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Pale God

Pale God Jamey was dead tired.  He was talking to his mother when something inside him snapped.  It might as well have been a bone.   He had been sick for a couple years, and nothing much was getting better.  If exceptions proved the rule, he was pretty sure his moments of clarity and energy were exceptions.  Feeling ‘normal,’ or not sick, was rare, and was much like being high--he learned not to trust his judgement on those days.  Promises would be made that, like curses in the daytime, wouldn’t hold when he came back down.   Life had become temporally distorted.  His therapist was right when he said that being sick was much like being high, but he didn’t know how much Jamey hated being high.  At least with pot.  Every high was a dissociative nightmare.  The narcosis always revealed the screaming dissolution of the universe.  Those famed synchronicities of psychedelic trips would sometimes appear, only as if to mock Jamey, as if moments of order were famous, rare creatures dying of poll…

Depression

There are no clever theories that can get me out of this.  All I can do is detail it.  Icy blackness, the feeling of drowning, the inability of anybody to reach me.

https://soundcloud.com/life-kicks-889009421/anhedonia-1

this is a detailing of how I feel
I'm trying to talk myself down from suicide, because I really don't believe in it.
It reminds me of that David Foster Wallace story--also excellent: https://harpers.org/wp-content/uploads/HarpersMagazine-1998-01-0059425.pdf

this is really beyond words, I think...
it's like drowning.  how can a drowning person think straight?

The Privatization of Mental Illness

One of the most excellent parts of Mark Fisher's "Capitalist Realism" is his writing about the privatization of mental illness--the gradual shift away from thinking of psychological issues as something that arise within a social body, due to social conditions, and toward thinking of mental illness as something that has to do solely with an individual body's fluctuations in neurochemicals.
The dominant ideology that correlates to the dominant psychiatric practices and theory is neoliberalism.  Under this neoliberal psychiatric model, an individual's mental illness is due to abnormal levels of neurotransmitters that can be brought under control by the continuous intervention of psychiatric meds.  Psychoanalysis, whatever its flaws (and there are quite a few flaws) at least thought of the individual's mental illness as arising from fundamentally social causes.  But under neoliberalism, mental illness is solely the individual's fault.
I had a breakdown the ot…

Idiocracy and the Abandonment of the Future

I recently watched the Mike Judge movie "Idiocracy" for the first time.  I have mixed feelings about the movie, but it is a very important cultural touchstone to view contemporary fears and desires regarding the future.
In "Idiocracy," a perfectly average-IQ Air Force private and an average-IQ civilian (prostitute) are selected for a hibernation experiment, which is forgotten about, and they wake up 500 years later.
The future is basically a dysgenic, consumerist Malthusian nightmare in which poor, dumb people have bred at higher rates than smart, bourgeois, cultured people, resulting in a caricature of globalized American consumer culture, dumbed down even more--think monster truck rallies combined with capital punishment, etc.
The movie is so full of actual liberal-elitist resentment toward proles and lumpenproletariat and their supposed stupidity and anti-intellectualism that it seems to scream "Mike Judge got beat up in middle school/high school for being …

Sonata

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This afternoon, I passed by a man on a ladder who was working on the box store, cutting the rock with a machine.  The rock was screaming, splitting the air while it was being split--it sounded like grey-stacked neurons crying out of their own dryness.  My head was full of that same dryness and I couldn’t sleep.  I was contemplating suicide for reasons far more pragmatic than I had ever hoped.  I would rather exit than die of this thirst.  I couldn’t breathe, and my head was full of this suffocation--it permeated my entire body and consciousness. My mind has become a wet, ragged cloth.  Time is power I can’t access.  I am a slow drowner.  I keep lagging--hope always comes to a different time zone.  Remember that time the USPS sent you a love letter I wrote before I died, three years late?  We have had quite a journey.  I remember when I died and was denied entry to my own funeral, it was because I had forgot my glasses. A stratocaster is like an ak-47, an appropriate technology.  The w…

Sinsick

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There are some things that Cannot be undone

I am not one Of them.

I can be undone like the Top button on your blouse

The night we touched each Other with fever for the first time

Listen, I could say.   But then with What would I follow?  Nothing, but the

Dumb weight of the silence that spelled my Inability to make anything all right.

The air chokes me with its Blind, silver soundlessness, heavy

With lead and milk.  I Could say that I want your help.

Clearly, I’m sick.  There’s a tumor In my mind.  It’s nearly red, stained

Black--it is choked on its own Humour.  But it is too late to make

Holes

Holes

all the parts of me which weren’t supposed to, harden--      turn cold as a     midnight sun, reptilian    underneath
Everything is grey, everything has already happened, time speeds forward with a blended   monochrome hum

All I eat tastes like hospital food
Our conversation is similarly compressed, the syllables made short and hard like bursts from a rifle--perhaps the kalashnikov that you have a fear of, the