gvaf-radio-blog - Tumblr blog

gvaf-radio-blog · 6 years ago

Text

I'm in an open relationship with coffee and mental trauma

I’m hunkered down inside my favorite coffee shop in Southeast Portland having a cup of black liquid love to recharge my body and mind due to me having to dodge a blitzkrieg from the flying commie bastards. The Cupids are a unique kind of chaos as they are technically survivors of a horrific nuclear accident that irradiated an entire Provence. You know the one I’m talking about, y’all won't stop posting screen-caps of the damn thing on tumblr clogging up my steady feed of nihilism and satanic teddy bears. These cupids where re-homed to Portland because the social worker was from Los Angeles and since it works for them and another hundred thousand overpaid yuppies they thought Southeast would be perfect for the bastards to rehab. So the main problem with this (other than rising rent costs) is that their brains got rewired and now do everything hell-bent for leather. So where I get involved with the soviet love bastards is that they got dropped into my neighborhood and there is a sense that they have of loneliness and urgency for love that attracts them to a person and to help them scratch that itch. The problem is that sense is corrupted and given a slightly sadistic bent and they have started matchmaking and sending people that I am comically ill-suited for or in some cases homicidal, Cat eared woman would be an example. Love is a battlefield, I’m a veteran of this war and I got tired of pulling heart arrows out of my ass so we’ve been fighting ever since but today is going to be a major encounter.You see I have a date in one hour and they started to fly around in attack formation as soon as I left the house firing toxic love arrows at me trying to get me to return to past modus operandi and self-sabotage this relationship that hasn’t even started yet. I dodge an arrow called “new love energy” and panic at might bit at how close it came to hitting me. They can’t get into the coffee shop, the smell of burnt bagels and french roast causes them to enter a seizure state that takes days to recover from, honestly french roast has that effect on most people but are too tired to give a fuck and just assume the annoying anaphylactic shock is just a morning caffeine detox. I already thinned the ranks a bit by blowing up a fully automatic bow, this monstrosity looks like a mad man combined a Roman ballista and church pipe organ that can fire arrows like the President throws out lies and is painted pink and violet with both Greek and Russian equivalents for “love is a wet prophylactic”. I had left my own bows hanging at home since I was heading for a date and we agreed on melee combat for this round so I armed myself with only a bokken. I couldn’t reach the artillery positioned on the house across from me I had to do something and that something set the bastards to full rage mode. I took a bag of cans and bottles from the recycling bin shook it good and violently like I did last night before bed while reading the new Warren Ellis comic and threw the bag at the little winged artillery battery. There was a moment of confusion and I might have heard the Russian equivalent to “what the fuck” but then from all over 82nd Ave tweekers arose from under their rocks smelling of steel reserve and four dollar cigarettes and converged on the Cupids moaning about spare change and smokes. I felt bad about doing that but I was left with no choice! the Eros tribunal might clear me due to the circumstances or as a penance, they might require me to date a vanilla person who thinks beige is a proper color for everything and fucking lights on in doggy is kinky with “ow” being a safe word. Wouldn’t be the first time but I’d rather join a monastery than do it again, I can only hear so many Cake songs before my psychotic side goes into Hulk mode.Between the Cupids dive-bombing the windows like some kind of Russian kamikaze toddler pilots and rattling the hipsters enough that they had to go get a vegan vodka shot and this little crotch goblin bouncing around and getting into people’s faces, I'm thinking about how this date is going to affect my partner and I’s relationship. I’m also wondering how my date’s spouse is going to handle things if we hit it off. Polyamory on paper sounds like a plot to a high production value hardcore porno but the truth is (mostly) different. You have to navigate multiple schedules, expectations, and multiple people's emotions and try to figure out how to get what you need without hiding pain, jealousy, and your own fears. Being poly also means being on the outskirts of society in away, there is a sense of resentment and fear from others that don’t get it but not nearly as the violent oppression that us in the LGBTQA+ have had to duck for a few hundred years.My partner and I don’t tell others that we are dating since there is a fear of them being disowned, I tell my family the type of relationships I have because they really can’t take anything away from me since I lost the ability to care about their thoughts on my life. I’m not completely happy with this situation where I feel like a secret but it’s not just my life it’s my partner and their spouse’s lives that would be effected. I’m not saying that everyone in a