Welcome, one and all, to the incongruent ravings of an inferior mind!
Friday, April 28, 2006
The Only Man Who Could Ever Reach Me, Was the Son of a Preacher Man.
That is the song that is currently running over and over again in my brain, but I only know the chorus, so it makes it difficult to have in your head, seeing as you only know one small part.
Also...Yeah, well I'm a mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucka, muthafucka.
That is the alternate title to this post, a little more vulgar, but a little more to the point of whatever the hell it is I came here to write (I don't know what it is going to be yet). All I know is that I have to get over the hump, and I know that if I write a couple of pages I get over the hump; regardless of what I am writing, or under what conditions I am writing it in. Right now I am writing this post with 5 klonopins running through my blood (which would kill a normal human being, but anyone with any kind of knowledge of the pills I regularly have to take would know that all that would do is make me a bit funny, you could call it "stumbly," that might be more accurate) and also I have clonodine thrown in there, along with a variety of over the counter pills to counter-act the terrible headache I have in a very small way.
I think my mother sent out an application to UMass Boston for me today, with a blog post I wrote a long time ago called "The Ambidextrous Universe," a title which I actually stole from a book. The thing is a piece of shit, but my Mother seems to think that it will get me into college, and I am as sure as hell not going to write any kind of normal structured essay, that's not my thing. So the thing that I would've written to replace it would've been another piece of shit rant just like the previous one, so I figured I'd let her send it off. I know it's not good, but she seems to think it is, so why not? It won't get me into college, not with my transcripts, but I don't care much about college anyway, so that is alright.
I have nothing so interesting to say right now as I did in "The Ambidextrous Universe" (which is a marvelous book, by the way; pick it up, if you like abstract physics). To be perfectly frank, I have nothing to say at all, I am, as I said, just trying to get over the hump. Once I get over it I'll be able to write like I used to, instead of having this weird form of writer's block that I've been having lately. The 5 pages a night I used to write turned from 1 to none, I haven't really written in a couple weeks. I may be out of the swing of things because of the lithium toxicity and all, who knows.
On that note, I wrote previously about how the lithium was changing my headaches in a way I couldn't understand. Welp, all week my headaches have started to stabilize again, and today it came to a head. A bad cluster is coming, there is a bad moon on the rise, I got 7 days till my perc refill, I guess I gotta stick it out until then.
Strange days have found us, my friends. Stranger days than you or I could imagine, they have found us and are coming in for the kill. Will we be prepared? Who am I to say? But they are coming, and we had best be prepared.
I think I actually got over the hump just then, I don't even thinkt hat that was a page even, but the thoughts are flowing out of my mind onto the screen just as they used to, so I suppose some of the thing in my mind that usually work are back to working again.
Earlier today I compared my body to my truck. Eventually they are going to find a part of me that gave out years ago and I just didn't notice it because I've been driving this thing for so long, they'll have to take it out and scrap it, it'll be nothing but a useless hunk of charred metal somehow.
Makes sense to me. Goodnight ladies and gents.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Her arms are wicked and her legs are long
So continues the astonishingly dull chronicles of John Colón's life. Where will it lead? When will it end? Nobody knows, not even I, the main character in this story that keeps on going and going until even the main character in it wishes it to stop. So continues the story of John, isolated by choice, boring by circumstance, and addict by necessity. A strange person this anti-hero is, with strange vices and stranger discomforts. He changes his socks twice a day, before he goes out in public he looks at his eyes in the mirror to make sure that his eyelids are open equally, he wears the same clothes for weeks at a time but showers religiously (except for when he has lithium toxicity, or a bad cluster of headaches. That makes it difficult to stand up.)
We will not tell you about his vices, nor of some of his more peculiar discomforts, for your own sake, of course.
But so ends these chronicles for now, because the writer is to friggin' dumb to come up with anything poignant to say. Not that that is unusual, it has come to be expected.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
The Insomniac Descent
Better to listen to music than to make it, better to read the books than to write them. A better fate was not given to we who are tugged in directions we cannot understand. Better to look to a God, for it is worth the looking. Better to put aside the knife, and spare your life, for your goose is not ripe for the cooking. Better to put in rhyme that which should not rhyme, I shall not use the words "lime" or "time." Better to see her face in a different place. Better to see a face in any place.
