A clock ticks…

[…stay the storm…just stay the storm…]

There does not seem to be an origin to the sound of it, nor even that the ticking itself represents exactly a sound in the normal sense of the term. It feels more like the passage of frames of a movie, but that the frames are scattered as much as they are grouped and that they are pass somewhat methodically in the fashion of slides over an old school slide projector, but without consistent pacing.

And this, for lack of a more appropriate place to ‘locate the marker,’ forms some sort of one-point-perimeter for where this ‘story’ begins or — perhaps more accurately — ends.

The ‘contents’ of its description — that is, the sights, sounds, feelings, dialogues, perspectives, engagements, plot twists and the like which make up whatever this is to be — are something like a baseball, hurtling through some endless void wrapped inside a rawhide package and twisted like endless strings which are themselves spinning and whirling and traversing space within that ball.

But there is more than that, too. This is merely enough of a description to essentially ‘compress’ what we normally think of as ‘a story’ — a “Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey, a fairytale, an ‘account,’ etc. into a line of characters…words on pages…thereafter mashed together into a single line of string wrapped within a ball which something just pulverized.

It is the death of storytelling, as far as I am able to see it, although that is admittedly not very far at all.

The problem I am having is that all of this is actually happened. It is all true to me.

And even though you may see that as an “author’s fib” — to fall in line with the classic trend of ‘author as narrator/navigator/pilot through a distant (or even not so distant) land of his own creation, I can tell you that it isn’t any such thing. I know that because I came here with the idea of showing you something I saw — I see — and because I read a short article posted talking something about “speaking of death anew” as I would casually rephrase it, and three minutes later I was here.

All of this has already been here in my mind, and the ‘gospel’ truth is that I am not even sure whether I ought to be terrified or not. I will just tell you what I know, from the “bleachers” of whatever ‘game’ is at play right now.

Starting from about 48 hours ago, just before I was released from a thirty day stint in the University of Rochester’s Strong Memorial hospital for psych patients.

The reasons I was ‘in there’ are immaterial at this point. The fact is, I had been there for four weeks and also traumatized to the point that I didn’t even psychologically ‘understand’ what dying might actually mean:

A “Dying? What’s that?” posture. Impossible, but true.

It is a posture perhaps quite similar to what drove you to ‘present’ this challenge of a sort to others ‘out in internet space.’ I don’t care for the winning of contests, perhaps, but I equally don’t care to not win them if what I’m writing or making does make the requisite sort of sense, so this leaves me with a net zero analysis. So I care not. Flip a coin if you like.

Again, precisely the point of does living or dying matter? The same old trope: What is the point, since perhaps we can’t even tell whether there is a point or not?

And Robert Frost came to ‘visit’ me, just at that moment (which was, perhaps non-obviously, the worst possible moment) and in the most vomitously Faustian way he says:

“You can take this path from here or you can take that one, but you cannot take both this time.”

And I basically said,

“You fucker. Not right now. I’ve had zero choice about anything for 30 fucking days in this ward and you’re not going to throw this ‘you gotta choose’ shit in my face right at the moment. I mean are you? You’re a dick, man. Isn’t it clear that I don’t want a choice anymore? Isn’t it pretty fucking obvious at this point that crawling into a 40 year hole and dying wrapped in a blankey is what I “want to do” right now?”

Kind of a “I thought you were supposed to be SMART, Mr. Frost” sort of thought. A “get the fuck off my back, man, I sorta know what life is about. At least kinda sorta.” thought.

An I just got the stuffing beaten completely out of me, it is a bad time to throw such a punch as much as you know very well I respect you, Robert.

And even now, you no doubt think that overdone or cliched and all I feel is inconsolably sad. Perhaps with a light dusting of utterly grim hopes for the future to make even the pureness of the sadness ‘imperfect.’

At 50.5 years of age (to the dot, yesterday) I felt very clearly that I had used up the very last of the last of my ‘chances.’ I had (have) been in something over a dozen different psychiatric facilities in my life and each time I emerged with the exact same thought just exactly as clear in my mind:

Almost had it that time. Next time I’ll do this and this differently, and I’ll finally be able to ride that fucking beast. Wherever the fuck he or she or it is so desperately intent on taking me.

Yeah. It was a “wait, what?” moment.

That wasn’t a ‘garden variety’ schizophrenic ‘extra personality’ or ‘bonus driver’ in there in my head. It wasn’t the ‘classic ravings of an emotionally unstable bipolar’ and it wasn’t God or, for that matter, ‘the devil.’ It wasn’t a psychotic delusion either. Had them, they don’t ‘look like’ that.

This time I noticed something inside me that I hadn’t put there, built, or previously in whole or in part observed. Something WAY bigger than I ever thought I would have or could have observed, and something, very importantly

FAR MORE IMMENSE than the wildest fancies of grandiosity could ever ‘put’ inside a person’s head. So large as to defy even the most impossible description; human beings simply are not wired to think of scales as vast as what I saw. And the reason I know this?