poly or open relationship should go out with a megaphone and belt out a manifesto of why they decided to break their minds with more than one neurotic trauma victim at a time or telling what happened when you tell a lovers wife that you pegged their husband with a strap on because the wife refused because she felt it was icky and has a lube phobia. What I am saying is that those of us in relationships should start a conversation about non monogamy with our partners and maybe others so we can hear their thoughts and help root out our own.It’s not Polygamy, lets get that one out of the way because I talked with a lot of very intelligent people (and at least one military mandated lobotomy survivor) and they all have said “Oh like the thing Mormons do?” No, more love, openness, and freedom less magic boxers and misogyny. With poly all relationships there are going to have vastly different dynamic from person to person where Bob and Tim are more open and each can have a person to have casual relationships with and sometimes they both have that dynamic with another person. Karen and Jess now are in several relationships that run casual, serious and potential for a marriage. Stacy, Jim, and Jared are in a closed trifecta where Jim and Jared being straight and not with each other they only have relationships with Stacy who only wants to have a relationship with Jim and Jared.Honestly the only thing that all these relationships have in common is communication and the bad poly relationships are non communicative, half truths, full lies, or worse one sided. I've heard the stories where on person would be dating (fucking) someone new every month but their partner was told to be monogamous and not date outside or they would be dumped, to add to this they lived together and the other partner can’t afford to live on their own. So basically one person was a Controlling , cheating waste of mommy and daddies quicky and the other was borderline being mentally and emotionally abused. Predators and halfwits will be part of every aspect of life and will find a way to manipulate or destroy said aspects of life given enough time and opportunity.Nothing is Idiot proof, nothing is safe so get your life set up how you want it and be prepared to guard this fortress against predators. When (not if) the halfwit comes stumbling in like a newborn colt on ice and manages to destroys your life because the dumb fuck is trying to help or by removing the wrong brick in the wall because it was shiny and it’s now their favorite red rock thingy, you better have a plan B to rebuild. The good news is that you now have enough bricks laying on the ground to stone the halfwit to death, I’m a silver lining kinda guy.The Little crotch goblin in the shop is now skipping to a fro all while chanting what I think I recognized as the ritual to raise an evil elder thing that resembles a puppet from some children's program and then banging their fucking little fist on bookshelves. I’ve ordered a hot chocolate for the little bastard and added a bit of full spectrum oil so the crotch goblin will either soon enter torpor or start seeing a god in whatever app the frazzled parent downloaded and handed off to the kid to try and quite the goblin down. I can write now without the music blasting through my headphones being drowned out but I did check to see how the goblin is doing, they passed out on a couch, maybe pissed themselves or just spilled water on the floor hard to say . My date shows up and we talk about ourselves or I talk too much and have to stop myself to ask them a question, after both realizing that the online interaction , attraction, and communication is also very present in a real life situation we agree it was time for the duel . We meet via social media site that specializes in the way of the Gaijin and us weebs must prove our saiyan power rankings so we walk outside and I unravel the sacred condom of holy audience and stop the Cupids dive bombing us while each and every one of these sawed off Kalashnikovs are humming “rock you like a hurricane”. The cupids form a half circle around us and since the invoking of the spirit of The holy Pope Ruth Westhimer the Cupids agree to not interfere and will also leave me alone until after I get off work the next day.Later that night after coming home bloodied , bruised and then the injuries I sustained during the duel I think about the date and how good it went. Talking about our partners, wants, needs and what we can and can not provide for each other, we hold off on saying we are in a relationship, we decided we’re in a trial relationship pending approval from our respective partners. Important to remember that our other partners can be affected by what we do and the clear communication transfers (or it SHOULD) to the other partners. Poly is not easy it can be worth it or as I’ve found utterly heartbreaking at times but I’m not built to be monogamous so my options are to be lonely the rest of my life, be constrained in a monogamous relationship that I may or at least fight like hell not to cheat in or I can just be honest and say this is who I am, you can stay or go. I find a dead mouse on my front porch with a note stating they were worried I hadn’t been eating, one day I’m going to spay this cat eared woman with a soldering iron.

