Inane Ramblings of an Absent Loon Part 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a long essay i wrote in the psychiatry unit of Penticton General Hospital in Penticton, BC, Canada. It discusses my history of medications and reasons against that form of treatment of schizophrenia, as well as rants and ravings of an obviously manic individual, trying to make sense of his delusions of grandeur. It is a very good read, but sort of falls apart at the end, when it becomes an epic poem, a song that i heard when the mania was first creeping up on me.

Submitted: February 27, 2011

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Submitted: February 27, 2011



Inane Ramblings of an Absent Loon:
By Jon Pelletier
God, where are you?
You answered the lady who made this poem
You followed you heart and learned from those
I fulfilled a request and prose drop thru the art form
I learn of hearts, minds and other art forms
I learn of arts, pride and other clique norms
I heard of parts, right, from those who perform
What I lost is my own, my heart or mine thrown
From lost earth to prose
Or a heart not my own
As such, I have written long-winded essays about my various triumphs both imaginary or real and many short fiction pieces describing theoretical physics and soviet history, vaguely. These are both loosely disguised metaphors that tie into the following passages, mostly because I have taken the time to suggest that they are so.
If I write, “Now I need socks,” the phrase can be taken in many ways. This is because English literature has painstakingly been argued that it could mean anything, based on the reader’s perception, not the authors intended meaning.
I sometimes try to prove to people that I came from elsewhere.
I often catch myself laughing at the claim that though I was born in Edmonton, I moved all the way to Western Canada from Whitby, England just to be one day away from London. Is this because I want to believe this myself? I fear that I have only been talking to myself, raising suspicions of insanity or gaping holes in these odd symptoms of brilliance.
I am a man who is awake sometimes, not awake other times and it’s a team vacation for us, I think. We have worked hard to create a greater good for all to see. A memo has been passed and it is not a joke. Love is behind what is meant for me. Either sentence could be true, yet only one is. Perhaps you can pick the truth:
I was alienated by a funeral involving mutual friends.
I once spent three weeks wondering if I had received a note from a woman or if I had dreamed it.
So should I mesh all that I have read into one fanatical theory?
I only ever understand Pythagorean Theory briefly while I am asleep. This happened again last night. Instead of having one of those “Eureka” moments and running down the hallway in my underpants I just rolled back over and fell back to my slumber.
All day I have been trying to reach back into that dream consciousness to bring the strand of understanding towards me. All I could find is colossal blue whales flying in the sky or a job at a 24-hour store that did not have a working shave-ice machine. These are two moments that I vaguely remember but not the concrete understanding of a mathematical theory that I hoped for. These are options, and recording this thought brought me to the sort of psychological musing I have already touched on.
While I was asleep did I truly understand why a particular triangle could be measured? I can’t even be sure I know which sort of triangle the theory is discussing. Was it something that I really understood, or did I see that the rest of the book I was reading agreed that it was so?
I am only myself. The others that I claim to be are only recorded traits of me. I doubt they locked me in here because I believe that I am Amor de Cosmos. I have lived my whole life thinking that and am only on my second relaxing visit to the acclaimed Club Med.
And I make a decision to smoke.
If anything it is my stubbornness using this pseudonym that makes me not bring it up to the nurses if prodded. The nurses are probably not even aware of that. So clearly, I invented the media and am a still around King of Spain.
And so this could be considered my biography, but please, if it ever comes up, do not sir me Raul Duke. It was a misnomer. I usually wind up in some sort of psychiatric can when I think like that. It was not the drugs that made me Amor de Cosmos, for better or worse. I should mention that every time I drink mushroom tea I wind up in this sort of situation. It has been the cause of much of the rabble surrounding my mental health file. I should know better by now, it is a waste of time.
When one is writing they should find their inspiration in the surroundings. To write satire one often finds themselves re-reading and changing their template many times. When finding such inspiration from your surroundings I am able to make a figurative mirror to read into my psyche. This results in people reading many different things into the writings of a satirist.
Writing about the act of writing will be an exercise this writer uses to leave a state of despair in the reader. This seems to come from the human mind being distracted. It is usually a bunch of muddled thoughts covering up the ones that can produce art naturally.
When one is writing satire the meaning of the written text is normally found under the surface words. One should not write like a robot, but find the inspiration using the five senses. The words will come from the air around you. When one plays music in a free jam the plan for a song is a simple few chords and words and it is open to improvisation. This is a tool for when one is fighting writer’s block. If the writer finds a few simple words to start they can soon turn these words into a nice succinct article, or at the very least the beginnings of one. This can turn into a very different piece of writing very quickly.
The trouble with the eager, these days, is how they seem to simple folk. Folk since have written many tales involving those two rumors. The terror of the unknown coupled with the luxury and comfort of today's western world have been turned into a strange apathy. It is a denial of all that is magical with the claim that it does not exist.
“Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of perspective.”
Robert Green – The 48 Laws of Power
I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a variety of things including an unwritten tone or sales pitch for the ideas that follow.
I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for past woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that we had been friends the whole time.
When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other three would not make me an antisocial lightweight.
These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were there to cure me of an affliction I do not remember having before the use of psychiatric medicine.
Either way, I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA. I was dreamed that my floor was filled to the walls with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place earthquake could bring them down.
I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.
I don’t want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn’t realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have devised a plan to keep it to myself.
It was that people with mechanical minds don’t know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every 30000 years. When they hear of this legend they consider Independence Day, hope that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.
People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every 30000 years both Alexander Graham Bell and Walter (?) Gray will invent the telephone across an ocean from each other, on the same day. Maybe it has been that long since the invention of steel. We have just gone through a series of incredibly fast technological developments.
Robots have gone from science fiction to every day use in 40 years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses our path in an odd elongated orbit every 30000 years. Is this similar the personification of lightning by our ancestors? What wonders will this planet of giants shower us with?
One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain attachment a person can see their reflection. Magic is the new age! Perhaps this time these chilly space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again.
The mystery is if it will occur before or after the apocalypse.
If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply drive to a local coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable to find a car or Internet Café because you are on a deserted South Pacific island, you could fly to a region with resources set up by other people that give you access to the movies that explain this theory.
But I recommend learning in any field.
It is also important to read and watch creative works.
With this in mind, I should tell you that I was dissertating a video about the subject of Niberu, and I must rebut.
Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon; every 30000 years we gain something that stays with us through the next hundred years, like the creation of the electric car and no more strapping in school.
The study of irony is somewhat like the study of creativity.
And both are difficult to define.
I only remember this existence. This state of consciousness is one that we are kept in for a long time. This does not mean there are no past lives. It just means you are yet to die. Those who do not stay in the world are sent elsewhere. I'm sure this is sorted on a piece-by-piece basis. Each death causing a new life somewhere, with that consciousness sent to that other reality. Like finding oddities near highways, these are the days of their lives.
Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days go faster and the leader of the free world is no longer a saint. This was the issue with my role in show business. The matters that held me open were simple and I motioned towards the grassy plain that leads me home.
The trick was to find what is necessary.
This is the image of relations to a level in which I do not want to behave or believe, those that a woman such as her would exist.
We have convinced ourselves that we do not exist.
Triggers on the back of works of technological art, that help a child learn touchy hand-eye coordination are drastically changing the working world. The newspaper told this to me one time, explaining how the use a video game are creating a breed of incredibly talented and efficient surgeons. This was good press for the video game industry who very soon after came out with a version of the board game “Operation.” It comes in a red package with a clown white man with a messy Afro lying on a panel of cold steel. The video game was actually that of a Zombie killing dentist who needed to make his way across Gotham City to save the life of his child.
Temporary employment in the ethereal world, for a half step up or down and the Tao of Willie Nelson is my succubus. In a bleak lit hotel room a man steps next to a falling girl. The people of weeping parents strung over the black light of a dominatrix peephole. In habit the nun weeps in heaven and understood the only hotel room the vice had wrote that of a smoking gun and failure. Nary a left.
The young, hurt, crazy, blind and lame believe in peace. Casually he stumbles with the filter as he puts his hold on one more cigarette. It is a Cuban cigar when 40 million people banned them, and the unholy dreadlock bandage that has bonded us. Words are a brilliant reciprocal that we, humanity, were asked to use quite some time ago.
Hitler, Bush and more Bush were standing in platform heels on the silhouette of the stockades on first day of Ramadan. The number 6 was higher than four stiletto heels of their individual primeval delusion. The irony was that they cussed a succubus, the partial platform of Red, White and Blue. Although, the Blacks know the blues and the White never had it.
The new formula:
1. Two peaces a day
2. Grey matter
3. Love, love, love
4. Save yourselves
5. Read books
6. Think for yourselves
Jerry Garcia this told me one time, in a dream that I had.
I tried writing words that leave over the rest they left me out.
I know nothing of satanic worship, or even what it means. Perhaps it is a quest for fire or the apathy of slavery as a cigarette but yes, it is vice we convince ourselves is necessary for our survival in a horrible brutal and twisted world. But my friend, you must learn that we all carry our personal demons and delusions with us. Everyone has every day issues and life in not easy. So if we sit tight, perhaps maybe everything will turn out for the best.
Rampant phone calls
Where do we go?
You are someone right?
Am I imagining this, I had that mint julep at Smithy’s?
Who are you?