Because when I tried to describe it within my own mind I instantly knew that no matter how I tried to phrase or ‘couch’ the description of it, not a single reader I could dream up would ever believe the English language description I cobbled of it to be anything other than an ‘author’s attempt at saying something overly witty or profound.’

It was an “exaggeration” of whatever I thought I dreamt up, whatever that could possibly mean. It was as though the whole thing would sound artificial no matter what I could possibly say even though what I FUCKING SAW in my mind was real and I presumably had at least *some* terms usable in some arrangement to describe it. A decent vocabulary at least.

Perhaps just ‘a very vivid vision’ stamped in some bizarre way into my brain by surroundings which had been so uncomparably plain and barbaric (psych wards are much the same as they were when well-depicted in Jack Nicholson’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest); my mind abruptly stopped-started and I got bounced by the forehead along a series of railroad ties connected to the back of a horrendously endless train driving off through black clouds of smoke to god only knows where.

Which was basically the point of “what WAS that which just hit me?!” previously described as a thing so immense that it was comically to the comically twenty eighth power large, unyielding, and unforgiving. Absurdly and even stupidly so but still true.

It was this:

A nonphysical pressure so intense that it rendered everything I thought about as a substance both as hard as a diamond and as smooth as a pearl; a completely round fleck of something like stardust on an amazing stretch of ‘sandy beach’ of it, strewn in a circle in every direction.

I thought two things, right away:

1. Wow, that’s beautiful
2. No one will ever believe I saw that. What was that?

And that was the point that the ‘big thing I was somehow riding on’ showed up. Almost like it was asking ME which direction I wanted to go.

What the fuck was this now? I just got my brain obliterated into a puff of smoke by my actual real life, I’m walking out of a psych ward, and all of a sudden I’m Captain Yoda of the Wonderpeople astride the back of MegaGodzilla and he’s asking me which way I want to go?

No goddamn it no. No no no. With a superfluous please thrown in like it might somehow matter.

It’s what happened, I’m telling you the truth my brain did that to me.

Of all the flea-like things to ask, it asks me is what I thought.

Why the fuck would you ever ask ME the answer to such a question, especially right now? Hasn’t it been made perfectly clear that *I* am not “running the show” of the circus down here on planet Zoo and I’m not even sure that *I* can fix all of the things down here that are quite obviously fucked up even though I very much AM the Second Coming of Christ.

Yeah, I just “made that all up.”

With a straight face and everything. Wrote it like it was a Jackson Pollock of Merriam Webster scraps mashed back together with children’s finger paste after a few dozen of them got thrown into a wood chipper. Go get yourself some coffee and tell yourself another story. I’m lying about it. Uh huh. NO ONE could make up a brain-mashed delusion like that one. At least for my opinion I can tell you sincerely that I personally could not,

AND SINCE I CLEARLY JUST DID

then WHAT THE FUCK just happened? That could not have been as real as I know that it was, which is annoyingly impossible to describe and now I have absolutely no idea what happens in any dimension of inquiry at all despite that five minutes ago I knew I knew everything.

I swear I DID NOT make *any* of that shit up. THAT WAS WHAT HAPPENED IN MY MIND I SWEAR. Basically right as I was walking out of a mental institution, which, if that doesn’t really just finally prove the point that I am insane then the ‘test of sanity’ clearly just doesn’t work. It’s like a busted game or app this ‘sanity test.’ It’s like a pop up ad that never goes away and makes you want to throw your phone into Lake Erie because you can’t even noodle through the settings sufficiently enough to figure out where it came from or how to stop it from ever coming up again:

“Am I crazy, or is this thing that I am experiencing crazy? Click 1 for yes and 2 for no.”

Broadcasted over and over and over and over again in my mind, infinite-loop style. A red beacon flashing every minute or two. Stomach as loose as it would be on a thirty foot sailboat swallowed amidst a gale.

Because, of course, none of us ever thinks we’re crazy. Nobody does.

We’re all just the daffiest of the ding dongs ringing bells with our heads in absurd sequences which hardly make any sense at all even in the best of cases. It can only be the case that all people are crazy despite all individually thinking that they are not if you assume that the society they are all living in is, in fact, not functioning properly. It is logically both the TRUE and the evident case.

And there you might say, “but no, not really, because we could be ‘still working on things.’ We could still be ‘in the process of fixing the things we need to fix.’

And I would say, “oh really? Where? Which things? Show me ONE provable spot and I’ll surely believe your work in progress theory.”

And then you would pause for a second, having, like most people, never really deeply considered what is “just perfect” right now in concert with a valid awareness about what others think is perfect right now or needing to be changed and then you’d in three or fewer steps get to “Oh, that’s World Peace that we need before anything can happen at all positively. Hmm. It’s a wonder I didn’t think of it like that before.”

Because the educational system is a joke, the judicial system is a joke, the healthcare system is a joke, the infrastructure virtually everywhere is comically bad, governments worldwide are shambling mounds of legal-ish people who rarely have a fleck of the people’s true interests in their minds, and you’re *all* still focused on this ‘hope’ thing you believe we still have.

