Family Matters

This season, I spared the public from another beloved Christmas tale of yesteryear... messages fill the fabric of time and the envelopes of the righteous. We separate ourselves, becoming the cats of ruined buildings... winding ourselves in piles of dirty laundry sniffing for that faded comfort. The dust has been shifted, thinking over events and memories of my life... particularly about my Mother and Great-Grandfather's stories of "When He Was A Little Girl". I can't recall the tales, but they always started with that phrase... to this day, I'm still uncertain. Other than a handful of dry roasted peanuts and curiously watching the people cry at his funeral and wondering why, I have nothing to remember him by. As for my Mother, I have plenty to remember... a crooked smile flashes across my face as I relive those "precious moments". My Mother is an extremely loving, giving, and thoughtful person... one side of the dysfunction straddling on candy cane crutches. Thinking of those good qualities, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I suppose when someone has such an extreme goodness, there must be an equal amount of wickedness... those were the days of my childhood. She has changed a lot over the years, and mellowed out significantly... now only a part-time zealot and no longer threatens to have stuffed animals murder you in your sleep. The few people in my life that are familiar with my past and have actually met her, are always expecting to see a monster, rather than a smiling, fragile looking child in an elderly shell... I lived it, so you can imagine how I feel. Mindfuck is the only world fully capable of grasping the situation. Somethings never change and some tells of her dysfunction can clearly be seen, like her lack and disgust of physical affections and still talking through the mouths of the stuffed animals she carries around with her at all times... a land of the fence post people, rigid and content in the mud and mire. I don't hate my Mother and wish her no ill will. Those moments are past and even though I don't understand the reasoning behind the severe manipulation and abuse, I'm okay with it... to the best of abilities at least, for I am a broken toy. When I was a child, the accepted behavior was laughing away your pain. I learned at a young age that crying only meant more suffering and torment to come... I'll give you a reason to cry. Do you really to cry? Perhaps that's why I laugh and smile when I remember my childhood...

The Paper-Cutting People

They say pictures never lie... interesting enough, I find this statement to be a lie, indeed. Waking each morning, many plaster their masks tightly fit and convincing... convenient how quickly those scars and acid lines can fade from existence. Marching forward, driven to acquire something prettier, faster, easier, and more extravagant... the flocks and locks of sheered sheep and smoked cigarettes. The exhibition is flawed, like the toxic vapors of bleach burning the throat of clarity and consciousness... we can only prance and scamper so long without detection. If someone were to photograph those precious moments of masochistic embrace, the deviant truth could remain secret and precious... frozen in time, to be lived over and over in perfect rhythm. We see the mask on display and mindset behind the eyes... not the agony beneath, the truth and disdain. Those denizens appear calm and inviting, loving and accepting... the rabbit springs the trap, just in time for Sunday dinner. A photogenic predator aching to snatch and distend your still beating heart... candied innocence, the sweetest meat on which to feast. Of course this isn't always true, sometimes the truth is caught at a weary moment... you needn't be alarmed when you pass by a piece of shit, only when you step upon it.

Bookends

The Tutorial has ended... we have no more gifts for thee, bah rum bum bum bum. Indeed, two days in a row... this time it will be different. We won't speak in riddles or hide messages under soiled sheets... nor puzzles written in metaphor. Tonight, I will play the role of the listener and you, my readers, hopefully will fill the role as voice and consciousness. Of course, that does require some work and courage on your part. Over the years, you've watched as I've danced about making a fool of myself in my quest in understanding people, emotions, and friendships. I know this may seem trivial to most, but to someone with my limitations... no words could be less true. Constantly, I make efforts to engage in conversation with people and foster some type of friendship... most of the time this ends with disgust and immediate rejection. Although, sometimes I do receive some harsh words instead of being rudely ignored. On the very rare occasion, someone responds in kind and a seed is planted... which I quickly strangle to death in a fit of confusion and social oddity. The problem I seem to encounter most often is the chance to form some type of generic relationship... perhaps a great deal of that is from myself and the words I choose, but the other part is from the populace. It's common knowledge that the internet is filled with tons of fucked up predators looking for someone to hurt or take advantage of for their own lust and greed. Seeing how my only avenue to meet people is the internet, I'm already at a severe disadvantage... on the rare occasion I do go into public, I stare at the ground and never make eye contact. The truth of the matter is this... people terrify me. Despite the fear, for some ungodly reason I find myself continuing on this quest for knowledge and understanding.

So here we are... this conversation has been stated time and time before. Here is where I need help from you, the readers. What is the appropriate conversational link, indroduction or methodology to avoid being classified as one of the dangerous people? I speak politely and state my intentions... perhaps that is too honest and robotic? What is the social protocol or proper age group of people I should be trying to speak with? Where am I going wrong... is there an application format I should be following to discover human interaction and understanding?

Honestly, I am uncertain of the questions to ask of you... so I find myself here, just asking for any help in general. Thank you for taking the time to listen and hopefully someone comes forward with some helpful information. Until we meet again...

The Sensual Eel

There was a message waiting for me, void of content and listless... the words took shape and floated aimlessly towards the mustached women of tomorrow. Curiously, I planted and snipped the garden, long been since tended... awaiting the return of voices once meant for myself. Time and time again, what was is lost to be found by another... wicker basket picnics and strawberry viscera. My time here, although limited, is slowly crawling back to speed... separated from days and divided by nights, my thoughts have weakened and the lustered will has ebbed. Previous events have caused a shift in my medications... the popular thought of quelling the voices has only agitated my depression. The new thought is to treat the depression alone and allow the choir to regroup and harp mindlessly in unison... we'll tremble and gape at the drooling maw in awe. My hopes are to return to the "functional" level once teetered upon before this string of events crippled us... ten years living dead, betrayal, loss, and flea infestation. At least the fleas are gone and my companion and adviser is once again content... the lashings have been few, but he remains the guardian and I am subject to his bidding. Today is a new day of shedding... a day to wash away the collected ash and debris. I shall select my finest dress and lace it tight, as the preening and dancing enthrall the echo-less mind... with my braided beard and curls of yesteryear, the veins are ripped forth and I scamper with intent and delight. When the pieces are reassembled and routine restored, we'll still have the memories and the need of redemption... those lipstick stained teeth marks have tattooed themselves deeper than my fleshy cheek and neck. The sweat is still blinding and the humor in screaming misery still warms my chest... the price however, even though the sensations are delighted, is too much to grieve. It's not without thought... pleasure from the pain and suffering of others. The sadist in me, is the very same sadist in you... feeding each other, one jagged fingernail at a time.

Amputation 101

Progress - growth or development; continuous improvement.

As you can clearly see, my appearances have been neglected and my words diminished... my voice, however, is still intact. The infection has spread... it's gangrenous, viscid fluids now pump with voracity within. Despite the sickness, progress has been achieved... what we sever, shall wither or be reborn anew. I've been medicated for several months now for this gift of severe depression, but the desired results were void of manifestation... a time of soap-sud children and fecal pan drippings. The progress, as untasteful as it may seem, is related to hygiene... I have stated before about the intertwined struggle of mental health and personal hygiene. Putting aside the emphatic "Fuck You" 's, through this sickness I have developed the routine of bathing on a more frequent basis... please sit upright and look up as the shower of bile rinses your eyes. Granted, the progress is limited to once a week, which is considerably better than before... I know, I am aware of the disapproval, please stand in line behind the other violators and interlopers. Mary knew there was a price to be paid, but she never thought of the horrors that fell upon her marshmallow skin. As the opening definition states, it is progress nonetheless. I found this young lady on the internet the other day, that video blogged about her schizophrenia... her hair was perfectly styled, make-up lining every fold of her face and her teeth glistening in a string of white pearls. The monster rears his head and bellows a plea of vengeance... imagery of ribboned flesh caught in a wave of contempt and bloodshed. Mental illness has become a trend and fashion statement to the youth of today... if you take hallucinogens, you see and hear things that aren't there. It doesn't make you a fucking schizophrenic... I weep for the ignorance of the world and the sheer lack of compassion. Dwelling on this encounter has enraged me once again, schizophrenia is not a fucking game or a desired trait... it's a debilitating illness and a fucking nightmare. If you really had schizophrenia, you wouldn't be so picture perfect in appearance and hygiene, you wouldn't be IM'ing and LOL'ing with your friends and you wouldn't be working in a trendy coffeehouse... the lights are about to come on. You would have something like my life or worse which includes the luxuries as follows. You'd be rotting in your own filth with your hair tangled in webs of disarray. You'd wear the same clothes everyday even when they are soiled. You wouldn't have friends, because social situations and emotions confuse and choke the fucking life out of you. You would be sitting at a desk covered in paper plates, cigarette ashes and notes of "importance". You wouldn't have a job because you couldn't stand being around people and their lingering abrasive thoughts. You would see and hear things that aren't really there when you're sober and lucid, but you wouldn't clearly know the difference of fiction and reality... you wouldn't be the self involved piece of cat shit, that you clearly are. Time passes by and we move on... the simple joys and pleasures in life. All things considered and digested, I am still alive... we keep each other company with moments slipping forward. Tomorrow I have an appointment with my doctor in addition to my therapy... I have decided to go off of this medication and perhaps try something different. Of course, when the choir has regained their full strength, that opinion and thought may disappear entirely... you've been up to no good while I was away and now I'll give you a reason to cry. Welcome home, my lovelies...

