The only thing the young should be taught is that there is virtually nothing to be hoped for in life. One dreams of a Catalogue of Disapointments which would include all the disillusionments reserved for each and every one of us, to be posted in the schools.
~ Emile Cioran
Note: I use the term, ‘I’, as a figure of speech, but I am beginning to really doubt the hypothesis of a “self” or “personal identity”. I yearn for a major breakthrough in consciousness, where, when exploring my most unpleasant qualities, consciousness itself becomes evermore aware that these are the unpleasant qualities of Life itself.
There seems to exist forces that drain the lifeblood of my animal body without me being aware of them. There are also forces of self-renewal that help this animal body conquer those forces which eat away at its “spirit”. Albert Camus had suggested that whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, but I keep experiencing this nagging idea that maybe the trials, tribulations, and adversities we experience may chip away at us, breaking us down bit by bit. I just don’t know. When tired, the entire universe seems hostile and I feel so utterly brittle and destructible. It is then I am forced to seek inner powers within, and yet, there must be a limit to one’s inner powers …
There are moments when all I can manage to do is grunt and groan. Deep sighs. Am I a komuso, a monk of nothingness and emptiness?
ko = emptiness
mu = nothingness
so = monk
I am losing motivation to type up the mysterious scribblings. Much is redundant …
From an essay called “The American Religion” (H.L. Mencken):
In a democratic society it is more hazardous than elsewhere to show any oddity in conduct or opinion. Whoever differs from the general is held to be inferior, though it may be obvious, by any rational standard, that he is really superior. People become standardized. Their laws lay heavy penalties on any man whose taste in reading, in drinking or in any other private avocation differs from that of his neighbors. Life tends to be regimented and unpleasant, and everyone is more or less uneasy.
From the introduction to Virginia Woolf’s On Being Ill by Herminone Lee:
… a satire on conformity begins to make itself felt. The ill are the deserters, the refuseniks. They won’t accept the “co-operative” conventions. They blurt things out. They turn sympathizers away. They won’t go to work. They lie down. They waste time. They fantasize. They don’t go to Church or believe in Heaven. They refuse to read responsibly or make sense of what they read. They are attracted to nonsense, sensation, and rashness. On the other side of the glass is “the army of the upright,” harnessing energy, driving motor cars, going to work and to church, communicating and civilizing.
Reading in bed – like writing in bed – is, it’s suggested, a form of deviancy.
I had lied down on my back reading Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own when I was overcome by a powerful sleepiness which I surrendered to. I felt fortunate that I was at liberty to fall back to sleep, that I am not on the other side of the glass in the army of the upright, that I am a deserter. What must be respected, if not by others, than at the very least, respected by myself, is my utter contempt and disdain for “cooperation with controlled environments.” I value the opportunity I now have for organizing and typing some of my scribbled reflections. I also value the strength of my political dissidence. My presence is not a “toy” or a “playmate.” I am a Force of Nature, the living, breathing, speaking manifestation of earth, wind, and fire. Let us respect Natural Power!
How deviant to refuse to seek gainful employment, to lie in bed reading, writing, and, God forbid, napping with music playing! Sitting in sunbeams undisturbed while a homeless man in New York City runs amock in a park stabbing people with a broken pair of scissors. This is reality. Apartments are so expensive in that city that the poor are left to fend for themselves against the hostile elements while the young urban professionals go for a little jog in the park. These two worlds often make contact. Nightmare world. Why are the masses shocked by such an event but not outraged that the dispossessed have to live like that?
Virginia Woolf asks, “If truth is not to be found on the shelves of the British Museum, where, I asked myself, picking up a notebook and pencil, is truth?”
Once again, like a jailbird, while on my back reading, I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so succumbed to sleep. I simply rolled over on my side and I was as free from worry as a beast of the wild.
Boswell wrote, “Men know that women are an overmatch for them, and therefore they choose the weakest and most ignorant.”
Frazer in The Golden Bough: “The ancient Germans believed that there was something holy in women, and accordingly consulted them as oracles.”