“Stranger,” she smiles, “Dire need of self realization.” “I forgot,” I space, “It must be somewhere out in the ether. I’m pretty sure you have everything you could possibly exist about and more in your pocket too, before this.” Devon smiled from the corner as the past persuasions slipped between the lines.
And you know what, I believed her.
So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working life up until this point. By now I am usually happy. I have been able to provide for myself everything that I need thus far, for better or worse. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an acclaimed writer and musician locally and some crime-solving Norse Devil requested, some gonzo journalist of manic fiction. Thus I took part in creating a man of faith and limitless fodder. He was a keeper that needed to be sent forward in a Martian landscape.
Or is it that I am too simple a person to be known as a lighter of eccentric files?
Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City, although I would have floated around asking some questions and I may have been eaten alive by the city as this small town has continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young and still relevant.
These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols that I leave at the table. These symbols are not seen, though when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So they tell me I am successful at written words and music.
This is a hard one to answer because I cannot always be sure of how I am acting. I have a tendency to issue statements towards people that I know that are reflections of what I am doing at the time. But to be fair,
I am maybe not anyone special in his afterlife.
I did not have puppets working for cameras on strings as I took three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing around with every intention in the world to save humanity. I don’t know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job with him again.
Ten times I laughed at the man that wrote things and spoke letters of the true word of nowhere and nobody. This man was also a shopkeeper. They did not listen to this man and laughed when he walked by himself. Better than in spoken drafts, their magic works. People spend their time happy like fearless people. So do animals.
I know my machine works and it seems to have been invented before 1984, technically the year of my birth. But maybe I just invented it now. With music we sing, dance and frolic around on stage throwing away bodies and playing things like, “You have requested the Whitey the Crime classic… How many people could you kill?”
Or maybe I am someone past death. I may never know. All I want to do is write. It is that I live next to Summerland in a town that rhymes with Perdition. It began as a pivot point for my thoughts. But in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually sent towards the innocent.
Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight back? These thoughts are thieves. Why do I allow these thieves into my space?
About half the people who know about me respect me. And I feel partially depressed and partially ecstatic on most occasions. This idea comes from a failure to act properly in response to the questions asked of me. These simple magistrates fight and I claim that I am a still around king of Spain, or something of the like. But the state of mind brought the world my invention.
I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence is a foundational response to simple paraphrasing of greater writers than me. This is apparent in my work rewriting the Brave Little Toaster and claiming that these works are mine, without influence. Because a wise man says, he who does not imitate does not create.
So I light another cigarette in failure and I wonder why I act the way I do.
But the silver lining on these clouds is apparent once I realize that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now. I have my own little reasons for being like this as I sit hoping that I am credited.
This topic warrants strange impulses at the backlit porch.
This sort of anarchy is not what I want to be recalled for. That will not look good on my post-mortem resume.
Which begs another question: What do I want to be remembered as?
I want to be remembered as a man who changed things. These were my self-induced thoughts that lead me towards this change of winds in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as important as inventing the clock.
Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is life after death and you have left the world before now. You still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are still sitting in the old world. You live in a town that is marked by your fame and know that everyone here is much cooler than you because it is their heaven. This is an odd way of life and I know that most people do not write in letters anymore. They simply find a haunting path or their rider that leads them away from the storm.
Theory is claiming to be someone that is special and kind. It’s a kind of new school artistic writing, literal, water and torn landscapes.
When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have or the inner working of my subconscious I repent and claim to myself that I am not interesting and nobody cares. But someone is reading it because I am running and the cars stop, when pancakes and little devils shape the road. And they will recall me as a hero lighting strange paths, a man who can help them through troubles by being insightful and leaving a trail of paper in my wake, because I am going to run for office.
Strange hands that lead my old harp with a loaded discussion because I am the turbulent man who said something that needed to be heard and read with strange valor have troubled me. The mayor tried to sell me heroin. He was hanging around in the parking lot of the twenty-four hour store. I am nothing yet a member of Fancy or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The answer is that that should be thought about on Sunday and the rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone.
I cannot be sure. I wish that I knew that I was some certain relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke. These Martian landscapes on this simple old letter had motioned towards me and I simply do not know. It is a classic example that leads to these motions I want to make sure that everything is at home. I am writing over these words in my mind as I think I’d be better off living alone. And I have no right to complain because I am able to do this somehow.
But is this world one like my friends think, with past life regressions and what did I do to be murdered on stage? And if I am not in the media Shiny will never know me. This is the remark I made to myself because I am an old soul from England who I know that I am and I can be again. I am so simple and happy when I know that I am a person who loves and reads from below. These are the lines that marked a platform.
I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these simple crossed lines that are marked and taken out from below. These poetic little pieces of nonsense and liturgy are motions that take their old hearts and dispose of these soldiers and lighters that take my breath passing I want to be that man who is settled like before.