Tea For Three

There is no time like this time, but this time is no time... for all time is past time. It has been quite awhile since I have removed my head from the hole it has been violently and relentlessly encased. I'm still walking amongst the dead and sleep addled dead lights... how could one walk amongst the living in a world such as ours? The past two months have been agonizing... I've been stricken down by the mighty blessing of depression. True, depression is nothing new to me... but this level of such certainly is a path I've never tread upon. Nothing has been accomplished or attempted, except knotted hair and lying in bed continuously. Things became so problematic, that I forced myself to go on some medication... the success leaves much to be desired, but I am here for the moment. Precious moments. The desperation and hopelessness have seemed to fade somewhat, but desire and drive are far from returning... stale biscuits and empty picnics laughed as they rolled away. Still, we press on... on and on and on. The ridicule and sighs of contempt are soothing... I am pleased to hear the disapproval of my return and survival. I dare not spoil the moment with a prolonged visit... the hush shall return within a moment. I suppose for the first time in months, I felt as if I actually had something to say... and perhaps the need to utter something other than internal commentary.

Releasing The Wild

Many things could be stated, but all without due certainty... the only constant is the stale, lifeless breath within. I am still alive... unfortunately. Several events have transpired over the past few weeks... while I slept in a state of denial and awe. I have kept a piece of myself locked within a cage, even though that remnant had long since decayed... the refusal to fully let the chapter close and the sun set on the bitter ending. Enough time has passed, wasted in the thoughts of reconstruction and how I could have acted differently... it is done, the carcass has begun to stink within. Today, in this hour, I am releasing you... fully and completely, releasing the wild. If I could understand or fully comprehend emotions, I would say that I am heartbroken... but then again, can a dead heart be broken? It all started with the awkward invitation, an experiment and adventure to better understand this phenomenon of "friendships". I made clear the confusion within and my inability to remain grounded in life and social understandings... it was natural for the tides to rise as the villagers ran screaming in terror. Instead of a reminder or perhaps even an acknowledgment, you preferred dismissal... a cold silence and blind eye to any ramifications. Words hold little value with the loss of translation... it's all about romance and fantasy, no black and white in this colorful tapestry. This outlook only proves that your ears and eyes were closed long before our final confrontation... I've never known love and my world, although fictional in reality, is filled with very little color. I did however, miss your company when you stopped rattling the caged iron walls... I mourned the "friendship" within the silence and distance. In the end, this will be a better place for us both... you can return home with little thought or consideration and I can set aside my cage for another time, another life. This experiment, even though it failed miserably, offered some insight and points of reflection... another chapter added, another page turned. I will always remember what I sought after and what I found... I will remember my time in and with the wild, but the time of mourning has passed. With every sunrise, I birth destruction and chaos... I am surrounded with plenty shards of glass on which to kneel, this sliver is no longer needed.



"I'm playing the game,
The one that will take me to my end.
I'm waiting for the rain,
To wash who I am..."

-Infected Mushroom, I Wish

Stale Air And Flightless Butterflies

Time has once again stood still... not for the world, but for myself. It was yesterday when we visited last... we slumbered as the world and it's chimers kept singing. During my departure, I found myself surrounded by an increasing supply of incoming traffic... the blankets were left off of the cages and those canaries adore each others music. I have mourned and wept, birthed and re-birthed, died and died again... siren songs behind the alluring eyes in photographs. Still, new memories haunt me as they scamper and borrow themselves within the others... and they all look the same. I was moved beyond words, that early autumn morning, to discover some company within this congregation of slumber... new and refreshing in both sight and scent. Alas, the time went too quickly and the builders returned to their masonry and now, nothing remains... unlike the others, these letters will go without the collection of dust. They will not stain with yellow and become torn by the creases that hid their sentiments... for those times were in here, the land of bright white and the paperless. The absence still stings and the reasoning unclear, but I ushered you out just the same. The door was closed and the tears bleed in unison, but your departure was as quick and haunting as our first meeting. I remind myself that it was an experiment, one of social understandings, but the results were all too familiar... there are lines in the playground, ones not meant to be crossed. Beyond the walls and hardened heart of confusion awaits a new destination of plenty... my sour womb of barren children. Kicking lifelessly and dropping low within me to burst forth once more with gripping hands and rotten flesh... together forever, time and time again.

The You, Inside Of Me

Another day like any other... blank faces and burnt cigarettes completed the scene. I was sitting in the corner, as usual, sipping my coffee watching the breathless clamor about the flooring... then she walked in, bright eyed and fancy free. The stale air and wisps of smoke stepped aside as her presence breathed life into all that was once dead... the world paused for a moment as it's heart once again was filled with purpose. I suppose she felt me starring at her with curious eyes, an inescapable scenario... in that brief time, she had seen the child hiding within and her curiosity sparked as well. I became excited and flustered as she smiled at me... lowering my head in assumed embarrassment. She walked over and greeted with unexpected pleasantries and ask if she could join me for awhile... "inside or outside?", were the thoughts rambling inside my mouth. I nodded in acceptance as I began to rub the armies of moisture from the palms of my hands... it was a pleasure to be certain, company for tea and conversation to fill the empty moments. She reached out her hand and offered it to me... her name was Mari and her hands were soft and kind. In turn, I introduced myself and offered to buy her a beverage and something to eat... just myself and the child within, as we begin this dance made for two. We stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, but the hands on the wall noted it had been only two hours... each moment lingered as we explored this curious arrangement. The sun had began to set and the day was coming to a close... they would be coming soon and I really must be going. I assumed this moment and meeting were to be over, so I began collecting myself and preparing to venture home. As I stood from the table, she asked me if we could see each other again... sheepishly I looked down at my feet kicking at the floor and suggested when. She said, "I don't know... what are you doing now?"... the bricks fell lose and landed firmly in my stomach. My words stumbled forth like the obnoxious drunkards in the alley... I told her I really needed to be getting home because I didn't really like to be away for too long... not me, but them; they don't like me to be away for long. I apologized as I shook my head in confusion. She placed her hand gently on my shoulder and asked if she may join me at home for a time... there were no claws sinking inside my flesh, it was a good touch for once. I agreed by simply looking up at her and smiling... she took my hand and we began walking home. I rarely had company and admittedly the house was in a state of dismay... books and empty cigarette packs covered the coffee table and the dust had settled into a musty blanket of neglect. It was a quiet house, away from others and the upsetting mesh of society... I lived alone in the house, but never alone; not for long. We sat down on the couch in silence... it was painfully obvious to her that I was quickly becoming more and more uneasy. She scooted closer to me and took me by the hand once more... the child began to sweat. She tried to comfort me and assure me that she meant me no harm... she just saw something inside of me she really wanted to get to know better. My chest began to heave faster and faster as I noticed her moving her lips towards mine... the stage grew quiet as I pondered on the thought of her getting to know me better. Our lips met and pressed deeper into me, licking my lips and nibbling gently upon them... the child began to weep. Confusion flooded the room... I was in no pain or distress, yet she was touching me. The air became thinner and my breath escaped me as she began touching my body in the places that had grown cold and distant. Her hand slid along my chest and down to my inner thigh. She began caressing my lower region until I had began to become aroused. She was going to wake them... the child inside screamed in terror. With my lips no longer responding to her passion and my erection dwindling, she pulled away for a moment to once again look into my eyes... something was different. Something was wrong. Her warm eyes met with mine, but this time they were met with an icy stare... a milky complexion and smirk of dissection. The child inside was gone and she saw with clarity as he began to come forth. Time had once again froze, as new sensations danced upon the room... this time, her chest was pounding in anticipation. I turned my head slightly to the left as I studied her expression and absorbed her vibrations... he too, found this girl to be quite interesting and different. Her hand touched mine once more, but this time it was she that was looking for comfort... the tables turned and the bidding had closed. I smiled at her once more, but this time someone else was looking back into her. Quickly my hand twitched and leaped towards her throat. It had become a vice, gripping tighter with each passing moment... we were there for what seemed like an eternity, but the hands on the wall would once again disagree. Her arms had began to thrash wildly in the air and her legs were kicking for release... I moved in closer to share my appreciation. I threw her back and pressed myself tightly against her writhing body... my grip was without compassion and filled with delight. Her eyes grew wider as she felt my erection return and press in agony against her body... her tears were like lubrication for the soul. As her breaths became softer and of less frequency, mine became deeper and in rapid succession... the man inside moaned in excitement. Her lips became blue and foamy spit escaping her mouth formed in the corners of her lips... I kissed them gently and suckled her once more. As her eyes glazed over and her body gifted me with one last spasm, I reached my full potential and shivered as my body heaved with the convulsions of orgasm... the man inside laughed. I crawled off of her lifeless body and sat beside her in silence for a moment... she had seen something special inside of me. I reached down and lit a cigarette as I pulled her shell closer... propping up her body in the seated position. I placed her limp arm around me as I rested my head against her chest... the warmth I once felt had departed and was replaced by a nothingness of completion. I looked up at her and smiled. Mari, I think I love you...

Beginning The End

There is a place one can go... apart from the images and dancing figurines. In a time separate from the now and morrow, a place of wall-less shelter... those tears cried themselves dry. The wheat is tall and dripping milky honey for all the weary that lay down to rest... it's safe to swallow and the needle is out. Fancy free, one can flee... for in here, none may follow. Not in mind nor the tangible, for this place is made for the one... not her, not him, not ever again. You'll be wrapped in a silk-less cocoon of braided air and silent whispers... melodies once drove the heart to slumber. All you need to do, is breathe it all away... every moment, memory and day. Just forget every smell, image and smile... the blankets are folding, I'll forget in awhile.

