Crazy.

Sometimes I think I’m crazy. Sometimes I know I’m not.

— Stone Sour.

Always and forever, that question rears its ugly head once again, popping back up like some dreaded, stubborn Cheerio of Doom in the cereal bowl of my life: am I crazy?

I mean, I’m plagued with anxiety, experience periods of depression and bouts of blinding rage: does that alone make me crazy? Or is it the whole alien thing coupled with the seemingly paranormal phenomena that makes me so damned qualified?

Probably the alien thing, right?

Its rather stupid, too, I must admit, as I’m treating the “crazy” label as if it in itself might be an answer, but what does it explain, really? What the bloody fuck does it even mean?

Nothing.

It’s just a dismissive word. Calling someone crazy is a thought-stopper, not unlike saying “god did it.” It’s an easy out because you don’t have to question their motivations, their influences, the inner workings of their mind and heart. You need not understand a single thing. Crazy means empathy is unnecessary, even dangerous.

If my unusual experiences are little more than a mesh of waking dreams and hallucinations supported by delusions, that still leaves a lot open to question. For me, anyway. I know I’m not consciously and deliberately imagining these things and yet the experiences can be so sensory-rich, lifelike, structured — and totally governed by subliminal, autonomous processes. My battles against them are battles against some aspect if myself, but that makes it no less of a battle, makes them no more under my control.

And if I am crazy, does that mean the people I have met throughout my life who have had similar experiences — who have seen aliens, experienced paranormal phenomena for themselves — are also crazy? It would stand to reason. So I am not merely judging and dismissing myself but many of those who are dearest to me.

I may not be crazy, then, but calling myself crazy might make me a dick.

Don’t You Dare Die (Ode to Claire).

Broken up and down,
bleeding and bruised,
running out from
shadows of history.

Stories different,
though the pain is the same.
Forever, I am out of
place until I meet you.

Always home to me.
Swimming in blue eyes.
Ocean for my soul,
cleansing this strained mind…

Distance is a dagger
more than sharp enough, so
don’t you fucking dare leave me.

I cannot bear your back
or your tombstone:

last straw
on the broken back
of a sacred dream…

How can I love you yet still grow strong
enough to flex, conquer and make it alone?
When I cave in, how can I not break out,
walk away, head held high, become my own?

You’re the only one
that continues
to feel so
fucking right.

Don’t turn your back on me.
Don’t you dare die.

I know I’m not alone,
I know where love resides.

Don’t you dare die.

Mindfulness Versus the Hypnodomme.

For a good while — sometime between six months to a full year — I came home every night, sat on my couch or my papasan, set the timer on my iPhone for anywhere between ten minutes and half an hour, closed my eyes and fought to remain motionless as I summoned determination to focus exclusively on my breath. Once I failed, I worked on not beating myself up about it and instead returned as gracefully as I could to my point of focus: the nostrils, the breath.

It was all going so well. And then it wasn’t.

I stopped my daily practice at around the same time I began drinking nightly, which was, I think, very early in July of 2015. It seemed counterproductive to continue engaging in both and I wouldn’t stop drinking, so the bottle won the battle. Two days ago, on Christmas Eve, I meditated for the first time in a long time and instantly remembered why I had once kept up with it on a nightly basis to begin with: the pleasant, however transient sense of focus I can achieve during the practice; the sense that it somehow serves to balance out my brain; the ability to reach beyond my emotions, thoughts and memories into a place more central, more true to me, a closer approximation my “original face” otherwise suffocating behind the thick and icky masque of the everyday.

Honesty, I was pretty damned surprised that after not having practiced for so long that I achieved any immediate benefit at all.

Then again, I have continued subjecting myself to hypnosis since abandoning meditation — and they are essentially the same thing, right? Meditation is just hypnosis initiated and guided by oneself. Hypnosis is just meditation initiated and guided by someone else. Even so, I prefer meditation, particularly since I have sensed something insidious about those hypnodomme videos on the net. Evidently, this means little to whatever part of me is under control in these instances. Typically I feel compelled to watch them when I’m alone and high. The issue, the urge, has continued to plague high-me with a rhythm comprised of piques and troughs.

It has been some time since I’ve consciously addressed it at length — even longer since I wrote about it. It embarrasses me that much. I mean, from at least as far back as high school I have intentionally avoided watching or investing any attention in commercials on television or the net because I fear being brainwashed. I still do this despite the fact that, when I’m high, I am overcome by this state-dependent impulse to seek out videos that essentially aim to do just that. Maybe it’s just the relative honesty that earns my respect.