So I am unsure if schizophrenia is a blessing or a curse. There are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many reasons to write and play music. Sometimes I think that I should pick one of my hobbies to be my vocation.
So who am I? Why do I care if people care what I think? I am happier knowing that these are my traits not the ones like before that haunt my marked way. I know that these people usually do not think that I have been someone who is attributing traits to my friends as they are the morning through my written world, as I have imagined that I was asked to write a book about my blessed childhood in Summerland and not one from home that other people saw me living in. I was marked as a Martian, basically martyred and moving from one sense to the other before I know that these simple based marshes and paths are my young life passing before I know.
I am gaining ground quickly as I march towards these halls that know they have ideas or symptoms below. I have been quickly attaining my clarity as I have been settled and imagining this home. I was not referenced as an old or young saint but I must go to church every chance that I have. I want to be simple and I want to be the man that is proud of what he has done.
I sit this morning as I sat yesterday. I am in a position of truthful documentation that I am an old soul that is intentionally known. Can many of these people walk on this path and be happy as a sitter, slowly disturbing these reflections so they stay away for the little red pills that I took?
And I know that I need these old former refractions of light. I am not the simple child I once was. These reptiles and an early morning dew sit in their halls and I cannot be known to complain because that is the situation that makes a symbol’s life in the heart.
One cannot have everything but it is best just to type and maybe read these editing symptoms of night. I would love to be motionless and lay in the sun but I know that I can’t because I’m yet to be proud of what I’ve done. I am happier as a soldier of the pen. And I have an invention.
I wanted to be the prophet that I was. We were all prophets. One way or another, one gains a relationship with the word profit. Perhaps it is how we choose to interpret the word. I was an icon and my memories are faded I cannot be happy without these old ladies that are the silence.
I fear that I spoke too much of myself. I know that these little red acts are refractions and nothing but lies. I am much happier as a morning dew sickness. I want to be the person that leads towards life. I am such a person but I know that this kind waffle based pretense is nothing to me. When these unsettling feelings become a lonely road towards them they march into these halls. I want to be personal and friendly and kind but these motions are not what I like and define.
So this is just practice until I have prompts. I want to write as a living and I need to be sharp because I am a leader among men. I want to love that more than bitter tastes it leaves my mouth. Hopefully these signs are settling in and I can turn this work into interesting insight and leave my world behind. These options are the best events, as I know it.
And why is the CBC right on the button of my emotions every day that I listen to it? Is it because they have planned the insight for tomorrow by subliminally placing thoughts in my head today?
My childhood dream…
What are my dreams? I just wanted to play shows until I fell into fits of uncontrollable loneliness and self-doubt. It is now more likely that I am not able to be a NHL goalkeeper. What is it that I really wanted?
If ever I had ever no idea
She says to me
Simple set souls stepping up the scene
To raise the lean
On the hearts of one that left that one to me
And so I
Have ever no never ideals
Claim to me
So do the right thing
Every chance you can
Spells and written arguments
I should go to school
Because every time I grow afraid
The girl sees right through me
She takes my heart and runs
And I turn and run
I cannot help this
Yes I can
I can jump through time to reach me in a new area. These ideas claim that my mistakes have not been made and I am some righteous world figure and leader on a famous rampage laughing and making friends. The truth is always that I am disabled and my upbringing has led to a revolt that leaves me sitting and arguing about the benefits of doing this. I am good at that and I should be able to excel at the trade in a school. Maybe I could be the teacher.
Even if I work for 40 dollars in a day it is better than sitting around the apartment smoking cigarettes and pretending that people listen to hip music.
I am not a rock star. By now this is a conscious choice, as I have not made the break to watch myself on TV. This is because I truly do not want to be on stage for a living. I feel like I have been obligated to pretend that is the path I choose. Or maybe that is just that I am saying that now that I understand that I have not made the steps necessary to become a figure like that in the media.
What I really want to do is be a writer. That is why I am. I want to be read and love my life living in the office and my home. I want to sit here and type and be able to support a family like all the normal folk I was afraid of one day becoming.
Twenty-five snuck up on me. I do not want to be in this position anymore. I want to be a good provider and live in a comfortable home taking care of my wife. As it sits right now I cannot provide for a family and it shows. I drink too much coffee and smoke too much to be truly happy. I tell myself daily that the first draft of everything is horrible. The turning point is that I want my books to be read far more than I want to be John Lennon. Is my dream vanishing into dust or is my reasoning behind feeling that way true?
The irrational fear of have of being very good at music seems to come from the murder that was committed on me and the resulting life that I have lived. I feel the radio flow through me and I see colors when I listen to music. I have been able to play very well on many occasions but I have refrained from playing shows or keeping a steady band while claiming that I have everything I want and my life is perfect.
