Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site

Inane Ramblings of an Absent Loon Part 2

Essay By: jonpelletier

The second part of my book called the inane ramblings of an absent loon.

Submitted:Aug 27, 2011    Reads: 20    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


I am clear-headed now, only a little shaky on the inside. I am glad that my mind has been shut down a little bit, that hibernation was just what I needed. I have a tendency towards psychosis or mania when things in my life get a little heady. So, dear reader of my work, I write to you from the Penticton Psychiatric Ward. This will be my home for a few weeks and that is why I am musing over the use of a dear-to-me name, Amor de Cosmos.

Can I righteously run in an election as this name? Is it best for me to resurrect the Rhino Party to do so? I want to do both these things. When I claim to be from somewhere else, a different universe or old-world city, is it because I want to convince myself of this?

I use the pen name Amor de Cosmos because I rightfully feel I can and should.

If it makes people feel like they were around last time I was, all the better.

I like the phrase, "usually described as a mad figure," to open the floor to discussions about my favored pseudonym. I do seem to be that person if you look at me. I have a mental health file. I tell myself that in the before times, while psychiatry was normally cured by full or partial lobotomies, that I was either chained to something by my family until the ills subsided or legislation was passed by my good friend the Queen of England suggesting that I may not be subject to that artifact of medical history. Willy-nilly lobotomies are a thing of the past so I feel blessed to be in the care of a modern psychiatric wing. But I am running on a tangent here, so I suggest we find out where it is headed.

When I wrote the "Viewpoint of a Short-Circuited Iron," I did not realize the similarities between it and that old animated movie, "A Brave Little Toaster." I was entirely unaware of that throughout the writing and editing process but it leads me to think that it was either cognitive dissonance, (my own brains refusal to bridge the similarities) or that nothing can be brand new. Can my writing be without influences?

I would say no, because then it would be Jabberwocky, the form of English prose that is garbled nonsense without any real meaning.

A naturopath once told me that my brain was basically on mushrooms anyways. This seems true. It explains, he suggested, why I cannot take them without the drug effecting me long term. It also is interesting to note that I feel that they will clear my manic states up when I take them. As a side note I still believe that they are represented as the tree of knowledge of good and evil in the Bible. I also feel the tree of life is Marijuana. It seems like an honest interpretation, so no note can show my beliefs better than reading the story of Adam and Eve.

So dress well and dress often. I get to scribble for a living. I was asked recently if I paint and I said that it was not something I did regularly. I explained that my thoughts are better transposed in words that other people can read and not in the abstract art they appear to me as. I find that if my thoughts are rather bland and literal than I paint abstract drawings, otherwise my obscure thoughts should be changed into paragraphs and such for everyone's benefit.

I want to write for a living. This suggests that I want to but I don't.

The phrase places it out of my reach. I think this is important and can be taken in rightful persuasive context with the idea that people know that I live simply in a town called heaven and not the actual place. When I was asking if this was the spot I should have known better.

It was a silly cry for help that was not taken seriously by my friends. That is easily forgivable because I have obscure thinking friends

Birds of a feather flock together. That is the balance of this universe.

I live in a land of plenty and I feel guilty. I love order because it seems unattainable for me. I am the personification of Jabberwocky.

My character is back. I was on a heavy sedative for five days or so and slept uncomfortably the whole time. So maybe the other characters are back. These are my inner children. I was admitted here because I was certain that I had a daughter that I had ignored for the first two and a half years of her life. Everyone has an inner child that is begging for attention and everyone has the insight of the opposite sex. This in an idea that can be written as: "Those who choose they do not suffer from delusions repress them, making their delusions stronger when they fight back."

I have gained much insight into myself in the care of the ward and am rather glad I took those mushrooms, by and by. It isn't worth the hassle and I fear that if I mention that I am thankful for the mental work mushrooms have caused me they may keep me here longer. If I tell others that the characters that write my stories are anyone other than myself my friends and family get worried. That is the way it is, because they are opinion or different aspects of my own thought.

The child is still but a twinkle in my eye.

And I cannot wait until she is real.

So now that I have proven that it is entirely possible that I am who I claim to be using this pseudonym, I jest: Why is everyone Frank Zappa last time? But even proving that I am who I claim to be is hard to grasp. I may have just practiced writing enough to have the clarity of Amor de Cosmos or musical virtuosity of Hector Berlioz. To be fair, I can't be certain that I am the latter. I just really like that name and it seemed reusable.

At risk of causing a theological debate, I think that eventually everyone realizes that they are simply still around in situations. Once this is rendered baffling, we start to trust the magic that lies in this world. Science is beginning to prove that this world is more like the old mysticism every day, which is my favorite post-modern thought. So we are back, it seems, to my refrain.

I must run for election as a freethinker for the Rhino Party of Canada.

Of course I could. This is a free country. One of our running platforms is in debate right now, as we may annex a Caribbean Island. The time has never been better. I doubt I could run using a pseudonym, so I would have to legally change my name to Amor de Cosmos.

And I consider the fact that I have before.

So maybe I should.


The next day we were drinking red wine at a small yellow restaurant and discussing the finer points of art and literature, or perhaps an odor, until we walked in a stupor down the road to the finest bar in town. A central location and lakeshore hotel kept the clients high grade. The music hutch was two blocks from the bar on the water, but they seemed worlds apart. There was a lot of money in the latter, and a lot of cocaine.