#bourbonsexual #gvaf #poly #writing

2 notes · View notes

gvaf-radio-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Let’s see how long the next project I have in the pipe takes

0 notes

gvaf-radio-blog · 6 years ago

Text

I was laying in bed trying to not think about the rejection when the crying fit started, normally it goes away after a bit but this welled up and I felt an emotion like onto a rage induced tornado surging through me and I pounded the floor screaming like I lost a limb to a bear trap and started to pray to God, keep in mind I am a Satanist, to either help me find a way to get the love of my life back or to give me the means to end my life. Satan was very understanding but reminded me to call them first next time since Satan never told me I was damned for being born pansexual and they did turn me on to better fashion and literature, sorry Satan.

It had been going on like this for the better part of July and there were several things going on in my life at the time one of those was a firm belief that I had grown too old, too fat, too broken to be any use to anyone other than to make others feel better and be target practice for the Russian Cupidi who seems very intent on making others fall in love with me on the other side of the continent, little fuckers have surprisingly deep laughs I found out . There was a person I was convinced was the love of my life because they seemed to understand me, never made unreasonable demands of me ( I thought) and to put it simply we could not be in a room alone ever. We worked well together in fact each time we would meet it ended in us kissing and tearfully saying I love you to each other while holding each other head to head crying. Everytime I heard a slight Russian tinged laugh. We were for a short time had an almost family, an almost family is where things are just off and need adjustments. I wanted tp make us a full family badly I wanted this family to happen because these kids were at one time treated like mine own, I am a simple and boring man except for the Cupidi and a stalker with cat ears who keeps leaving dead birds on my front stoop.

So yes I was that fool everyone has laughed at in a heart break fueled misery that pop songs and movies lie to us and say “ AH but tis only the third act! The two distant lovers will be reunited and the love song with start after the credits”. I want to start rounding up the con artist that make a living by filling empty headed children with these notions of true love or that love conquers all and sodomize them with live lobsters. I don’t want to violate ethically challenged people with shellfish everyday, just on those days when I have to deal with the doll eyed masses, ok so basically every day I was trying to give myself the benefit of the doubt. The Ex had asked me if the reason I wanted to get back together was because they were a “sure thing” I told her that they were really a long shot but if I didn’t try then I couldn’t live with myself. Fast forward a few weeks and several insulting explanations later and I am now turning over all the reasons I am broken goods and that I should not rise above my station because I deserve to be alone, i’m scum, I’m why baby jesus cries and milk spoils when I walk into the room. I started taking pot shots at the local Cupidi with my compound bow but it was hard to aim with eyes full of tears and the edible kicking in finally. I don’t know how to say fuck you in Russian but I think I know the sound of the word.

Next we find me red eyed muttering some gibberish that’s been fueled by what I would find out later to be a suspected mental illness that is only half way being treated with medication and therapy. To give you a funny and disturbing visual. After not eating or sleeping for several days I looked like what could be described as a cross between a fat Reinfeld and a goth George Costanza , or Meatloaf on a bad day. I give you options for your visuals, am I not merciful?

It’s now sometime between one and five A.M and I am looking up the price of the least expensive .45 handgun because I’m poor and I’ll be getting some extra money soon because I turn thirty nine in a week I do not want to be thirty nine so I start looking for american style solutions, happy fucking birthday. I chose this caliber because having some medical training and studying the wonderful world of trauma I got to see in full detail what a self inflicted head wound looks like and what a person's life is when the bullet doesn’t take enough grey matter. I didn’t want to be alive then I sure as hell didn’t want to live as a joke character from a Garth Ennis story so I was going to get a bigger bullet . America, fuck yeah.

so I started to make my final birthday plan and feel at peace with having my last ride of Clove’s, bourbon and a good pub hamburger then, Tchüess. BANG! Obviously I didn’t buy the gun to end my misery and embarrassment as my brain was telling me I needed, because instead my brain going into OH FUCK mode was throwing everything it had at me to save the ship. Then it hit pay dirt. I rediscovered a natural emotional energy that put my mind into a laser focus clearing the fog and lies away just enough to stop my self destruction and restart the rebuilding I began in the winter. The emotional energy that saved me from turning my head into goo goes by the name of pure fucking spite.