While walking around outside, I was working on my oratory skills reading Virgina Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own out loud with passion (with no shirt on). I noticed the noise of the cars actually got on my nerves. I would pause my reading as each vehicle passed. I did not hide my disgust. There are some bold statements made by this Virginia Woolf which reveal her utter disdain for patriarchal society. She made similar observations as I have been making for decades. Our society is indifferent and even hostile to anything aspiring to intellectual greatness. It rewards conformity and punishes dissent.
Watch in the Spring sunshine the stock brokers and the great barrister going indoors to make money and more money and more money when it is a fact that 500 pounds a year will keep one alive in the sunshine.
When food, clothing, and shelter are mine, not merely do labor and effort cease, but also hatred and bitterness.
I need not hate any man: he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man: he has nothing to give me. It was absurd to blame any class as a whole. Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do. They are driven by instincts which are not in their control. They too, the patriarchs, the professors, had endless difficulties to contend with. True, they had money and power, but only at the cost of harboring in their breast a vulture, forever tearing the liver out and plucking at the lungs – the instinct for possession, the rage for acquisition which drives them to desire other people’s fields and goods perpetually; to make frontiers and flags; battleships and poison gas; to offer up their own lives and their children’s lives.
But how impossible it must have been for them not to budge either to the right or to the left. What genius, what integrity it must have required in the face of all that criticism, in the midst of that purely patriarchal society, to hold fast to the thing as they saw it without shrinking.
Literature is open to everybody. I refuse to allow you to turn me off the grass. Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
Here we have “Mental Insurrection in a Nutshell”.
So, where is truth? In the intestines. The truth is in the intestines. Do you not feel these rumble?
My species is a mad animal!
Being stranded out here in Brick, out in Ocean County, so far from Freehold (the only home I really know on this planet (I’ve never been to Sweden, or Germany, for that matter)), as far as public transportation goes – $80 cab fair – may not be such a bad thing. The streets of Freehold, while there may be many friendly faces and tender smiles (LOVE), are also crawling with those who view me as a maverick, a bad boy, a radical anti-capitalist atheist, a dissenter, an unemployed unmarried scoundrel and scamp; hence, there is always the threat of being “chased out of town” or actually arrested for DISORDERLY CONDUCT, ERATIC BEHAVIOR, or TRESPASSING. And so there may be great intervals between my visits to Downtown Freehold and my childhood wilderness.
In cold climates, without recourse to making fire, a human being requires a hot house at night – like an exotic plant. Where is truth? Freezing cold or wandering around like a suspicious character for the police to interrogate. Maybe people call the police when they witness a lone man wandering aimlessly.
My teeth are rotten and my limbs – they’re broke
The best I can think to do is joke and smoke
I found an excerpt from Kierkegaard’s diary in the Kafka biography that insists on our own standards: “As soon as a man comes along … who says: However the world is, I shall stay with my original nature, which I am not about to change to suit what the world regards as good. The moment this word is spoken, a metamorphosis takes place in the whole of existence.”
Does my philosophical mind help me to face the abyss alone? Without my mother in my life, I would have no “family” in my actual everyday life. I think my mother and I both sense just how alone we are in this “civilization.” Will writing and philosophy sustain me and empower me throughout this living process? Are we each destined to face this often hostile universe as an orphan, as a nomad, as principium individuationis? What do I seek when reading Franz Kafka’s The Castle? I am attempting to enrich my secret inner life, the life that transcends “social identity,” bank accounts, credit ratings, the condition of one’s teeth, one’s marital status, whether one has reproduced or not, one’s “ethnicity” or gender.
I fill my belly with food and beer awaiting The Great Tiredness to show me that the so-called “real world” is a hallucination that puffs itself up into significance. I have chosen to identify myself as a thinker, a philosopher, not as “mentally ill” or “chemically addicted.”
It is quite significant that Thomas Ligotti validates my fascination with Schopenhauer and Cioran in his only philosophical work. Like Kafka I only want to read deep or heavy books. Why do so few people know about Schopenhauer or Cioran? There is not one single book by or about either of them in the entire Ocean County Library System.