It would be safe to assume the drugs tonight had been provided by a group of three Red and Whites. I remember the three of them as loud, powerful and hate filled. The drinks were flowing and there was a pile of cash on the table. I remember a small man of large stature with beady eyes and a broken nose becoming very upset as three women left his table. The leader of their pack swung down upon my friend and I and offered her a drink. She politely declined, on account of my reservations about their personalities, which led to an angry burst from the man's nose as he stormed away.

A few minutes later I was relieving myself in the men's room the beady-eyed man stormed in on me, smiled and punched me. This leads to a small confrontation of words, in which I somehow managed to outwit the monster. He raises his fist again and smiled as I washed my hands in the sink. He mumbled something about how I was about to "get it" and storms out before I do. I follow behind him and join my friend, who is chatting up some real estate agent.

The large man stomps over and sternly invites me to join his table, and I obliged. My new best friend sat me down and showed a large stack of money he was very proud of to have. The bouncer is near by as his friend shouted, about the money, his car, his gang banging lifestyle and how "he don't need to drug a hoe's drink," due to the money. My pal from the restroom has a white rock on his left nose hair, but I didn't mention it. He finishes his part of the conversation with a fist swinging towards my head, which I narrowly escaped.

I begin to speak and one of the men tries to call the bouncer over, but he stands in one place. The man on the far left appears sad in the deep of his blue eyes, but holds the money tight and interrupts me. He asks if that's my girlfriend, and I answer no, and the large man asks "The why did you send back our drink?" I did not know the correct answer to this question. He again mentions the thirty thousand dollars on the table and his yellow Corvette.

I apologized for disrespected their way of life, and excuse myself for a cigarette. I am on the patio and it is mid winter, the waves are crashing but the heaters are on and a small man, like a young boy walks up to me and we begin talking. He explains he has my back, which eventually spins into "They are not allowed to be here."

This was my first taste of organized crime. I knew it existed, I knew there were bad people in my neighborhood, but I did not know the extent of the crime. It seems years of preaching non-violence and D.A.R.E. kid campaigns have created an underbelly of twenty something's that are elevated in the drug trafficking world. A contempt for others and racism only paralleled by their own hard drug use.

I remember when crystal meth took over this town. I remember the zombies, lost in their own delusions and the 30 year old drug dealers they looked up to. These speed addicts eventually become dealers and the money, prestige and power turn young boys in drug-addicted buffoons, with minds as narrow as their eyes. I suppose you would always be happy if you continued to do the things you enjoy. This theory makes sense logically, but I saw a very different story coming from the shallow blue eyes of the youngest of the three.

It is said that humans only hate others if they threaten them. I think this may go back to our primal territorial instincts and it is apparent nearly everywhere. I was sitting in a smoking room at a different club on a very different night, when a friend and I were served free drinks, I suppose because the bartender thought we were someone else. Offended by our presence and the women who were impressed by us, a twenty-one year old skinhead was set off, screaming and knocking tables over asking if we had a problem "here." His territory was apparently the smoke room in this particular dive and he did not need two hippies stealing "his" women. I was told the next day the man had taken out whatever drug-filled rage was building inside him on a native man at about four in the morning, sending the man to the hospital.

This is the type of man who becomes a successful drug-dealer. It is a business built on intimidation and the suffering of others. These are the men that fill our high schools with wannabe gangsters and fill East Vancouver lunatic drug fiends. The person, who starts buying cocaine in eleventh grade to be the king of the smoke pit is the same man stumbling down the street at noon, pale, cut, bruised, hurt and only a fraction of who he could have been. The men who thrive on this pain are sitting in the best hotel in town on a pile of cash with the bouncers at their command.

On Sunday night my neighbor was kidnapped. A skinny white man, who stayed in the shadows, drove his obtrusive black truck behind my building and calmly took both people who lived there away. He had the help of a sedan who stayed in the lot across the alley. Whatever transpired, new people have replaced my neighbors. I have seen one wheeling around in my neighbors' wheelchair as I pulled into my parking spot, but they quickly ran inside. It has been three days as I write this. I knew my neighbor had, at the very least, a drug problem, but I was unaware of the extent.

These things happen every day, and we can blame anything we want to. Their parents were not around. The TV and video games teach children this behavior is great. I enjoy blaming the "gangster rap" music, the 50 Cent's of the world, exposing how excellent the gangbanging, drug dealing, bitch slapping life is for everyone involved. But I know that Nancy may have lost her fingers, if not her life. She has a family. She had people who cared about her. She had peaceful eyes. But I suppose none of that matters if she owes you a few dollars. All this type of thinking is so primal, so thoughtless and so disturbing.

Dealers do hard drugs such as cocaine, ecstasy and speed. The world is their oyster, the speech impediments are real and the nights never end. It is a way of life, something I will never understand. The dive bars and abandoned factories used by these men have a certain stigma attached to them, through movies such as "Analyze This." I believe this is why the underworld always intrigued me. I used to want to live in abandoned factories on large pillows with grassy fields outside. I've always wanted to be a hobo, riding the train cars through the mountains and over borders. The real world has turned my view upon this seedy underworld somewhat grimmer.

Families in our town get torn apart for a game of power and influence. It is similar to the board game Risk. Another man dies of gunfire in this town, the body is never found and the family does not hear for months. When money and drugs come together, death becomes involved. It is a blessing on the surface and that is how one is dragged in to the world. It is an attempt to be tough and respected, to have power over millions and women at hand, just because you have the needs for their night.

