really about?
Gays in the military. It was politically motivated by the US government to discredit me.
You never wrote about gays in the military. At all. Ever.
You asked!
Gays in the military. It was politically motivated by the US government to discredit me.
You never wrote about gays in the military. At all. Ever.
You asked!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Sim
Imagine not being able to trust the sound of the human voice over the phone--because it can be replaced--simulated.
"But when you start accusing me of being part of whatever is going on..." --One of the "Randy's" will say over the phone.
"But when you start accusing me of being part of whatever is going on..." --One of the "Randy's" will say over the phone.
Blurry Vision
Not only do I still think a group of people are after me, but I can't fucking read!
--me, describing one of the nasty side effects of an antipsychotic, blurry vision, after being on it for a few days
--me, describing one of the nasty side effects of an antipsychotic, blurry vision, after being on it for a few days
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Socratic Method
What if there is no Jack, and you ruined every single relationship in your life for nothing? What if?
Worse, I argue to the General, worse--what if there is a Jack, and he knows that I'm looking for him, but he doesn't give a shit? For if you're delusional, then at least you can wallow in your fantasy--but reality is a cold grave to sink in. And no man escapes it.
Worse, I argue to the General, worse--what if there is a Jack, and he knows that I'm looking for him, but he doesn't give a shit? For if you're delusional, then at least you can wallow in your fantasy--but reality is a cold grave to sink in. And no man escapes it.
Delusional
When one of my (now -ex) friends calls me "delusional" because at the time I was arguing for the case that the Director of the NSA could live here, I reply, "You don't even know the meaning of the word," referring to the textbook definition. This is because I didn't until I looked it up.
"Well, I'm learning..." He replies.
"Well, I'm learning..." He replies.
The Man with One Red Shoe (1985)
"Honey, will you please - what are the odds of the Russians attacking on a Thursday night?"
--Cooper
Why I should have wrote bad Hollywood comedy.
--Cooper
Why I should have wrote bad Hollywood comedy.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Paranoide, California RAce Horse, Sprinter
"Will this make the bad people go away?"
--Today's psych evaluation, as I referred to the second generation atypical antipsychotic removing my fears of "a group of people being after me"
--Today's psych evaluation, as I referred to the second generation atypical antipsychotic removing my fears of "a group of people being after me"
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
IDEAS
"Ideas are more powerful than guns. We would not let our enemies have guns, why should we let them have ideas."
Truth is in Dreaming
"What do you wish? That [Morpheus] would come back?"
--One of the "Randy's" over the phone.
--And then you wake up tomorrow--and it's all over--
[Title is in reference to, "Truth is in Dreaming" by Benedict Smith]
--One of the "Randy's" over the phone.
--And then you wake up tomorrow--and it's all over--
[Title is in reference to, "Truth is in Dreaming" by Benedict Smith]
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Mixed Signals: The Hunt for the Red Corvette
ONe of the "Randy's" said, "You are invaluable to me." The line goes dead.
The Joel-Jack Theory
Hotel room. Man, woman.
HOWARD!
WHAT??!! You woke me up! You're supposed to be gone.
HOWARD!
What the fuck? Go back to sleep, or roll over, or something. It's four am, for god's sake.
We—Howard—what if this is it! What if there’s no tomorrow for us! That's it!
I have a plane to catch, a flight, airport, traffic... [mumbling into a pillow with face turned]
HOWARD! You're local. You're gonna be gone and in four years, I'm going to try to find you again.
I'm not local. I live in Florida. You should go.
You wanted directions to the airport. I'm going to ride with you. I'm going to give you a ride, Howard. What if this is it, Howard? You know? It. And maybe you die. And maybe I die. And we never see each other again.
Maybe my name isn't Howard either. I can find the airport.
HOWARD!
WHAT??!! You woke me up! You're supposed to be gone.
HOWARD!
What the fuck? Go back to sleep, or roll over, or something. It's four am, for god's sake.
We—Howard—what if this is it! What if there’s no tomorrow for us! That's it!
I have a plane to catch, a flight, airport, traffic... [mumbling into a pillow with face turned]
HOWARD! You're local. You're gonna be gone and in four years, I'm going to try to find you again.
I'm not local. I live in Florida. You should go.
You wanted directions to the airport. I'm going to ride with you. I'm going to give you a ride, Howard. What if this is it, Howard? You know? It. And maybe you die. And maybe I die. And we never see each other again.
Maybe my name isn't Howard either. I can find the airport.
Where's Jack??
“He won’t even be able to dream about being happy.”
--House about a guy who is trying to track down an old ex-girlfriend.
--House about a guy who is trying to track down an old ex-girlfriend.
The Writing
"In the same hour came forth fingers of a man's hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaister of the wall of the king's palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote.
Then the king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosed, and his knees smote one against another.
The king cried aloud to bring in the astrologers, the Chaldeans, and the soothsayers. And the king spake, and said to the wise men of Babylon, Whosoever shall read this writing, and shew me the interpretation thereof, shall be clothed with scarlet, and have a chain of gold about his neck, and shall be the third ruler in the kingdom."
--Daniel 5:5-7
Then the king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosed, and his knees smote one against another.
The king cried aloud to bring in the astrologers, the Chaldeans, and the soothsayers. And the king spake, and said to the wise men of Babylon, Whosoever shall read this writing, and shew me the interpretation thereof, shall be clothed with scarlet, and have a chain of gold about his neck, and shall be the third ruler in the kingdom."
--Daniel 5:5-7
Angel of the LORD
"And the angel of the LORD appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked , and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed . And Moses said , I will now turn aside , and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt . And when the LORD saw that he turned aside to see , God called unto him out of the midst of the bush..."
--Exodus 3:1-4
--Exodus 3:1-4
Theories
"You can’t just test theories. You have to actually love people."
--The General, who is a fictional character based on a man met at Starbucks
--The General, who is a fictional character based on a man met at Starbucks
Monday, June 6, 2011
Me, Myself and the General
Don't you think that everyone should have one man they create?
They, or just you, The General replies.
They, or just you, The General replies.
The Switchboard Concept
Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!
--Sir Walter Scott, "Marmion" Canto vi. Stanza 17. 1808.
When first we practise to deceive!
--Sir Walter Scott, "Marmion" Canto vi. Stanza 17. 1808.
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