I realized that my idiocy levels had reached a critical mass when the Cupidi in hazmat suits who seem to be , in Russian , bitching about extracting me to go get recharged . They came down to take me back to a containment unit that will refill my cynicism back to optimal and lethal fuck off capacity. After my IV of coffee and Monster™ grape was removed I was set loose again into the wilds of Southeast Portland to reconnect my brain with seething hatred that I somehow misplaced my hatred during the heartache attack between Southeast Division and Southeast Clinton street where I was bludgeoned with a baseball bat by the woman who was wearing cat ears. I was on a time limit because I had to do this quickly and retract my steps before my appointment with a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner at two P.M later that day. I managed to find my hatred , my senses and a new found desire to attack any human with those fucking anime cat ears on their head and entered the office and was treated like a human being not a Cro Magnon sociopath who might try to kill people on the train, it was a nice change of pace honestly.

We talked about my past trauma and some of the diagnosis that where off base and some that came close to the mark but the main thing we talked about was the depression, the depression that had me looking for a gun as a treatment plan. This Nurse Practitioner pinpointed everything that I had to hide from others or train myself not to do in less than thirty minutes, Let me give you a bit of perspective.

Most of the mental health professionals I worked with in the past used a method I call flow chart counseling, example:

Therapist sees me walk into the door, therapist will ask if I drink if yes how many drinks in a week, if no move on to the next question. Therapist: Mister Cromag do you drink?

Me: yeah, I like a good beer, or wine I take a shinning to good bourbons as well.

“Therapist now flows to follow up questions”

Therapist: How many drinks per week?

Me: Well, I like to have a drink that pairs with my dinner and some weekends I’ll have a bit more during games or socialization depending on who’s around.

“Therapist now moves down to alcoholism”

Therapist: how long have you been an alcoholic?

Me: I’m sorry what?

Therapist: You binge drink Mister Cromag, more than four drinks per week means substance abuse.

Me: No it means I like the taste of a stout. “Moves down the chart to denial”

Therapist: We need to find you an addiction specialist.

Me: You think my drinking is bad, wait until I tell you about my porn collection.

After that exchange I was referred to a physical therapist to help with carpal tunnel and after a traumatized therapist had to call security all while frantically trying to find a flowchart for the psychotically horny they made a suggestion about me having an Oedipus complex.

So you now see what I mean, a lot of professionals never got to the heart of it and there are other stories where I’ve had the professionals all but sneer at me when my symptoms are presented. So this Nurse Practitioner was a nice change of pace and with the discussion about my issues, what I thought I might have been dealing with (sometimes people see that I do have some form of intelligence and not just hit thing with club real hard unga bunga) we then worked out what medication I needed to treat the thing I was dreading, being diagnosed with Bipolar 1.

Bipolar and ADHD share many of the same characteristics and as I’ve learned if you have one the other is more than likely there it just needs to be screened for. Bipolar is also a hereditary form of mental illness which makes it a bit unique where others are mostly trauma induced but Bipolar just kinda waits for something to happen and when nothing does it creates its own fun. To add to this good time Bipolar is classified as a “mood disorder” your highs are hyperactive boarderlining and often going into a full true manic state of mind and body, not nearly as fun as it sounds. Then the lows are soul crushing affairs that amplify the depression and then takes the lies you brain tells you and creates a story based on people around you, your fears, past trauma and then makes you this poisoned lullaby cake that tastes like candy feels like medicine until you fall to your knees paralyzed and the fangs sink into your back and you see too late what is having you for dinner tonight.

So that’s a quick and blurry on Bipolar 2, I have Bipolar 1 which means I get all of that plus the added fun of hallucinations, and not the type Terrence Mckenna taught us about. These are things that just manifest as if they are real life like if you were in a film and it was edited without warning and in this new situation you now have to improvise a reality, any reality, this is why I take *drugs prescribed and other. The other issue is that it feels like my memories get remixed and things that happened now have a new twist, a paranoid hurtful twist. Good example of this is when I was making a terminal wishlist and believed that there were people who truly wanted me to die because I interpreted their actions as malicious. Another example is I was walking home to the apartments around ten or twelve years ago, I was walking home at the time with groceries and when I got through the front door there was construction going on at the apartment above me. I sleep days and at best i’ll get four hours due to shit employer, new born child, a girlfriend that was Sybil the next generation who completely refused to get treatment because she was a psych major and thought she was the heroin to overcome all odds in a lifetime movie. So on top of this my mental illness is not in check, no insurance and if I mention medication at work I could get fired.