There is a bigger issue here than the personal need to self-indulge. Those who use are searching for something unattainable. I have worked at a large rave for the past two summers, and see about 10 000 seekers, dealers and very few decent, reasonable people. The grown men and women at this event eat and drink as much as they possibly can and dance all week. The peaceful ones stare blankly at black light stencils of religion and let their eyes play tricks on them. It is a wonderful time every year, with the right soul. But a failed seeker is the one that looks to PCP or MDMA for enlightenment. Not even Hunter S. Thompson felt the door to enlightenment could be found in drug use. An addict, he wrote extensively about the failed generation that was the sixties. To paraphrase him, one cannot sit around and just talk about change, in order to change the world one must act, and the only thing drug use truly does is make one inert. I digress.

The dealer is the man who sells heroin. This is the man bringing the ten-inch hunting knife and seven-inch diving knife "camping" at a music festival. This is the man doing large lines off toilets at 50. He is the man selling a starving father crack-cocaine. The youth get tied up in the image and the bad attitude to steal from the world. The flower turns into just a lower back tattoo or a green pill. I doubt these people are happy. Does the man smile righteously as he pulls away in his minivan?

I understand that there will always be crime. As long as heroin is illegal and junkies are willing to pay top dollar for their apathy, there will be increasing numbers of vigilante businessmen who sell the drugs to their welcoming users. I do feel that the police may waste far too much time arresting Rastafarian for growing personal pot, and letting the true criminals free on bail. There should be nobody above the law and no man should have the right to destroy families, minds and respectable people.

I have seen the effects of drug addiction in my short life. I have many former friends who have been wrapped up in the high life of crime. I have a very good friend who has battled with crack-cocaine for 2 years, going to Narcotics Anonymous weekly and only finding that it was a great place to get his next hook-up. I have sat in a room with another man who was unable to buy crack and who punched me in the face, head butted me, attempted to stab me and finally held the small knife to my throat. By kicking the wall I was able to wake our mutual friend's roommate who helped me escape.

Drug addiction leads to mental collapse. The delusions of power I experienced at the Barking Parrot that strange Tuesday night are a common thread throughout all heavy drug use. This is something I've always thought interesting, but have never been able to submit myself into being a part of. It is a thread of dreaming lucidly, never sleeping in order to achieve steady waking REM states. These lead to horrible delusions, which are acted upon. Megalomania and delusions of grandeur are common. Yet these men are above the law of whatever scale they exist at. Whether it is the bouncer slipped a gram of coke as an entrance fee or the politician paid off due to the current depression and war in the country growing the raw product, these men have complete power and control over a situation. It is what the men lust for. It is what the women lust after. If you had the opportunity do make yourself that man, would you?

Take a long deep breathe and look at the small guy in the room, jittering in a corner while his ex-wife is screaming obscenities about how he should be killed and their daughter is in a crack head's care. I never have, and never will feel the need to be responsible for this. The men are responsible for these scenes and that is a horrid shame. The money is made on making people feel miserable, whatever the cost. I know this article will most likely not change people's minds about this issue. People will always want to do this; the fantasy of wearing the most expensive suit in a palace with a thousand friends and women will always be there. The mentalities of human beings will never change, but things will always be better than before.


The writer woke at 7 am that day to the cold air flowing through the cracks in his window. His hair hung low around a tattered collar. This strange and apathetic man rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. He looked to his left and noticed the feet of a small woman. He writes this now to reflect on the color of her red toenails against the spilled wine on the sheets. He looked to his right, and a half bottle of Stilvanna vodka lay in the mirror. He picked it up and took a heavy pull. He coughed and reached for his cigarettes.

He stood and looked outside. The sun was just barely over the horizon. The clothesline swung loose at one end, hanging free for two stories and tapping at a window across the street. He thought he could hear it, but it may have been his tick. The girl rolled over, "How about a cigarette, dear." She emphasized "dear."

"The clothesline is loose." He said, smiling, and tapping his finger on the window.

He felt like getting high. He hadn't been high in ages, but today he needed something to settle his nerves. The grey sky looked down on him as he looked at the grey city below. Three cars drove in one direction, stopping at the light on the corner. A young man jumped out of the first one.

The young woman jumped out of bed. "What's wrong?" she whispered in his right ear. He turned around, muttering. She looked at him, and stepped out of the room saying "Don't worry, I'll put the coffee on."

The man sat at the kitchen table. In his reach he had a teaspoon. It was about four and half inches long, with a shiny silver bowl, and a carving of a sparrow on the head of it. The man had always liked sparrows. They were so small.

Had not seen them recently though, perhaps they were going south for the winter. He sipped his coffee. He turned on the radio to white noise and searched for static. His eyes browsed around his dirty kitchen. The sink was full and there was grime on the cupboards, which he had never noticed before. He looked at the pile of newspapers on the table. He picked up the top one and opened it to the crossword, and closed it when it reminded him of the morning he tried to solve one.

He had been up all night. He wanted to sleep but could barely close his eyes, so he walked down to the ground floor and to the twenty-four hour bagel shop. He wasn't hungry, so he grabbed the paper and ran back to his home. Sitting there four hours, he mused, and only seven words.

He sipped his coffee, sitting for a moment and achieving temporary peace. He lit a second cigarette. The young woman sat across for him, her black hair a mess around her face. "What you thinkin' about?" she chirped. "You have to go, you get out of here. I'll deal with this."

He was tired and dirty and anxious to get her out of his apartment. He tried to stifle the thought of his daughter while looking at this girl.

She stated calmly, "I live here."

The writer opened the fridge. He gave up after noticing three balloons floating by his window. He walked over and opened it. It creaked but gave way. He stuck his head out and looked left. He then jutted his head back to send his eyes straight up in the air. He couldn't find the balloons.