I can mistake this world for a quick stop near heaven. It seems that most of my mistakes have been from my own inebriated actions that lead me to live a lonely life filled with ministries and fortunate events. If I did not have everything I wanted I might have tried harder to benefit myself up until this point.
So instead of being upset that I can be twenty-five and a comfortable position with a home and food in the fridge I must give thanks.
These opportunities are the dew on the grass as I sleep until noon convinced that my input to the world media has been well received and is serving me well. Are these various deliriums symptomatic of a man who feels he should have done more?
I am in the court of England. My life in the show was watched and recorded and I wield the power of a celebrity inventor of things that have affected people’s lives as if it had been the clock. And even thusly I am a failure in many ways. These reminders make me feel better. I am not any great leader yet. But I am working on it.
I should live in the way I find the most righteous way to be a realist.
I want to work doing exactly what I am doing right now on a topic that is sent to me so I can write about it. I want to make books and be an academic as I am smarter than I give myself credit for. The time is now because all the things that I have done up until now have simply hindered my career and life. These hindrances are simply stupid actions by myself that have led to mania and odd depression. These speed bumps are holding me back.
I want to live with love and happiness in my heart but I know that the balance of this blessed universe will create turbulence when I most need it. I created the turbulence that haunted me in these last few years because I had lived up until then as a silly person of little acclaim and a lot of drunken ego. I do not want to drink and such anymore, although I should not be against it as it has been such a part of my life.
The Queen will pay my way through school in exchange for clean bills of drug use and it is something that I should make myself do. I have a shine that streams from my subconscious onto this computer screen and I have a printer to print my work for editing and the usual symptoms of these harping motions.
But all I need to be successful at this point are the outside prompts for written experiments and the lore that haunted Edgar Allen Poe. I want to restart the Rhinoceros Party of Canada. I want to give society something as important as the clock. I want to be people’s hero.
But how do I reach these goals?
I need outside prompts and people that are hustling to get me to produce more first drafts and edit these drafts into interesting material for magazines and written worlds. I want to be smarter than most and live in the world as a writer and editor. I want to win awards for my work and love a wonderful woman who sleeps beside me at night. This will happen as soon as I want it to so I should go finish this school thing soon.
The only thing that holds me back is my self-doubt. My doubt is a result of wasting days smoking and drinking and walking alone up and down the path to the coffee shop. Better men and women than me do little else than write and learn and move freely around this town. I just want to be a cog in the media. I do not need to be up front.
This is the misnomer that I have allowed myself to fall into.
I want to read others work and write my additions while working a deadline and managing to live. I want to work in the office that suits my situation or maybe from home to a far away nation that listens to me and lets me have a fresh start. This is entirely possible as I am a capable person and need little else than I already have. A strange man haunts my memories and he has sidetracked me.
I should not blame anyone but myself.
I simply did not know better.
But now I do and I want to be real in this world. I want to exist in the shape that I live and listen later to symbols that are written in the sun. I want to help this world gain strength by living in this city as a successful man in a suit or some obscure figure making more fiction and prose that is insightful and looks like a professional managed to sneak past them on a train and little red markings that mean that I do work.
This is my mistake. I should be going through more paper because it is a symbol for my lacking situation. That is to say that it symbolizes my own shortcomings in my life.
How do I go about making money at writing? You must attain a position in a company that writes and publishes something. The position could be any, a junior editor if your punctuation and grammar is very good. You have many talents but the most acclaimed thus far is your writing.
And you should write. And if you write a page a day at the end of the year you have a full book if you choose to publish it. I want to be this way, not the other. I want to make a living doing anything.
So I light a cigarette, or I say I do because I am now able to smoke while typing. I need to learn to be smarter with my time and move the nations with my prose. Otherwise my goals are out of my reach and I know that goals are only out of reach of those who decide they are. My goals should be written on this sheet because I need the bible, not these damned states and silly wishes that I was not in show business.
I wish I were afraid to be on stage.
But not trying is the only way to guarantee failure. So that dream has been lifted a little off the weight on my back. I did not want to be that person so I am not. I want to be happy with what I have done in the day so I sit alone and think about nothing just to let my senses dull and the fear overtake me. This is the fear of failure that suggests that one should not even try to find the job as in the symptoms of losing out or ruining a job interview is a fear that has held me back.
It is the fear that I must defeat.
But the first draft of everything is horrid and I know that I should take more time in summing up my stories. I want to impress people whose opinions matter and win awards for work that I have done in the valley. I cannot continue to lose faith in myself. I must struggle for my next opportunity and take the bull by the horns and win the fight. I need to make the right decisions and make the world a better place like I had planned. So I must make an invention.