But enough of that bullshit. It made sense to me, that makes fit to print in my eyes.
I shouldn't be up right now, I got shit to do tomorrow. I tried to sleep, but as usual, all this gibberish started floating into my mind, not letting me rest. If I could remember any of it now I would write it for you, but it would make less sense than my first paragraph. No grammer, no association between characters and words, or even between the words themselves.
Shit, NOW the pills kick in. I can't think anymore. I hope you enjoyed whatever the hell this was, haha. Goodnight folks.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
I am an irresponsible man. I use the term "man" loosely, I am a part of mankind, therefore I call myself a man, though I lack the maturity and wisdom of one who would normally be called by such a title. I also call women "man". Not when I am referring to them, I don't say, "Betsy is a nice man." but in conversation, like, "Betsy, you're really nice, man." That kind of thing.
The main point of that was to say that, I am an irresponsible thing, whatever that thing may be. I have many things I should be writing right now, I have the book that I want to write, I have dozens of pieces that I want to put together and try to get published, I have an essay I want to write as a favor for a friend, but these things are not what I am writing right now; which underlines the inherent irresponsibility of my nature.
See, while I have felt the need to write things for a long time now, until tonight I have not actually felt any desire to do so. That makes it very difficult to write unless you feel like writing two pages of gibberish just to "get over the hump" as I put it. I think it has to do with my lack of reading of late, I just started (and have almost finished) this new Stephen King novel called "Cell," which I highly recommend, if you don't mind becoming hopelessly paranoid about cellphones and the apocolypse; which of course I do not. And, after finishing a chapter in that book I began to want very badly to write something of my own again.
I have always believed very strongly in the power of the written word, I only wish I could wield it at a better time than when I have a full dose of clonodine in my body and am all wacked out with lithium toxicity. But, inspiration comes when it will, even if the inspiration is only to write about inspiration.
There are things in my mind that I wish to show people, and I do not know how to go about it. A war is coming, and I think that the worst of it could be averted were there some kind of social revolution. I am not talking about a reactionary social revolution like some are trying to spark now or like the famed hippie movements of the sixties, I am talking more of a pre-emptive movement. One where people learn to understand the world for what it really is, where they learn things that will broaden the horizons of their minds. We are three or four laws away from communism right now, folks, and three or four more from goose-stepping our way to the supermarket to pick up our one pound of rationed flour per month. There are bad times ahead, bad, hard times.
We need a social revolution. We need our "Citizens" to understand that self-education is the true path to a pure knowledge.
I believe it is coming, I would like to be there when it happens. I would like to wield some power to push it along. It must come swiftly, though, because those dark days are around the corner, and if our heads aren't out of our asses by then, we are screwed.
This may just be the clonodine and the toxicity talking, so if this all sounds like gibberish, just leave a comment saying so. But when WW3 starts in 4 years or so, don't come crying to me. I don't know why you would, there isn't anything I would be able to do for you, unless I had a gun, which I do. I suppose you can come crying to me if you want, whatevs.
That's all I got.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
A lot of events led up to the strangeness of today, the first of which happened last Sunday, Easter Sunday, as I am sure we are all aware. I had a strange headache and I was feeling very, very weird. I was having little hallucinations and my body felt like it couldn't move. So, my dad took me to the emergency room. After years of living with me, my parents kind of take, "I have to go to the Emergency Room." at face value and just bring me.
So, apparently I had lithium toxicity, my lithium level was 109, 1 point away from dialysis. In laymen's terms, if I had taken one more dose of lithium, the Johnny Colón you have all grown to know and tolerate would be dead, and you'd have to get used to a Johnny Colón that spends most of his time decomposing in a coffin six feet underground. I'm sure it would be a pretty seamless change, I do a lot of that kind of thing as it is.
Also that weekend, my truck stopped working, entirely. Apparently one of the brake drums had melted like a year ago, and it somehow melted in such a way that my truck was still drivable, but only to someone who knew how to work bad brakes. Being taught how to drive in a vehicle with bad brakes, this came easily to me.
So today I had an appointment with my psychopharmacologist about the whole... lithium thing. I told her I was going off it, and all other psych meds, except for klonopin, which I need for seizures, and clonodine, which I need to sleep. I'm sick of mucking about with medications and shit. I didn't tell her that part.