When he turned on the shower it sputtered and then shot. He went to the kitchen and turned off the light. When the steam started pouring into the other room he sat and sipped idly.

Fifteen minutes passed so walked outside and the boy on the corner tried to peddle him another newspaper. He replied with a gruff no. He then checked his eye color in the window of the next shop. An older lady saw this and smiled and the man looked down towards the cement. Counting the lines in the sidewalk the writer clipped a parking meter. He ducked quickly into an office building.

Three seven six. A monolith of a structure, he thought, 48 floors. He and forty-eight others cleaned it. He was proud of that.

He had the job since seventeen. It helped him feel satisfied with the sandwich he had at noon. It helped him enjoy the cup of coffee he had at two. He enjoys the walk home; more so on the days where the wind threw him around and the frost burned his cheeks. He looked out the window and smiled for a second, but at the first glance he noticed in his direction he went back to sweeping the floor.

The young woman walked by 376 quickly, down to the corner and she turned left. She walked two blocks towards the bay and sat on the corner. She fixed her lipstick in her reflection on the window. She crossed the street and found her number.

Five forty two. She looked at the menacing staircase triumphantly. The vivacious feline smiled as she opened the door and walked inside.

Two minutes later she came to her floor.

She opened her door with a creak. She was tired, but only collapsed on the couch. She pulled off her skirt and stockings and began to unbutton her shirt. She got up abruptly and fixed her hair. She lit her cigarette, red lips puckered against the filter. She watched the smoke roll out of her mouth and against the broken window.

And it could be the start of a new era. Since the metaphor drops pills with the death kneel, are sober men mindful of work and ultimate old signal or sacrifice. The leaders led them through pantomime that took the leaders and held them down for a significant slaughter. The leaders of the sober men send their make their mark in the mainstream and my mighty sword has traveled and the writer pulls his hamstring.

The smoking gun is the fact.

In true he is still at his Smith and Corona. He is just a writer with will and I stay resting. Easy and modern the man smashes Venus if all settles and the men on fire are finished. The man of hope and rah are more modern than these parts they seemed more relevant. They seemed a simple outside fall and when they had to hit, they needed the simple ankh man rah. And when the modern man, fell upon their hit there was a simple folk who mentioned that the silver wit could not be explained.

And he would write to that as something that he doesn't. These martyrs seemed legit.

The lighter was a morning man who wandered. He lit it with a blow of fame and white jacket. He felt funny and good. There was something about God in the air. The license was written in peaceable pen. He took the license. They played in jam band so it was ok.

So he walked out of the store, lit a cigarette and wandered out the morning light. The space between them knew as if hind manic thoughts obliged him. This was a fantasy and he knew that it was calm.

The zebra destroys.

Killer magnet of wonder said, "Decide what you've got to do."

The move was a fast one, the writer transposed:

Huey Lewis and the News were formed in 1979. Huey Lewis, Chris Hayes, Mario Cipollina, Bill Gibson, Sean Hopper, and Johnny Colla were on stage. Lewis remained as an actor in movies. The next reading of The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll is of Jerry Lee Lewis. After that comes Linda Lewis. Then there is Ramsey Lewis. After that we have Smiley Lewis.

Then without warning we have Gordon Lightfoot.

Gordon Lightfoot was born November 17, 1938 in Orillia, Ontario, Canada.

The next act is Lindisfrarne. This is an odd trace. And I wonder why I cannot make it in a world. I should be a person able to glance at the living but I wonder why I cannot make it in and stubborn world. It is because I don't tour regularly. I don't want to. So I choose to be remembered as an entertainer.

Perhaps my music will be nice. I hear voices. I have to rely on the teachers of mental health in Penticton. My mistake is thinking that people won't even know me because I am on stage. I sometimes begin to believe I am acting in television shows and dancing around saving souls or perhaps damning my own. It was a strange thing that began as a curse. I had a curse because the leader of homeland security were appearing invisible to me. They jabbed me with needles and I cried I was John Lennon.

I am really in a musical group known by a number of names. These names are not always the ones that watermark our videos online so I should list them briefly before I begin: Science & the State, Dangerous Insomniacs, Whitey the Crime, Jabberwocky, Fancy Withholding & Lettuce, Fancy Withholding and Name Changes, Not-Primus nor the Dali's, in no particular order.

I claim that these are famous and sometimes prophetic names that should ring bells inside the listener if they remember old England.

I hope they do. Otherwise we are hiding behind the name and risking using the others with paranoid delusion. These names are sometimes mentioned in my mania to be as meaningful to others as they are to me. I should add, in the same states of mania I also claim that I invented the clock. As a suggestion of a teacher I encountered in my journeys I may add that we are particular devils that have been requested. These thoughts are referenced nearly every time I bring them up as inverted and silly delusions. I hope so, in part, but I also hope that at some point I added so much to this world that the invention of the clock could be a simile. That is everyone's dream I suppose. I doubt I have.

I also have an odd tendency to host an imaginary spell cast (or TV show in the mind, for lack of better explanation). I cast these thoughts towards people and tell myself that they can hear and visualize what I am doing; claiming that this is what people did before TV. Folks used to listen to old, dead, blind saints.

And I am a generally happy person. I just sometimes forget to record the jokes. I suppose that is that, if it rings a bell with you the way I hope it does than perhaps this is not our first meeting. Perhaps you were raised to fear the Jabberwocky. Or maybe I just want a spot in English myth.