These rotten teeth in this mouth – do they not save me from vanity?
From the very first paragraph of the definitive edition of The Castle, the world is described as a place where one finds oneself at the mercy of authority-worshiping vermin who take morbid delight in seeing one dispossessed and ostracized. Does it help me embrace my life as brutally authentic when I am able to see so clearly that the handful of literary geniuses I am drawn to created for the few sensitive souls and not for mass entertainment? Does the posting of excerpts from my diaries on the Internet give me some kind of revenge – as proof that my bones have been on fire for a very long time, as validation of my secret inner life?
When one reaches a point where the unreflective nature of the masses becomes all-too-clear, doesn’t this liberate one from concern for public opinion? Presidents may be slaves to public opinion or stockholders, but I am not. How many devote most of their energy to projecting images or social identities? Oooh, look, I reported to a job on time while you loafed around doing nothing useful! Or, look at me, I am kneeling in a temple before the Lord, and you are napping, maybe even bringing yourself to orgasm with your own monkey hands!
Global outrage over climate change caused by emissions from a way of life dependent on fossil fuels, i.e., automobiles and furnaces … Meanwhile, my voice is shot from singing and shouting yesterday. Now that all funds have once again quickly dwindled, I prepare to heal from a long binge, the longest binge I remember having engaged in in a long, long time.
I am just so disgusted with the systematic stupidity of my contemporaries. This arrogance and stupidity is reflected in their lifestyles, their large vehicles, and the corporations they serve – their Masters. As our industrialized society seems incapable of resisting this systematic stupidity, I am becoming more and more scornful of the hordes who unreflectively conform to the automobilacracy. My refusal to own a personal motor vehicle is an organic protest. If we are going to ween ourselves off dependency upon fossil fuels, we might start by sharing community vehicles that we share in an organized manner.
My literary interests reveal just how marginalized my intelligence is in comparison to mainstream culture. Have I finally come to appreciate the futility of concerning myself with public opinion?
The bewilderment that Kafka hints at in The Castle is related to how the unconventional are often at the mercy of the conventional, how the dull-witted are often loyal servants to incomprehensible authority, while the genius is spied upon by those who fear that incomprehensible authority. Wasn’t this also hinted at by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. in his novel,
Hocus Pocus, where the protagonist is a teacher being spied on by a student with a tape recorder?
So how does one go about facing down, standing up to, and out-thinking the unreflective and obedient drones? We shall see …
I continue to resist being guilted or shamed into submitting to the corporate mind fuck. Like the “Drunken Indians,” I am just getting through it, doing my time. I do what I do, and you do what you can do about it.
Going over my notes from last autumn where I was heavily into Thomas Ligotti’s The Conspiracy Against The Human Race, I find a reference to the horror novel, The Tenant by Roland Tupor (c. 1964), which is very connected to the theme of alienation that Kafka’s work resonates with. The modern world seems to be a sinister place. The other residents in Trelkovsky’s apartment complex seem to be well-adapted to the Hell they have created for themselves. Anyone who is marked as being outside the “group” (We), a stranger to “The Castle,” is fair game for those who would assert their reality over all others.
“The bastards!” Trelkovsky raged.
“The bastards! What the hell do they want – for everyone to roll over and play dead!”
Ligotti says that they want everyone to roll over and play them. People arrogate to themselves the authority to make a ruling on who YOU are, and you will stand mute before their bench. Overcoming this tyranny of public opinion is a great secret source of happiness. It allows one to follow one’s bliss without first asking permission.
The Politics of Climate Change
The Big Polluters: USA, Japan, Australia, Russia, China, India, Canada?
The Big Victims: Africa, South America?