But something tells me that I should cooperate with the lady at the office tomorrow. Ten o’clock in the morning will not come quickly.
I have continuous writing; a steady clicking at the keys on the desk in front of me and the editing and reviewing of my ideas will make such a life available for me. It will add to my virtuosity of thought and the practice is what I need to do so that I do not write sentences like this anymore. I will learn about metaphors and the works of the great masters in order to emulate them and be studied in literary criticism classes in the years after I am successful.
That and I must learn to smoke properly. They say that if you do not have to write than you shouldn’t because without the practice one cannot say what they want in a poetic and interesting way. One must live in this world as a champion of literary praise and be such a student of life. I will be better in the morning.
So when I have speakers for my record player I swear that I will use my time productively. This input is necessary as I am a story teller better for bibles and old uses of harm that needles and monsters that act like a simple man take nonsense or stream of consciousness writing and lead me to the Jabberwocky that I am happiest.
Those who use pseudonyms hold these monikers and some contact a writer for sake of his missteps. The leaders of this world are men who light ways I must write the book that I have already written in downtime that leads me to coffee and lighters and matchbooks and smoke that lead me to forests of wonderful reasons to keep being a good man who likes to be a writer and reading and writing is important. If I use a printer to look through these words or maybe clack out a forum on necessary evil so I should take time to look like a much better person as the black that is night is leading the way. I need to be a person that acts like a man, not a simple distracted person of little repute.
And if writing is this easy than I should know that it is best to write as a leader and not as a forum for matched souls are easy to find in the poetic nonsense that these last few lines have been. But poetic nonsense should be found to be truthful and might remain useful in the future so I continue to write all day every day about anything that I find to be calming or interesting. The best men who write are those who get lost in the sharing of matters that come as good marks in school.
I get called both brilliant and disabled. These are the balances of the great magnet.
The day began like many others; our hero was sleeping in late and ignored his alarm clock twice before leaping out of bed because he would be late for his appointment. The meeting was two hours away but he had little do but sit at his computer and write nonsense. The key to his morning was in the cup of black coffee that allowed him to wake and enjoy his first cigarette of the day.
He knew he was a special sort of person. He was the kind of guy that led the nations to a new civilized stable economy every morning by listening to the radio and moving his fingers quickly across the keypad. His coffee was bland and his writing was less than creative but he found a heart shaped insight that allowed him to repeat his phrases over and over again without fear of retribution.
He had nobody to hand his papers to but he continued to type away at his keys. This was his job. He was told by an old man to pick his favorite hobby and make it his vocation so he decided that he would write all day every day in order to gain a fierce virtuosity in this trade. He had no prompts so he just allowed the words to come to him. He knew that most writers allow their drafts to fall into place and let his words signal an overt preoccupation with the church and other delirium that possessed him at times.
What does the writer really want?
He wondered this aloud while thinking about refilling his coffee cup. The leader of the world he lived in was a bland and mistaken foreign kind of guy.
He is absent-minded and witty but a better politician than leader. This character had red hair and a suit with lovely tithes submitted to the church and special settings in his office for every occasion. Otherwise the writer simply had nothing to say. He needed to find the leader.
Friends of our hero claim that he is brilliant and successful but he is not. He knew that all the rumors of his success were simply mistaken as his secret suggests that writers do not have subjects remain poor.
In this way he had lived a very full life without needing to excel at any outside thing. The fault lay with him, as he never allowed himself to excel or grow up before this point.
So little elves came in and marched by his legs as he laughed and told tales of the stories of Nancy. He had little to learn on the topic he wrote because it was a topic that suited his fancy. The little red truck that lay on the ground was a remark to him, as he had no children. This little reminder lay unappreciated and he wanted to show the rest of the world that he could be a provider. He wanted to make the steps necessary to be an editor or work for some newspaper or magazine. These works could help.
The sense of the little ill children that watch as he motioned to the invisible elves that marched over him came like a saucepan when you are ticking away the times that are leaving our hero as he ages. The editing of this story can turn it to something that leads my leader to become a better person. The likely martyr of this particular situation is the man trying to write and not the elves. But this is what he really wanted.
So the trick is to write about other peoples writing and little red papers tick off into the sunset while the mention of profits seems to scare off the insight and writers that learn about this topic we discuss. The old man had told me that all the lessons I have half taken have not taught me enough to continue to do this. The worried man laughs as he takes his next cigarette and lights in and places it smoking in the ashtray.
These lighted lines will not all be used but one is able to take both pieces and mix them together to write about writing quite like some of the greats. The issues that I have are shared with other people and I can take time to share these insights with someone. The nonsense that I write now is poetic and just practice, as I like to hear the constant ticking of my hands on the keyboard because idle hands are the devil’s playgrounds.