Then I went to Revolutions, and I was so depressed about my truck and stuff that I spent 53 dollars on vinyls. Really good vinyls, but kind of pointless nonetheless. I did get Beggar's Banquet, though, which was my goal. And some other cool ones. So it wasn't a total loss.
Then I tried to drive me and my sister home. Here is where the strangeness begins. I don't know how many of you have tried to drive or maintain any sense of direction while suffering from lithium toxicity, but it isn't very easy. After a very, very long time I managed to drop her off at her Man's house and get myself home, after dropping some vinyls I had picked up for Tim because I thought he might like them at his house.
So I get home, and the mechanic (a friend of our family) who's name is Fred, calls me up and says that he got all the useless crap out of my wheel and axle and that he, "has no idea how or why, but the car still now drives exactly as it did before." Which is extremely strange, being as the entire brake and a lot of what hold the wheel and axle together is gone. I guess when the whole thing melted together it actually fused the brake fluid line shut, so the brakes for the three other wheels are still functional, it's just that the one with the melted brake isn't; but it wasn't before, anyway, so that's not a really big deal. So, what's wrong with my car was not repaired, but it has been returned to it's previous level of safety--which is, of course, no safety at all. So, slightly more illegal and a little bit lighter my truck returns to me. I still need to get a new one though, if a cop tagged me and somehow found out that I don't even have a brake on one of my wheels, they'd put me in irons.
So I am saving up for a new truck, or van, anything that is a Chevy and a stickshift that I can sleep in for the trip. Also, I think I am going to be admitted into a hospital tonight, or at least get my lithium levels checked out, because I feel like shit, and that is nothing compared to how I look.
That's all I have to say for right now. Oh, and the day seems a lot stranger when you look at the fact that I was hallucinating the whole time. That makes things a little weird.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
I am trying to figure out the most delicate way to put this... how about this?Everyone who almost died on Easter raise your hand!
My hand is up, or was, until I needed it for typing.
The funny thing about psych meds is apparently they can kill you very easily.
I just got the news that my truck finally died. I knew it would happen, despite some of the really good things about it, it had an equally large number of really bad things. I expected a year out of it, and that is what I got.
Still, I'm very depressed. Now I need to save up for some new wheels.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
I apologize for the last post, I'm not going to delete it, because that was honestly how I felt at the time, but I do apologize, it is self-centered and irritating, and I wouldnt've enjoyed reading it if somebody else wrote it. There are much more eloquent ways to get your quarrels with the world out of your system, usually I try to exercise those, though not in this public place, very often. If I have something of that nature to say in the future, I will try to say it in a way that get's my points across better and doesn't just come out as the whining of an extremely depressed 18 year old whose psych meds don't appear to be working correctly.
That is really all I have to say right now. All my inspiration for writing is going into the book I'm kind of working on, and I find it difficult to write much else.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
I suddenly realize for the millionth time that my life is meaningless
Yes, I'm pretty sure that sums everything I feel right now up into a nice little package.
We had a family party today, and after family parties I always fall into an irritatingly inescapable depression. I don't know why exactly, I think it is just because I am always made terribly aware of how different I am than my entire family; and that, in turn, makes me realize how different I am from most people, which makes me realize how alone I am on this rock and also makes me understand that that is something that will never change.
I have gotten rid of most of my demons by utilizing large doses of psychiatric medications, but just because my depression (and to a certain extent, insanity) is gone, by no means are the reasons behind my depression gone. While depressed and slightly more insane I wasn't able to feel all the things that made that way, my mind and soul were concentrating too hard on being miserable. The lithium will not allow that, and now all of my self-loathing, self-destructive habits, and understanding that I am a human anomaly have come back, stronger than they ever were. There are things I can do, yes, but enjoying living will never be one of them. I once wrote that I do not like existence, but I do like some of the people with whom I exist, the problem with suicide is that it would cut drastically into my social life.
But you see, I no longer care about my social life, I no longer care about life in general. Yet, I can't bring myself to end my own life, I don't know if it is out of cowardice or curiousity; courage, or a need to understand why I am here.
