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Inane Ramblings of an Absent Loon Part 3

Essay By: jonpelletier

The third part of inane ramblings of an absent loon

Submitted:Aug 27, 2011    Reads: 12    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   

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 been up all night. They were elders and humble about their beginnings. He had little red cigarette bouncing before his eyes. I had nothing of the sort. All that he gave to me was his regret.

He said he sounded like a musician, I surmised.

And letters there should have been men and letters that they had about a colleague that lived in Festin too. He lived in the place that nobody left, one that was made for a message and still monikers.

The parameters for a world such as this could be foggy cold days and a lot of time spent inside. The drip on the rain from the large tumbling pines lets him settle and be right tonight. He felt better than he ever had. He never knew the war, and had met many Juggernauts in his wayfaring days. He had felt like an outsider while traveling but no one would harm him. There was none of the hate they told him there used to be. He had told him they used to be because of the men that she'd rather fancy.

His hairpiece was a metaphor for the symbiotic relations and fierce accusations that led the people to believe that only a few men had accomplished very much. If otherwise occupied men settle in, they have Montreal mindsets and are much better for it. They symbolize the nomenclature that haunted this desk and the typist looks at these words.

The Trident stood strong and exterior agents felt unsound. Those words held his wrists as if it brought some sort of prayer.

The chief and his men approached a dropping point and needed to bury all that they had. These metal machines are behind me and they leave their old rocking horse pastures that push you from the edge. This world was lit by one single light bulb, and the unruly men had their hands on the power.

So fear him, no I would never fear him. I have all my faith in the church. They will and always have been right. Do the right thing. Hold your heart strong and you will flutter but the nonsense is quivering and lit by this light bulb. It was all he had. Without the bulb he had nothing. Yet it scared him, he would have rather had nothing. These were the ones who walked away. These, however drastically, needed to make this man over. All who settled his wary soul breathlessly replied, "I will."


Only the pattern in my mind holds me back.

Like the spinning of the looking glass and her awkward medicine he needed to lie down the open doors and freeways and the like, or a bit of the answers that sheltered his mindset. They wanted to be fair and so we were monitored by the license that held their vase open and needed the overrun to be lit by the fire.

But this meant they would go too slow. Or would they run to fast?

It was something in the middle. They didn't know yet, but this trip would be somewhere around average in every aspect.

Nothing too vicious went awry. Jack Platt would have it the other way. They all sat in line waiting for Jack. He was late often and wore a suit with a black fedora. "Everything looked better through a black fedora," Jack would say.

In agents of ceiling fans buzzed and the doors spun him through to the bank in front of him. He marched across the floor and waited in line near the teller. They knew every step was in the wrong direction; the men faced their doom. It was three in the morning. Blissfully the sheep were told that minds and hearts matter. I fear the poetic justice perused by this character might be harmless.

The poetic justice of this character must be harmless. And with that decree I proclaim that the one true road north is the table salt and pilgrimage to Bethlehem.

Jack is a religious man. I feel no need for the sideways glances that giving this sheet to an editor would do. The best way to write is to catch you writing and then find your old journals and act on their notions. The only way to start writing is to move past the first barrier and then face the barriers that come later on. And with this I should smoke, as my eyes are beginning to hurt and I feel like a poet in need of an opening.

The writer is the character in all recently read journals but the self-righteous struggle is epochs in scale, at times. This is another muse I have within mental illness. This state leads to a perpetually wiser and safer conclusion. These conclusions are difficult to grasp and I suppose the normal person should let such ideas just be.

The mad mind is the one to reach inside. So even as weaker minds do not prevail I wonder in writing what I'm doing to my world. I have found the brief manuscript and by chance I read that one. It told me what I'm doing I am doing right.

Though I try a simpler note. A smoke, yes a smoke. That is what I need. At any rate a smoke makes me want to discuss literal things. Why? Or study the word why. I should do a brief synopsis on the word 'Why.' Lets look up the definition: "Interrogative adverb asking for what reason or purpose." Why do we do the things we do? That is a question she asks me. Why do you put that there and not someplace else? Well I suppose that is just the best-shaped drawer for that. Yes, it would fit somewhere else.