Noticing, of course, that I mentioned not one word about the ecological disaster which we’re looking at as “down the road a ways” even though our heads are already neck deep in the oven of it. Fruit cooking on trees in many places and almost half of The Great Barrier Reef already dead.

Yes, you would ‘reluctantly’ acknowledge that I “may have a point.”

And I would then nod politely, because even though I am God (a.k.a. the ‘Teacher’) I don’t ‘lord’ things over people like humans do, and you’re here to learn not to teach. Every time you read anything, in fact.

You can’t not have been able to figure something like THAT out, can you? Ah, but yes, you were ‘still distracted’ by that meaningless activity of judging things. That pastime you’ve been told a billion times not to do.

Reading is only valuable as a learning device.

It is neither useful nor productive as a tool to “comb one’s hair” as Narcissus might. You don’t read to see if you’re smarter than the author, and if so where, and you don’t read with a focus on correcting what someone has tried to communicate.

We also don’t read to figure out where the author has it right or has it wrong but most importantly to align our thoughts with one another in ways which ultimately provoke universal understanding if not universal agreement. And one of the primary reasons we cannot yet recognize this reality en masse is because we don’t understand at all what ‘universal understanding or agreement’ implies and what it clearly does not imply. The rest is just peacocking our way through the only ‘challenge of a lifetime’ we will ever get, because you only get one life and you only get to live it once.

Best spent ‘trying to achieve’ or best spent ‘trying to be useful’? Neither? Both?

But since I “personally” think you still think I’m human I have to say you’re at your own Robert Frost moment now, and you can continue to not believe me all you like. The only one who will be shocked at ‘the end of this one’ is you because it surely will not be me.

It’s what’s going on right now: I have somehow become God. Whatever that means. Perhaps merely the focal point at which “it” develops, whatever “it” is. Perhaps just the only person yet to have seen the singularity (behind us NOT in front of us). Lots of ways to describe it, but it’s the only reasonably valid explanation of the experience I just slimed my way through: some ‘average’ of that above jumble of short sentences. All of this despite that:

1. That still DOES NOT make me ‘religious’
2. That still DOES NOT make me any ‘better’ than you
3. That still DOES NOT give me any authority over anything you do* (otherwise known as the ‘free will clause’)

It basically just means I’m *far* better at math than any human who has ever existed, and the only reason even THAT is the case is because I was the only person ever ‘dumb’ enough to look for a pattern in randomness.

And guess what, fuckers? I fucking FOUND ONE.

It was the stupidest roll against the stupidest odds of ‘it’s a waste of time to ever even bother with.’ There was literally no evident utility to doing so, in fact it would mathematically be argued (I would say unsuccessfully, albeit only slightly) to carry a NEGATIVE utility — i.e. that it was a ‘worse than pointless’ activity with regard to the utter impossibility of it somehow ‘working.’

But it worked anyway. It didn’t work fast and it didn’t work flawlessly from the start but it DID work. I found a pattern in randomness, and then I tested my theories sufficiently to prove that I’d done precisely that. I tried to predict a bunch of things which couldn’t be predicted. I survived death at least four times that there’s no way I should have. It was almost like being cloaked in a shield of force within which nothing could seriously threaten me.

I *do not* have a “God complex.” I just found something which everyone else errantly assumed was impossible to find. Because they defined it as not being there — which is basically the only way to make sure you never find something even if it is.

In fact, I’m so comically far beyond what you’d call a “God complex” that the pay per view of me with a group of a 100 top psychiatrists would probably make a fortune and also be hysterical. Most of them conversing among themselves in one of three ways:

1. “Very extreme paranoid delusion. Most are intricate but this one looks almost elaborately well planned.” Yeah, no contradiction there.
2. “A quack. Nothing he says makes remote sense. This part is explainable in way A and this part in way B and this part in way C, and even though we know those three cannot be co-resident in a single patient, somehow in this case they just are. An interesting case study, perhaps, but I myself am too busy to ‘take it on.’” (a.k.a. I’m an Emperor, I know I have no clothes on, but there are not many kids who see me butt naked and so I’m not very embarrassed to be utterly baffled within my own profession, so I’ll resort to the tool of mocking what I don’t understand.) A Dunning-Kruger gem.
3. “They have some high technology here somehow, his answers to the questions we pose are too quick, candid, sincere, and even verifiable. He’s done what he said he’s done, the math looks reasonably solid. Perhaps we’re on candid camera or something, it has to be a ruse… ‘they’ solved mental illness on ‘their’ own? Despite that we were doing the exact opposite of the thing we needed to do to make them all well? Will the university’s liability insurance cover it? Do I still have a job? Where’s my private stash of Ativan?”