Why this interest in Kafka? The novel, The Metamorphosis, is clearly ANTI-WORK, ANTI-INDUSTRY. This author is speaking directly to the refusenicks, the dissidents of the Industrial World. In a society that is obsessed with jobs, careers, social status, what car one drives, credit-ratings, where we are bombarded with propaganda which demonizes the nonconforming deadbeat as a dangerous element who refuses to be influenced by social norms, I am clearly in league with rebellious intellectuals like Virgina Woolf who suggested we “just get by” and even lie in bed reading books.
Perhaps my disdain is even more radical, since, even as I really enjoyed A Confederacy of Dunces and A Fraction of the Whole, I have no aspirations about writing a work of fiction. I just want to speak the plain truth. What actually happened.
A note from the biography, Kafka: The Years of Insight, p.296: “Sarte called this strategy, ‘Making something out of what you’ve been made into.’ To identify deliberately with characteristics that the community regards as strange, insane, or antisocial requires a high degree of reflectiveness, which Kafka sought to achieve by linguistic and literary means, as a reader and a writer. This explains his extensive reading while in Zurau and his meditative style in the Zurau Notes.”
I am reading Kafka’s The Castle with passion.
“It amuses me,” said K, “only because it gives me some insight into the ridiculous tangle that may under certain circumstances determine a person’s life.”
Because of K’s boldness and courage in confronting “The Castle” other people are afraid of him.
It amazes me how much authority medical psychiatrists (and those who serve them) have, and how little protection an individual has when it comes to defending oneself against authority-worshiping ass-lickers. Do we live in a police state? Psychiatrists and other “mental heath professionals” attempt to tame, control, and punish dissenters in order to enforce norms … to maintain the status quo.
Music, singing, or speaking with passion is all it takes in this New World Order to have the gestapo at the door. This is reality. Sorry, Mr. Marley, we’re going to have to escort The Wailers off the premises. We’re shippin’ ’em to the Behavioral Healthcare facility for forced psychiatric treatment. We sentence you to the outpatient day program hall of mirrors. Soul Rebel becomes Dayworld Rebel. Watch out, here comes the Soul Police!
Is it all a set-up? The deafening silence. Somebody’s got their thermometer up my ass again taking my temperature.
I made a mistake. I got so drunk on Fireball that I blasted my “computer/radio,” and when the police showed up banging on my door, I slammed my little hammer on the coffee table that the monitor and keyboard are on. The police banged even harder. I climbed out the second-story window thinking to gently drop myself to the ground. I hung there preparing to drop, and when I let go, I instantaneously felt the need to protect my right leg, the one that was severely broken back in Freehold, the one with a rod in it. So, I lifted that leg and landed solely on the left leg. Ouch! Minor fracture or bad sprain.
A week from tomorrow is Christmas, I mean X-mas. I managed to get myself committed to a psychiatric hospital, euphemistically “a short-term behavioral health treatment center.” I have been here since last night or the night before. Tonight an employee here, a female social worker interested in drama brought in some books and ink-pens. She also gave me two little journals: examination blue books.
It is becoming clear to me that I have been committed to a psychiatric institution. Am I to just accept being at the mercy of this highbrow shrink? Everything I have written about in my “manifesto” is confirmed. The Corporate State has no thinkers, no philosophers. I am being made out to be a danger to myself and society. I have to protect my spirit. My only chance is to win the affections and sympathies of those employed in this institution.
I will reflect upon One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, This Perfect Day, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Lila, and good ole’ Antonin Artaud.
My goal is to rediscover The Power Within – Natural Power, and to utilize this “crisis” as an opportunity to articulate the free spirit envisioned by Friedrich Nietzsche. The Short Term Center is a TEST where our behavior in a controlled, highly structured environment is observed and held up to scrutiny. How will my radicalized psyche be viewed under the microscope of this psychiatric dictatorship? The nurses and social workers are friendly and even pleasant. The head doctor, on the other hand … How does one “fight from the inside”? This is not the place to fight the politics of the medical-industrial complex. Isn’t this false imprisonment? They give us huge portions of food. The meals are the highlight of the day. I am always stuffed to the gills.
