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| october 2003 |
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| Wrought | 12:08am friday, 31st october |
You are wrought of all the rhythms in the world joined as one.
Splendid creation: why do you think you were made just as you are?
Destiny depends on your choices — never throw them away.
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| Madness and Dreams | 12:05am thursday, 30th october |
The experience of dreams is the closest that "normals" get to madness. I have said it before: my insanity was like dreaming while was awake, and something like having nowhere to wake up to from that state. Years of constant dreaming. Like a recurring dream, you get used to the landscape. You meet people and they remember you the next time you see them. The seasons change, even, though it may not be the usual spring, summer, fall, winter — it would be more like seasons of mood, that colors everything in gloom or brightness. And like dreams, the absurd is sometimes sensible, and logic sometimes makes no sense at all. It is strange to think that both dreams and madness come from somewhere in you, for they both seem a little more than you have the capacity to imagine, though somewhat less than a world. They're both interesting places to visit, though if I ever had the choice to — and this applies to dreams, too — I wouldn't want to live there (again : ).
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| Abuser | 12:31am tuesday, 28th october |
Let me say of myself that I am an abuser. I am an addict. I am reminded of a story about Philip K. Dick, who was famous for his partaking of methamphetamines: when he got a copy of a certain musician's music (whose identity I forget), he liked it so much that he played the album over again and again and again, whereupon his friend commented, "That's just like you, Phil. You get something you like and just abuse it." I remember when I read this story, I thought, that's exactly what I do. When I am at something, I do it to excess. When I used to smoke pot, it was a lot of it, without stop. I obsess about things, I cannot stop of my own accord: something like divine intervention is what it takes to shove me out of my addictions. Of them all, once is too much, a thousand is never enough. I do not understand how one may smoke only one cigarette a day, have coffee once a week, get high once a month. I cannot afford to think to think that I can do similar — one slip and I fall and fall, whereupon I must with effort dig out of that hole.
It's something I have to be on constant watch for; I think it is in my genes, hardwired somewhere — the machine part of my soul, a repeating bit flipping on time after time whose purpose is forgotten, leaving only the desire without knowing why. It is an utter lack of control, an abandon to sensation, a complete surrender to the forces of desire. It is my whole self that I lose to the urge. What is there to do? There are some paths I may never take in this walk through the world: it is too hard to find my way back to the highway where I should go: it is too much a struggle when in the negatives to go back to zero, to begin again.
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| What to Do | 12:29am monday, 27th october |
What shall we do when
dreams desert us, leave us
ashore of some strange
land, we who do not speak its
language, we who have
nowhere to go? What shall
we do when hope makes us
set sail and flies off while
we are in the middle of the sea,
with only the stars to guide us,
and nothing more of what
drove us here remains?
What shall we do when love
leads us astray, and we become
our own enemy, victims of
our own actions, within no
vicinity of any salvation?
What shall we do? It is not
that we are meant to be lost,
I don't think, but instead meant
to find something while we
are: alone and frightened,
it is to find in ourselves the
courage to stake our ground
wherever dreams or hope or love
leave us stranded, and make
our way just wherever we
are, to be saved because we
believed, because we tried.
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| Splendid Songs | 2:23am saturday, 25th october |
There are splendid songs for us to sing. There are aromas that make you remember your childhood, there are skies wider than you can possibly see. There are rivers coursing in a rush faster than any man can run, and trees taller than cities. Sometimes, one must look and with the wonder of a heart born a second time (or third — who can stop you?) see the things of this world and imagine the intricate detail fit all together in the grand design. Struck am I of the beauty and depth, the care and precision — whatever you believe about its creation, there is awe in us we cannot help but feel when we consider the whole of the universe. Realizing that this huge cosmos, with its billions of stars, are all built with parts so small we can never see them, the strange feelings of aloneness when under a night sky filled with those stars, and of smallness when considering the atomic: we were made, all of us, to wonder at it all.
Yes, there are things about this world that are harsh, that are cruel, but I for one cannot always focus on these things. If pondering the sadness inspires you to do something about it, more power to you, but I cannot spend all my time complaining about my suffering. Sometimes, in the middle of the day, it is as if I awaken from a long, long sleep — and suddenly, the world is mine to discover again — suddenly, the world itself wakes up to meet me. And it is a spectacular dawn, every time.
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| Stuff of God | 3:03am friday, 24th october |
Before my post for today, let me say that I have been having issues with my email. If you need to contact me other than leaving a comment, please use this alternate one: heir13 "at" yahoo.com.