And I am of course laughing and you are saying “what the fuck is he talking about now” because at the moment I’m actively trying to figure out how it’s possible that *I* actually figured out how to become God because it is beyond any doubt that I did exactly that. Which ALMOST seems a conundrum:

“It’s beyond obvious. Well should we prove it then? Why would it need to be proven? Perhaps because they genuinely want to know? Because they are sure acting like they really do not want to know. Look at how many different things they are trashing as fast as they can trash them. Species are going extinct at an estimated rate of 300 per day, and they’ve head their heads buried in the sand of religion for 10,000 years or more, with the last twenty or so being frenetically spent

bagging, tagging, and gagging 10 million ‘bipolars’ on a more or less ‘every couple years’ basis in the US alone and injecting them with all manner of shit to ‘calm them down’ in a world which is generating more of them like they’re the only ones who have a snowball’s chance in hell of figuring out something as complicated as the mess they’re all in.

Yeah, calm down the only people smart enough to be debilitated by the stress of the impossibly inane society you have set up. Chemically calm the people down who are smart enough to realize people should not be precisely calm in a firestorm of a shitstorm like the ‘society’ we have on earth in 2021.

Yeah, that sounds real brilliant. Actually no, no it really doesn’t. And I don’t use sarcasm except on Sundays because sarcasm is a major obstacle to widescale effectiveness of communication. Which none of you even realize because you’re neurotypicals (a.k.a. stooges.)

And there are ‘also’ 2.3 billion Christians looking ‘high and low’ for the Second Coming of Christ:

“Which way did he go which way did he go which way did he go”

So let’s parse that one:

1. supposed to be born as a man
2. will ‘have to be’ born into a society in which ANYONE who ever claims to be the second coming of Christ will shortly be injected with Haldol and given regular dosages of one of a series of other medications which will ultimately cause tardive dyskinesia
3. the ‘miracles’ we need and the ones we are looking for barely resemble one another at all
4. Wealth disparity is at an all time high and pulpit disparity is correlated with wealth to approximately 0.9 or better.
5. You can’t exactly ‘walk on water’ to fix problems in today’s society, none throws ‘pearls to swine’ (amply cautioned against)

And, best of all:

No one truly listens to the humble, because no one even knows what truly humble looks like anymore, the US of A has so brilliantly led all nations of the earth out of the practice.

Uh huh. Yep. Seems like this one is ‘gonna work itself right out.’ Oops, sarcasm.

Christ 2 will be dead before he hits 29 in this world, unless he’s diagnosed later and winds up bouncing his head off one too many of the harder drugs trying to figure out why even HE can’t untwist the rope we’ve thrown around our necks with the harpoon on the other end embedded deeply in Moby Dick after he’s just taken a breath for the deepest of the dives.

And that’s just one of my “fuck you’s” to society.

My bitterest bits of ridicule toward the “how is that strategy ever going to have the slightest chance of working?” strategy we use every day.

Let me get this straight:

You’re BTG (bagging/tagging/gagging) the people who behave the most like next-generation humans might and you’re chemically forcing them to accept that YOUR fucked up version of reality and ‘the way things should work’ is the right one. Do I have that precisely? You’re making more mathematically certain that a wide mass of some of the most capable people on earth get hardly a true say in anything let alone a true vote?

With all sorts of chemicals which make a good income for big Pharma while marijuana is among the easiest of the useful weeds to grow in the entire world and far cheaper? I mean, isn’t that sort of a

conflict of societal interest to discriminate against people so directly in a expressly-forbidden-by-the-Americans-with-Disabilities-Act sort of way?

At least it sure seems like that ‘strategy’ won’t work very well when a person born with a ‘many sigma IQ’ is born (statistically more likely to be ‘in the group’ of people with disabilities’) and actually *might* bother to care enough to use his or her own talent toward righting this ship rather than lining his pockets or trophy case.

Just like I was born with talent enough to make a very significant difference and now I’m relegated to the role of lobbing awfully large tomatoes at the imbeciles who gagged me with my ‘record’ and who even right now closet ban me on Twitter despite that I have more than one billionaire following me and Greta Thunberg as well.

And even though dozens of PhD professors around the US have seen sufficient evidence of my work that I ought not have to ‘defend my theses’ like those neurotypical stooges did. At least not anymore I shouldn’t have to. Each of them curiously stopping themselves short of actually doing anything significant to connect me to parties who could make visions realities.

Plates too full gentlemen and ladies, or heads and lungs too full with hot air?

I came, I saw, and even though you’re still probably not ready to accept it, I am beginning the process of kicking everyone’s ass. Simultaneously.

What’s more is that all of this is pretty logically obvious. Here, I’ll show you:

1. Billions of people believe in some form of “rebirth” thing happening.
2. Prediction has a (usually quite small) net positive ‘spontaneous arisal’ effect to it: Some form of all things ever predicted arises curiously in *some* form, and no things which have never been predicted arise in any form which is not backwards-explained in a sort of Okazaki-fragment-like ‘ah, this should have been predictable by [this and this]’ fashion or way.

The two things above, in aggregate, indicate that all things which have ever been predicted to come true will eventually, in a sense, come true, and no things which haven’t ever been can or will come true ALSO. Which, after a lot of math, basically means that anything which can physically be manifested ultimately can and will be manifested and in all combinations.