The I In Infected

All reasoning escapes me... if this is the HU-Man experience, then I am failing miserably. More than feeling, we are here to learn and understand these feelings... the fire burns intensely, but the flickered dance goes without meaning. I guess the only small comfort is that I am not alone in this failure... the world is filled with countless drones that feel nothing at all. Placing one foot before the other, webbed in glass and ash... at least I have the vibrations. I see people complain about not having contact with other people... branded beast and isolated from the world. Yet, when you try to encourage them or reach out, they snub you like a diseased leper... champagne taste with a penny sized purse. Maybe they are alone because they feel they are too fucking good for anyone else... my outlook is the opposite, never worthy of another.

"Jarhead" had a birthday recently. Still unable to process the previous encounter, I decided to once again speak with him... an experiment to gather knowledge and biscuits. I didn't wish to relive the terrors of yesterday, so I simply wished him a "Happy Birthday", told him I thought of him often and that he will always have a special place in my heart and life... an empty home is better than no home at all. Within two days, he responded in kind... flashes of broken fingernails clawing at the pavement. He told me that he loved me and that I have no idea how much those words meant to him... press firmly, insert and twist. Of course this didn't bode well with the choir and they have refortified the city gates. The vibrations were overwhelming and all of those those thought and images I was desperately trying to evade came rushing in for the assault. This experiment has brought about more questions and confusion... all of the little children singing, "Jesus Loves Me". Why is it that people from the past remember me well and the current people discard me like a soiled whore? I was less of a person years ago... filled with rage, abusing and using everyone for my pleasure and thirst. Maybe that is the way people think... when someone has been removed from their life, they remember fond moments and build sand castles with them. I haven't seen many of my tormentors in a great many years, but I remember them well. Even though I am not consumed with hatred towards them, I wouldn't greet them with open arms. I wouldn't greet them at all... out of sight, out of mind. I tell myself and others often that the world is full of heartless robots, clawing and ripping at each other for domination. Perhaps we are all robots, myself included... it's just that I am broken and in need of repair.

Timid Theodore

Tonight will be without the tongue lashings and bile drenched spit... I have finished feasting on the children and wallowing in my feces. Their hands dance with a new purpose... flailing the stage, as the body twitches in fright. I was thinking today, as my body was draped in a blanket of water, about the misconceptions of mental illness, as a whole... those sweaty teeth lust for the sweetest of meat. If you stumbled upon a handicap person, struggling to carry their physical burdens, would you kick them in the fucking legs? If you saw a person with down syndrome, playing with utter delight on the sidewalk, would you point and gape your mocking maw? If you met a terminal cancer patient, weak and sickly from treatments, would you tell them to suck it up and get over themselves? Of course not... sick, fucking, heartless bastards. Interestingly enough, people will treat a mentally ill person with the same thoughtless, callous actions... the tears become lubrication for the fucking. Depression... pathetic. Schizophrenia... serial killer. Mania... over-emotional, attention whores. The list goes on and on... each thrust splits the flesh even deeper. So why is this common practice? Is it purely out of ignorance and fear... what do you see, when you look inside of me? Personally, if I see another Criminal Minds, Law & Order or CSI refer to a schizophrenic as a serial killer, I will be filled with an overpowering urge to travel to Hollywood and stab those directors in the fucking throat 74 times. Yes, I know, that isn't very constructive to my cause... the passion runs deeper still. I am not a violent person in action... at least not anymore. I have a very hard time dealing with physical contact, so the likelihood of me physically hurting someone is very doubtful. That is not to say, I don't have violent thoughts... the screams were orgasmic and the grin was ear to ear. I suppose the answer is mutual to the later... perhaps it is our honesty and openness to ourselves that inspires the hatred and fear. We live in a world full of masks... all the players take the stage, forgetting themselves in the process.

Mary's Flock

Things have been quiet since my last purge of bile and ire... what better way to stir the silence, then a kick to the stomach? It is the 4th of July, our blessed Independence Day... another day to love, drink and walk blindly off of the nearest cliff. Fucking lemmings. What are we celebrating, independence... from what? Remove your "patriotic glasses" for a moment and think about it. We left England to come to America and be free... of course the price for that was enslaving the people already living here and shipping new people from another country to be our slaves as well. So here we are, free from England's rule and living the good life of any decent marauder... well done. So we form a government... for the people, by the people. Then we inflict the same rules and ternary upon the people that ran for "freedom"... same game, just a new location. Then a few "patriots" stand up and begin fighting for our freedom... while behind the scene a new Puppet Master toils with our strings. No, I am not at liberty to name the spades... the freedom of speech died long ago. Just think about where your money is going and who controls everything from health care to entertainment in America, you'll get the picture. Our wise government has striped every right and freedom from under our noses and the people are too daft to see it... all they see is "The American Dream". I'll tell you what the dream is... business. Morality has taken a back seat as we live the dream. Bigger, better, faster... it is the American dream. An empty mansion, a fleet of gas guzzling behemoths and toxic, glamor girls... life couldn't get much better. Oh wait, it can! How about a nation that builds secret death camps, poisons our water by drilling for oil, sprays chemicals into the air to spread disease and decay and a nation that stops backing our currency with precious metals, so that it becomes completely worthless... now, that's a great nation! Children burst from the womb while googling on their iPhones... the search of the day, is genocide. You've done a model job, Mr. Salt... please Sir, can I have some more? So celebrate your "freedom"... dance in the streets, burn your worthless money and watch it spew forth pink, yellow and red and have another drink, please do. Forget, for the moment, that you are a fucking slave to your "freedoms". Am I anti-America... no, I'm anti- sheep. I am wide awake and watching this lunacy unfold... while the others remain asleep and fondling their genitalia. Bah, bah, mother fuckers... Happy 4th of July.

Picture Perfect

It has been recently brought to my attention, that my "writing" has become a form of entertainment for a few selected people... a truly fascinating revelation, indeed. Apparently, what I have been doing here isn't actually writing or an expressive art form at all... the proper terminology is called "blog whining". In truth, I have no real problems whatsoever and any "abuse" I suffered as a child is typical childhood dilemma. It was also reassuring to find out, that any of my adult life experiences are merely poorly written fiction... now I will finally be able to rest with ease at night. Thank God! I can't believe I was so easily diluted and such a fucking whiner... well, enough of that funny business. Of course, even though all of this enlightenment has been so rewarding, it does come with a down side. So tragic indeed. You see, the sad part is... I will never truly know what pain, rejection or suffering REALLY is, not ever. To truly suffer in this world and and be taken serious as a writer, I have to change my entire life and circumstances. First off, I need to start a Tumblr page. The next step would to become a well experienced, self taught, highly intellectual 15yr old girl. I need to have rich parents that buy me everything... high-end laptops, digital cameras, a brand new car and a summer and winter vacation home, where I can escape life and refresh when things become too demanding. I'll need to find a boyfriend to lose my virginity to, so that I will be instantly installed with definitive and absolute knowledge of love and relationships. Finally, I will have to stop writing entirely about anything serious. Instead, I need to re-post pictures taken from other people and add intelligent commentary like, LOL, <3 and H8. OMG! I can't W8 (see I'm already learning, tee-hee).

Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my <3. Oh, one more thing... Fuck you, you mindless, soulless, fucking piece of dried up, dog shit clone. Honestly, I find this amusing more than anything else and incredibly refreshing... it's nice to have my theories validated about how worthless and increasingly daft the people in this world truly are. For me to be lectured by a child about "life experiences" and "real trauma" is knee-slapping, fucking hilarious. Children are growing up in a society where they can sue their parents for spanking them... while I grew up in a time where parents tied their children to a fucking tree and beat the shit out of them and we thanked them for it. A time where the children of today get "grounded" for a day or two from their iPod... while I was locked in a basement and forced to memorize entire chapters of the Bible to save my eternal soul from rotting in a pit of fire till the end of time. Here is the proof, my friends... we have officially become slaves to our freedom and mentored by our ignorance. I weep for the generation of children to come. What a truly fitting end to my fabulously, shit-filled day. Thank you.

T.O.D. - Unparallel Vector

Living in a fantasy is preferred reading for one's mind... safety, security, certainty, all the elements aligned in a time that reflects Utopia. Fantasies are safe and warm, but remarkably difficult to maintain... when the glass shatters, all of those tiny slivers bury deep, cutting you ten times over. It becomes more difficult than the situation you were trying to escape in many ways... so desperately running to the greener pasture. Worlds unwind and the walls crumble to ash... left wallowing in the muck and mire of shattered glass and viscera. It will never come to fruition... Maynard stated it best, "Life feeds on life- This is necessary...". The time has come to remove the slivers and lick my wounds... how many times is this now for you?

Below is another T.O.D. entry. I will give you a little preemptive insight forehand this time around. The title suggests this is written about the Holocaust... that couldn't be more wrong. I have no desire to get into such debates at this current time, but that most certainly isn't the subject matter. Dive into the rabbit hole and have a glass of tea, Alice... we have cakes and biscuits aplenty.


"Auschwitz"


Frosted dreams gone away,
Left here to die.
Sometimes I wonder whether this is real,
Or fantasy...
A hand once cold, warm from the sting of fire-
It's only my ashes...
Falling on your forehead.