Now:
Who seeks to know that which is divine? Who desires to peer into the gears of the universe and comprehend their turning? Albert Einstein said he was not concerned with this phenomenon or that, but rather he wanted to know the mind of God. I myself in the past wished to know the underlying Ground to all things. I had in my acid trips visions of energy wrapped in mathematics as the bearings of all that existed. I was a fool. There is a Borges story of an animal contacted by God, who is shown its place in the world, and it sees, understands; but when it returns from its vision, it is confused again, and frustrated. Folly to think an animal could know the purpose of God. Then, a man is shown by God his place, and he sees, understands. When he returns to earth, he too is confused and frustrated. Folly to think a man could know the purpose of God. Along those lines, perhaps a smattering, some hints of the divine is within our abilities to assimilate, but I wager even angels cannot grasp the infinite, for that is the stuff of God.
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| Days | 12:01am thursday, 23rd october |
The rushing of the days leaves me little room to ponder.
I live too much in tomorrow: today never really happened.
What is yesterday but a wondering of where it all went?
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| Breathing Life | 12:10am tuesday, 21st october |
What breathes life in us? What inspires us? I know for myself, just meeting a pretty girl at times inspires me to poetry, even if we share nothing else but a handshake and a look. Intellectually, I like watching the first part of A Beautiful Mind, up to where John Nash has his revelation in the bar about how he and his friends can all get laid that night — he too, here, inspired by a pretty face. That scene gives me hope that I will be so struck, at perhaps a random place: it is the hope of unexpected insight. Then there is when I stress, sometimes to come up with remarkable things, but I am no good for anything else at those times. The tension focuses me in on a certain problem, but it is to the exclusion of everything else. And, many a time, it is music that sparks the idea centers of my mind; music that lifts me to the heights of cognition, to at atmosphere where I may take a view normally missed.
I take it as it comes, or at least I try to. I wish for inspiration at some junctures when it seems only to trickle or not come at all, and there are times (less frequent) when some idea hits and I have nothing to write it down with. I like to prepare for when it hits, especially to prevent those latter experiences. I am getting better at realizing that things that seem so clear when I think of them initially fade in my memory, until I cannot come up with the original thought any more, just left with some side imprint of how magnificent it must have been.... I guess no one knows just why at times inspiration strikes us, and why at other points we are left bankrupt of all ideas. Just something in the air, something in our sight or smell: something of a magic invades us from time to time, the muse interrupts our regular programming with a special bulletin, and for a brief moment it is as if we touch the infinite and understand.
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| Praying | 12:10am monday, 20th october |
I have imagined that my soul is dead, that I have sinned too much, and that there is nothing left in me to save. I don't know if it is a wholly irrational fear, as these thoughts play on the sins I as yet commit, the wrongs and bad intentions I still am prey to. My lingering madness perhaps intensifies some mundane questions of the state of my being, that I am still a sinner, and old, bad habits die hard — then I feel that I have lost, that some critical victory has been had by the Enemy. And at that point, I pray. There is nothing else that helps me, here, for I am dealing with forces that are beyond my mortal powers to handle, ancient and deep energies beyond my ken. And it is always mine to find in me after these trials that I am newly saved, each time. That some great Eye sees me, understands why I am as I am, and forgives me. As if it is mine to stumble along this path of life, but something will always pick me up, brush me off, and set me on my way, to go as best I can.
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| No Memory | 12:05am saturday, 18th october |
I have no memory of you.
You say we have met, but where
that was, I have never been there.
Stranger, perhaps you
have me mistaken with someone
else? I may not remember
names, but faces I recall, usually,
and I cannot place yours
anywhere in the gallery of my
acquaintances. If we have shared
some experiences, these
adventures I have never tasted;
are you sure you know me?
You say I am dear to you somehow,
but how I wandered into
your heart is a mystery to me:
you must have me confused
with someone who means something.
I imagine you knew someone
like me, and I think you
have me confused with him... I
was someone else for a long time,
and maybe he remembered you —
but that person is not me, and
I think he shall not return to
say goodbye. This new person
who I am: very pleased to
meet you, I hope we meet again
sometime while I am still me.
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| Non-Experience | 12:22am friday, 17th october |
I have had to delay my trip for two weeks, and I don't really want to go into why. It's a bummer, but at least the pace at my job has slackened a bit; I have a chance to breathe a little.
To the thought for today: madness is not so much filled with experiences, but non-experiences: things that never happened. It took me some time to come to face these things, four years after I had pretty much recovered to start writing about them on this site. There was much I didn't want to remember, much I just didn't recall, much of my life that I just wanted to throw away to the winds and move on. I had become a messiah and an angel, I was the Antichrist for brief periods, I spoke to Albert Einstein and was hounded by Aleister Crowley. None of these things were real, none of them really happened, though during those times, I could not say that. These were my reality, this was my truth, and nothing could stop me from believing that I was being let in on some secret that no one else knew, that what I saw was the underlying actuality grounding all things.