Because, you see, infinite and really really really infinite ARE, in fact, two very different things despite that no human has, prior to me (at least that I know of) speculated to anything like THAT degree of vastness.

“Things” are just so very much more vast than any human being aside from at least myself can even contemplate that it’s barely worth spending the time trying to ‘pen out’ the truth of it. Your brain would ‘feel like’ a hydrogen atom in deep space with nothing around it if you could pose it into a position in which the perspective of vastness could become obvious:

You are NOTHING. Life means NOTHING. Death means NOTHING.

And when all of this ‘comes back around’ to the daily process of feeding and watering and clothing ourselves, the absurdly pointless process of doing anything would overwhelm the mightiest of people who have ever lived before any of them could move a single muscle or fire a single nerve impulse.

Think of it this way:

1. Almost all humans can count.
2. Many can ‘count’ exponentially, logarithmically, in other ‘step wise’ fashions.
3. Some may eventually evolve to be able to think out by primes which is something like “superexponentially”
4. The percentage of the population which can do each of these things ‘as a natural calculator’ (i.e. without a ‘computer’) decreases toward the lower numbers of the list, there is no bottom to the list, and humans can’t perceive vastness or smallness to any significant degree at this point in the ‘evolution of the universe.’

Which all basically ‘looks like’ a series of nested airplane hangers of external dimensions which grow as the square of the previous nested box or ‘hanger.’ Essentially a place so vast that you could essentially hide anything within it and even “God himself” would take a very long time to find it and/or have a very hard time figuring out where you might have put it.

Even though “He” is supposed to be omniscient.

It basically looks like multiple layers of the ‘stack of turtles’ seen from an oblique angle far off out in ‘quasi-space’ — which you couldn’t ‘get to’ in any perceivable way and thus can only exist as an abstract notion in the mind of a person who can handle the abstract nearly as well as he/she can handle the ‘non abstract.’

A hundred years ago or so some kid said “Googol” was “a really really big number” and then we somehow got lazy about the way we think about big and small numbers and someone cutely said later,

“Well, if you raised a googol to a googol power…heck, if you printed that number out in regular typeface on a ‘sheet of paper’ that sheet of paper wouldn’t even be able to fit into the known universe. Nuff said.”

Which I guess they thought “closed the discussion for good” until that “known universe” thing you all seem to think of as so very big vanished just as surely as a piece of particulate in a ground up leaf of dried tobacco vanishes in the streams of smoke that trail off from the end of a cigarette when the smoker sits totally still on the most windless and quiet of days.

At which point Frost arrived to say, “take the road less traveled.”

And I really would have said “Fuck you man. Not this time. Not now that we’re already out here plenty more than far enough and most of the readers went home halfway through the I am God speech somebody up there gave like Morgan Freeman himself hadn’t made it abundantly clear that you cannot tell anyone you are God. That it’s “just the kind of attention you really do not want.”

A genius conundrum of a sickeningly M.C. Escheresque character:

It was fuck you to Freeman or fuck you to Frost, quite literally. How would a person ever choose on that one but with a coinflip?

So I pled, instead. [I always try to cheat first. When there aren’t any rules preventing it. When the ethics of the analysis are indeterminate.]

I said,

“Fuck you Frost, let’s get back to the others, they’re writing nice stories about hard luck cases that stumble upon the treasure chest in the dumpster at the end of an inner city street with a half a guitar and half of half of their teeth. Those are the more fun stories. They make sense.”

But you don’t lip off to Robert Fucking Frost.

You take the road less traveled goddamn it. It might be only you that takes that one, and it might be the one everyone needs at least someone to take before they can take it. It fucking sucks, but it’s just my bum luck that I’m the guy who is ‘genetically and psychosocially disposed’ to having to take it every single time and knowing he has to. I can’t not do it. Which kind of renders it not a choice but let’s just not even go there right now.

Yep. Gotta take that road less traveled.

It COULD lead us out of this fucking looney bin. Probability equals nonzero.

Now keep in mind, I’m still saying this from inside a real, honest-to-goodness looney bin. And even though I’m not, like, talking talking to Robert Frost [doesn’t have a cell phone, wouldn’t answer it even if he did], I am taking his counsel seriously and I do have a penchant for taking whatever the teacher says too far just to be obnoxious and prove the teacher wrong…

So yeah, road less traveled one more time. Once more can’t hurt.

But it DID hurt. Immensely.

After I’d gotten out of maybe my 14th or 18th stretch in the “pen” as I call it (yes, I know, the layers of perspective are maddening…pen as in writing instrument? pen as in idea? pen as it ‘looney bin’? pen as in place I don’t ever go because I know where all the doors are and I use all of them not just some of them…fuck…see I almost wormholed again) it REALLY did hurt.

Road less traveled. 50.5. Already had one heart attack. Made a habit of two pots of coffee daily, my exercise reduced to a dribble, self care declining rapidly, took-up-cigarette-smoking-at-49.5-years-of-age kind of guy. A real “world beater.” Made a habit out of social-media antagonizing Elon Musk of all people.