I wish this was a part I made up but I mentioned I was on antidepressants at one time and they removed me from two positions back to entry level until I got clean off celexa, Not allowed to do the fun drugs and then punished for using the boring ones no idea why I stayed there for eight and a half years.

Back to the construction, I get home try to put my groceries away and one of the workers says he needs to do something in the bedroom I tell him to get bent , he calls me a fat fuck and I proceed to beat him bloody! Except it never happened, I woke up beating my fist bloody onto the tiled floor of the kitchen where I had started to put away my groceries until I jumped into this other reality, I’m just happy the kid wasn’t home because it might have scared her and made her cry and knowing I made her cry hurts the worst, I would have attempted that second suicide earlier. This freaked me out I’ve never had an hallucination like this I was scared, when I told then girlfriend hoping to get support or at least pointed in the direction on where to look she labeled me a schitzophrentic started talking to me as if I was going to flip out and that I was even more dangerous. I let that turn around in my head for years thinking that this was the linchpin to me being broken and with the way she talked to me I believed I didn’t deserve help. This was one of the main reasons I had to kill myself after she took my daughter away.

Like a few million other miserable , confused people out there I didn’t know a blessed thing about what was happening, I remembered the mental abuse and emotional abuse from the church, and some had argued physical and neglectful abuse I recieved at the hands of my family or my mother’s husbands who told my mother to no provide for me but instead buy him a new toy car. My step sister who somehow hates the knot headed reprobate more than I do stole his precious camaro and rear ended a Semi. After learning she was ok I fell on the floor laughing because all I could think about was this NASCAR addicted stunted man child calling his mommy to whine about a broken toy, to add to this mental image he was wearing a blue jean diaper and clutching a plush Richard Petty teddy bear.

There’s more but I don’t feel the need to talk about school bus drivers and me losing memory of one full year of my life, bullying at the hands of adults and children alike. I feel like that would be redundant and unfortunately all too common a story I’ve heard from so many people in my life, friends, lovers , coworkers the fucking homeless people who talk with me after I give them beer money. Leaving some of the genetic issues aside you bastards need to understand how wide spread some of these traumas are for fuck sake my motley of misfits are all walking trauma case studies and instead of getting help YOU people ridiculed them, or gave them the greatest useless sentence in the english language which is :

“Just get over it.”

Do you know what I would like to see? I want to see all of us survivors roaming the streets like that piss poor movie they claimed was a horror movie the Purge and with a list not unlike the list owned by the man that comes around Johnny Cash sang about during his song of the rapture, and I see men, women, and nonbinary people going to the address of those passive aggressive twits and beating them within an inch of their life, then carving into their chest (backwards) “get over it” then we move on to the homes of the rapists and tell them “you asked for this” before destroying their cocks with battery acid. The screams in the night would be glorious with the bats acting like percussion and the screams keyboard swells it would be like Front 242 unplugged. Maybe then the sniveling pretentious nra members out there will learn a bit. At best, it would be fair warning not to be passive aggressive asshole and learn a bit of compassion and mindfulness or to just get their heads out of their ass about battles they know nothing about if they want to avoid severe head trauma that one can not just simply get over.

Living with mental illness is not easy at any level whether a small bit of depression after a breakup or full blown PTSD after a brutal rape that leaves one unable to leave their house. Whomever has these afflictions are the ones suffering and your feelings of inconvenience or fear of those sufferers need to be thrown into the Willamette river, I would say you need to follow suit but there’s enough garbage in this river you can fuck off into a trash compactor.

Living is the hardest thing I do but I keep finding ways to stop the thoughts from taking over and I will and have done whatever it took to not die and sometimes the only way I was able to beat the mental illness was being bat shit insane. Some people think I’m a drug addict, others just think I need to talk to my old invisible friend, a few well meaning souls have suggested psychedelics and these people are pure and I will castrate any who try and stop them from their holy work from the almighty Bob. what I do need is to find that bitch with the **baseball bat and introduce them to a proper bonfire that I’m going to roast one of those little commie Cupidi on, oh yes I want my revenge for St Louis.