Final themes and other mentions of a strange headache these last few mornings are sunshine when she laughs and a debate stirs about whether I am old or not. Although that is not entirely nonsense it is neither Jabberwocky nor satire. It is a funny dance that in the end leaves us alone. But her boots are well worn. They smell musty but are of sainted tomes. This is terrifying for us. These standard tired terms are basically a functional note.

It is difficult to suggest this form of prose is good for much beside gathering inane concepts when one is unable to find inspiration.

When trying to find a way to a thought that is not attainable, I recommend writing some nonsense about your muse.

Recently I found words are arbitrary. It is the idea that had one word changed six paragraphs ago the meaning of this sentence could be different, though the words stay the same. I believe that is the key to writing good prose in combination of being egotistical enough to think that someone wants to read what I have to say. So please do not fear us, as the old rhyme goes.

"These lips are fire, the tone is red, I cannot drift you past your head. When who you are writes whatever, these will not be sent. And if you fear the Jabberwocky you are not an Englishman, and we must watch for who you are."

We are good and as close to human as the rest of you.

We just make our living on stage. I slept recently for five days. This is always a weird trip and this time I was drugged and uncomfortable. The government did it through the hands of nurses at a hospital. I woke up and felt the need to ask if lasagna came in pill form yet. It was just to joke and be a lively guest of the ward.

I may have made the mistake of running away because I was discharged too early. I argued too much. Before the sleep I was unsure of a number of things, including the year in the Common Era. My concern with the true date can be stated in a manic way (mumbled gibberish) or as something much clearer. I believe the idea was that people are eternal but I used that thought to claim I was immortal for one year. This worried people and was the case for my admission to this part of Perdition.


Perhaps the universe was never created nor will be destroyed and that the human race needs to make the world finite in order to understand that we even exist, because technically we are not allowed. But instead of the normal heady arguments, I should speak of the art of dreaming.

I do not feel the need to just from an airplane or off a bridge tied to a rope. But I did last night while asleep. The bungee jump was an amazing feeling. I think I know why people do that now but I will only participate in these risky ventures in my lucid dreams. I can live without the adrenaline rush and in dreams I have transparent wings.

The rest is wondrous. We can fly around, dive from the sky, climb mountains and surf the best waves imaginable and still wake up refreshed? Does the mind ever rest?

I would live in doldrums not watching mind-numbing cartoons to settle my brain. This idea makes me think that the mind never really stops going for anyone but I should stay with my own personal experience. My body is often fatigued, like any mortal man.

And when I laid in that psychiatric drug induced coma I feared that my mind would never return.

It has, so I am thankful now and more wary of my self-destructive nature. I write to clarify my thoughts and find while they are abstract that I take to writing literally. On the other hand, when my mind is working in a literally way I tend to write abstract stories, play psychedelic music and try to piece together weird cartoons. This is a paradox of my experience and I wonder if it is true across the board.

I have never asked it clearly. The notion dreams are a minds way of clarifying the day as an interesting note. It seems that waking states effect dreams as the memory of something will effect you later but I doubt it is any more than that because I dream a lot of stuff that has no relation to my waking state, unless strictly metaphoric. So is there truly a world that we go to while asleep?

In Houston, Texas there was a young woman that introduced herself as Devine who wanted to meet me because she dreamed I was a sorcerer in a tall, narrow, hallow and brick structure that had walls marked in my tattoos. I was rather distinctive at the time and she seemed baffled at the situation. I kept her number because it excited me to no end.

I did not have the same dream that night but visualized it happening as she explained it to me. It seemed entirely possible and in the same sort of form as my dream. One can't be sure if her suggestion made me remember the event or if I would have actually dreamed it.

I can also recall meeting with a group of friends around a particular picnic table of the beach and bringing up the last time we sat there. We agreed there was an earthquake and were unable to leave the table to gain cover. I brought this to the conversation and we had a moment. Another friend said we had all dreamed this together. This moment led me to begin taking dreaming seriously. I don't think I could ever thank the man who pointed it out enough.

Although as I recall that series of events, all three encounters might have been dreams.

So maybe instead of bungee jumping tonight I will try another sport that I am afraid to partake in during the wakeful hours. Hopefully the lawn bowling club in dreamland is open on Sunday night.


The old question is: How can I be certain my blue is not your green? The truth is you can't. I think that is what I am trying to say with these ever-changing names and musical groups. I am still the same person behind the microphone. The songs don't change, though every time I play them they are slightly different.

When asked, the response given can only be as true as the parties believe. One must take into account that he has asked only for a response, even if he suggests he wants the truth. That is why everyone's perception is augmented and makes the correct answer to every question "We have just been asked to give an opinion." Nobody can be certain that they are correct. Nobody, it seems, knows truth. The truth is found when people realize that they have simply asked an opinion.

That is not to say that everything is a lie. It just suggests there is no truth or at least that truth is variable.

This was my last stay at the psych ward. I have needed to be heavily medicated three times and all three were marked with invisible people who told me I was famous. I had invented some device when I was five that led to me as Sir Jester of Buckingham fame. I ride on helicopters and dance with glee. Then I do peyote and drugs, but I don't.

These odd delusions haunt me for three months every year.

I feel like tobacco is pot and that I am allowed to smoke legally. All my mistakes and misfortunes are blessings and I attribute that the people were in some high section of show business and I tear at the eye because something happens with my pain and I begin to believe that the television show is real. There are puppets and cameras.

And it happens every year around the same time.