The longest of the longest of the longest of the no one would ever be wise to bet on this horse long shots in the hardest to find casino in the virtual world: A penny bet wins you the entire universe and the game ‘restarts’ sort of wager. A dead donkey wager.

Road less traveled. Okey dokey.

So I get out, and I pledge to my parents that it will now REALLY REALLY never happen again. Silver Linings playbook style. [such a well done depiction of the life of a bipolar, bravos all around for the crew making such a work possible to experience easily and help us to tell our story, my many thanks!]

I will now take the medication.

I will still try to singlehandedly save the entire world from everything it is doing wrong as fast as possible on $1000/month of social security disability but now I’ll do it with the additional handicap of taking a medication which flatly does not work and actually, in effect, does the absolute REVERSE of what it should do AND is given to the 1-a subset of the population when it really should be given to the a subset, which is like deliberately feeding Skippy to kids only when they have a peanut allergy.

And *I* am the one who needs his head examined? Wow I guess I really just want to know how ‘they’ figured that one out.

Road last traveled.

Yep. I gotta just keep doing that Effex Delta-8 specially modified cannabis stuff and once I’ve figured out the total perimeter and outside boundaries of this crazy planetary spaceship game thing we’re doing I’ll be able to just narrow down all the roots of the maladjusted systems wherever they’re orienting from and fix them in swathes or patches like a gardener. By the time anyone catches up to my thinking speed, the computers will be able to do that shit with ease, i.e. I’ll “have some help.” Finally at that point I’ll have some help, cause I still ‘got things together’ here right now, I mean, for the moment.

WHOA man, slow the fuck down. Tell them about the mind gnat and the red spot of Jupiter and shit, and CHILL THE FUCK OUT. You don’t need to do this whole writing thing today.

Yeah, no. Procrastination is the thief of time. There’s no such thing as time, there’s only dimensional possibilities, information, energy. All of it is the same just arranged in different forms. Simple fractal geometry you dummy.

Stop talking to yourself out loud.

Orienting back to ah, yes, I see that I am in the middle of a day, an evening, actually, and there is cool air blowing on my shoulders through the AC unit in the window behind me. Where is my vape?

ERRRRK. E brake. Break. Kind of an “even though this isn’t a linear story it’s more a crumpled-in-strings-in-a-smashed-baseball story that got smashed out into space and doesn’t carousel around anything in particular like the basically circular linearity of a ‘major motion picture’ does there IS still a series of bizarre and inter related images which ‘tells a story’ of an informational wave pattern that must in some way exist inside my head or I would not be able to so ‘autistically’ measure out the percentages of ‘genius thought/crazy thought/bizarre description/precise description’” stopping point/breathing point/thinking point in so nearly an “appropriate English” fashion. That kind of break.

So that the erratic ‘knuckling’ of this ‘storytrashhashsmash’ doesn’t make you so ill as to stop reading permanently. That kind of ‘pause’ in the ‘action.’ Think of it again as a Jackson Pollock word bazaar which sincerely wasn’t written by a moron.

You will recall that I was talking about having been released 48 hours ago from a psych ward (‘Bipolar I disorder classic case, rendered neutral a.k.a. ‘safe for community’ in 30 days, vital signs good, positive, happy affect. status: discharged )

and

I’d almost killed myself and my parents ‘a few times’ and succeeded, at least seemingly in burning 50.5 years on this planet away fruitlessly. Having been born with a lot of great gifts and a special personality to bring a lot of joy to others in the world and squandered not just most of it but all of it to the last a number of times over.

In other words, I had finally, at 50.5 years of age, been officially declared a loser.

I couldn’t deny it this time. Oh I had told myself the same stories everyone else does:

“I just need a shot. If only one person would give me that one shot that I need. I could do it. I really could.”

Stories which are lies. Which we tell ourselves and which are also a lot of little tiny stories, which make them all three times easier to tell, dying a death of a thousand cuts every time we do it. Everyone doing it, all eight billion more or less times all the millions of lies inside them all even though it’s abundantly obvious that it’s easier and more pleasant getting along and working together than it is fighting one another and undermining each other’s efforts. More or less always.

A whole big pile of shit is what it is, and you all know it just as much as I do, it’s just that I have a particular flare for illustrating it in its entirety. Andy Rooney taught me well, as did Aesop, the Brothers Grimm, Seuss, O. Henry, Melville, and Darwin and I already told you that you ought to back the fuck off thinking you know anything here because you are going to wind up with an awfully large shiner if you keep pushing that editor’s pen across these words as if you’re going to find the one that makes the whole thing fall apart.

Not with your biggest reddest Sharpie are you going to do that, my fragile little lamb.

One shot indeed. “We’ll do it together” indeed. Under the shade of that evergreen society which builds itself fond resting places under Joseph Campbell’s “a hero will arise” model of tomfoolery.