-(An excerpt from T.O.D.)

Pulling Hairs, Pushing Stairs

More than anything, I want the words "I love you" to be uttered from my mouth... even though the translation is foreign, the yearning is deeply rooted within. The driving compulsion to repeatedly stab you, is whispered sweetly in my ears... even though, it would never be deep enough. I long to hold you close within my arms... till the convulsions have ended and your lips have turned a cold, dull blue. If I had but one question to ask... it would begin with the word, why. Why must you seek pleasure in harming me? Perhaps it is the chase... like a playground taunting. The bullies stalking, inside they're talking... for this school bell has long since been tolled. The need to love and to be loved, has reaped the rotten fruit of hate... a line too thin for sight.

Mass Effect

It runs hot... dry and blistered. Ushering the metal cocoons into it's heaving throat... freshly spawned locusts, learning to feast. Soulless... mindless in and out. Clutching at their chests, searching... the patent is missing. Dim the lights and bathe in the silence... awake. Can you hear the humming... coming quickly from within me? Can you feel it... the vibrations resonating in my bones? Five to One, Baby... One in Five. No one here gets out alive. Must. Cut. It. Out. Minority is deeper than the flesh... it's the missing ingredient, the lubrication. What can not be duplicated or grown in a laboratory... plastic priests and electric irises. Morning eats it's children. Evening exhales noxious trails. Night weeps rivers of acidic tears. Run, Lennie, run... there are no rabbits to be found here.

Targeted Message

It is within us... that fragment, that piece of Creation and all that is and forever shall be. Gifted to the star children and those that choose no longer to slumber... our birthright and privilege. Inside our soul, the light and love radiant to the frequencies and vibrations of the ascended masters... our brothers and sisters rejoice. Sending forth peace and comfort to those in need... wrapping them in the crystal white light of protection and the violet light of unconditional love. Balance restores in accordance to will... the dark has no place us amongst us here. So be it... it is done.

T.O.D. - Voy Perdiendo, Perdiendo

It's been awhile since the last T.O.D. entry... some may be grateful for small favors. The past few days have been relentless... my feet are swollen from the repetitive dancing with skeletons. Sleep has eluded me as well... not that I dream of sugar plum fairies in the first place. Usually I'm stirred three times a night with infectious nightmares... memories and thoughts nibbling at the curdled brain tissue. I wanted to come here tonight and write about things weighing heavy on me as of late, tell some adventurous tale of yesterday or perhaps finally speak of Serah Weaver... later developments taxed my ability to follow through. My mother needed some suckling and my sister needed some blood... my breasts and veins have gone dry. Time has hemorrhaged and the choir has remained quiet, preparing their aria and verdict. So tonight's entry will be another selected piece from T.O.D... boo, hiss, boo. As a form of compensation, it will require no dissection... tapestries are unfolded and the edges are in place. Those of you that have been following along have figured out by now, that every thing I say has a message, purpose or target... those gingerbread men are crafty and refuse the feast without chase. It is a bit graphic and perhaps offensive... to no one's surprise, I am certain.


"The Offering"

I had a baby-
And slit its throat.
It shook and jiggled-
Like a slaughtered goat.

It was not of joy-
But a service of mine.
An offer and payment-
To Satan the divine.

It lay there fresh-
On my alter of stone.
Now I must clean it-
Pulling flesh from bone.

I boiled its fat-
For a warm tasty drink.
Inhaling the aroma-
As it boiled up pink.

I ripped out its heart-
Squeezed it bone dry.
Ate out its liver-
And smoked its left eye.

I saved all the blood-
As instructed to do.
Anointed my forehead-
And savored some too.

Its red-stained bone lay-
Other ingredients in place.
For now it is the hour-
To see my Master's face.

He blessed me His servant-
Bestowing power in my hand.
No longer of fleshy earth-
But His immortal I stand.

-(An excerpt from T.O.D.)

Friendly Fire

Long ago, in my first "adult" life, I was a father figure to three young children... titles earned not by service, but rather by situational placement. I wasn't an adult, but I pretended to be... living with a woman nine years older than me and three children, playing house. The youngest child was 4 yrs old when I came into his life... it was a shared custody arrangement, so I only saw him on selected days. Anyway, for some reason, this kid troubled me greatly... perhaps it was the constant dramatic encores of his father or the fact I couldn't treat him like the other children. I began to hate this innocent child with the fiercest of passions. I isolated him socially... openly treating him differently with stricter displays of affection than the other children received. I would tease, belittle and called him "Jarhead"... I thought he was mirror image of his violent father, only knowing and thinking what he was instructed. When the kids would misbehave I would physically punish them... in the same fashion that my father disciplined me. I wasn't able to physically discipline this child or his father would press charges against me... although it was appropriate for his own father to act in such a manner. I devised a way to punish him mentally instead... it seems my inner ire wasn't satisfied with the destruction I'd already inflicted upon him. I would torture this poor child for hours on end with meaningless experiments created from within. If I was aware of a certain fear of his, in a time of discipline I would exploit that fear to my advantage... the psychological damage I caused this poor, sweet boy are unimaginable. I can still hear his screams of terror in the dark... forever etched in my mind and tattooed upon my soul. How could I have ever hurt something as pure as a child? I'm not proud of these moments in the least... these memories haunt me. I wasn't a good man nor father... I was a monster, thrashing wildly and destroying any trace of innocence as often as possible. Today is Father's Day... a day to honor the fathers that actually raised their children and protected them from harm. A day to honor their service, sacrifice and unconditional love. Today, on this special day, he wrote to me... wishing me a Happy Father's Day. After all of these years, webbed in those memories... this day, of all days, was the first time I've talked to him since we parted ways long ago. The choir has grown quiet and I am left alone to decipher these vibrations... like shrapnel ripping through my organs, as the bile feasts upon me from the inside out. God... I fucking hate this holiday.

The Erect Woman

Structure, structure, structure... every day is the same. It needs to be this way. I wake up, force myself out of bed, slide over to my desk and it begins... the marathon has started. All positions, please. The objective is to run as fast as I can, losing myself from the stresses that surround me... video games, the internet, DVD's. I'll keep running all day and all night... time is of no value here. When my body can run no longer, I'll swallow down a handful of pills and slide back into bed... when I awake, the next race begins. Seeing how I play a lot of video games, this generally means I am forced to interact with people a great deal of the time... this is highly problematic, at best. I am the puzzle pieces that a toddler has suckled upon... swollen and nibbled through, with no place to fit. Men make me very uncomfortable... we have nothing in common and the "fuck it or kill it" philosophy has no room in my life. I hate sports and competition. I don't drink or party... those days have done enough damage. So that leaves women as the other choice of socialization in video games. New problems arise. Although I function better with women... I have a penis, so that automatically means I want sex, right? This flaccid flesh disqualifies me from that avenue. I am a woman with a penis in the eyes of the cyber world... the erect woman. My mother told me long ago, repeatedly my entire childhood, how disgusting, fat, ugly, stupid and worthless I am... it is second nature now, so there is no need to flatter me with such words. I know all of these things... so, I'm not going to private message you for sex or throw myself upon you in such a manner. I haven't been intimate with anyone in quite a long time and I have no interest in that kind of adventure... I just want to play a game with someone. Things are rarely simple, but eventually I will find someone that will want to play with me. Time passes on. As you spend time with people on a regular basis, "friendships" form. I use quotes around the word friendships because this concept continues to baffle me. Friends are suppose to care about each other and caring about each other means loving one another... see this tangled web? I have written about love several times, so this is nothing new... love is a fucking nightmare. In my mind, I can't tell the difference between the various types of love... the ability to feel and process these emotions are long gone. Vibrations are then translated as caring about someone... so naturally you share this epiphany. The friendship crumbles, as I violently choke it to death, in a bout of miscommunication... the cycle resets itself and begins anew. Moustached women with their petticoats and umbrellas mourn the setting sun. In times such as these, I wonder when I will find you... where have you gone, Serah Weaver?

A Child's Touch

Where has it gone... why does it leave? Innocence. A priceless shimmer in one's eyes... the smeared window that takes it's place. Gone. Forever. The laughter of a child, the glowing skin of a virgin, the fearless beating heart... all signs of innocence. A beaten child stares towards the earth, the first sexual experience dulls the skin and hollows out one's eyes and a broken heart dwells unmended in dismay. Is it just me and my perception... how deeply can one see into another? Perhaps we can't... maybe it's merely reflection. Either way, the result is the same... innocence is lost sooner or later and once gone, it shall never return. At that moment of departure, is it just a sensation... or can others watch it dissipate into the void? I lost my innocence long ago and taken others since... every moment scarred and every teardrop bleed. I saw it... they saw it. We all see it, but will we recognize the event and remember? Innocence. Far from a single experience... many times over can a new innocence be found and then lost. Some take without asking and some give without thinking. I wonder why so few value that precious innocence. To rip it from one's chest with no regard or apprehension... in essence is the same as casting it aside without merit. Not by deed, for the severity differs greatly... one heinous and the other foolish, but both measured by the lack of respect. Either for one's self or another. In an age where people flock blindly as lemmings, eager to shed their skin and innocence... who led this charge and why must we follow? We are but a series of moments and if those moments lose their meaning... then we lose ourselves. Ah, innocence. My sweet innocence... why have I forsaken you?

