Are so annoying. I’ve struggled with that rigid concept of putting yourself on the page in detail in four paragraphs.
Have no other way of putting it.
But I finally solved the problem.
• I bring a lot to the table.
• Cannot out-argue me. Doesn’t mean it’s bad. It’s just one of those gifts. (TWITTER Insert transcript of right-winger who was unable to argue me. He left refreshed)
• Street Smart. With a taste for Plato
I’ve been busy spinning through other Dimensions lately. I’d say it’s probably similar to what it feels like to drive your Toy Mazzeratti around. Zoom. Zoom.
Both contain an undeniable level of Excitement and Thrills, going on Fast Forward.
Something like that.
Below is the most gratifying comment I’ve ever written! In response to The Absurdist Tragedy of Greece now –
(The Final Act. Scene I)
See? Democracy works. But if you just sit on your ass, glued to soap operas and reality show nonsense, instead of getting out on the streets and making your voice heard (It’s hard work, dammit!) and then you elect a government that reflects the nation’s angst … someone outside the Tower of Babel, concedes that common sense must prevail, instead of the yahoos who keep squeezing and saying, “MORE austerity. More!” What is it that they refuse to see? That it’s been an abysmal failure? A humanitarian disaster?
As for those former ministers – Samaras, et al – who now have the nerve to challenge the current government, they failed miserably. They were squeamish about standing up to those EU ministers, and thus, they played an active role in the present state of the nation.
Of course, the people will once again say – as they’ve said many times before – OXI. Enough of this Absurdist Drama. But you can bet plenty of material will be there for Satirists, both high-brow and lo, to feast on for generations and generations and …
Good work, Boys!
Go there and come out stark raving mad?
Sheppard Pratt Asylum Is designed as a Critical CARE Psychiatric Stabilization facility for those who struggle with medical conditions such as Bipolar Disorder (like myself) or any other psychiatric “diagnosis.” It has an impressive and illustrious history as an innovative facility when it was first conceived and built in the mid-19th century – a refuge, with its concentration on humane treatment.
However, reputation, to be sustained, must demonstrate consistency of those values and principles, rather than regression from them.
Undoubtedly, Sheppard and Pratt are totally turning in their graves.
The isolation we feel exhaustively, all by ourselves, ripens there.
So there are parallels to the real world. Severe Depression, which is just a hop, skip and jump away from Death, actually spikes exponentially there.
The Human Spirit is crushed, until we finally, breath by breath, disappear. This, my friend, is where you go to watch yourself become one of The Invisibles.
Now when you are on the outside, you have some wiggle room. You may choose to remove yourself from the Kingdom of Ignorance, if only for a breath of fresh air, and focus on the brightness of the Human Spirit.
We have choices.
Smell the fragrance of a lovely flower.
Listen to music.
There we have no choices. We are at the mercy of Stupidity, Ignorance and Fools, and we have nowhere to go, locked between two nightmares.
There is this clearly defined and unshakeable and raw feeling that they do not care.
Then again, if you wanna but haven’t yet experienced depersonalization, it’s available there. Think of it as a lean, introductory course on the subject. And since I am naturally an optimist, I feel compelled to plug the positive spin here.
First, your empathy and understanding have grown for those who do experience such devastating psychological symptoms.
This accidental slip, for example, allows you to drift into unknown territory altogether, as you wonder if you really did, in fact, erase your memory of an entire day of your existence, because someone is insisting you did – when you didn’t.
Luckily, there are other patients there who know that you didn’t – just as you had thought. And they are now your salvation.
But this additional drop of uncertainty and confusion has now bloomed in your head.
Shit happens, right?
Be forewarned, however, any heroic attempt to battle the trolls and the slugs just makes you crazier. Totally not worth it.
They follow whatever code they’ve culled and pinned to you from the Diagnostic Statistic Manual, and we all know how that keeps expanding with each new edition.
But that’s exactly when the epiphany occurs …
I had never truly understood what I Am Not My Diagnosis meant until I realized that that is all you are there – a code.
Hey! Look at me. I’m still here.
Sadly, they do not hear or see you. You have disappeared.
So when the object of hospitalization is to support and help you shed the nasty symptoms of Depression, and instead you are fighting to be seen and heard – those are the exact type of challenges we do not need.
The salt on the wound is the absolute isolation from the actual world. This is the abyss. Isolation is not good. They keep preaching that. And then that’s exactly what they do.
So what do you do?
Well, trying to pry open their eyes is futile. They get really, really pissed at you. And that makes them more sinister and deadly, while they sharpen their ignorance from unbelievable heights, as you are fighting for your sanity …
You are too fucking busy to be worrying about Suicide. So in that sense they have met their goal. You have shifted from suicidal ideation to absolute self-preservation. Plus, Existentialism is the only dish on the menu.
Reminds me of a poem by Stevie Smith. An attempt to communicate with those on shore, while being swallowed by the sea …
“Not waving. But drowning.”
Won’t be long before artists become yet another diagnostic pickle for the next Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM). Apparently, Psychiatry has been feeding on Art for some time, which is hardly a surprise,
But still …
I recently learned that when an artist focuses on a certain physical feature(s) this is no longer merely Art, but yet another diagnosis (DIssociative Identity something) through which Psychiatry de-humanizes the Creative Spirit into mere Pathology.
Thus, as a writer and an artist, I feel compelled to help provide a palatable title for this diagnosis, and encourage the committee which sits around, thinking up ways to crush the Human Spirit until there is none left – Van Gogh Syndrome – for surely Van Gogh would more than meet the criteria essential to keep psychobabble alive and kicking!
I also humbly submit a few pieces to illustrate this pathology.
This is gonna be short.
- And that’s because – Fucking WordPress!!! What is wrong with you guys. New version is just dandy when it grants you a visit otherwise you’re back doing the old shit again, typing each tag without spellcheck – OMG! What a chore…
And now you’ve fucked up the most important page! The super duper versions paper, which we compose on, and you’ve totally destroyed the basic formatting, where you have no idea how many times you have to hit return before you get that extra space you want in there, between paragraphs!
So, as demonstrated above, I can easily use bullet formatting or numeric, but I am no longer able to slide into paragraphs, and it is so fucking annoying!
What kind of Brains are developing these, these – I don’t even know what to call them!
(Personally I think they’re all missing a few screws.)
All very nice, of course, affable, but totally daffy when it comes to basic organizational thinking and, and what? Visualization system is inoperable?
The Eyes of an Aesthete Wanted
On the other hand, if this is an example of how someone who may have Schizophrenia, for example, works, well, that’s another subject altogether.
But why do we still need two versions of the Statistics? Neither is much improved. So make a decision.
Throw one in the trash, already!
Seeing the actual word italicized, however, is a whole lot better than than seeing words buried under HTML script.
So that is an improvement.
That just wouldn’t stay in any longer.)
Ever since I did the update, I’ve been wanting to put this down on paper, but something else always managed to shove it below the pile, where it finally said …
No more of this!
I will no longer be a wallflower!