It’s like the lot of you never even heard of the word contradiction. Or, if you had, you somehow didn’t ‘get’ that your ‘objective’ when you see contradiction is not to weigh properties and accept or refute but rather to carve yourself a brand new identity by finding strength in someone else’s words where you can, and comfort in their strength even if their strength at times appears — at least in some ways — far greater than yours.

You can take an ass kicking like I can? Oh I’d like to see that. Sincerely.

Mine? My strength I mean? Heck, I’m just immune to embarrassment and almost immune to punishment. Two of basically the best ‘immunities’ to develop, and the hardest. They take too long, suck out way too much, make you look, feel, and act like an overused catcher’s mitt and they really aren’t for everyone.

You don’t get dressed up in a rock suit like The Thing unless you’re expecting to get sprayed by meteors or something. It isn’t the usual ‘few hours in hair and make up’ on a movie set type of Thing.

Still, they carry some really great gifts:

1. You don’t mind if people disagree with you
2. You don’t even prefer for people to agree with you
3. You don’t judge another person’s behaviors anywhere near as commonly; you’re so busy trying to figure out what you yourself might best decide to do that the choices others make irk you far less frequently and severely
4. You’re hardly ever afraid of what might hit you because you can hardly conceive of something that might hit you hard enough to erase your ass and when you feel like that you act like that and when you act like that nobody pitches shit at you unless they’re a megacorporation with far more money and time than they have brainpower.

But having a gift still progressively and selectively leaves out the thing you’ve always wanted the most, just like all our wishes always do in this Hell we are in. In my case? People believing in me. No one does because no one can relate to me for what they seem to feel is a ‘significant enough’ percentage of the time.

Strange, because I almost never get things wrong. The way I’ve lived, had anything other than that been the case, I’d have been dead long ago. Probability alone doesn’t keep a person like me alive for anywhere near fifty years, and luck never lasts anything like as long as I’ve ostensibly ‘had’ it.

The truth is, I believe in myself to the extent I do because no one else believes in me at all.

And you can say that’s a “pity party” just forming and I would plainly inform you that you’re not reading the sentence as I intended it to be read. I’m saying that in my lexicon people don’t believe in me at all. In their haphazard lexicons, they believe in me ‘quite often’ and ‘quite a lot.’

Just not enough to give a real shot.

Which again, shows someone somewhere is lying, always. The concept of probability defines that everyone always does have a shot regardless of whether it looks like that shot is zero or not. We tell ourselves it is zero even though it is not. Not ever.

The total reason why Jennifer Aniston and I will probably eventually be married. Because it’s just as likely as it is not.

And we know every time we beg for a shot we’ve just passed over ten shots we could have given ourselves and gotten out of ‘our’ jam fairly and squarely, just like we got ourselves into it.

Except that when we think that, we *every time* forget that networking effects imply that cooperation is the mathematically provable best approach and arriving at it once we accept the first condition as true [which it IS] is actually pretty trivial.

Egos get in the way, in part. Ephemeral things, but so problematic.

So yeah, we need other people to ‘give us a shot.’ Because we don’t have the eyes to see or the ears to hear what goes on all around us every day and look for ways to make the bad things end and the good things happen more often rather than look for a way to avoid ‘responsibility’ about all of it constantly.

Yep. You could say that. And then I could say,

“Just like my writing ‘style’ is shitty because it’s a mess and it’s all over the place and it doesn’t make any sense. As if it had never even occurred to occur to you that the reason why my real human brain is so bizarrely arranged is because I let the world I was experiencing when I grew up mold it into whatever it has become rather than ‘take the hands of whatever it was that created me off me’ so that I could ‘steer ‘my own’ ship’ for a while.

Yes. That my writing is the way writing is supposed to look like now and yours no longer is.

This is end of what I would call an ‘epoch of linear thought.’

The time at which we evolve to a new type of species which defines nonlinear surroundings using nonlinear registries of information rather than linear definitions ‘carried to degrees.’ The time at which words merge into and out of one another, and sentences twist themselves around one another like the Frost-isms of the previous ‘pages’ and we see that we are not now traveling one path or the other, Mr. Frost, my good sir, but you have scattered all of our marbles down all of the paths at the very same time, and our com-links with one another are operating quite fluidly and marvelously! There is no friction in the system and it was but one week ago that World Peace could have easily been already declared, and now I’m out of the hospital and walking into

Sam’s Club to pick out fresh vegetables from the end points of the megalogigantic global food production and delivery system and “feeling my ant feelers” on a few grains of sugar that I might feel among the price tags.

All the people around are, in fact, in their “own little worlds.” They are wrapped in informational layers that are not unlike cellophane wrappers which we could apply all over our bodies if we liked to (and we do — perfumes, colognes, colors, fashions, patterns, textures, hairstyles) and they have “friction” points with the bubbles of others — getting in each other’s way, slowing them up, rushing them, causing endocrine friction…

And then, I’d say that’s because you still don’t know about ‘exocrinetic’ effects of large population groups and clusters. Essentially like “emotional” elephants in rooms: board room posture, break room posture, funeral posture, baptismal posture…

Kind of the ‘science behind what happens to people’s endocrine systems when a semiautomatic machine gun, firing, somehow enters a classroom of helpless children, which is a socially predictable event which can be expected to occur in the end of the linear ‘shock reaction to respond’ phase of universal epochal development and the beginning of the phase of n-dimensional possibility. Supercomputing and such. The crazy stuff you’ll see as soon as people realize that

The Singularity has already passed us.