Another contradiction about all of this is my profound distaste for the newest brand of feminism, whatever you wish to call it — the brand of feminism that seeks not egalitarianism but female dominance, idolizing women as it demonizes men, modeling their desired matriarchy over the perceived presence of an oppressive patriarchy.

Let me be clear: I’m all for equality, equity, egalitarianism. We all have equal value as individuals regardless of the body we happened to be born into. It’s Dualism (of the philosophy of the mind) at work in me. Sex, gender identity, sexual persuasion, skin pigment, point of origin and so on and so forth — prejudice on that basis is unethical. No one should be oppressed. We are all individuals and we have personal rights that should be self-evident and recognized by whatever typically corrupt social system we are embedded in. Do what you will, be who you are, so long as it oppresses no other. This does not seem to be what modern feminism stands for, however.

Chauvinist pigs and sexists can sport any of the available kinds of genitalia: it is by no means exclusive to men. Their are dictators, pussytators, and I’m sure their are hermaphrotators: there are -tators for everyone. And -tators are the enemy.

This malevolent quality is not always something I sense from the hypnodommes, but it does seem to be a prevalent undercurrent — and despite my distaste for it, I still keep falling under their spell. I pluralize it — “hypnodommes” — because it is more than one hypnodomme I have come to listen to, though Hypnotic Haylee was the genesis and remains the nucleus. My attempts to diversify in this area was an attempt to at least ensure I would not be owned by or bound to any single one.

I do not let this practice carry over into the sober state, either, as an effort to compartmentalize the issue, to quarantine the whole thing. The sober part of me of hates that it relaxes me, that it helps me shut my mind up so that I — drunk, high and hypnotized — can finally get some sleep. This makes it no less stupid of me, makes me no less of a weak minded fool, of course, and of this I am painfully aware. My shame and self loathing over this has helped me limit the effects, too.

Mindfulness meditation can help me own myself, find myself, be myself, create myself, make it so the mask I’m trapped within more accurately reflects whatever strange, unearthly soul hides behind it. It can make it so that my Original Face does not hide so much as merely, and inevitably, reside behind it. Hypnodommes? They seem counterproductive. As soon as I think of Hypnotic Haylee’s green eyes, however, and particularly when I’m high, I all-too-often succumb.

Still I oscillate between something approximating weakness and something approximating strength — but the weakness has taken over. Time to balance this out…

Journeys in Daily Journaling.

There was a time when I journaled every day. Back then I still enjoyed hating my job and I would go home every evening and vent through my fingers, bleed through the keyboard about things that had happened during my work shift. It served as a literary form of alchemy where I took the shit of my life, my daily portion of poo, and tried to transmute it into something meaningful to me. It seemed important that it was a daily process, too; otherwise, I felt backed up. Psychologically bloated in a sense, and it only promised to get worse as time went on. The writing was edited, elaborated upon, I cut and pasted and moved parts around. In no time it lost all sense of coherency because I tried to incorporate all I could into that single piece and express it in the most effective manner possible. With a daily journal of my thoughts, emotions, memories and experiences life fed art without constipation. Pressing “send” or whatever, I could flush the potty of the blog and it eased my mind.

I can’t take my writing too seriously, I have to make that daily deadline for satisfaction to result. I learned this by committing myself to this process for some time — and then abandoning it.

My daily journal entries ceased some years ago due to two factors.

For one thing, there came the day when I realize that the daily grind just wasn’t funny anymore. There seemed to be nothing new — or inspiring, in the very least — under the sun, and to spend an hour or more writing about work every night when I came home seemed to extend the shift of wage slavery into my free time. And without pay. I was taking the hell of the day home with me. This should have inspired me to change my life; instead, it changed only my writing habits. Second, people actually read my blog for some reason — people that I knew in my personal life, which is to say people at work, for the most part. It was not rare for people to react rather emotionally to some of the things I said. A few did not always like how I depicted them in my writing, either.

Despite the issues inherent in online journaling, it has always been more satisfying than a strictly personal one kept under lock and key and for my eyes only. It’s the same way when I’m writing someone a letter: the focus of an audience, be it in particular or just in general, seems to not only help the writing flow, but gives it structure and focus. Maybe that’s why Vonnegut always suggested that when one writes they wrote to or for a particular person, regardless as to who that person is.