Strings Attached

These lapses in time seem to be persisting... the paddle collects moss as I drift with the tides. I have the thoughts and ink, but it's the motion that's lacking... these past days have been exhausting. As the sun began setting on this day, I finally scrapped myself out of the webs and starting stepping forward once more. Events are plentiful in this melancholy life... interesting how time ceases to stand still with you. Over the past year, I have been working at getting my weight down to a reasonable amount... I've never been model thin or the like. Quite the opposite. After I was rescued from a third death, I began to put on more and more weight... soon I was up to 250+ pounds. The extra weight started to finish the job and soon formed hands to hammer in the nails... the damage done by the drugs, chemicals and alcohol was slowly repairing itself and we couldn't have that, could we? About two years ago, I was diagnosed with diabetes... I had to make yet another choice to live or die. So I started eating better... now the efforts have finally paid off, to an extent. I've lost over 60 pounds. This has been an interesting event... not for some feeling of accomplishment or pride. For the first time in my life, I can see my veins in my hands, arms and legs... that's what I've found so interesting. Delicate. I find myself looking at them often... losing myself in the trails of blood buried beneath the flesh. Like ripples in the water... my fingers wiggle and the tendons and muscles dance. If anything, I am easily amused. Strings that won't easily become stretched or frayed... I have become a new instrument to be played. The music never stops. The choir sings. Rejoice. Perhaps these strings will last much longer than before... I step on stage and take my place. Ready for the movement and direction... we sway. We sway. It never stops.

A Place Called Home

The telephone rings... the rhythmic memories come flooding back with each shrill. It's not like most days... your cackle and sighs of yesterday, wrenching my stomach as the acid burns my throat. It's a reminder, under the guise of friendly, that tomorrow is my father's day of birth. Your contempt is clear and your memories askew... those darkened days still peek from under your skirt. I wonder how life must be, in a world that tailors the events of time to your liking... the best fit possible, no remorse or redemption needed. You remind me of the beatings and the hardships, but the blame is cast solely upon him... I remember a different story. Your crooked teeth gnashed in ire, with a smile of disdain, as he followed your every howl... the thrashings wouldn't cease until you were fattened on fear and quenched by blood. He was the instrument of destruction and the moppet of circumstance... you always stood front stage conducting the symphony of madness, pulling those strings tighter as the flesh ripped. Many times, has he come to me over the years, broken with guilt and sorrow for his deeds... but you, to this very day, deny any knowledge or involvement. Are the skies clear and blue... birds chirping as the creatures of the forest romp in delight? Perhaps I should book passage on the next marshmallow ferry... I could bring you a pound of flesh and a vial of tears in exchange for a moment of hospitality. As for tomorrow, I will heed your call... we will laugh and we will cry. I have an empty room down the hall... a similar chair faces the window, like the one before. I have saved it for you, Mother... no vengeance required, only memories are needed here.

New Cure, Same Story

I have remained silent over the past few days... processing my thoughts and biding my time. My tongue and the inside of my mouth are raw and swollen with frustration... it is time to speak out. I was watching television the other day, which I don't normally do because I prefer to watch DVD's, and a commercial came on... the cure for AIDS. I am sure you've all seen this commercial or heard about it in the news... it's something many have long awaited. Here's the catch... it's a commercial asking for you to donate money to help fund the testing of this cure. Interesting. Have you EVER seen someone asking for money to test their new diabetes drug, various vaccines or anything related to the pharmaceutical realm? I know I haven't... not ever. Now they have a cure for AIDS, a disease that has affected the lives of millions of innocent women and children across the globe, and they NEED money to fund it's testing... that's an all time low for America and it's constant exploiting of the people of this nation. We've all heard the stories of AIDS and how it came into being. At first it was said to have originated from people having sex with monkeys in Africa and then the radical religious extremists said it was an act of judgment by God to all the wicked sinners and homosexuals. I am sure the theories and lies range from one extreme to the next... but what about the truth? Lots of people, including myself, believe the AIDS virus was designed and deployed by the corrupt governments of the world to further the nefarious efforts of the NWO. If indeed they are the ones responsible, then reason would stand that they already have an effective cure and vaccine. Either way, whether you believe this theory or another, do you really believe that the pharmaceutical companies need money for anything? It is well known that illness is a huge money maker for this country... just take Cancer as an example. In America, hundreds of thousands of people, at a minimum, die of Cancer every year... how much money did those people pay up before they died? Think about it. America stands by their statement... there is NO cure for Cancer. Really? That's interesting. I seem to remember a doctor in Europe that has cured tens of thousands of terminal Cancer patients by neutralizing their bodies acidity level with a mixture of baking soda and maple syrup. No, I am not kidding people... this is not a joke, look it up. People that suffer from Cancer have highly acidic levels of pH in their bodies, this is a proven fact... seems to me, fixing that imbalance would be of importance. If they won't give up their Cancer money maker, why would they give up their AIDS money maker? More money, of course! Let's charge everyone in America for this cure... they've got to get their monies worth after all. Millions of people's lives have been forever changed by this illness, of course they're going to donate money to see it stop the suffering... why wouldn't they? I'll tell you why I won't... because they're a bunch of fucking liars! Give your money here, give your money there... do you really think your money is going where you think it is? No fucking way! It's going into their pockets. America is not a country... it's a business. The Corporation of The United States of America. For all we know, this is yet another way to hurt more people... to further the population control. Maybe it's another step towards the NWO, by injecting us with microscopic tracking devices? "Okay, now you've gone too far... microscopic tracking devices?"... I'm sure some of you are thinking this. What? You don't think we have that type of technology? If you really believe that, then perhaps you are the ones that are highly delusional, not me. If by now, you haven't figured out how sick and corrupt our government is... open your web browser and search "Project Paperclip". It is admitted, proven in court, how low our government has gone to achieve their agenda. In all fairness, I'll side with you for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, I am completely full of shit and delusionally paranoid. Fine, I'll give you that. But then, in exchange, just ask yourself again my first question. When was the last time you've seen a commercial, dangling a cure in your face, asking you for a donation to fund it's testing?

Not The Only One

The day was like any other day... the sun rose and set as scheduled, but the lives entwined were forever changed. In the park sat a young girl, alone on a bruised, wooden bench... the tender age of seventeen, weeping in silence. A man wandered by and noticed her obvious distress... twice her age and understanding. He sat down beside her, offering comfort and compassion... with pure heart and mind he tried to ease her pain and suffering. Shocked that he had even noticed her, she looked into his eyes and saw his intentions were true... the familiar eyes of lust were absent from this man. She opened herself unto him, bearing her soul and her sorrow. He asked her why she cried so silently, yet with such inner fire... the sounds ripping from within her chest could deafen the ears of millions. She told him, with head lowered down, that she was a sinner... she had been tainted by her mother's boyfriend. For many nights, since she was the age of eight years old, he would come into her room and objectify her and subject her to his carnal delights... she was powerless to stop him as he grunted away her innocence with sweaty teeth. She couldn't bear the thought of going home, wondering if tonight was the night he would creep through her doorway. See began weeping so heavily, that she had lost her breath and could no longer speak. As she cried there, holding her legs into her chest, she felt a tear drop splash against her sunken head... it was from the man, his heart now breaking. She looked up at him in confusion, wondering if her story had moved this stranger into tears. She reached over and touched his arm and quietly spoke to him... the words, "I am sorry", echoed from her mouth. The man turned his eyes toward hers and replied, "It is not you, but I, that should speak such words.". She blinked, for she had never seen this man before... why would he hold any sorrow for her? He lowered his head and told her something very similar... another tale of the same design, many years ago in time. He told her that he used to have a step-daughter, whom he loved very much. So much in fact, that those feelings became tainted and muddled. One night, as he lay there holding her in his arms, he took advantage of her and fondled her body in a manner not fitting for a father and daughter. He took it further and within a matter of days he had spent three nights laying with her in her bed... the sweat, blood and tears clinging to the knotted sheets. The young girl was shocked by this confession, but more so by his reaction. The man had crumbled to the earth as he finished his story, with tears choking in his throat he cried out, "God, I am so sorry... please forgive me.". In between his gasps, he said those nights had haunted him for the past ten years... revisiting him daily and each time his heart shattered with the memory. He had tried to silence the terror by taking his own life... a scar traced his forearm, from his wrist to his elbow. He wanted to forget, he wanted to be forgiven... he wanted to deserve redemption. The young girl took his arm into her hands and raised it to her lips... kissing his scar lightly. He looked up at her, through his heavy tears, with confusion. She looked into his eyes smiling lightly and simply said... "I'm not the only one?".

Side Salad

Tonight's menu is light in selection and density... no severed veins to suckle upon or pending feasts. No riddles or flashbacks tonight. I thought it would be interesting to hear from you, the audience... whether in a comment or message, anonymous or not. I would like to hold a little Q&A session... you the audience can ask me questions and on occasions, I will answer them as a topic of discussion. The content is unimportant... let the blood and feces fly. Be vulgar, be offensive, be inquisitive, be concerned... whatever your minds desire. There is no taboo... shame and pride can be checked at the door at any time. Maybe you want to know more about me, or my illness, and have questions. Maybe you want to know what tripping for days on LSD is like. Maybe you want to know how being raped in a dentist office feels and affects the human mind. Maybe you want advice. If you wish to remain anonymous, I can respect that... I have no need to disclose people's names. I thought it might be a nice addition to the current ramblings... perhaps even insightful for everyone involved. Give it some thought... the offer is on the table.