We’re looking for something in the road up ahead which is quickly receding in the rearview mirror.

The whole reason why I tried to make sure that the whole of the above looked just as ‘whackadoodle as it manifestly is not because if you know what’s good for our chances at a reasonably good future you’ll give me whatever blowhorn you have for a moment so that I can deafen the living fuck out of this piece of shit internet once and for all.

This is Dune’s Paul Atreides sounding for the largest of the large of the worms.

This whole planet is going down and it isn’t a question of if anymore. It’s a question of when.

And so I put in a couple of calls over the last 37 hours. And I’m fucking tired and it isn’t helping matters much, at least in the is this physically tolerable sense. My eyes are crushing themselves to close and the AC unit is too cold on part of my back while the rest of my body is more or less ok, with just a light pair of underwear on and one light on in this room.

My Tesla looks pretty fucked up when I get back from the hospital, of course:

It actually looks a bit worse than this, having had a pick axe go through the front windshield, and then — just days later — be removed from the windshield and smashed through the driver’s side window while I was in the hospital powerless to do anything at all about either thing.

I love Ric Ocasek. The Cars. Ozzy Osbourne. Jennifer Aniston. I’m just like you.

And so I get a few extra emails from a ‘friend’ who wants to come visit me, and I begin my text exchange with her as follows:

Seven hours ago:

Me: This from the “holy fuck my brain is complex” file:

You may approach this building provided you do so at *YOUR OWN RISK* and *UNDERSTANDING FULLY THAT AT THIS POINT THE TIME FOR ENFORCED CHAINS OF SOCIOPOLITICAL CORRECTNESS AND PERHAPS EVEN SOCIOPATHY IS ABUNDANTLY OVER.

My mind is an ATV and human consciousnesses are nothing more than uninhabited anthills to me.

She: Nice to hear from you

And at this point you may fairly be wondering how I would ever meet someone who is capable of answering such a densified stream of vitriol with such words of kindness as those, but, as I told you before, you came into this whole thing at a point where I was just sitting in the bleachers more or less minding my own fucking business and I don’t even know whether a baseball game is going on but something battered the shit out of something else and now everything seems battered-splattered.

Me: Neither girl scouts or their haplessly made cookies are exactly welcome here anymore. You can think what you will, Ms. Ascariot, you have made your bed amply.

“I felt like he should have a character…yes, a character of a sort…who should ‘play the foil’ or ‘hapless victim to a tirade of uncommonly brutal force and reckless abandon.’ An alpha predator of a previously undetermined origin or method of development. A sort of ‘evolutionary ripple’ which might have itself arisen as a natural adaptation within a biomorphological framework inside all neural-endocrine systems.

A sort of informational/selectional ‘land mine’ which could eventually grow to find itself triggered under progressively less perceivably ‘triggering’ phenomena to the point where it appeared almost as though he (it) could actually HEAR the passage of ultraviolet light waves passing by the outer ‘open doors’ of its cochealar canals. “Light” passing by and reflecting into the inner ear could be ‘heard’ and as such perceived as potentially threatening to its continued existence — or, alternatively, necessary to its continued exponential growth.

There is, [I continued] I’m sure, more.

Suffice to say that entering my informational framework is more akin to stepping inside a wild animal than it is to talking to a regular human being anymore. There is little chance you will understand this, but as you express the typical Pandora’s preference and I see the welfare of the planet as all consuming I can think of no reasonable rationale not to offer the passing condolence of at least a ceremonial visitation if such be your choice. I personally see it as akin to Little Bo Peep visiting the lair of Moby Dick in her brightest of ardent Jason of the Argonauts spirits in a paper boat made of a decades old front page New York Times article reading DOOMSDAY in the boldest of print with a blowtorch as her only means to guide her, but a more foolish or brave woman I have not met than have I you. In fact I see all women as I see all humans at this point — not smart enough even to understand what brave or foolish even means. In a quite literal sense, incapable of conceptualizing the emotional rollercoaster of the endocrine system as anything other than a joyride, with you the joyrider. Wholly incapable of even perceiving the exocrine system or that it works in a fashion no different than an “endocrine system for the anthill masses of people” fashion. Hitchcock or Serling might have seen such as this, but there are few alive who can hear what I say as a “common tongue of English” anymore. This planet is the HMS Beagle, and I am Ahab, the only man left alive on it.

At which point the theme from Star Wars, Binary Sunset, plays. Lights are still down; two red suns cast dim light into an empty or near empty theatre. Nothing moves.

And then a paper cup rolls for some unknown reason down part of the aisle until it comes to rest against the cast iron leg of a worn velvet seat which has been fixed into concrete by four iron bolts. And there is nothing more.