Every moment I have that is free should go to the work that I have to do in order to better the world around me. One may not be able to light the path for others without being painstakingly clear at times. I must force myself to be a better worker and make the proper decisions that lead me to the monikers and little red bills that line my wallet.

Why do I live in Penticton? Is Penticton a real place? Is it my indoctrination in some world that lasts more in thought than in image?

I think it is an idea the doctors are telling me. I am leaving a trail of designs and templates for people to enjoy. The doctors convinced me I was there, truly doing it. They told me I am successful.

This breakthrough can be found initially in a repressed memory that flooded into my subconscious about seven years ago. Since then I had only heard one strange image of a horrid man who kept me locked in the relationship, both these men acted the same. They took pictures of my subconscious and abused me with nattering names. The whole time I thought these two people were real and the invisible world should not be trusted.

So is Penticton a real place? I don't know. It seems to have an economy and society of people doing likeminded things. It seems to have a coffee shop for those who dream. The lights and glitter that is show business show that some men play stadiums and some men can see them. To be fair, quite a large number of people in show business can see the audience. I haven't really yet. I remember I used to draw a crowd to a small place called Voodoo's near purgatory bus stop. The spooky numbers were drawn out of that dive.

So I had a revelation.


I do not work in the youth mental health field but have experienced it from the other side, as I was diagnosed with chronic schizophrenia at age 15. Although I didn't realize it at a young age, the people that worked at the various offices that I visited were very helpful in creating an environment where I could learn about the illness and get better. Since then I have been committed to the psych ward twice in three years. I think the best cooperative or collaborative efforts that I have been a part of in this genre of thought have happened during those relaxing stays at the acclaimed "Club Med."

One barrier I find is that a patient will spend a long time wondering why these people continue to insist that there is something wrong with the way he thinks, all the while claiming to be a Still Around King of Spain, invitee to British royal weddings or some other kind of dramatic person well beyond his realm of influence. It is a thought that these ideas come from a lack of self worth masked as an insistence that one is very affluent.

I still believe that it is important for mental health practitioners to realize that the key to helping people with persistent mental illness is more than prescribing strong mind-altering medication. As a youth I used those medications as an excuse to take other strong mind-altering medications. This was a mistake, of course, but I still feel today that without the demands to take hospital pills I would have not taken street drugs. I didn't trust the doctors. I trusted the films and magazines that claimed psychedelic drugs were responsible for the success of Jimi Hendrix or the Beatles.

It is difficult to say that I would have stayed clean without doctor prescribed medicine with certainty, but my uncooperative nature as a patient surely did create a persistent trouble within my recovery. I feel that the patient's mental state can create turbulence within cooperative groups that refuse to try hard enough to truly understand what a young person is going through. I was not well, but even ten years later I cannot help but resent the haste in giving a young person drugs and sending him on his way without asking why he was not talking.

One of the benefits of this effort was that I made it, eventually, out of the fog and to a world that was surrounded by music and microphones. I have won awards and critical acclaim for my writing. I have written two books and made seven musical albums. The ten years that followed the initial confusion have been marked with their ups and downs in the same way that any other person exists, but there is resentment for mental health that I try to live without. This resentment is notable in most cases of people that I have met during my time in contact with psychiatrists and caseworkers. Those with mental illness truly do not believe that they are suffering from anything.

Like me, I feel sometimes that royalty simply have their parties with people that appear to be in psych wards to regular folk. It is a secret society trick; the queen stays invisible because that way she is not in harms way. That is why it happens every year around the same time.

I am just up on the docket to go entertain her.

A jester for certain, you know.

The mention of farce was sold to the weasel that morning. He knew that the leader of the free world was not a personable or very bad man. He was a voting democrat, but did not agree with the left or right wing.

He wanted to be a pillar of nonsense and political toast that made a difference and even changed the world. He was.

The second character was a man who did little else but smoke drugs and lay around in a home that he did not pay for. This was that cause of our hero's woes. It also made him realize that these sorts of issues do not play well in song and are a blessing that without he could not have done what he did. What he did do was help the first character make his difference in the world.