It is a cross between Huxley’s Brave New World (reward for conformity) and Orwell’s 1984 (punishment for nonconformity), leaning a little more in the direction that Huxley envisioned.
There are no clear-cut villains in this saga. There are tyrants and many minions. I wonder who has the pseudo-dictator shaking in his boots. Orders come from the top only, right? Paperback writer.
A line from a novel I am reading in here, Ape House by Sara Gruen, speaks to me with uncanny precision about the events that transpired the night I was subdued, captured, and brought into the hospital/zoo: “They came to a stop in front of a cage, and the female inside realized they had come for her. She flew from side to side, trying to climb the walls to find some way of escaping, but she had no chance.”
This is analogous to the situation I found myself in on that night when I lowered myself out the window trying to avoid a confrontation with the zoo-keepers over my enjoyment of music and singing.
Something hilarious a youth came out with in some group session (I do not think he intended it to be funny): “You’re free as a bird. You have your own cage and everything!”
Shall I report to the future the trivial details of my daily existence? Many would argue, “No,” and while I may agree, opting to convey a general attitude or stance, I will note here that there were several personalities my animal being bonded with in the Behavioral Healthcare Treatment Center, an observatory staffed by mostly kind but robotic authority-worshiping drones of Gortistan. Point blank. No punches pulled. They are all too willing to follow orders, instructions, schedules, grids, and commands from high. They believe in stability. They criticize tobacco while they pollute the atmosphere with their sexy fucking automobiles – their gort-mobiles.
There were many characters – the “inmates” (euphemistically called patients) – but I will mention no names. Many strongly resented the mighty “doctor.” Think while you still can! Speak while you are still able to think! Write while you still have fingers to write with! If we don’t speak about it, the rocks are going to shout about it.
Now I rise between 2AM and 3AM, no longer imprisoned on the psychiatric plantation farm – the pharmo-farm, where those employed there to impose order on chaos actually did show me a certain respect. Everybody needs just a little respect.
They suggest “medication,” outpatient treatment, some sort of support groups; that is, they suggest dependency on their professions!
My mother was saying I look like a bum with the 20 year old Carharts. I bought myself an inexpensive pair of Walls at 25% off for like $65 leaving myself $13 in the bank. They are pretty sharp. Black.
I have much cleaning to do in the apartment as it was left in disarray when I chose to climb out the window.
I also want to get through all my scribblings, typing up what I think is worth typing, before relocating. Where to next? I have no idea. Colorado? Psyche!
When the laws of man decree the death of one’s being, then the Laws of Nature demand rebellion.
Note: I am once again seeking Total Telepathic Communications with a specific woman.
While looking for a copy of Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and discovering that not only was it out but also on hold by yet another patron, I came across his second novel, which I had never heard of before (shockingly): Sometimes A Great Notion. It’s over 700 pages!
In the introduction, Charles Bowden recalls a monster statement made by Kesey (advice to writers). Basically, he says you’re going to see God one day, and your job as a writer is to say, “Fuck you, God, fuck you and the Old Testament you rode in on, fuck you.”
“The job of the writer is to kiss no ass, no matter how big and holy and white and tempting and powerful. The job is to always be exposing God as the crook, as the sleaze ball.”
Humility destroys humiliation. Sometimes the only way to win is to learn to be the loser.
I got another ticket for loud music. I have to seriously consider relocating. While I can never get away from life itself (there is no easy way out), I definitely have to find someplace where I will not draw so much attention to myself. How does it end?
I don’t want to be institutionalized. I am not fitting into this world of jobs and apartment complexes. I pace around in the apartment talking to myself. I don’t want to be strapped down for not complying with the psychiatric New World Order. I am surely involved in some kind of spiritual and intellectual battle. I am not free to be myself. Am I a victim of my own consciousness or am I just a living protest against the status quo?
Is my existence that controversial? Am I to be condemned as a deadbeat drunken madman? Another retarded genius? My total rejection of mainstream values has surely alienated me, but there are others like me … Are the subversives to be mined and rounded up for “behavioral corrections”? Are we the Natural World itself that refuses to submit to the Machine Age?