The habit is the kind of unsettling hope that I can be an actual person and reasonable intellectual. If I write a page every day for a year and it is workable material then every year through my writing I have a book. But what is my book about? That is a question that I will learn later.
Speed off distant shores. Take the men who marched you over and people always have their home. I live in a world that I feel like I can actually do this. The trick is to not play my friends. No dice on the inside, like a formulaic message of hope for all mankind. That is a difficult thread to approach correctly. Let the players be played might work.
Deep inside every one of us lies a hopeful person that needs to feel good.
This is difficult without the right people.
More pens than pain and the utmost remedy, like a still pass and the daily grind coffee shop painted the picture. He bustled into the city every day in a white Cadillac car. It was a couple of days before the white man became a liar and unleashed his half loose nightmare on to Baker Street. He shot a man in Reno at noon on Sunday, claiming it was a strike against the diner being open on a Sunday.
He fled to Las Vegas to find the hopes and dreams that could be repeated by a winning ticket. When he arrived he simply stepped down to the end of an alley hearing the dull wail of dry desert blues. He thought blandly that the music ricocheted through a dead man. It calmed him, as if it was okay to do what he had.
This is when he came across a man from a periodical magazine. This second man saved his change and more or less drafted himself into any sort of indoctrination towards belief. The drifter made a point of trying to scare the writer until the man bowed before him. Quickly, and at risk of a knife the second man knelt and watched as the first turned into the ninth embodied, a knight, speaking those words while he changed his stance and looked skyward.
“That’s some more dead humans, and a mean man charged with nine drinks.” The drifter stated calmly, “They call me Mr. Draft. I usually sit near the back.”
The key to my failure is simply not doing what I want to do with my time. Otherwise I am simply able to exist in a world that feeds me and for that I am thankful. The letters I write should be taken as grandeur but not the likely centers of mentions that need me to lack in the sentence of sent lights adore.
If I am feeling better now it is because I have done more today than I usually do in a week. I am not a failure I feed myself and am clearly a eccentric sort of person that needs to be further from the truth that I feel is the déjà vu that I feel in my mornings at work in my home. The feeling of truth that I know that I am doing what I want to be is a blessing as I can be the person that lasts longer in the media than the kind of person that I have been up until now. I want to be a permanent fixture known as an intelligent sort of simple hearted person I really wish I could be that leader among men.
Do I want to be a viral video? No, not really. I want to have a viral blog, I guess. I am a reasonable person. I am a successful person who decides what he should do with his day every day, free from examples and remorseless agents of fear. I need to know that the best things I do could be hounded. The outside pressures of the world I have created are a basic extension of everything that I do. I need fancy fellows in convertible Cadillac’s asking me to produce more and paying me in checks.
These are still my dreams but I have learned that the most important sense of the world comes from the limited expanse of this small town. I need to quit burning bridges, as it seems that I have not been quite as successful as I claim that I am. For various senses are finally turning into the beginnings of great work and practice for later. I just want to write and be taken seriously as a person that does not do drugs and simply lasts like one of those heroes of intellect and a doctor of journalism that I want to be.
So what is it that I really want? I have, up until now, been able to exist and live with what I really want. I do not have the budget to continue to smoke without finding a job that is outside this apartment. Soon this will change because I wish it to. I want to be the sort of cat that lists his occupation and is known as a servant of the whims of the big show and grains of sand on the beach.
I have been typing for an hour and I need to continue. Perhaps I will finish after my meeting where I will claim I am a symptom of lost manners and insight. I have my home and food in the cupboards I will be able to survive and drink coffee, which are luxuries and not always the space between the rails. I have sensed a social norm that needs to be contextualized because I have rules that I need to abide by.
I just need to say something but I have little to write about outside things because I am far too self-centered. Is this true? I do not know. I don’t usually write about things outside my own manic head and these letters are not read as nobody noted that I am a nut while I wrote that I was Frank Zappa. I wonder these days whether anyone will care if I become a success using pseudonyms. Surely that will lead to my own happiness, as I can be quite insightful and interesting when I try.
So outside my own head I need to find something to write about as a human that wants to share some ideas. I need to keep clicking about something so I am and I wonder whether the others share the heights.
I need to remain a mortal and know that I have these old weathered plots of land that I cannot see. Or I must decide that I am such a person who takes the world by the horns and makes a living doing something because many people do nothing at all.
The leaders of men take their shelters away. I have a letter of my own work in Festin.
These things seem to come together. I will spend the afternoon looking for work or perhaps typing away at my novel. I should finish the work that I have spent on that book, as it will be acclaimed and I will be a hero. A leader, you see, among men. This is what I want. I want to be the sort of person that is listened to. I want to be asked my opinion and write scathing reports on various topics that are mentioned to me in person and I also want to do things with my leaders.