But God saves me with blessings as I turn towards these friends at Mental Health. If something is wrong it is because I should not tour. I should write. I can't complain. Schizophrenia is best if I'm writing and tapping and not standing over the sink washing dishes and thinking there are people that are standing their with cameras or that people can hear the voices in my head. People with schizophrenia should hang out with other people. I think that schizophrenia is about believing that the ailments technical name has a T when it is spelled.

I have little monsters lacking their own sort of fame. I have nothing but a promise that these little grey men are coming into my space and telling me it is the CIA. The story of possible genetic romance was the detail of phonetic space. This recent episode I was invited to visit the queen, this time without the pope, for a party that I was playing in my band. It was a wedding of distinguished princes. I was unsure which one it was.

I was dancing around a church being video taped. I was asked not to paint another church because the insight was a lie. And only the cool would have survived. It would be a strange test. Our hero thought for a lark. Do you believe in Dick Cheney? Did someone really go into show business doing that and dressed with such a name? It was a strange thing. Those who did not find our hero cool would be punished. This was a simple goal that this man possessed with the marched and held men who based riots and refined the old Sigmund Freud research that changed my life and I did not hold on to.

This man was marching all over me. He was paradise and savior to very large groups of people holding guns and in fear over alkaline simplicity. The monsters of Christian Rock spoke out against their wars. They were banned from lots of shows and they were told to be because every man is fabled to be able to be President. And if a man works hard enough to impress the right people to become the President then he motioned that the shelter broke borders and some people have it better in life. It is a disaster of life that I don't know or really understand. But the fable is that anyone can become a world leader in democracy. I suppose that is true. You just have to start with municipal elections. It is the conquest of your acceptance by people socially in mentality.

The key to being cool, Dick Cheney Figured, was to be a little badass. And a philosopher said, "I think therefore I am."

That thought was first studied under Descartes.

I believe, as liars and saints

That we the people

Only have eyes for you

I am a product of my television and that is why Coca-Cola is a product for me.

I also believe that the only reason I took street drugs was because people I figured worked for the Government prescribed my medication for a fright I had one year. I considered that I was much older and I needed to take the American Presidents soul. It was odd because it was as if God was telling me that was what I needed to do for the world. I remember believing in these odd and epic dreams that included rushing over in a dream to help with people at 9/11. One was in a post-apocalyptic New York City and it felt like I had a mission to find my wife. When I found her she was old and happy with her life. The memory suggests that I also found my brother and I remember the ending like an odd statement. I was flying a rocket ship and there was a woman with a gun. She was singing an old French song when she committed suicide.


Then I denied for a number of years that I had mental illness. There was an odd event in the past was a lie. This is more for myself than anyone. The childhood marked with odd minds of haunting and direct flight. The water marked social circles stated their name.

The results were on fire. There was nobody standing there and the whole world of light.

I had no sandals. This was because I did not work. I was scared and the whole world took his statement as a mark but I was of the belief of the chemicals that made a man write and the many old writers and painters who partook in Absinthe and the tree of life. These men were my heroes and I took the prescription. I slept until I noticed I hadn't a friend in the world. This was a shame because I still had only three people I really encountered. Street drugs were available and I took them because I thought the people that were on them were on them for the same reasons as me. Genuinely they were not. Not at that point in my life. I was an unsung hero, writing work with the curse of the Christ complex.

That witch had cursed me.

The story on CBC is of a jazz musician. He is schizophrenic and is speaking of the demons in his head. I fear that I have become like that rather cautiously, though I write of it often. So I should transpose some advice I was given, "They say wisdom comes with age, but fortunately Beavis and Butt-head don't grow any older." Hume says that "Errors in religion are dangerous, those in philosophy only ridiculous."

Immanuel Kant, from Germany, says, " Two things fill my mind with ever increasing wonder and awe, the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me." This says he was a man who lived his life in a precise routine. Also from Germany came Hegel. He believed that "All knowledge is human knowledge."

I have done so much wrong that I have so much luck in my life.

This is no serious command of time, just as most of these phrases can be dissertated. The balance of the universe is apparent it many forms. This is just one of those balances. If one tries to explain that every force has an equal and opposite reaction then I assume that most of what is sent will pause and laugh for a moment.

That is not to say that the dissertation is depressing but to consider that the typing in this room is creating waves on the other side of the ocean, or at least my movement is like all movement and is a part of the commune that this magnet that we live on should be. We all influence the world in everything we do. The question I am faced with is karmic in nature. Do I draw people towards my space with my actions? This opens this debate to the metaphysical.

It is better than "Why am I here?" Plato asked, "Is there a perfect world?" because this one is not it. This may be a divine world in many ways because there is this balance in the universe. But in schizophrenic states I have began to fear my actions. I do not want my success to be someone's misfortune. Is that why the Christian church call all people sinners? I know that the best way for good fortune is to truly deserve it.

But that is a belief.

And so is science. That reflection suggests that there is not a grand unified theory of everything. That explains that human consciousness is a reflection of the world around the subject and vice versa. This could suggest that people should have assumed karmic principles over the eons. It would be scientifically valid for these ideas to have been considered even if the rigid scientific brain may not agree.

The mark is see is on my own skin. These thoughts can be confusing. It is best not to try to explain this is just a reflection of my own world.

And then Ed returns. The man from the toaster video said something wise to some nice children that grew to become well-adjusted adults.

I imagine that all these signs are shows of people that have men and women in shackles or between their soft heavenly existences like myself. I will wonder one day why a good man like me is in a world that is tormented and bullet filled. I am sure, but that is because I believe in the eternal soul and the balance of my own personality.