I have to seriously consider less self-destructive ways to rebel than alcohol poisoning. Laying in bed reading heavy literature is great revenge against an all-too-industrious society.
I would like to track down a copy of Roland Tupor’s The Tenant to strengthen my mind against real and imagined conspiratorial adversaries … I’ve been researching some reviews on the Internet:
claustrophobic apartment settings … to be mercilessly scrutinized by neighbors … afraid to make the slightest sound. The protagonist, Trelkovsky, is slowly losing his mind in his attempts not to disturb society’s codes, minimizing the impact his life has on reality. Like the book’s protagonist, I am also an extremist nonconformist. Trelkovsky is a seeker of a new apartment, a strenuous task because he is on the cusp of being evicted out of his old one.
As he moves into the new apartment, he is expected to behave in a manner that is in very strict accordance with the rules of “the apartment,” which is no noise, no women, no pets that bark, no parties, no people whatsoever, just him accompanied by his guilty conscience and a deafening silence. As he bends the rules just a tad bit, odd and unexplainable trouble comes along his path. The acts of harassment are palpable, yet the committers of them are unseen and unheard, for they are stealthy and almost invisible. The odd happenings seem to be signals from the tenants – peer pressure – to make him correspond to their way of life.
Invite a friend or a partner over: that’s it, you’re finished. The landlord (or police) bangs on your door: What kind of establishment do you think this is?
A party? Are you insane? Off with your head!
Here’s what you can do in your bode of respite: respirate. Nothing else. Movements must be controlled. Put your slippers on and walk on those eggshells.
Get the picture? Would you go crazy?
Can you blame Trelkovsky for going crazy?
He goes insane in a spectacular, no holds barred, fireworks at dusk, aim for the jugular vein fashion.
Literature is one of my main sources of stimulation. I purchased a huge anthology of “cosmic horror” stories by H.P. Lovecraft for $8. There is no rush to read it. I may read parts into the recorder as part of my Audio Projects. Reading out loud helps to overcome the deafening silence of this apartment complex.
It’s not so bad being such an extremist nonconformist. It’s not so bad to have lost interest in the Internet, to have no interest whatsoever in television or Hollywood or Organized Spectator Sports.
I open up an advertisement offering me Blast! Plus Xfinity from a cable company. It tells me: “Today you need faster Internet speed more than ever before. So you can watch HD movies online, videochat on your Smartphone, play games with your friends across the country, share videos with faraway relatives and much more.”
“Watch some of the most popular channels on TV – including HBO.”
I, of course, discard this crap into the trash basket. You don’t get me. You lost me a long, long, long time ago!
And so my life is a protest against consumerist culture. My failure to adapt to the idiotic norms of the Culture-of-Make-Believe is a sign of merit and nothing to feel ashamed about.
I pay attention to my moods. Were I not so literate, perhaps my lifestyle would be unbearable and I’d be selling myself into slavery just to pass the time.
Unless I recognize a phone number, I do not answer the phone when it rings. This is my prerogative. Minutes aren’t free. I do not have to subject myself to psychiatric medications. This is also my prerogative. Who do they think they are? I have been quite vocal and elaborate in explaining the reasons for my decision to endure existence without depending upon psychiatric drugs which limit my mental capacity.
I have alternate forms of therapy such as writing in my diary, preparing meals, singing songs, listening to music, walking outdoors, talking to myself, recording myself read out loud, enjoying hot baths, some inebriation to make life a little more interesting, taking vitamins (with meals, of course), and, yes, even smoking tobacco. How controversial! Not the Sacred Tobacco!
It is no wonder I identify so much with the character, Raskolnovik from Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I have become that “former student” living on government relief. How do I manage to keep my mind together? I literally sit or walk around and think all day and all throughout the night. I try not to look for refuge outside myself, but have developed the capacity to endure long periods of isolation. There is really nothing to be had in this world. Getting into heavy literature and music, sitting up against a tree in the woods – about as good as it gets. When I reflect upon the swamp of misery others of my species are drowning in, I can’t help but feel blessed. There is a deeper perspective available to me that enables me to be proud of myself for having the confidence to shun social status, to learn to be the so-called “loser.” Being the loser, I am victorious! I mock the meritocracy.
