Three-Fisted Punch

I found Oz. Found the Cloud in car form. Found myself lost, yet again, driving aimlessly, directionless, disoriented, and overwhelmed by the stories I hear. As I drive through Kansas, I find myself locked up in jail, at the hospital and then finally, riding shotgun on a trip that started out with me and me alone missing a flight to Ohio.

Three weeks ago I planned to visit family for Thanksgiving. Caught up in conversation with myself, I lost track of time and ended up missing my flight. Silly as I am, I think driving is the solution, instead of waiting for the stand-by flight the next day. Not twelve hours into my trip I am already lost and confused, failing to follow a strait line through the Heartland. As I drive I hear the voices talking, telling me the story of places and the future.

By Day 2, my phone is dead. By Day 5 I’m in the middle of nowhere, calling on a rural neighbor’s phone for help. I’ve got a hotel room and I am waiting for my brothers to arrive. There’s a carload of people and a plan to find Chinese food as a subterfuge for setting the stage for all things greater, all things magic. Christian is in the car with me but he’s not slick , in my shoes, to escape the Sheriff’s questioning. His words fall like bricks and the squad cars surround me as the Authorities nearly tackle me to the ground.

My car is impounded and liberated at the same time. Christian is free to leave me in the dust and continue on with his plan, whatever it may be, while I loiter at the station and the officers sort through it all. He’s pissed, however, because I won’t let him dominate the operation using my car without me. As a show of force, he appears before in cloud form and attempts to play the harpsichord and pluck my life force. In exchange, I play my own magical maneuvers, and ensues the battle between two sorcerers. After demonstrating how I can make him piss and shit his pants, I’m on the floor, passing out over and over again. By now the ambulance has been called and I am whisked away, but not before I can knock my fists together three times and deliver the final blow and he’s not gone when I arrive back at the hotel where my brothers arrive a few hours later.

In tow on the way home, I chatter endlessly as the story of sorcerers, as the story arc evolves from the American’s East Coast/ West Coast Car War to the Spaniard’s bipole Blood War. And the visions are horrific, in my mind, as the war they are fighting is not the war they are winning.

Your Water War is not my Blood War.

Singing Bowl and the Mouth That Won’t Stop

It has been six months since I’ve written anything meaningful here. Delusion, setting in four weeks ago. has come this time as a flapping mouth. I keep chattering and chattering, on and on and on. It is not simply words or rambling —  I am having entire conversations with myself. The characters, in my mind, are real people talking through me. I don’t hear them except through my own voice (which is to say these are not auditory hallucinations that I parrot, but actual conversations that feel channeled). I can only tell them apart, these people invading my mind, through the flow of conversation.

In addition to what they call “Singing Bowl” I am still having auditory hallucinations: Spirits talk to me through the window, converse from the fridge, and chat as cars pass. The topics this time are again as they were: Magic, Smoking (in all it’s glorious definitions), and death. Though the delusions are not as psychotically-induced as last time — I am not as separated from reality — they escalate. Spirits and the people I am channeling threaten my sanity, my life, my afterlife — quite literally.

It’s maddening and I wish it would stop.

The Game of Knots

A Games of KnotsMom sat at the kitchen table throwing down cards as if she were playing Solitaire, but he piles were jumbled as she sat there, staring at me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I don’t know what I am doing! I’m trying to figure that out!” The words were pressured, impatient.

“What don’t you call it The Game of Knots?” I happily volunteered, for I had found  a secret to this madness and I wanted to share it.

Mom was supposed to be getting ready for work but instead she was looking at me, dumbfounded. I knew at the time she was trying to tell me this was how she perceived me: disorganized, directionless, chaotic. What she didn’t see was the piece of paper I kept moving around the house, and the knots I was making, placing each on something to make combined object-messages.

Knot+banana, I was not bananas.

Not+bell, I was not a bell, not able.

I was not able to explain what happened to me, I was not able to communicate what I was experiencing. Inside I was all tied up, confused, afraid, and very much alone.

Describing the Experience

I am starting what may be a long-term effort of describing not only what I experienced in psychosis, but also what I experience today. This is not an easy process for it is hard enough to find a new style of writing, but it is also hard to find new words for what I perceive are misleading descriptions. With new words come definitions and with definitions come abstractions which, in turn, lend definitions their universality.

For those who experience hallucinations frequently, as with those who have schizophrenia, most are afflicted in their youth, before they fully develop not only philosophical concepts, but also abstract/analytical thought and a rich foundation in language. Add to that, what is experienced in childhood is often lost, so they don’t have a lot of history with which to compare their new awareness. Furthermore, few recover well enough to overcome the “thought disorder” aspect of the illness. It is extremely difficult to be consistent and coherent with a train of thought over long-periods of time.

I feel I have a unique vantage point, having studied ontology, epistemology, and phenomenology long before this happened. Though I have forgotten much over time and through the blow of psychosis itself, I find my abilities to think analytically are returning and I am enjoying revisiting old texts from college. It feels good to rekindle an old passion and to feel as though I have an opportunity to contribute something meaningful.

The plausibility of delusions

The science of personality is still in the dark ages. Though the natural philosophers have toyed with the complexities of virtue none have solved the mysteries of the psyche. Intuitively we know that the laughter, for example, is an essential component of our behavior and that misplaced timing on behalf of the subject begets ostracization. The human response loop as determined by behavior and self report is a fragile system few dare to deal with directly when there’s a breakdown. Continue reading

The Sacred and The Profane

This is the one year anniversary of the “Rocks up for Big Brother” post — one of the more “sacred” aspects of my journey. I carried this list of pictorial keys with me — my own personal Rosetta Stone enabling me to navigate through the wilderness of thought and experience. I was convinced at the time I published the post that the world would end as I released this sacred information to the public. I did not quite understand at the time that this was a personal experience, not a social experiment.