Convo with my moms

This is a little impromptu monologue I gave my mom, because I don’t bath enough and she said it’s weird.

My being weird is an understatement and I think everyone who knows me, gets that I’m fucking weird. I’m clinically insane for God’s sake. Anyway, here was my speech to her:

Yeah, well, the human race got on just fine without a bathtub or even a single bottle of fucking … hair conditioner, for about 550,000 years, before the ancient Sumerians got the bright idea of writing their names down on stone tablets and History began. You see, just as your intensites are supposed to host a colon of bacteria that aids in fighting infection and breaking down food, the surface of your skin is supposed to develop an invisible layer of bacteria that have, over time, become perfectly adapted to the unique signature of your body’s skin, so that when foreign bacteria get on it, the bacteria that are already perfectly adapted to it out-compete them for resources and ensure their destruction far more effectively than any bottle of soap can. Every time you cover yourself in that crap, you’re just wiping away all those positive micro-organisms that are supposed to be functioning as a kind of external immune-system for your body. My skin is better than yours and everybody else’s in this house. I haven’t even had a pimple since I was 14 years old. I don’t get bumps, or rashes, and you people do all the time. So I’m gonna keep doing me. You have fun with the conditioners and the soap and whatever the fuck else tested-on-animals chemical bullshit you want to dump on yourself to make yourself feel like you’re civilized, like you’re more than an animal.

You see, I believe 90 percent of what you creatures do to yourself, and what you do with your lives, is bullshit. I’m not agoraphobic, the instances where the courts drew me out of hibernation- you were there- I exhibited no signs of anxiety, and it doesn’t bother me to be around people. That is not the reason I have chosen to spend the last 16 years in solitary confinement. I did so, and will continue to do so, because I think your civilization is a joke. And it’s going to end soon. I like to stare out this window and imagine it, all of these buildings reduced to ash … I imagine, I project myself into that future, and I live and think and move as if I am the last man alive … I am the last man, the last human being, in my mind, and I don’t live here, I live in that future… I write, but I do not write for other men, for there are no other men. I am the last one. So when I write, I am writing to God, alone, presiding over my species, which I, being the last, encapsulate and represent. And so I write to God, alone. I talk to him too.

I know I went off the precipice a long time ago. I get it. I’m mad. I know I’m insane. If my disturbed thinking makes you uncomfortable, perhaps you can do yourself a favor and not talk to me. Don’t ask me what I think if what I think is going to hurt you. I’m not going to pretend to think differently for you or anyone else, to appease you, to make you feel better about seeing my doped up half-corpse of a body lumber around, zooted into outer space all day. That’s what I think. I think your whole civilization is a jerk off. And I don’t want to participate in it. That’s why I’ve been in this hole for the last 16 years. The only thing I want is cigarettes and more vicodin. You people can keep the rest.

Such conversations can be a catharsis, and therefore a catalyst… an evocation… perhaps.

People want me to talk about my feelings more, but my feelings are insane so it’s just going to make them uncomfortable or disturbed. So what, am I supposed to change my feelings? Or am I supposed to lie?

Even if I could change my feelings, I wouldn’t. I like being insane. It spares me the bane of having to care about such things. It lets me disconnect from planet earth and write 20 hours a day.

Co-morbid schizotypal and schizoid personality disorder, with hypomania, (bipolar with only the ups and no downs) obsessive-compulsive disorder, and episodic psychosis. Those are my actual “conditions” for the curious.

There was initial confusion about my having schizotypal or schizoid disorder, because my paranoia and psychosis takes an odd form, a kind of religious ecstasy I identify as part of my philosophical work instead of a pathology, part of my creative process instead of a disease, (this very fact,-- the fact that I consider this “psychosis” to simply be the result of the intensity of my philosophic vision, the fury of my Eros, is part of what they call my paranoid delusion) while I have enough symptomatologic criteria for both diagnoses.

Most I know have/have had negative/troubling thoughts… I’d say they’re not, not normal to have/have ever had.

What a healthy/admirable outlook you have on the matter… facing this adversity, rather than not. Mothers tend to have an aversion for hearing the truth, yet they still ask searching questions, that can lead to potential argument if they don’t like what they hear. Go figure that one out, huh!? :-s

The madness of an artist is the madness of an ecstatic being, where all barriers and laws have collapsed. At the same time, it can become the disease of madness in others; you can become an animal, a brute. On the surface of the psyche, madness can appear as madness; as a disturbance of consciousness, a complete break with rational structure and logic, a collapse into a black hole, a disintegration into chaos. But madness is, in truth, both a curse and a gift, as the ancients said. It is a state of perpetual movement, with the inability to stop—to stay, to rest, to sleep, to sit down. It is both a state of bliss and a state of darkness; it is a state of being in non-being; it’s the ultimate paradox. You can feel the world pressing in, closing in, closing out. Your own existence can contract like a black hole, or expand again, as if to embrace the whole universe. You could take a bite out of the universe, or let it eat you up. You could spend your days in utter silence and be completely filled with light, you could be so full of knowledge and wonder you never needed to speak, yet feel empty. There is a place so far off the map, so foreign and inaccessible, no one but you can ever go. No one can find you. No one can even know that you exist. You are filled with light, but no matter what you do, the light cannot leave you. This place is beyond all understanding, but you know in your heart that you must go there. You understand reality, but you don’t take it seriously. You see everything as temporary, as changing. In reality, you are beyond reality. In time, you are beyond time. In being, you are beyond being.

The part that makes me insane is not the disturbed thoughts- but the fact that they do not disturb me. Not the troubling thoughts, but the fact that they do not trouble me. I don’t have any negative emotional state. They don’t bring me pain, in fact I enjoy them. So there is no impetus for me to think otherwise, no impetus for me to even move, hence not leaving a single room for 16 years now. It does not cause me any pain, that kind of solitary confinement. It doesn’t just not hurt me- I enjoy it.

Bite out of it?

"He who finds the world, finds a corpse;
And he who has found a corpse, if he lives, stands beyond the world.
Blessed is the corpse that, being eaten by the living man
Becomes living; and cursed is the man whom the world consumes,
That he becomes a corpse.
– Jesus Christ, Gospel of Thomas.