I enjoy my higher faculties, and I very well may be bolder than Nietzsche.
The reason I get summons for loud music has far more to do with the deafening silence of this apartment complex than it has to do with the music itself. Therefor, I do not feel shame or remorse … just despondency.
despondent – extreme discouragement, dejection, or depression. Despondent implies a deep dejection arising from a conviction of the uselessness of further effort. The animal body is tired, the leg is in pain.
I had helped T— moving kitchen supplies all day on Friday (01/31). She was very appreciative, even giving me a huge microwave oven. She gave me two pouches of Buglar tobacco and a pack of class A Pall Malls Menthol Whites. After drinking three small Fireballs and a pint of Laird’s Vodka, I went back to the apartment and started to jam. Soon enough there were police at the door and police flashing lights into the windows from the back. I was kind of terrorized. I refused to open the door but they were persistent, threatening to call the superintendent to open the door. Against my better judgement, when they said they just wanted to look at me to see if I was alright, I opened the door. All the coppers entered my domicile snooping around. They swiftly escorted me out of the apartment, down the stairs and into the patrol car – all this without using handcuffs or laying their dirty paws on me.
I was not able to help T on Saturday as I was incarcerated in the Emergency Ward. I was disappointed. I was trapped in the ER from Friday night to Thursday evening when I was transported to Barnabas Behavioral Health Treatment Center in Toms River (02.06). I am presently surprisingly calm, happy to be wearing my sneakers, even without laces. While here, I will not want for milk, food, or interactions with other people. There is not much that concerns me. Being stuck at that hospital for nearly an entire week was like an existentialist film, with me squatting up and down, kicking the air Kung Fu style, reading out loud, and going off on and on with my radicalized anti-psychiatric gospel of doom. Fortunately for me, I have become familiar with institutionalization.
I look forward to purchasing a pack of unfiltered Camels when I get discharged.
Dream Recall: I was hiking through the woods with a backpack and a knife. Was I hunting for a rabbit? I wander to the edge of the woods, but I have to duck back along the edge because there are large luxury homes all along the edge. Farmingdale? I awaken realizing where I am and go right for the coffee.
The psychiatrist I have this time is a very amiable and straightforward person. He suggests I cease imbibing this poison: alcohol. As T has said, “What is a woman to do with a drunk?”
What about my Bohemian lifestyle? How might I eliminate booze from my lifestyle?
Keeping It In Perspective: In the era of chattel slavery, the institution of slavery was the norm, the status quo. A dissatisfied slave who wanted to escape the plantation, even if it meant risking death or murdering the managers of the plantation – this disgruntled individual was diagnosed with “mental illness.”
What if the normal status quo society is systematically idiotic?
Day #1 of official psychiatric observation: The reason I am here is because the police heard me say I was going to “burn down the police station and kill the person who keeps calling the police on me when I listen to loud music.” This is why I am in a psychiatric treatment center: I said I would have been better off never having been born.
I want to continue to rebel, but in a less self-destructive manner.
The staff is amazed with my fierce appetite.
Today my mother visited me at the “treatment center” and blessed me with Nietzsche’s masterpiece, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Although I read it before twenty years ago, this time I will read it aloud with passion, like poetry.
Did Schopenhauer write about his bowel movements or masturbation? I want to be the answer to Zamyatin’s question, “What next?”
Why not just focus on the strangeness of everyday life and what actually happens?
When a young woman tells me she only likes thin lined hair and a little goatee, I say, “Who gives a fuck what girls like? I want a Grizzly Adams beard!”
Nietzsche’s Zarathustra is treated as a figure whose seriousness and importance are comparable to those of The Nazarene. Overcome and reject Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytic dogmatists! Shall I become a Zarathustra of the Twenty First Century?