The trick is that you need someone behind you, a person that is on your side, working to make you successful. Without this you will never make it. The influence of a close friend is very apparent in your daily life.

Scene and cut, some people say. Some men are political pundits, some just ramble about mania. Some people work steady jobs in construction, but only until the bubble bursts. The rest usually squirm from one direction to the other without really being able to escape the daily rat race that is life. But because of my decisions I am located outside the bubble that is common humanity. But I have to do something with my day.


I have begun to want a child. They say that they are expensive but teach you everything that you need to know about life. "They taught me more than I taught them," my aging uncle Tony said. This is notable because my mania is that I am successful and able to support a child. I am not quite this capable. I have wasted too much of my time trying to drink and drug my way towards being John Lennon.

My name is Jon Pelletier and I was raised in Summerland. I was born December 11, 1984 in Edmonton but that date is one that lives in infamy. It is soon after John Lennon was shot so I have a belief that I am he in his afterlife. This is the concept behind my mania and work inside my head that means that I am good enough with doing what I do with my time. "This is heaven," I say, "I have to relax."

I spent the last five years pretending I was retired. I thought I understood things properly. There was a friend you claimed that he held the key. He was my proof that I was this man. He quickly decided to not be this person. I can blame him for being dishonest, but I am better to blame myself for the issues I let myself be enveloped in.

The rest of my friends have stayed around. They remain proof of my delusions. Is this because I am disabled by schizophrenia? Is this because I allow myself to think far too much about spiritual issues?

I hope that the leaders of the free world do not know me. This creates a man that seems like he is floundering in the media. I want the audience.

I do not have an audience. This is because I didn't want one. But all I can do is play music and write books. It is what I am most practiced at. It is what I really want to do, although I am scared of being too successful at it. This fear is the escape that I run to every time I have been in need of psychiatric care. I claim that I am someone that is higher than me, more successful and touring. Three times it has been the same.

It is as if I decide to not accept my death and become a man still living on Earth playing music for the Queen and all his friends. I tell myself that Penticton looks like Whitby and is different for everyone so that they feel comfortable and at home. I tell myself that my hometown of Summerland is the particular Summerland of Myth and not just named after the town that I think I am in. But when I am manic I claim to be a still living man. His name is something that I would never name myself, just out of fear of being killed on stage. Why does this fear come at me so deeply?

Deep down I know that there is an afterlife, even after this world. I only hear the pastor when he explains that our goal remains eternal life. It is as if the karma is more apparent here.

I am convinced that my wife is somewhere and loves me. It is as if I needed some learning and the issue remains that I am a bachelor by choice and happy that I haven't found my wife yet. I needed to learn things that I have in Summerland. I needed to have a life that I was educated.

I need to know that the drugs John Lennon partook in created guilt for his actions. This guilt lead to altruistic behavior and his final demise while in a world filled with peaceful ecstasy. This was a natural ecstasy but the elation created a void that made someone do horrible things in his life. This may be my reasoning behind that man who told me that I was someone special on stage while he hid me and stole.

I think it is truly a greater lesson. And that one day someone will read this journal and understand that I am fine. I am hoping for creating a world in which I can make a difference. I want to be a poster boy for good people. But if I'm not in the media than Shiny will never know me.

This creates a trouble that is necessary. I have been blessed enough in Summerland to really believe that this place is Heaven. My ego is such that I must claim to be someone important when I find that I have not done much with my life. These ramblings make me think that I should use these blessing to continue my education and take classes that are based around psychology. The latest IQ test I took said I was at 139. That is high, and may be the basis for such mania. Blessings cannot come without curses and the universe stays ultimately balanced. The moment is balanced; the day is balanced and in any group people need an ultimatum.

Is that why the Muslim and Christian religions are rather opposite? They both hail the same spirit; Yahweh is another pronunciation of Allah. This wonder is the trouble. My pleasure growing up and the refrain that I have everything that I want while able to philosophize means that somewhere there is a man that I could interact with believes that his life is Hell and needs to work very hard to make the eighty dollars I spent yesterday. This creates an angst that again does not bode well on stage. So I should not try to share angst. It looks bad.

But an invisible woman asked me to write about my life. She said she wanted to read it and that everyone would purchase my work. All it had to be is by Frank Zappa.