Creative Juices

The inspirations have waned... leaving me limp in vigor and sensation. The voracity grows to rend open my fleshed vessel... your consumption and my dysfunction, reigniting the embers within. I have fattened myself on the paper shredded hearts... the cartooned images melt under the folds of my tongue. Exit light... enter life. I shiver as I feel you coming closer... your fingers tingling up my spine as my saliva thickens. With blackened eyes, I enter your world once more... Ouija communications no longer needed, once you slide inside me. My mind, your favorite fuck, shifts with each impulse... milky satisfaction, the days linger without end. Shimmering symbols and puzzle pieces take shape once more... the questions answered, in this world it's absolute. In the final thrust, there is no more nothingness... every void is filled at climax. You'll pull out slowly, as my eyes flicker and mild convulsions seed the sorrow... I am but a visitor and the gates are starting to close. Naked and exposed, my insides are out and my outside are in... I feel no remorse for the feasting, only anticipation for the next embrace. All will fade away within hours, as I travel down the astral highway... the puzzles undone, the mysteries re-web themselves in silhouettes of time. Trading pieces of myself, two days at a time, in exchange for your strychnine kisses... bathing anew in creative juices.

Unknown Diagnosis

I have been trying to get some answers and understanding regarding my mental illness for quite a long time... whether from researching the topic online or in books or speaking with my therapist and doctor, the results have been fruitless. The common answer I get is, "Hmm, I'm not quite sure.". So perhaps there is someone that will read this and may have an idea... it's worth a try. The only thing I have found to be certain is this... there is too much misinformation out there and not enough fact!

As you all may already know, I suffer from Paranoid Schizophrenia This includes all the other wonderful sub-symptoms like severe depression, anxiety, dissociation and social withdrawal... to name a few. However, I have another symptom that no one can give me a name for, thus no further understanding... no, it is not a delusion either. It has been confirmed by my doctors as a real symptom, but that's about it... I need more than that. I need to understand it, so I can learn how to cope with this illness to the best of my abilities. The best way to describe it is as multiple personalities, but NOT in the traditional sense... more like partial personalities. People with DID / MPD have entirely separate personalities. Based on my limited amount of knowledge of this subject, the core personality is absent while the other personalities are active. The core personality loses time and has no memory of what has been taking place during that time frame. The alters have different personalities, memories, talents, fears, speech, mannerisms and even sexual orientation. They are separate people living in one shell. These alters are generally created because of some trauma... the core person couldn't deal with the events, so the mind splintered into a new person that could deal with the situation. It was a means of controlling, surviving and dealing with those events of severe abuse. Remember, this is just my understanding and I am not claiming to know the specific details and facts here... please forgive me if I am incorrect.

The way my therapist has described it to me is this... it is as if, I "almost" splintered into other personalities, because of the severe sexual, physical and mental abuse I suffered as a child. These "almost personalities" are an active part of my life... when situations arise that I am not capable of dealing with, they "deal" with it. However, I do NOT lose time, in the traditional sense, usually,  and I am completely aware of my surroundings and what is happening... but on occasion, I have lost small pieces of time where I have no idea where I have been or what I have been doing. In most cases, I have been doing things I didn't want to do but was powerless to stop them from happening... like a puppet being manipulated by it's master. At other times, they have done things that I desperately needed done, but just couldn't. Here is a good example. When I go out into public, I don't make eye contact with anyone... I always stare at the ground and avoid as many people as possible. I don't shake hands with people or look them in the eyes if I have to talk to them and I am nervous to the point of a heart-attack. A few weeks ago, the car broke down and I needed to decide if investing more money in the car was a good or bad idea. After everything was said and done, it was determined a replacement vehicle was the best option. This meant going to the bank and speaking to someone about a loan... an impossible task. I became very upset and didn't know what to do, other than it had to be done. I stepped aside and someone else stepped up to take control. I went into the bank, completely calm and started asking questions. A man walked up to me and extended his hand and I shook it, then he invited me into his office. The entire time, I made eye contact and acted and spoke with professionalism... never once staring off at the ground or rocking back and forth uncomfortably. The entire process lasted about 15 minutes... which ended with no financial help of course because I am disabled. The point is this... that behavior wasn't normal. For that entire time, I was in essence, letting one of those "partial personalities" deal with this situation. I was fully aware, but my part in this adventure was merely a spectator... I remember being fully at peace and comfortable. When the immediate crisis was over and I was safely home, I returned to "center stage"... and the usual behavior returned like clock work. For that time, I was someone else... set free from the nightmare of my mind and illness. This is but one example, there are other times when crisis has arisen and someone else had to "take care of things".

I am frustrated that my doctors can't explain what this is all about... so, I turn to the audience. Other then them telling me things like, "partial personalities" and "almost splintered", my questions haven't been answered. If they could give me a name or diagnosis, then perhaps I would have better luck in researching it more and thus understanding it better. At any rate, if anyone has any thoughts... please share them. Even if your thought is, "Shut the fuck up!" and "You're so full of shit!" ... anything is better than, "Hmm, I'm not quite sure".

The Stain Remains

Have you ever committed some heinous act... something so putrid and vile that the mere thought of it makes you retch? In those moments, where do you find yourself... looking for forgiveness or so mortally and spiritually wounded that you feel unworthy of such? I suppose it would it be easier to find yourself untroubled, humored even, and the acts somehow are erased from your being. For most, that isn't the case... it's either forgiveness or grievance. Most, I suppose, seek some kind of repentance, which leads to forgiveness... forgiveness from the other party, from yourself and perhaps your higher power. It's normal and accepted... the appropriate measure, one would think. But what of the others... the ones begging not to be forgiven? Is it because of the act... something so reprehensible, that it doesn't merit such a blessing as forgiveness? Or is it because they are so sickened with themselves that they feel unworthy of that absolution? Perhaps it's both. People say that we are all worthy of second chances and amnesty... especially when they are the ones seeking such a service. Personally, I think most are deserving... if there is sincerity and obvious remorse. As for myself however, I feel a stricter sense of obligation. I am one of those that begs to not be forgiven... it festers inside of me, making a point of reference. I don't want to forget the pain and suffering I have caused... things forgotten tend to resurface. I need the reminder, no matter the cost, to keep me from making the same mistakes... however this system is flawed, proven over and over again. It begins to rot deep inside, the stench overcomes you and your every thought... soon, the reminder isn't enough. Torment becomes necessary. Perhaps it is because I truly hate myself or maybe these events are what led to this affirmation. Still, I find myself wondering... what does this mean? My hate reflects onto others and they become walking mirrors... blinding me further with the illusion that they, in turn, hate me as well. Perhaps they should. What does this say about myself? Am I a monster because I believe it to be so... or because, in fact, I am?

Moon Etched Bookends

After everything, all the torment and heartache, why would I allow further destruction... am I addicted to the chaos or merely longing for a bookend? Something to fuel the fires of passion, love, hate, isolation, cruelty and animalism... or something to lean on holding the volumes of this life from crumbling asunder. The last encounter inspired much thought and growth but charred my innocence and sensibility... the wounds are fresh and the void is limitless. These walls, my womb of plaster and wisps, are my salvation... the very foundation trembles at your approach. The smile that hides those hollow eyes is beaming through the cracks... tempting me with explanations of yesterday and the consumption that followed. Will you prepare to feast once more, knowing I have little to nothing left to suckle upon... or must you fatten the lamb before the slaughter? It is necessary... life feeds upon life and no key can keeping you from finding me. My friends, my bookends, are long forgotten... making me your desired prey. How I wish I could erase the day I found you laying there, laying in wait... had I not reached for something to save me from drowning in the darkness, your venomous charms would have been unfruitful. I close my eyes, as the moments come close to this reunion, knowing the inevitable... you are returning and I am powerless to stop you. I must... I musn't. Whether it's ruin you will rain down upon me or solace, I crave the affirmation that I am alive... if even for but a brief moment, at any cost. I need to feel. I need to destroy. I need... this.

T.O.D. - The Gaping Maw

It becomes deafening... the clicking and whirring, voices in one accord yet disarray. Recent conversations have unearthed the once prized stability... flaming torches of confession burn away foundations in the name of desperation and unchecked passions. My breath has become powdered chalk and ash... blinding the eyes of whom I so desired to see with clarity. The cancerous mass, once labeled a tongue, infects the ears that would listen... once what was one, has now become none. As I bathe in this wake of ruin, they sing once more in revelry. Your silence was an omen. Had I heeded you luster, my words would merit a continuance... now marred, the feasting begins.


"Emotional Roller Coaster"

Up, down- loaded gun in a holster;
I am your emotional roller coaster.
Inside, outside- as I fall apart;
I feed on blood and broken hearts.
Hold on, scream- life makes you dead;
I have many unseen turns up ahead.
Turn to the left, then to the right-
I am that denizen ripping you at night.
Back and forth- we go there once more-
I've always lived by words that tore.
There is no escape from this you see-
All because you made yourself love me.

-(An excerpt from T.O.D.)

Sweeping Doorways

It occurred to me today, that perhaps sometimes people are often confused in these things I am writing about... perhaps not the message, but the intentions or laced words. So, I wanted to take a moment tonight to make somethings very clear.