Twenty-five snuck up on me. Instead of telling myself that I am some great super-hero I need to understand that the things I do I have done and they are works to be proud of, although I am not as heavy handed as I tell myself I am. But I should remain proud of my world and work. I should be happy with my life because I am the sort of person that is becoming a figure in the media through hard work and practice.
And I just spent the last twenty-seven pages practicing my methods of sharing information. I just need to find something to say today because I am not saying anything that people want to read. Perhaps I am not saying anything that I want to share.
There are turns that do not need to be handed in and those that do.
These words haunt our hero. It is simple.
So I walked into the strident hair coffee shop and decided to laugh over some bread. My friends are there and things are good amongst the fierce leaders of the new world. Ghosts prepared Montreal meat sandwiches and everyone hopes there is nothing in this book about Politics. These issues with the dream teacher other people listen to the other media that landed before the recent soccer match. The announcer relentlessly tells me they have very little else before the men required open roads and bus payments. Or do they want to do that later?
The seventeen-year-old water bottle is stapled to the wall. In ending and pinnacle business design had the other mount faded to the distance and they see that only the men from the media speak easily. This has taken the power from the man, as they used to call him. But the gap is sacred. These situations must be discussed, if for no other reason but so they do not become real.
It is bad to be too frank in discussions about things that are simply calling names. I am relating to the comments I made that our government is fighting their homosexuality with genocide. It should have never been brought it up.
If you have read before that may ring a bell. But for the new people, I still believe Richard Channing is to blame. This is secondary, science and math for now. I have learned that only the boring people abide by smooth replays and I should leave people that are not good for your particular situation. Nobody cares about that president anymore.
It is like the only man that needed the old woman to live inside the old men who had nothing like that. This blog should instead be about the betterment of misunderstood statements like the wonder of a helpless old saint and prophet that came to earth as a bastard child. This is the wonder of Peter Pan. As a sometimes weirdo I fell on my knees like a withering lass. I had very little remorse for this marked man who needed a harp for the performance at noon. The better men watched from to bridge above and those dancing below needed to be even or at least organized by height. I am tired and I do not want to go on.
And because of this madness, sworn vengeance and strife I made something that exists as if there was nothing. If a blind person places a finger inside a small hole with a variable Braille surface and watches a video played out as changing imprints the could decipher the shape of a room or where the closet is. If we take the finger wrapped in a streaming 3D camera to issue to proper images to either side of the hand or finger, a blind person could see that space that surrounded him or her.
The issue is that the images come as memories of people that we see around us or as something much worse to me. The psychology I want to study is about the images that blind people see. Some see stairs, some see people and some see patterns. I wonder what the effects of being able to sense room shapes would be. Can they already sense the shape of a room? Would this line of theory be offensive to a blind man?
The screen will tell a different story. The people I see are real and in front of me. I live in a predefined space. I also feel like I just came out of a coma. I’m not sure how in relates.
So the piece of technology is like this, a varied program. It creates a 3 Dimensional immersive image wrapped tightly around the inside of a shoe phone and I climb out of a delusion into a room with a woman hugging me. So I placed myself under the care of a nurse and did a fictional tour, scared and manic because I thought that I had cured blind. This device could make it happen.
The image shows up far away at first and then meagerly approaches the psyche until it is next to the person. This can work with familiar things rather well but becomes rather transparent in unfamiliar settings. The computer can send an image to a blind man. The brain must interpret things in a favorable way or the results could be hard on the psyche. Perhaps some would prefer a flat screen and camera.
Then the doctor told me I needed a quick surgery and put a drill in my eye. Then we were playing someone else’s song and a fictional person was showing me how to hammer nails into eyes. It was surreal.
Then I saw my wife and child again.
The doctors have thanked me for being honest with them. They say it is better than I have done in years. I watched the people I had created mesh with the people in the room with this device. And I remember telling them that I was glad about his answers. They told me the device may even work and I have developed myself well. So I used the device to look at myself. I was glad I was in the hospital and could see it.
“But Penticton is a real place,” I said, “And these are the ramblings of a loon.”
“At least you are sometimes entertaining,” she responded.
So now I get two forty-dollar checks from the government and tell myself it is for the patent of my device. It looks just like those other patents I have.
Which could be none, for Jesus, I’m blind. And I do not know whom I have on my side. But people are asking me to keep typing and strumming the songs because that’s what I do. Yet I do not leave Penticton. This is eerie and makes me feel ill.
Is it my indoctrination with the idea of a place called Perdition?
That is the place an abbot would go if he touched a Saint and became paralyzed. I hope it is not real. But I’m pretty sure it is a place on the map. The town next to Summerland, the one known as Perdition, is this place real?
I hope I live in the real world, that one that is earth.
I hear so many good things about it.

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