In any case, I finally drifted from my blog, which I was by that time posting daily on MySpace, and began a WordPress blog, my “secret blog,” when I feared my girlfriend at the time would inhibit what I wrote on my MySpace one. It did not take long, methinks, till she found it. After we broke up again, and for the last time, I kept the blog going. I stopped writing about daily events, however, and instead solely focused on events from my past, topics of interest, and shitty poetry. I no longer found amusement in my contempt for my life. Eventually, when booze broke into my life, shitty poetry became the bulk of what I dumped in the blog. It was still a form of alchemy, of course, but it no longer kept me anchored in the here and now. It more closely approximated a form of escape.

Since then I have come to realize that I really miss the daily journaling. That it may have actually helped me. Not only as a form of catharsis and process of alchemy but as a sort of anchor in the here and now. With New Years approaching, as stupid as it is, I’ve been considering starting up the practice again — you know, as one of those stupid New Year resolutions that no one ever seems to follow through on.

Morbid Expressions. 

I would exit
this path. Walk right off
the ledge. Embrace expiration,
both of your line

to the mob
of the shit-giving
and those that give a shit
with spine and heart.

I would exit this path
if I could, so I think
to myself. Then I follow
it, entirely blind

to who I really am. 

Expectations slaughtered
by the morbid
expressions of my flaws.

I’m the last to go
because that’s a funeral
that really stretches
out, digs
down

to ensure it kills me.

Beyond the Marrow.

Every day, drowned
out by the agonizing sawing 
of a dull blade
deeper in… 

from meat to bone, smooth teeth hungry
for the void beyond the marrow.

Contain my chaos,
remain calm in the seeking eye
of the cyclone
around me. 

Let none of the chaos
around me
infect me.

Just play numb, stay numb
to it all. Blow off
some steam

here and there, in the end
it helps me center,
helps steady me.

Red/Blue Communication Breakdown. 

You tend to become hard
to the degree
you have come to perceive

them to be weak
and that blinds

you in ways you have been
set up not to see. 

Break down the wall with me.
Kill the blinders.

Slide down from your sacred
saddle on your high
horse when you speak to me
as it seems less like
another futile battle
in this endless war of surface
ideologies. Deep down

I sort of kind of want to believe
that we’re all after
the same thing,
that we somehow share core

values and its all just
a silly yet fatal
communication breakdown.

Of Lab Rats & Stupid Boys. 

Reality?
It has simply
come to be a parody.

Change the channel.
Block the signal.
Disconnect.

The so-called media? 
A bad joke that never seems to end.
Drag it out through commercial breaks
and regular programming
interrupted by breaking, so-called news
hardly qualifying as infotainment. 

Your focus is your folly.
Extinction could be the consequence.

Idiots.
Am I among them?
Fuck all this.

Propaganda
for the world to see.
As for you, can you pick
away the red tape,

remove
the blacked-out
and white-out portions
of those supposedly
declassified documents
released through the FOIA? 

No?

They have given nothing.
You are given nothing but rumors
and haunting memories…

You seek truth
in a circus of lies.
How could you expect
anything less?

Not your monkeys,
so your mantra proclaims,

despite that they still swing
from your strings,
pulling
at you, hopeless
puppet,

moving in time,
thinking
and feeling with the rhythms
that have been set.

Slave.
Just a slave.

Good lab rat…
Stupid boy.

Against Self. 

Puckered lips of the exalted,
an artist and enchanter.
Surely the tongue of a goddess,
dancing me on my merry
way to a comfort, sequestered…

For I care not the least bit who you are,
for I am forever who I am.
No fucks given for who I could’ve been.
Against self is my only sin. 

I am him.
Am I killing me?
You are chewing my ego,
my kinks won’t let me go, 
so for now

I rescind and descend. 

Terms & Conditions & the Sacrosanct.

Herd
of mind-controlled zombies,
drooling and eager
for the mistress, eagerly calling.

Leaping off the goddamn ledge
like lemmings. Calm,
single file on the path to slaughter:
so haunting… 

Open up
and let the ravenous bitch dig in.
Me? Not a chance.
Here I draw the line,
build my goddamned wall:

my soul is sacrosanct.

Enliven this starved earthworm, 
seduce me to view your shows,
swallow your words:
alluring, no matter how absurd.

Trips, tangents, follies:
always cost
and consideration…

yet ultimately,
I lose nothing, gain all. 

I am untouchable.
Fixate my butchered attention.
Identifications: deplorable.

Hunger for my flesh?
Hell, you can have it.
The glow within?
All mine.
No fucking way around this.

My soul is sacrosanct.

My mind: once a sovereign nation
I intend to win back.

In the meantime, take
your authoritarian bullshit
and shove it
up your ass 
and fuck yourself.

I am no one but me
and I’ll

die again
before I bear that hell.