I know now that I am not Frank Zappa. Wolves in the southwest did not raise me. I am not a prophet of the streets. Frankly, it has been quite the opposite. But my past life regressions discuss my abused childhood. And I cannot say that I was without strife this time, which is marked like someone saying that a parentless childhood had it's own blessings.

This may very well be John Lennon's heaven, but there is an idea that many people with some smear on their childhood believe that there was a life before now. I learned that through mental health offices and I remembered replying that many other people feel that as well.

But I don't know what I'm writing. Am I wasting my time? Anyone that would be interested in reading what I am up to next already has seen my various manic traces that I have left on the Internet. I do not mean the stage name Hector from Jabberwocky, but the signature of Frank Zappa or John Lennon that I leave sometimes before, after and during bouts with schizophrenia.

Because my name is Jon Pelletier and I have accomplished less than either of those two musicians. Is the fear that I have my own actions now: A man who thinks that he is some big-time musician on stage. That is what the man who killed John Lennon thought, wasn't it?

But with these ideas out, I can move on. I am going to school soon. The key of this life is to learn. It betters my life because nobody is ever truly happy. Look at Scrooge McDuck.

Other people feel this is heaven. It is a world with balanced pain. So when Plato asked if there is a perfect world, was he of the same odd feeling I am? That thought kind of makes me feel important. My ego is such that I must remain an important person. I have learned so much in these last twenty-five years. I am thankful for this life.

I don't want to have a bad one, although it remarkably becomes balanced by being a Beatle.

I used to believe that dreams were messages from far reaching places that I could read as such. I felt that they would show a glimpse of the intelligence of the universe and maybe even showing what will happen in the next day. This happened sometimes, as I attributed feeling comfortable in a habit or déjà vu to the dreams I have had recently.

Last night I dreamed very literally things that are happening now in my life and realized that perhaps all of the dreams that I have had have been like this. It shows me that I might only have been meditating on things that occurred and not of fantasies that would explain my place in the world.

This dream was a vivid one and like the other vivid dreams included a woman and a hotel. The woman was someone who I'd been thinking about throughout the last few days. The hotel was similar. The rest of my dream was about my working life and career.

It was too literal to not be my brain sequencing the weekend's thoughts so I can refrain from thinking too much of them now. This is a sea change in my mentality.

The logic and thought patterned that I can understand explain that I should be able to understand quantum physics but not be able to make my way through the regular world. The best advice I ever received was that when one must try to be happy they become very good at it. This made me feel narcissistic and like I must do my duty to humanity as I am in the position that I am. It is my place to be a person that makes a difference and leads to beautiful reactions and mortal coil placement that can be heavy if watched but understand nothing of what I am doing. I need to do the things that I want because it is not right for me to be blue.

That is what this dream told me. Any mistakes and lessons I have learned were needed as I am blessed enough to be writing every day and remaining fed. I am blessed enough to be a student in school. I am in first world country with a roof and bed, so I must be able to refrain from complaining.

These things are horrible if I let them but they are discrepancies I have created in order to balance the world around me. Be good, Jon, always be good.

The moral disruptions that the vivid dream suggests are that I am unable to decipher the different schools of thought regarding this.

It is interesting to note that I want to write but I have nobody asking me for work and so I was able to just enroll in school for something that I am interested in. Things are distracting and I find that the best work I do is to make simple turns to joy and disrupt my vocal thoughts with actual work.

The trick is that I have been such a scared character claiming to be scarred and hurt for some reason when the truth behind everything is that I have it better than most and should be ecstatic. There are many reasons that I feel I should better myself. And I know why I feel the need to make that world a better place.

It is because I came from a world of such joy and love.

I didn't think that people had bad lives in this world. I just wanted to spread the gospel. So what I need is a person telling me what to write and by when. Instead I sit drinking coffee retelling this issue to myself. At least I am making steps to start making my situation different. My goals are different now then they were, and I reached them last time, so I will make the difference that I want to be. I will be the change I wish to see in this world. The question is if I want to get into psychology or social work. Or do I want to be an editor? Or do I want to be a smoker?


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