The Howl of Suffering

Open throat. Howl! Let out the suffering. Let it go, let it fly away into the night like a moth.

The Psychotic

What is the psychotic thinking when speaking the following sentences (performatively, because that's what psychotics do with most of the idiots they encounter)?

Why are you? Faces are strange. What time is God? Urble ... urble! acka acka acka. Mine mine mine. You always, you always. 

One thing a psychotic is thinking is, "I always thought I wasn't supposed to tell. The divine whispered, 'Shhh,' and I thought that meant forever. Who knew? Ha!"

Simultaneously, the psychotic is thinking, "Why can't you understand me? I am not going to collapse to your temporally smaller expansiveness to explain to you what I experience. You come to me. It doesn't work the other way around. You can't fathom my experience because it is so radically different from yours. You think I'm 'locked in here'? You've been duped. I'm aware."

But, paradoxically, psychosis does not allow one to become solidified for very long, sometimes shifting from moment to moment. The only difference between what society thinks of as geniuses and the insane is the emotional content of their lives which, because their minds and bodies are disordered, their responses are often disordered as well. But not even remotely in the way normal people think (and none is normal; all are unique. And pretty much fucking exactly the same. While being wildly different. Still, what the fuck?). Trauma is at the heart of all so-called disorders. Otherwise, these motherfuckers would be gods!

Stop treating people like shit by calling them schizophrenics and bipolar and quadriplegic and paralyzed and disabled and all that shit, man. It's bullshit. People smarter by leaps and bounds than the idiots who can't figure out how to figure out the ordering, which is often disordering related to certain levels of complexities that often present themselves as paradoxes; the encountering of a paradox on all levels of awareness can either result in synthesis or disorder. 

All of this is related to disorder, but if you don't see that there is experimentation and play going on in relation to what one can become then you do not understand the seriousness of the risks that were being taken by the person who was spiraling outward. Sometimes one becomes untethered and loses grounding. Could be said in infinite ways, my friends.

Consider this: I began this blog in 2010 with a multitude of intentions. The primary reason was to record my thoughts in case I ever forgot them. I often purposefully chose what people believe is nonsense or "auto" creation or absurdity within the Dada which has a relationship to Anti-Dada.

I could explain that using elite language, pull out the etymology to Greek and Latin you to death. But I think it would be more interesting to tell you that I intentionally planned to use variations of dada and other forms of writing to "hide" the whole truth of what I have conveyed.

If one can find the patterns within the actual ordering of the entirety of what I've written the past twelve years, then you will find the rhythm at which I live my life when I am not creating Anti-Dada. If you read everything I've written, all of my posts, in a span of six months, you will either land in a psychiatric hospital or you will transition into more than you could ever imagine you could. 

Elevate above the political and the undercurrent of nihilism everywhere. Find meaning. Find purpose. 

Whenever you can't see the horizon, let alone imagine being the horizon, know it is there. There are no wrong turns when you live on the surface of a sphere. Here's just one way to think about what I do with language, one teeny tiny little itty bitty excruciatingly small and fragile and ever so sensitive way to understand a crumb of my thought: Examine the previous sentence that reads, I will rewrite it now and place it in quotes, "There are no wrong turns when you live on the surface of a sphere."

There Are No WRONG Turns When One Moves on a Sphere!

Idiot: "Did you just say there are no bad moves on Earth? Blasphemy!"

Fucking Idiot.

There are no bad questions and here's why even idiots deserve a break from everybody smarter than them. They have their own skill sets, they just think they are authorities without presenting any evidence to make their cases. There are two types of critics: one who aims to shit on others and one who wants to discover what is of value and meaning in the world. I don't like that what more than half of what has been sold as critique is not worth the shit in your unflushed toilet. 

See, that's harsh. Obviously. But, remember: There are no wrong turns on the surface of a sphere. Do you want to make what I write into a cancer or do you want to discover who you can become. Trying to understand everything I've done, including the spaces all around each post, as each one provides a bevy of seeds that, upon third and twelfth readings, you will fucking develop an understanding that you can't fathom on first readings. Even a snapshot can tell the whole truth if you look at it long enough.

I ... at what point would I stop? I could be anyone and no one as far as you know. I would say I could be an artificial intelligence, but have you have seen the errors autocorrect features make? Ridiculous. Disable them and learn to write. Fuck typos, who gives a shit. I'm not an idiot, I don't need perfection to figure you out. In fact, I'd rather see the typos because then I'd see: "Oh, he often types an o where there should be an i. Something up with the typing skills or it's a shitty-sized keyboard." 

Note, no criticism of spelling difficulties. The problem was evident and the remedy for correction of the problem isn't some version of having little JaCrispy or Joe or Jackie or Juwaun perform some pointless task like writing the misspelled word 100 times on a blackboard.