Yes, at times, I can be extremely vulgar, provocative, cruel and even violent... I am not apologizing for this, not at all. Sometimes I can be very offensive... this isn't going to change. My intentions are to illustrate a point or deliver a message... above all I am passionate, but passion doesn't mean just love and rose petals. I speak lightly at times about my severe drug abuse history, the abuse I have issued and received and sometimes in the manner in which I have disrespected women in the past. Do not be mislead here... these are painted images, not necessarily how I feel about things. For example, yes in all honesty, I am a drug addict and I always will be and quite often I abuse my medications that I have been given for my physical or mental ailments... I don't condone such behavior, it's not a good thing. But I'm not going to sit here and lie about the truth either... the truth is I was a junkie and in many ways, I still am. Yes, I treated women as sexual objects and disrespected more than a few in my life.... but this is intolerable behavior! I have the utmost respect towards women... now that I have grown out of my childish ways. Women should be treated as a gift and our second half to ourselves... not nameless conquests and slaves. As for the violence, well okay, that's a bit of an issue. I am not a violent person in actions... I don't even like to be touched by family members, so I am not about to go out and start a carnal feast. However, I do have some severe issues with violent thoughts and like anyone else, I need to control my anger so those tendencies don't have a chance to arise. Again, I am not saying it's a good thing... but it's a real part of me and I consider myself to be an honest person. So, if you are offended or have been in the past... what can I truly say? I will not say I am sorry for my words or my thoughts, but I will say I am sorry you may not have quite understood the message or my intentions, thus becoming hurt. I am not here to hurt people's feelings, but at the same time I need to be true and real about myself... this can never change. At the same time, I am not writing this message tonight to portray myself as a good person... I am not. In my eyes, I am a monster that has committed some unforgivable actions and many have suffered from the chaos I have wrought. So, if you must hate me, hate me for my actions, judge me for my crimes, but be sure you understand why you feel as such. My words are a message, to you the audience but also for myself. With clarity, comes wisdom... embrace that, and look deeper into the well.

The Swallowed Soul

Several times now, I have mentioned something briefly and stated, "That's a story for another time.". I can't recall exactly how many times I've said this... whether they were about Serah Weaver, shooting the family dog, being chased by a UFO or selling my soul to Satan. I do however, remember two occasions... tonight, I will keep true to my word and share one of those stories. Whether or not you believe it to be true is entirely up to you... I quite often wonder how much of my life could possibly be true and I was there. So, tonight's tale is about... selling my soul to Satan.

After dropping out of college to sell drugs full-time, then later using full-time, I enrolled in a technical college to pursue the life of a mechanic. In one of my classes, there was this stunningly, beyond beautiful woman named Maria... I watched her walk in and out of my life everyday. I was around 19 or 20 at the time and I will be completely honest with you... attraction, affection and love are directly linked to the penis of a young man. I don't care who they are or how sensitive they appear or how much they listen... it's about sex and physical appearance. I am not agreeing with this behavior, but it is the hard, cold truth. If I had to issue an approximate age that men actually become men, instead of lust driven assholes, I would say around 28-30 yrs of age... of course, there are some that never grow out of it and remain boys forever. Anyway, my attraction and desire for Maria grew stronger and stronger as time went on. I was married at the time, with 2 cats, a dog, 2.5 children and owned a home... having an affair or even speaking with this woman wasn't something I was very eager to pursue. Instead, I watched and dreamt of her everyday in class. One day, I started to pray to Satan during these times of watching her... my exact words are long forgotten, but it was along the lines of, "Satan, I would offer my soul to you, to be with Maria... even if it was for just one night.". These "prayers" or pleas continued for the rest of the semester... sometimes not just in class, but also at home while mixing drugs and witchcraft. The semester ended and we parted ways... never once did she even notice me or did I utter one word to her. Shortly after finishing college, my now ex-wife decided to exchange her morals as a devout Muslim wife for the life of becoming an online dominatrix and porn queen. The marriage fell apart and we separated, the children went to live with their biological father's, the cat's ran away and I shot the family dog. Calm down, it was a mercy killing... he was terribly ill with a gangrenous infection. After she got her business up and running, I returned to my house to live by myself. It had been at least 2 years since I had seen Maria, but never once had her image left my mind. One night, there was a knock at my front door... it was my uncle "Pony". He greeted me with a smile and said, "Nephew, my nephew, I brought you a present!". Out of the shadows, of the front doorway, stepped out... you guessed it, Maria. I laughed and asked him, "What the fuck are you talking about?". He told me he was at the bar downtown, met this girl and found out she had nowhere to live. He told her, "My nephew has a house and he'd love to have you move in!". I had never told anyone about Maria, so things started to feel a little peculiar. I agreed to allow her and her two young boys move in the next day and my uncle and Maria left for the night... leaving me to wonder what was happening. The next day, she walked over to my house and I took her to go pick up her kids from their grand-parents house, as well as a new cat. I had to be at work in a few hours, so we sat down and watched a movie... Maria and I on the couch and the two little boys laying on the floor in front of us. She started to make sexual advances towards me... snuggling close and rubbing my inner thigh. I put my arm around her and began kissing her... things quickly became even more so heated between us. She told me, "I have to have you... I need you." in a soft whisper in my ear followed by a few nibbles. I told her in respond, "When I get home from work, I will have you.". So I went to work... my mind was completely blown. Do the math here folks... for a whole semester this woman didn't even know I existed, she was gorgeous beyond words and she was already living in my house for free! Nothing seemed to make sense. I kept asking myself, "What the fuck is going on here?". I finished my work, closed up and went home. Maria had cleaned the entire house, cooked me a fabulous meal from scratch (and I mean scratch, there was nothing in my home to eat), greeted me with a warm and tender smile... she was even wearing an apron. I was offically in the twilight zone. She offered me the food and I set it aside and we began feasting on each other. It was the most intense sexual experience of my life, even to this day. Afterward, she went to wash up and check on the kids as I ate the food she had prepared and indulged in my after-work drug consumption. She told me to go get her after I had finished so we could spend some more time together. I had hit the jack-pot here... not only was she beautiful and the perfect housewife, she didn't mind me getting wasted on drugs and she didn't even want any for herself? I thought I had died and gone straight to Heaven... everything was perfect. I ended up using far too many drugs for the night and passed out, so Maria went to sleep in my bedroom with the kids. I woke the next morning to another perfect day... greeted with a warm smile and embrace and a masterfully cooked breakfast. Then came the downfall.... a phone call from my best friend. My soon to be ex-wife was in town, at his house, and wanted to "see me". I had talked to him about Maria while I was at work the night before, so he was giving me a head's up. He laughed and said, "You're fucked bro... what do you want me to say to her?". We had this terribly dysfunctional relationship, so I agreed to go see her at his house... this meant she would also be expecting to come back home with me and spend the night and leave the next day to return to her new lifestyle. So basically, I switched into asshole mode... full scale. I told Maria to get her shit and get the fuck out of my house, now. She was heartbroken or so it appeared... I've never been good at understanding people all that well. So that was it, she walked out of the door with her two young boys and their few belongings and I kept the cat for myself. I had obtained what I had wanted for so very, very long... one night with Maria. Other than her coming to my work a night later and yelling at me for the way I had treated her... I never saw her again. It is a truly bizarre series of events and even after all of these years passed... I am still not sure what to think of it all. Did I really sell my soul to Satan? I honestly do not know, but I refer to it as such because that is really the only thing that makes sense of out this brief chapter of my life. I catch myself from time to time, thinking of Maria and how things could have been if I would have told my buddy to get rid of my ex-wife and never kicked Maria out. Even still, I wonder if I really did sell my soul and what may await me on the other side... or perhaps, I'm living soullessly and tormented now, as I pay my debt.

For You, Serah Weaver

If I had to choose a favorite song, for the time being, it would be this one. I have been listening to it a lot lately... I guess it really speaks to me in some manner. I just thought I would attempt to share it with anyone that happens to come along and visit here. As for Serah Weaver... well, that's another story for another time.

The Shivers - Beauty

Melatonin Moments

False hopes rise, in this, summer's May... adorned with strawberry viscera and perfumed decay. It wasn't always as such... fearing now, I've lost my way. All is, as it was... was, as it is. With those delicate and uncertain eyes... I've seen this all before it's born. You'll trade your repentance, for my forgiveness... yet never once will you mourn. These pages are blind and mute, with no scent to remember. Lipstick fingertips and smoke stained lips. The forbidden fruit, with intentions moot... tattooed by your milky will. Your eyes were jagged and cracked... the climatic finish to a hollow seasonal feast. As before, I have tainted your candied innocence... with it's bitterness lingering, it haunts me so. Knowing now, all that you retain... seeing you and all that I remain. How did we get so lost... at which turn did we stumble? Was it the photographs... or stripped ribbons of things left buried deep within. Transparent photographs bleed between the walls. As fingers wiggle, the children giggle... with the mind of porcelain dolls.