I am sick and FUCKING TIRED of mucking about in this shit! I am sorry that I do not have a more eloquent way to phrase that but there really isn't any. I hate people, I hate my life, I hate this horrible world, it's horrible ways, and all the fucking stupid things that we do to it.
We all keep fucking around like at the end of our stint here we might have accomplished something; I and all the rest of our hideous race was fed that lie with the breastmilk we sucked down before we were old enough to understand that it was bullshit, and we keep on chewing on that lie till the day we die so that we don't start to think about how goddamn pointless everything is. I hate it. I hate knowing that, or thinking that, or hallucinating that or whatever the hell it is I am doing.
And I hate fucking WRITING! Why can't I stop?! What did I do to deserve these awful things floating in my mind? What horrible sin did I commit that requires a punishment this powerful, that I have no choice but to constantly put down words?
There isn't anything else for me to say right now. Sorry about this post, maybe I'll go put a bullet in my brain.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
I originally wrote this post this morning, but it wouldn't let me post it then, so I am posting it now. It's not very good, if you are looking for something good to read, look elsewhere.You feelin' alright, I'm not feelin' too good myself.
Ol' Joey... Cocker. I realized in the middle of that that my usual form of abbreviation would beget vulgarity.
I love that song though.
Here I am with about half an hour before I leave for work, just sitting around waiting for the axe to fall; the axe being the necessity to go to work. Then I have to work all day, it's the price paid for having a job. I don't reccomend having a job, it cuts seriously into your sitting around with a headache time.
I don't actually have much of a headache right now, which is a real blessing, I'd say.
My truck got more horrible than usual yesterday, not that I don't love my truck, but it is making the most horrible noises ever now, and the acceleration is all mushy, and it keeps jumping in and out of gear. I'm going to take it to a shop tomorrow I think, but it might be pretty much dead, which totally sucks, if I can't get it repaired (a bit, I don't have the scratch for a total repair job, not on this sucker) then I will have to get a new ride, and it will take me like a month to save up to buy one, and even then it'll be a piece of shit that I end up with, I'll be lucky if it lasts me as long as this truck did. I have to get a stick-shift, too, I hate driving automatics now, I've grown too accustomed to the shifting.
"Just as every cop is a criminal, and all the sinners saints, as heads is tails, just call me Lucifer, cause I'm in need of some restraint."
I gotta get ready for work now, I know this was a boring post, but I had to write something
I got too many thoughts going in my head to write nothing, and I haven't started writing the thing I need to write yet, I'm just putting it off by writing this mundane shit. Maybe I'll start writing it tonight. I was scared of writing it, it's a book, you see, and it is very important to me for some reason. I'm scared of writing it, though, because once I write it I fear I will have chosen my fate, and as much as I love writing, I very much dislike being bound to a fate. It doesn't appear that I have any choice, though, the thoughts for the book keep coming to my mind unbidden, and eventually they will have to spill over into written form. That is just the way my brain works, I don't like it very much, but it's unavoidable. Hey, so when I start writing the book (sometime this week, methinks) I think I might post some chapters of it on here or on Australopithecus, which I never really use anymore so it might serve well for that kind of thing.
If you guys would like that I will, anyway. It's a pretty cool story, at least I think it is, I just wonder if I have the skill to write something as long as a book, or if I have the dedication to the book to write the two books that would have to follow it to complete the story. Eh, who knows. It's interesting though, what I write of it will be, even if I can't or don't finish it.
Anyway, have a good one, guys.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
A hundred thousand thoughts in mind, and not one fit to print.
That's essentially how I am feeling right now, aside from the mind-numbing headache that I have. I've got all kinds of things going through my mind, but I don't really think that you guys would enjoy them. Also, I'm not sure I could articulate them satisfactorily.
Unfortunately, since all those thoughts are not fit for this particular space, I don't really think I have much to write right now. Maybe that is just the numbed mind, but I can't really think straight enough to write, so I am not going to try. Goodnight all.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
But I would not feel so all alone, Everybody must get stoned!
Thoughts can bubble over from the mind like boiling water from a pot, if you are lucky you won't get scalded. The lucky are very few.
That is just an observation I've had, take it as you will, it probably won't be how I took it, but it's all in your interpretation, right?