I suppose you could call it frustrating, with a touch of futility. But there was one element of all those non-experiences that was real: me. Freud said that dreams were the royal road to the unconscious, and I might view my madness as something like that, things hiding from the light of conscious view coming out into the open, a long, long dream while awake. I can investigate what those visions meant, pertaining to that one real element of myself. Whether I meant to or not, too, I grew while in that fugue of mad dream, emerging back into the world at large a little older, a little wiser. Really, I can't complain. Some of those non-experiences, those things that never really happened, were full of pith and moment, not without something like joy, if not quite. I'll take what I can get.
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| All for Now | 12:21am thursday, 16th october |
Exceedingly busy once again. Two days ago, I was so stressed I had this urge to just literally run screaming from my place of work. You know that feeling, of just going out of your mind, like your head will explode if someone pricked it with a pin. It's all pretty sane, though; I imagine that this is just what happens when just anyone is put through as much stress as I have been of late. I suppose this all builds character. I know that this, too, shall pass, that I will get a chance to relax sometime soon, but I write to you in the during part, right now: the light at the end of the tunnel seems if not distant, faint. I'm very tired. This is my current situation, it is mine and I must take care of things. That is all for now.
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| Memory Zero | 12:22am tuesday, 14th october |
Smoke drifts on the water like the memory of a dream.
Time passes like a ghost, eternal, remembering life vaguely.
These waters are too still; time forgets where it is, passing through.
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| Hope, Deeper | 12:07am monday, 13th october |
I have found salvation is a deeper thing. We at times go through times when we conceive that we are traveling through a hell, that perhaps evil has won somehow, tricked us into inhaling its disintegrating vapors — that somehow we have lost the great battle in our souls, and nothing can retrieve us back. What shall we do when we cannot even pray? I think I know. When the whole world seems against me (and in my madness, creation itself seemed wholly designed at times to be my bane), I have sensed that if I merely hang on to the next day, even to the next hour, that the heart holds its victory in a place that evil cannot reach. That victory is such that though we cannot seem to reach it either, I tell you that it is there. You have already won, and nothing can take it from you.
Do not despair when you despair. Perhaps these words seem self-contradictory, but I think you have an idea of what I am trying to say. There is a deeper hope than ordinary hope. This is the hope in your heart of hearts, something that there is no enemy's victory can overcome. And this fundamental hope: it is not something that you hold onto, but something, rather, that holds onto you.
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| Numb | 12:11am saturday, 11th october |
I am leaving soon. In two weeks' time I am headed for the enchanted land of Korea (well, maybe not so enchanted as all that, but different). But even before that, tomorrow I am moving from my residence to a friend's place to stay out the remainder of my time here in the United States, so I am busy busy busy. I really shouldn't even be writing this journal entry, I have so much to do — work, my day job, being no exception: I must finish a couple of things (one major) before I can leave in good conscience. Just to give you fair warning, when I go to Seoul, I may have to leave this journal for a time as I get situated. Hopefully, it won't be for a greatly extended period of time, and I will let you know just before the hiatus, but I know I have some loyal readers; I promise I shall return.
Right now, I am kind of numb. I have trouble believing it's all happening, though somewhere it does register. I have been going through a lot of stress, and I have started smoking again — that was about two months ago, in fact, though it's been on and off the coffin nails, with me chewing Nicorette at times.... Today I have no thoughts on life or madness, too much is happening for me to think at this moment. But here are a few of my old thoughts on being, which I would like to repeat if you've missed them, or if you remember them, bless you for letting me in:
"We don't notice that miracles happen every day simply because they happen every day."
"Love is so simple, we'll never understand it."
and this one is pretty recent:
"Even if we have nothing to say, we all want to be heard."
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| Easy | 12:10am friday, 10th october |
Some people don't seem to have to work for it. You see these people, who appear to breeze their way through life, wonder how they could be so suited for this world, and how you are not so adapted. I don't know how many of them exist, but I wager that there are blessed few. Most of us feel ill suited in some way to our environment, this time we accidentally were born in, this place that never seems quite like home. But as one who has suffered, one who has been frustrated and bored and broken, I can't say that I would trade these experiences for an easy life. No, at the times of my pain, I would have liked to wish them away, or never to have gotten in those situations; but now, these are scars that I wear proudly. Of course, I would like an easy life right now — but somewhere on down the line, I will look back at my struggles and tribulations and remember how I won, remember how I lost, and know that I fought hard, a good fight.
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| Poet Peace | 12:43am thursday, 9th october |
The poet Peace rode rivers wild
and landed on the shore,
in dreaming's land he walked the mile
to conquer dreaming's War.
With not a weapon but a hope
he sought to win the day,
to strike at that unholy throat
who dogs of doom obey.
Now War he gathered armies 'round
about his castle walls,
and let his piercing trumpets sound
their cataclysm call.