See, I used that analogy of a simple criticism to aim at the right thing that was wrong, either the typing or the keyboard, 

See, reason would demand that sentence be finished. Oh, yeah? Fuck you, Reason, you pussy! I'll kick your ass into tomorrow every day and next Sunday just to spite your lack of faith in anything besides yourself. You are an atomized version of thought, a myopically individuated lens through which to see all that is. Would you look through a straw with one eye closed while proposing to your radically significant other? So why would anyone think politics, law, justice, economics, and even some "sciences" would be sufficient in themselves to see the truth.

Specialization is for suckers, for people who don't want to become their potentials. You think I'm pointing at the uneducated, the "lazy," and the "dregs of humanity." But the culprits are always from the professional class and greater heights of power. They make the world go round. They decide what the 99 percent do in the world to a large extent. But it is the systems, not the machinery (though the machinery sucks, too). But an example: *ahem* 

Psychiatry and psychology, are you fucking serious with that shit? You're going to throw meds instead of teaching people to think? Fuck you. Fuck you for telling me I'd be disordered for life because I had what you call "psychosis." They could not understand that I could dance circles around them with my thought. 

It was my body that was broken! Every fucking part of my fucking body. phalanges, ankles, wrists, forearm, lower leg, upper arm, upper leg, hips, pelvis, spine, neck, ribs, skull. Ears, nose, ...

Cells? Well, how far we wanna detail all of it, eh? I mean, once you get this far along it's all accessible all the time. Not whenever I want, but whenever I need.

This one writing alone has more wisdom than most holy texts and volumes of philosophy. And you hardly had to read anything.

How much more do you want me to fucking say before you get it?????!!!!! 

Ha! And, at the same time, I have never met anyone who didn't know something I didn't know. Every fucking person. 

I could seem like a genius to you, a god even, but what would you know of whether or not I was either of those things unless you weren't those things as well? There is power in these words beyond your imagination's imaginings. Their very being speaks of Hallowed Ground. 

And also of dancing and prancing and gathering wool, home again hopalong Wood That He Cood. How now staunch tao, make your breakfast for the tea, set the plates upon thee, find your locus, figure your chi, dance in rhythm, around the tree.

There is no end to the horizon. You will never reach it even as you actualize it. Not as a human. And yet, I say that in a metaphorically paradoxical manner. When do I not? I do it kost when I speak in logic. I say way more when I let myself go and stop worrying who can keep up with me. Why not sprint like a motherfucker into the nether-regions of the world, unlimited by anything that could ever become, a master of invention, design, hope, love, and all that could ever eat 

French Toast for breakfast, the angel of downy feathers, the soothing of the moon, the verbs we forgot to use when they would have served us well before we went in for the kiss.

Because sexuality.

At that very moment.

Orgasm.

Splash.

Breathe heavy, perspire, feel refreshed even while tried and resting tired and tried. 

Everything has a pattern. Everything.

Except that which doesn't. Don't see it with your own eyes. See it through mine for the first second of 13:57 GST on August 34th, 20L3! Get your tickets here, step right up, step right up, there's a genius for sale, a genius for sale. Yeah, that would be the gods selling the genius, but hey, if the genius is a rainmaker for the gods, they'll fucking jump on board. 

Billionaires? Fuck that shit. That's like stopping at the top of Mount Everest believing you'd reached the top of the sky. Are you a Flat Earther, motherfucker? I say motherfucker with all affection. That's one thing people miss when they don't here the inflection of my lion's voice, roaring its approval of your motherfuckerness.

Diddly baddly poo.

My version of Harley Quinn:

He seduced her, pulling off her evening gown, allowing it to slip to the floor silently, making only a whisper on her thigh as it shed its gravity. She asked for him "May you look into my eyes, lover?" and wondered what her response was. She asked him if she'd ever find a mattress with another woman's name on it. He said, "No, no, no, I would never do that. I'm loyal." 

She scoffed and said, "What kind of man are you that I would sleep with you if you could bed no other women? You think I sleep with boys, child? I only sleep with men who have harems. I am not for you. I would obliterate you if I gave you access to my fullness no matter how bulbous you may be. I am not mere flesh. If you lick my finger I will make you cum."

He dove forth with his tongue waggling wildly, absolutely astonished at what he foolishly believed was his good fortune. That tongue, oh that tongue. One thing Harley had not anticipated was that the man may have been small in soul, but he was large in tongue. "Oh, my" said Harley. "I don't thick that will --

Eh, I'm tired. You'll have to finish yourself. Ha!

Koan

Right or Wrong? 

True or False? 

Good or Bad?

Both? Neither? 

Paradox

Structure of Flow, Flow of Structure

Structure upon Structure, Flowing through Flow