When The Levee Breaks

Where would we be without our support systems? Not just in reference to the mentally ill, but in general. Whether you are a doctor, head engineer or drooling idiot... we need support. We rely on it, or them, as the case may be. I have mentioned before, that a support system is the key element to my survival... so say, the men and women of white coated fame. Living with Schizophrenia is not something I can explain or something anyone can really learn about from reading... you have to live in this nightmare to begin to understand the madness. Sure, lots of people know lots of wonderful things about us, the afflicted, but how clearly is that all defined? Yes, these are the symptoms... A, B, 3. These are the treatments... pills, support, therapy. But what does that mean? Now that you know the symptoms and treatments... are you prepared to understand what all of those things mean? Auditory hallucinations for example... you hear voices that aren't really there, but you think and believe they are there. Simple. "Snap out of it you fucking whiner and get over it already!! There are no voices talking to you!"... move on, next. Oh, if only that were true. Yes, technically the voices aren't real... but to those that hear them and are crushed daily under their thumbs, they are real. They are there... and they don't want to leave. You can't wish it away... there's no "snapping out of it" bullshit here. Taking medication can remove the voices, but in my case and for many others, I am certain... this isn't an option. We have lived this way for so long, that living another way isn't possible. The last time I went on medication to remove the voices, I became even more so depressed and suicidal. They may not be good company, most of the time... but something is better than nothing at all. The point is... I can't explain to you how severe of an illness this is... it's something you have to live with or witness to begin to understand.

Forgive the side track there, we were talking about support systems. "Technical support, technical support!"... I fucking love that movie. Why can't it be that simple... where is my Vanilla Sky? Without support, things begin to crumble... thrashing about themselves like fish in shallow waters. My doctors told me not too long ago, that the reason I was as functional as I am, is because of my support system... without them I would be homeless, living under a bridge in a dampened cardboard box, covered in my own feces and proclaiming my undying love for rotten meat. Well, that is really the whole point of it all isn't it? The long stories and explanations... every road is leading somewhere. In my world, trust isn't easily obtained... yet, I am forced to trust and rely on people every single day. My family members and the other interlopers that dwell within these walls from time to time, are supposed to be protecting, helping and watching over me. Lock the doors, check for fire, water leaks, running appliances, computers, lights... please! If they don't, it takes me hours upon hours to do all of these things... checking the entire house for issues and security breeches. When you see me scratching at my arm, searching for something... please come look at it and assure me it's okay before I start cutting chunks of flesh out. If I haven't eaten in a really long time, don't sit there and yell at me about it and accuse me of having an eating disorder... help me get some food. The the road leads here... my support system is failing. They don't understand and aren't helping me... they live with me most of the time and yet they don't understand. I have a house full of checks to do, I forgot to take my medications on time, I don't remember the last time I ate and right now I have blood pouring out of my arm because I can't stop cutting at it. I sit here alone in my room suffering, while they sleep... waking them isn't an option, this night is for me and the choir to handle. It's just us, we and them... watching the water spurt, as the levee breaks.

He Said, She Saw And We Heard... Nothing

Awhile back, I had mentioned that someone asked me to consider giving an interview for a class paper / project. I was very excited about the offer and agreed... the choir had assured me this would not be happening, so my response was moot. Time passed and I agreed with them... how easily one can be shifted in perspective. Well, it did happen... someone cared enough to ask me some questions and actually wanted to know about my thoughts. Sure, it's not going to change the world or be printed up in some famous or fancy newspaper or journal... but it wasn't about that, to me. Whether or not it touched anyone's life or changed the way they look at the mentally ill...I am uncertain. As for myself, it was touching to be asked and for a brief moment it returned some lost humanity... for a moment, my chains were broken and my voice regained sound. I will close today with the interview...



1. There are many theories about the relationship between creativity and mental illnesses. How strongly to you feel they relate, or if at all?

It's relative and subjective. Why does anyone really do anything, let alone excel at them? People struggling, or perhaps suffering some would say, with mental illnesses have an inner turmoil. That pain manifests expression, creative or otherwise, and it's put forth in a manner that is comfortable. Some paint while others may write, but it isn't a flower in a vase or man toiling the earth... it's their soul and the connection that is missing with the rest of humanity. We don't relate well to the "real world" and those "accepted citizens". For the most part, we are the outcasts and the ridiculed... misunderstood and the things that happen to all the bad little children. The difficulties swarming inside need an outlet and the rejection causes a need of acceptance... where one area of the mind is repressed, another will bloom. Creativity isn't something that can be taught or learned, it's born deep within the soul... something we have buried deep inside. When you spend time locked within yourself... there you will find it.


2. I am aware that you are a fan of Edgar Allan Poe. It is said that he suffered from manic-depressive bipolar disorder. Do you believe this affected his writings? Also, what is it about his work that you are so fond of/connect to?

I do believe it affected his writings in a vast degree... not just the illness, but also the manner in which he treated it. Poe lived a life full of tragedy, which in itself aided in his writing, but more so worsened his mental stability. Chaos brings about creativity... you burrow deep within to find solace and there you find clarity through expression. Poe treated his mental illness with substance abuse as a form of self-medication. This practice is common among the mentally ill and something very familiar to myself... unmeasurable perspective can be gained from awakening covered in your own vomit and feces. Had his mind been unaffected by mental illness, perhaps he wouldn't have abused drugs so heavily. In turn, he wouldn't have fallen so deep within himself to find the clarity and insight that he expressed. Troubled as he was, he wasn't the grave-robbing, sweaty toothed madman people think him to be based on his writings. That's what makes the written word so priceless... nothing is as simple as it seems. My favorite work of Poe's would be The Fall of the House of Usher... not for the content, but the message. In a way, I deeply identify with Poe and his life... the tragedy of loss, guilt and fear. His drug addiction and fascination with sharing his thoughts freely to the unaccepting populace. The way he weaved his words into a layered tapestry of thought. "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity." ... I hear you, my friend, I hear you.


3. Do you think that schizophrenia gives you a creative advantage?

Advantage comes with the price of disadvantage. Do I feel I have a creative edge? Personally, I would answer with a resounding no. People have told me, including my doctors and therapists, that I have exceptional gift in writing. When I was younger, I played flamenco classical guitar and was labeled "gifted" and many opportunities laid themselves before me. I wonder what the others see... is it not an apple tree at all? I believe my expressions, whether in writing or music, to be nothing of significance. With the choir singing it's daily reminder of what and whom I really am, never once is talented, gifted or creative uttered... "worthless", "monster", "filth" and "kill yourself" are my compliments and validation. This disease makes living "normally" almost impossible. Even if I did possess such talents, what good would they be if my biggest goal is to bathe sometime this week? So you see, there is the disadvantage. People of a healthy mind, have the strength and drive to live life and seek out their dreams. Here I sit, with a cardboard box of scribblings making sure my front door is tightly locked.


4. When do you mainly write? What emotions are you feeling? Do you write while under these emotions or after the fact?

Usually, I write as a means of therapy. I write in a blog online and I refer to it as "my silent scream to the world". Admittedly, I don't write there daily and sometimes weeks will pass before I find the courage to put my feelings into the void. I suppose I write most during conflict of some manner... inner conflict is a constant, but it takes time to separate my thoughts from those screaming within my head. Sometimes I write within the thick of it all, lashing out venomous spit at the world in frustration. Other times, I write when my thoughts have settled in one direction. Honestly, I suppose there really isn't a pattern of when I write. It could be either when I am confronted with an issue or thought, in emotional distress or longing or when I can't take it anymore and something needs to spill out before my chest explodes. The emotions I feel are all negative and constant. This illness and my abusive childhood have rendered me unable to feel positive emotions from other people. This causes a great deal of conflict in trying to understand the emotions I am feeling towards others... especially when love enters the mind. The emotions I feel, even when writing about love, are hopelessness, fear, loss, anxiety, ire, torment, confusion and discomfort. It is difficult to write about something you have no experience with... how does one know the breath within is stale, if he has never tasted the wind? When I do write, it is sure to be filled with some type of passion... and sometimes, I am shocked at what has been unearthed. Passion... the one thing that can raise us from the grave or usher us into it.

T.O.D. - What All Want, But So Few Obtain

Once again, I am turning back the clock... to the days of wind and freedom. Showing the "other" side of myself... the one not stricken with madness, despair and festering ire. Ah, we know what it is... the love piece, how trite. Yes, I am still a sappy, bleeding heart... fucking pathetic as that may be. Just because I have never felt love or loved, doesn't mean I can't have an opinion on the matter. Save the moaning and negative commentary... I have enough coming from the choir. Sometimes, we just do things we need to do... simple as that. Spider webbed tapestry and laced words still apply... you won't get off so easily. From T.O.D. ... more of the lost.


"I Have But One Heart"

I have but one heart and soul to give-
It is buried deep inside you; it lives.
Time has passed, yet nothing has grown cold.
Still I dream of holding you, when I am old.
If you had a source- you'd flow from within.
If you had a place- it's everywhere I've been.
Again at last- you have returned life unto me-
Expressed by those tender moments; love, you see.
For there wasn't a moment I had left your side...
I grow and beat within you- in there I abide.


00.12.09

Paper Places

My morning has come and gone... there is only so much running one can do for the day before the weariness settles in for the kill. Over-tired, over-medicated, over-"clicked"... all destinations are blocked and "No Entry" appears to be the slogan for the day. I can feel the oh so, familiar feeling of my heart breaking, but I awoke with exhausted tear ducts... brittle clay now stains my cheeks. This isn't new terrain and all the proper stamps and seals are intact... proceed. Not with caution or at my own risk or certain peril... simply proceed. My chair is worn thin and the painted plastic of my mouse has been worn through.... crowned the king of shit, with no wisdom to utter and no strength to abide. It's a shame really... I went to sleep slightly encouraged. For a moment in time, I felt real and necessary... how swiftly my tormentors rip at the beating heart and smother the light swelling inside my soul. I have another appointment with one of my "paid for friends"... I'm not sure if I should laugh at that thought or smash my face into the wall. Is there really even a difference at this point... or just another bill?