*the drugs in question are cannabis for the most part, when I’m spinning hard it helps tune me down and when the depression hits it shuts up the thoughts that plague me. Not a cure all nor is it a replacement for proper medication and therapy. I like to think of it a supplemental medicine that has the added effect of making Tool sound even more epic and letting me sleep peacefully.

** all wildy violent, funny and or cartoonish descriptions written about are there to be funny and entertaining no Cupidi do not exist and the Cat ear person does but the assault was less bloody and didn’t involve a bat but it was far more traumatizing.

#gvaf #bourbonsexual #mental illness #suicide #abuse #Gonzo Journalism

2 notes · View notes

gvaf-radio-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Starting to get back to it

So a few weeks ago I started a article/blog/column writing thing as an exercise to see if I could still write and to see if I had learned anything. I set my goal (after a bit of reality) to 1500 to 2000 words. The piece , which I posted last night, came out to being a little over 1700 words and I ended it where I did because I felt I had said what I needed to say. So right after finishing that piece I started another just to kinda get a feel for what I was writing and start formulating my approach. Fucking thing is over 2000 already and I'm either going to be finished with it tonight or early tomorrow so I need to go over my list of ideas and pick another.

1 note · View note

gvaf-radio-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Motivativation is a fickle bitch and a whore.

It’s been months sitting in front of blinking cursors and live mics with a thousand ideas running in my head but nothing comes out , almost feels like vein that creativity has been invaded by a tourniquet strangling my flow into a dribble like a gimp whos been ordered to not cum by their Dom/me who is teasing them mercilessly.

I might also be denied more than just “creative juices” at this point I want to shoot my own genitals** off whenever I see a couple out in the open making out or are simply living their lives together in mediocre bliss. We can file that under reason twenty-five why Rev can never own functional firearms.

Right before I was struck dumb and mute I was working on a spoken word piece about haveing motivation on demand via Henry Rollins and Arnold Schwarzenegger but my media rig crashed for the first time since getting it back and I lost my good take. Next day get set back up and I forget how to talk, the ideas were running wild in my brain frantically looking for a way out to show how smart, cynical and passionate I am via my voice but much like courting the love of my life nothing ever came of it but pain and borderline substance abuse.

somewhere I heard a menacing feminine chuckle and the crack of a whip.

Even on stream I feel like I have nothing to say which if you know me or have been following me for any amount of time you will realize that is nigh impossible, kinda like the modern Republican party acting on any of their supposed xian values the way Christ intended. Where might my motivation have gotten off to? It’s not as if I have a shortage of hatred to aim and fire like an emotional shotgun at a full line up of worthy targets , or that I don’t enjoy my writing, spoken word, game streaming, CREATING MUSIC! It’s that it just won’t god damn manifest into a kinetic conduction to paper or digital recording!. The shit part is I think I know why this is happening.

My health has gotten progressively worse no matter what I’ve done and in that I’ve given up my legendary drinking like I have been known for, I traded good bourbon, wine, and beer for a handful of pills twice a day to deal with my multiple physical and mental issues which have landed me in the hospital several times either on a suicide watch or heart attack. Of course none of the pills have any of the fun side effects.

Oh boo hoo princess Rev.

There was a suggestion that I was an alcoholic for a bit with no evidence to support this (none documented at least) in my private life since I would ONLY drink when a proper meal or setting was present (stop laughing ) In my creative life at least it was highly probable. In one way or another, kinda , maybe since whenever I would record a podcast or voiceover I would always have some tasty concoction that was either fermented or distilled near me and would sip on whatever was in my cup while I working on my projects and would partake heavily while editing to soothe my nerves and create a focus . Habit or ritual can be synonyms depending on the subject.

Create buzzed edit hammered.

Sober ,currently,watching the cursor go blink blink blink sipping black coffee trying to write this piece in my favorite coffee shop on Southeast Woodstock while I am typing on the keyboard with hateful velocity trying to make this piece something that makes sense and flows all while darting a glance at the tap menu and thinking about ordering a stout to curb the minor case of the shakes I have acquired from the two cups of coffee but I feel like I’m only making an excuse to have a drink instead of the best reason: I just want a fucking beer. This is a very bad reason to want a drink by the way: I want to write better so I’ll drink.