Douglas Adams ("Hitchhiker's Guide" books, you probably knew that) inadvertantly (or advertantly, for all I know) kind of hit the nail on the head on that point, that everything is in interpretation. At one point his character Arthur Dent said something like, "What are we going to do now?" or something like that, and his words were sucked into an invisible space-time vortex and were carried all the way back thousands of years into the past and billions of light-years away, where two opposing war generals were meeting in peace for the last time. The words floated out of the vortex right between them and they heard them, and unfortunately those specific words were the worst insult known in the language of one of the generals, and he flew into a rage and they fought each other for thousands of years. Eventually they figured out that neither of them said the words and that they did come, in fact, from Earth. They then combined their forces and a mighty battle-host fell from the skies upon earth, but due to a drastic miscalculation of proportion the whole of the force was accidentally swallowed by a small dog.
A funny anecdote, I laughed a lot while reading the actual thing, I'm sure reading a dumb reproduction of it doesn't have nearly the same effect. But my point is valid, no matter what is said, where it is said, or to or by whom it is said, the only thing that really matters is the interpretation. I do not mind if one of my friends calls me a spick, in the same way that they wouldn't mind if I used anyone of the various ethnic slurs that come to mind while I contemplate their races. But if someone I did not know called me a spick (I don't know why they would, I don't look very hispanic) then I would be forced to beat the shit out of that person, and possibly whoever he may be with, very very badly. It's all in interpretation.
And that is the trick with writing. I write many many things, a good amount of them on this blog, but I keep a lot the things that seem like they would need interpretation to myself, because if it is not straightfoward words I am displaying in a public place, if it is all strange metaphor, analogy, bad poetry, and otherwise somewhat controversial items that might be very distateful to some (or all), then people might take different meanings then the ones I set out to create. (This is all hypothetical, I know I have a reading base of like five people, all of whom would probably get my writings, but I felt like writing something and this is what is coming out.)
Therefore my point is this: Everything is in interpretation, and because of that, though you may be able to please a small amount of people some of the time, it is statistically impossible to please ALL of the people any of the time. You can never please everyone, nor even most people, I wouldn't even say a third, but maybe someone could manage a third, but it won't be me, Keruoac could've... Ahem, you can never please everyone, because there will always be at least someone who takes offense at what you are doing for one reason or another and calls you a dick.
For this reason, the majority of things sent to publishers get sent back unread with rejection stickers on them. This daunts most writers from sending things in, fear of rejection.
To those publishers and that fear I say, "Fuck off." I have my book in my mind fully and completely after four years of mulling it over and writing notes for it, and I will write this book, and I do not care how it is recieved.
I suppose this turned into a more self-assurance post than anything else. Ah well. Oh and for the record I'm thinking of self-publishing the book when I finish it, opinions on that eventually'd be cool.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
The House of the Rising Son
The title of this post will make absolutely no sense to anyone but me, but that is ok, because that is how it usually is.
Something has cracked in the back of my mind, I don't feel like the same person I was yesterday. It is a very strange feeling and I don't much like it, especially since trying to write or even think clearly in this condition is similiar to trying to walk with someone else's legs. I can't find the rhythm I normally write in, I'm limping, if that makes any sense at all. It is tricky business.
One or two of you may know (or may remember) how at one point I wanted to write a science fiction story. I think what may be messing me up right now is the fact that I finally worked out how to write that science fiction story, and pieces of that keep on floating through my mind and make it difficult to concentrate on anything else, even the irritating journaling I always do.
Therefore, this will be a pretty short post, just to sum up my current state, and my state that will soon be current.
The Lithium, as I have said many times, is messing with my headaches. I spent most of this week with almost no headache at all, and now for a few days running I've had these destrutive killer ones, I went to the emergency room the other night for it, they gave me two very large shots of Dilotid, which I have no idea how to spell whatsoever, and that seemed to help a lot. The fact that it only helped and didn't eradicate the pain and make me as high as a kite is a testament to how bad the headache was, the drug is a synthetic morphine, stronger than morphine, actually; and two very large shots of it didn't completely kill what was brewing in my skull.
They helped a lot, though, and the nurse or whatever who checked me in was gorgeous, so it wasn't a total loss. I should go to the emergency room more often.
Next week, my boss is going on a cruise. Work is going to be hell for five days running. That's all I have to say about that. Now I am going to go watch a movie.
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