Then Peace came up to meet his foes,
prepared for battle they,
but poet Peace alone arose
with only words to say:
"Today I die, but know ye this:
tomorrow ever comes,
and like the dawn of dreaming's mist,
I have already won.
"For War shall kill till all are dead
with no one left to fight,
and when the blood has all been bled,
shall come the end of night. "
So Peace they killed him, legion War,
and set his corpse to burn,
but others wait still on the shore
for poet Peace' return.
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| Dreams, One Old | 12:02am tuesday, 7th october |
Dreams. I remember when those were all I had in the world. Penniless, mad, alone: and my one great dream was merely to re-enter the ordinary world. My dream was an antidream, not to fly, but to land. When all you experience are the metaphysical highs (and depths), you tend to miss solid ground — at least, I did. It is that truth we dismiss as being obvious, sometimes, that we do not notice something until we have it no more. Who dreams, after all, of having an ordinary life? Many of us dream of being a star, of riches, of greatness — he does not give thanks every day who has only to show for himself an average, regular life. No, I do not these days pray thanks each day, either, but perhaps I should. My great dream came true, and that does not happen everywhile.
I know that some dreams, we do not tell our closest allies, a hope for something that may perhaps be ludicrous in some others' eyes. I remember telling no one of my one great dream. No one asked. No one asks a madman what are your dreams, afraid of the answer they might get. And I don't know if I would have told anyone, if they did. These secret dreams: they are the one closest to our hearts, with a home nowhere else.... As the angel says, fear not. Your dreams are no more ludicrous than the next man over's. And if, too, your dreams are ordinary, do not be ashamed that you set not your aspirations higher: it is the fondest desire of some out here to have such dreams, to live an ordinary life, to make one's way by an ordinary eye. Cherish them all.
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| A Plan | 2:11am monday, 6th october |
There is a plan for us, some purpose we walk this earth for.
The why we do not conceive of, and reasons reason knows not why.
Our hearts whisper to us of destiny: dreams beyond our dreams.
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| O Despair | 12:02am saturday, 4th october |
O despair, where is your power? I have walked these many miles, in countries where you have ruled in your time, but it seems now that your time has passed. You have never won, not in my heart; even when you were just a breath away, I never inhaled you (caught, as I have, your scent at moments). I have always prayer to drag me out, whenever I start to sink in your peripheral quicksand. Hope survives, even when its candle appears extinguished: just to have seen its light, the memory of it is enough to see one through. I say to you, o despair, that there are great powers that work against you, and I say, too, that the smallest child can give you defeat. When all is done, there shall not remain even the slightest remembrance of you. And no one will miss you when you fade.
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| A Feeling I Get | 12:23am friday, 3rd october |
I always get the feeling that in the deepest of my psychosis, I was never that mad. True, I had retreated from reality into a sort of world of my own, dazed and zoning off while people talked directly at me, but was I ever that crazy? I get the feeling that I was milking it, somehow, that I could have snapped out of it if I really wanted to. I don't know. In most of the mental institutions I was committed to, or committed myself to, I basically left when I felt like leaving — or at least that is what I wanted to believe. In most cases (there was one exception), I just basically started acting "normal": instead of calling myself "Lucifer Morningstar" for example, I used my real name; I told them that the voices had gone away. The voices were still there, of course, but they had no reason not to believe me, the act and actions of normalcy.
Perhaps what I'm feeling is just buying my own act? I got them all to treat me like I was fine — maybe then I wasn't too far off the mark as far as sanity was concerned. I was a liar for most of my life, and the thing about liars is that they won't believe anyone else, but they themselves they believe — believe their own lies. It's the best way to get away with it, after all. And maybe now, the more earnest me, looks back and sees those old lies, and is fooled just like all the other people, gets that feeling that I wasn't ever that far gone.... But no, let me not believe that old deceiver me. You were that out of it, Stand. You thought that you were Jesus, God, an archangel, a prophet. You really believed it. You talked to people who have been dead for centuries. You spent months sitting alone in a room, talking to yourself — you were mad. Time you fessed up.
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| Less than Shadow | 12:03am thursday, 2nd october |
I watched a tree falling
in the woods, and funny,
it made no sound. I have been
invisible for some time,
now, no one nowhere: I weigh
less than even a shadow.
I had been a person who
in this modern life never
spoke out, and as I said
less and less, the more transparent
I became. My motives you
could plainly see through the
glass of my flesh, my excuses
vanished like so much
smoke in a wind. And now,
my memories I cannot distinguish
whether I lived them or if
they were merely dreamings
of life: have I ever lived at all?
I have forgotten how to become.
I cannot be any more than this,
not even a ghost, in cruel
immortality, to be left to wander
when there are only ruins:
in the awful, charred quiet
after the end of the world.
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