I opted for a decaf medium roast with CBD tincture added, I love my city some days.

Granted all my heros where FUBAR* during their creative hay days and I still crave a smoke while reading Ellis, Thompson ,and Bukowski I also feel like I need to be drinking anything and everything available and then later either smoking a joint to help me think at a different angle or taking a tab of acid to pry open my third eye and look for the gods of the typewriter to show me how to be a better writer and reach divinity via a script. I still partake in cannabis just not smoking it normally due to my living situation so edibles it is, unfortunately, ediblies, due to their nature of being THC bulldozers are not conducive to being creative since I end up becoming part of the furniture and unable to speak clearly or move unless in a matter like a primate that has just now learning the ground is steady after living in a tree all their life.

Then comes another thought, What if I need to be mentally unstable to create?

Some of the best scripts and songs I have ever written have come from when I was in crisis, or lonely and heartbroken or even better utterly suicidal. The words flow and every bit of pain and insanity which creates its own grammar rules that only you adhere to because you can see the true meanings in the structure that is unto like a sacred architecture and you wield the divine typewriter/keyboard. case in point go read Charles Bukowski or Hunter S Thompson even if you think of them as horrible examples of human beings you can not deny their creativity, and tragedy.

I need to be fueled by something emotional (hatred and anger work well) I don’t know how to create without wanting to rip someones’ head off , attempting to learn how to not do it with murderous intent but I have to ask myself why stop something that works or who does it really harm?

At one point I thought the mental illness helped because of the manic energy but lately I’m finding that it just really fucks with me at every aspect of my life. What I have been discovering is that there is a vast difference between Mental Illness and proper madness where the latter is what I have been wanting to cultivate . What is the difference between the two? Easy, one is more often or not caused by trauma or genetics and Madness is seeing the world for what it truly is, refusing to hide yourself . Metaphorically riding into battle skyclad against a superiorly armed foe with not but an improvised weapon and a rebel yell.

You see there is a difference once you know what to look for the main problem is sometimes mental illness can pretend to be madness and that’s where we get the likes of David Koresh a man who thought he was Jesus reborn in Waco Texas who came to save the world with a holy war and with his compound full of simpletons begging for someone else to tell them how to live their lives, at the cost of one or two daughters because Jesus likes um young. If you’re not up on your late twentieth century history several Alphabet organizations reduced the compound and it’s inhabitants to ashes because only the Government is allowed to tell a person how to live.

The Man was thought to be Mad but in reality he was suffering from deep mental illness which left uncheck (and obviously under or incorrectly medicated) cause more harm to those around him and the world , meanwhile those with that spark of madness went out and if not changed the world they help change lives in both minor and major ways. I could go and list all the names here of the artists, policy makers, and athletes but that number is too long and it leaves out the smaller people that have that spark change their world and those around it. The Student that refuses to bend to an unethical school policy, the whistleblower who risks it all to stop unsafe products, or the queer person who is out in an area full of homophobia and tells them they are here and not going anywhere.

Most of us would call person such as that insane or brave, probably a little of both for some risking not just a career but possible life and limb. That is Madness glorious fucking madness that takes a person to heights they never knew that they could reach let alone humanly possible. I try to cultivate this madness but it comes out more like a delusional grasp for grandeur and I instead replace the missing madness with passion.

The wild energy that comes from passion has helped write glorious poetry, caused the breakage of innumerable pens , at least one forever borked keyboard , bottomless cups of coffee and some rather messy desk and office areas while I fly helter skelter towards some poetry line that heals and breaks a heart, a bass line to make a person stand and dance regardless of what they thought they wanted and a recorded bit of spoken word to blow a person’s perception.

Like I said I have slight grand idea about my art.

*FUBAR= Fucked Up Beyond All Rehabilitation

**posting a joke about shooting your own genitals off is funny, saying you want to shoot the couple is nihilism without a punchline and probable cause according to the police.

#bourbonsexual #gvaf #motivation #writing

2 notes · View notes