I am trying to love this peaceful world I inhabit while it is here because one day I will assume the balance and create something like I have in the past. The pain of such a world creates great art. Sometimes the dichotomy is necessary because the eternal wise older spirits learn the balance in them, so that we could become a mortal man they haunt us with threats. I do not believe that good actions lead to peaceful worlds.

The balance does not let a human remain altruistic. I hurt my own psyche angry because I was not able to be so. The toast was better than the noodles that I ate. I was happy to eat the food and made sure to be thankful for the blessings I have. Life is a struggle and when it is too good the balance makes it difficult to understand why nobody can relate. This is like my teenage years. I needed to learn and build character, I assume.

The primary goal of advertising is to convince a viewer to buy a product. If one would like to feed their dog Purina brand dog food they are told their animal will be a smarter, happier and healthier dog. This is the idea behind any advertisement.

When advertising cocaine, the television suggests that it is a wonderful way for one to become smart, witty and very rich. This is a suggestion that many young men and women who think venturing towards a humble trade such as cocaine use. Due to the advertisement of the sincere grand lifestyle that comes with cocaine use a young writer is suggested to turn to drugs to find their inspiration. Many famous speakers have boasted about this form of inspiration. When one finds that these chemicals are nothing but blinding and a mask for ones own internal issues, they usually speak out against them.

Man is the problem because we are not divine. We strive for it but fall short and tell ourselves that other men are there to be happy. These other people who can explain the divine to us. There are artists that we raise high above us as people that are better at the things we want to do. That is the thing they do. The Gods did not do that, man did. And that is humanity at our finest. The better air is that only some people share mission or faith of that Lord that made decrepit people doing horrible things.

It is a wonder we can speak at all. What is different about man and animal? And what of the agreement that is the sound of the word animal?

It is better to leave this page here with the smarter mortal who led a lie.

He is often smarter.

Life is fleeting as you count sixteen gold skulls is another mans book and claim that you wrote it. It is the connection between cigarettes and mania. Covering up that it's harming your body may create delusions. So I wonder whether all those who smoke are crazy or if all those that are crazy choose to smoke.

And these are my bold paragraphs.

So I wonder aloud who I am as a writer.

It is possible that I died and chose not to accept it. I lived a wonderful life in a town called Summerland and I can think of nothing but hard times before it. But what is it that I am trying to say. A pseudonym like Hector from Jabberwocky doesn't really ring bells with people in Whitby, sir. That is what the postman said.

These are all just delusion of the highest order. Pay attention to your shipments. Keep yours bases covered.


But covering your tracks hoping that someone loved me in a past life is sheltered and blue of me. I can't take time for myself anymore; I can't find the words to pass me through these bland old bus shelters. I have tried for years to be someone that people like to pass through for humor or strange insights. I need more characteristics. It seems any of the readers are laughing for these are the rambling trails of a schizophrenic. I find that sharing my thoughts with people seems to sooth them.

I need to find shelter from my internal storms as they are all self inflicted. A much cooler man would have shared a harrowing journey, cats that jump and bounce and play for some, that would have been better. But I am the kind of guy that writes an entire book and waits too long to rewrite it. A true writer needs to be watched. He also needs something besides his own internal wars to talk about.

The key is to leave this train of thought. I am not that interesting. It has been 10 years since the day I decided that I would be a smoker. In that time I have told myself many things but capped the moment off with the lie that smoking cigarettes really isn't that bad for me. Since I started this action my days have been rife with far more ups and downs than most. Is this my own chemical imbalance? I wonder if it truly had cropped up since my infatuation with tobacco began.

I don't remember these nervous rickets before then.

My smoking has made me outside the general community as I nervously try to decide where my next pack is coming from. But these are my own social rules and I admit I create the world I live in. This world is rather good, but one might add that the expense of buying these smokes far outweighs any benefit to smoking. So I tell myself that I should quit. But I don't.

This procrastination stinks with the idea that I cannot change my habits. These ideas stay with me from day to day, creating a foul air about me. It may be the very chemicals in the cigarettes. I think it is the denial. It is best to say that if I truly wanted to quit smoking I would. So do I like the habit? No, I want to quit.

And this mania that I stay in seems to have began with that phrase.

I am a stubborn old kook, level headed at most occasions and for ten years found with a coffee and cigarette. I am twenty-five years old and only began smoking at age fifteen. It was a thing to do to make me cooler. This didn't work. I feel that it is a habit that reminds me of both good and bad things, mostly of wasted youth and primal triumph.

I have been diagnosed schizophrenic since the age 15 as well when I started to find that I was having delusions of grandeur and mashed nonsense. I thought things were coming to an end for a bit, but it seemed to balance out finally one time with a cigarette.

Once I remember thinking that we were finally one, the cigarette and I. Making time to practice every day for a year I could finally claim to puff like the rest of them.

This was bad planning on my part, but I think the best thing to do is allow extra words in drafts now. Because the best things in life are free but the rest of the world needs to earn their own money. The delusion that sings now is the one that you are simply an old man compared to your crafty youth. A twelve year old me would have never thought that I would be here.

For some reason I am trapped in a thought and can't get out of it. This is because of non-compliance with reason and a dream that you were wouldn't you. The grandeur in the statement is off. It seems true. The question remains, does smoking make one simply delusional or do the delusional simply smoke more?

And there is a societal gap, too. "So what have you done?" She asks, "What is your occupation?" I have little to reply except, "I am a smoker." The saving grace and all the other instances that led to this peculiar definition.

I am unsure of the others. The dilemma is to just write fast enough to edit using the spell check that let me in the first time. Otherwise it is just pants less drama.

I have been a person without medication and acting like a loon for about five years now. I refused to accept that there was anything wrong. When I finally decided to ask, for the most part they told me the answers that I wanted to hear. It was a strange vacation that led me to their care. I am very glad those people were there to pull me out of the haunted building that caused my quick and immediate demise. That was worst-case scenario.

The best case was that I had worked vigilantly to create a body of work that I could be proud of and I was speaking to people who were not there. This happened again last night. I remember ranting and raving for the last few years mindlessly, bridging the psyche's gap for myself and then acting in silly and stupid funny ways. Sometimes my art was tremendous, but to the real of my friends I was acting like a fifteen year old who began to live at twenty-five and began to beg for my saving grace.


A saving grace is one of those complex ideas that mark the path that anyone takes in light and happy sovereignty. My saving grace has always been music. And this mania has led to a very good place where I realize that I should listen to the doctors.

When I had been discussing AIDS as created in a lab or our shadowy rulers being anyone but the trees, the whims of the great magnet brought me to a manic state.

Our shadowy rulers are the mountains and trees because we are free to listen or not to any man on the radio before his fuzzy state marked by delusions of grandeur. I hope those that read and listen to my rude musings realize such cruel things as Richard Channing destroyed while being scared to be gay is just a lie told on stage.

I have imagined our leader to be some cruel nemesis mostly because he has decided that he should wield power over me. This is common. So just as he had told us that we are not committing war crimes I should add that I look at the world differently than most. The doctors have proclaimed that I look at the work I have done wrong. I honestly didn't think anyone was listening.

And that is important, because I can't be sure what I said. I met interesting people and made a long process out of these thoughts. The background is of an actual schizophrenic. I have to admit that now.

I was just on the cross-country train tour I planned with my friends. We played music every night. But my father told me that was all a lie. He said the doctors were not to be listened to and that I must respect him.

If there was one thing that I can do it is that.

The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career.

He has suffered from writer's block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any from the old world still made their fountain shake a wrench over for details. So I provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope laid a downer of "Maybe" in stride. It was the truth she told him, and I stay inside also. But I hope that my revelation doesn't sound like I'm rude. I just didn't know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it's a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time.

I have a legitimate pause for my morning shine. I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together.

It was a grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine.

Beautiful moments are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels and we are brand new, cell by cell, every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don't know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I'd rather be positive and just keep musing on.


I am the sort of guy that loses interest. My refrain is a lonely one and all changes that come with me hardly bear impulse before they leave. This makes me realize some of the notes that I have written before now are rather interesting and should be restated. Other notes that I have told some people about are just nonsensical and should be plucked from the web.

So perhaps this is a career. It is surely a body of work.

There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I can see. That is not a world you can see.

That world is just a distraction. The world I see is a momentary lapse of reason and thought. That world is mandatory and the other worlds are not real was my belief.

I had regressed about six years ago and I could not be the man I wanted. It was a constant struggle of good and evil I thought I had passed.

This should be taken as an open summary on life and everything because this book is about the new beginnings and the world revolving around the low watt light bulb.

This is the sort of diagram that a siren named Lost Tiger devised. She would discuss life and everything with interesting people all day and get paid for it by the government. The idea relied on an eternal soul though she was she had very small answers when asked by her husband.

Both found it better that they rarely came to the slightest bitterness in their voices during their discussions, which included the world as it lay in a box and some little caves that surrounded a very real mountain.

They say there is gold in the caves, hidden during the last passing band of Juggernauts that by now are far into the backcountry and singing their merry songs. But all the common country folk avoided the land of the Juggernauts. This particular troll was strange and an avid learner so all the back trade letters that and the other temped you empty. Formal words and that little rose that made him more like a devil and tired in the heart. The poetic justice that needed to help the people was 60 years in the past and they now lived in peace.

Each side had great heroes and in the end of the recent one hundred years war they simply could not recall who had struck first. The mothers of children regaled stories of the heroes in the hat room or barrooms to sustain brawls between two men of the same race in order to keep the metaphysical balance.

Two different men are charged with an offence where needles and monikers reined. They needed to be battle weary and play tunes to a different tone. The best men knew where and why they needed to crawl. But the phenomenal mention is about two children, Pan and Pook. The book should not be like them at all. All people wanted to leave the stage for a while and write. They are allowed to do that. And maybe he will be with grace. Perhaps he can carry the roads to quarries that lined the route where the great battles had their end.

For sixty years ago two men like Sampson were born on either side of the long valley and each became king among the valley dwelling men.

The nomadic trolls are awkward and subtle and little else. All parties are at peace though they know they are stronger. Or there is a wizard and he is saying nothing to the men. I see him real and modern like a pest that goes away. His manners are Soviet and he carries a light goatee. He is light to the touch and he is briskly walking my way.

I have little else to be less than a socialite and blessed in the touched of everything worn. They tell me my name and I am left to the house. The robbers march in and take care of the champagne. This had to be work, it had to be real and if it was not funny than it could not be for children. It could be for children and the children that came next, they are whom this tale is for.

The latter part is spent mentioning sentences slept upon and an ounce over a snide bouncing is out. The martyrs are conscious and light their old ounce with it and he passed the dockside in a drab stride and looked as the bouncers led another drunk man out the bar. It was too early in the morning for a character like that. He must have be


| Email this story Email this Essay | Add to reading list


About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.