Looks like it has been around two months shy of three years since I posted here. I barely remember why I stopped posting, stopped writing in general, but I do very much recall the overall “event” that influenced my stepping away. I wrote about some of it here, back then, as I recall, but there was more, and so much has happened since, and I’m sure some or all of it will be covered here in future posts. Because I want to get back to it. I have wanted to for some time. And while you may notice I really don’t have anything of substance to say with this post, I wanted mostly to just break the cycle of not posting, of not writing much of anything beyond snarky Facebook and Twitter status updates, and now that I have I truly intend it to lead to more regular mental regurgitation upon these “pages.” And we will we what will happen. I barely remember who I was three years ago, and I certainly am no longer whoever he was. Strange the way life goes, though. Last week I had the worst psychotic episode since the one just over three years ago that led to a psychotic break, that led to so many things, among them a veritable cessation of most creative activity. And that cannot be allowed to stand. But strange that another difficult brain fuck experience led me back to trying to write here. And elsewhere. Other awesome things are happening! I hope to tell you about them, and I hope the you that chooses to join me and listen in is more than just me and all of my friends in my head. 😊
Damn yo…I don’t even remember how to do stuff here. 😂
I was just reading an article I randomly came across, discussing the phenomena of ball lightning. Suddenly, I had a flashback to a memory from when I was maybe seven, eight years old, playing outside in good ol’ Fruitland, New Mexico, and I saw a flash of what I now think was this ball lightening, maybe five or ten feet in front of me. TRIPPY… I remember it freaking me out at the time, and making me all tingly and whatnot.
I’m pretty sure this is a real memory that got knocked loose up there, and not some subconscious fabrication to pass the time. But, with my brain, “pretty sure” is probably 50% at best. I mean, I can’t even be certain that an awkward conversation I had a few days ago with some dude in a lab coat about the domes outside Phoenix was real or just a dream that I had, or just me talking to myself in my mind.
It’s been just under six months that I’ve been completely off any sort of psychiatric medication. The last set of meds I was on triggered strange and terrible bouts of manic insanity, and I wanted to get back to an unmedicated baseline to see what that felt like. At no time in the last six months have I felt any better or more stable than before, though I have had a fair share of days that were much worse: my experience with mental illness, much like my experiences as an active drug addict, is that just when you think you’ve reached your lowest point, life is about to show you just how much more fucked it can be.
For the most part, however, being completely off psychiatric medication for me does not feel all that much different from how I remember feeling while I was on psychiatric medication. Which, in my mind, confirms my suspicions that the meds I’ve been on in the past have done fuck all to address my symptoms. They seem to work for a short while, but then…
I have an appointment this week with a witch doctor or shaman of some sort to discuss the possibility of getting back on some type of psychiatric drug regimen. I will obviously be taking the doctor’s opinion and advice into consideration, but as it stands I am honestly torn about whether or not I want to start back on that shit again. The idea of finding some type of relief from some of these symptoms of insanity sounds rather fanfuckingtastic. However, with each past experience with psych drugs I grow increasingly doubtful of the effectiveness of medication at all.
Besides, I’ve grown rather fond of some of my imaginary friends. Some of them. The rest of you can fuck right off! 😉
What follows is a selection from The Sacred Lost Tomes of The Ryan, the brief and terrible history of which is glossed over here and here. This poor excuse for poetry was written circa 2002 while I was living in Albuquerque, eating all the hallucinogens I could find while obsessively listening to TOOL and reading way too much existential philosophy.
fevered eye inside
the storm, and slowly i
turn away, shoulders
quaking at losses incurred,
missed opportunities passed
in a series of moments,
forever within the blink
of an eye, a point, a
meeting of eternal pathways
in this dream called life.
i turned my back on you,
the only way known to me,
to let go, to step off,
to reach our peak and
continue to climb, to
ascend, to reach for
the evermore, grasp
this abyss with eagle’s
talons and soar over
these path’s contradictions,
molting to shed my
pity for you,
the deepest of suffering.
at one time the same
— if only for a wink —
no more past this moment
will we meet again,
for already you fade into
nonbeing, soon a
a bittersweet reminder of
the sun that has set for me.
no more will i be
downed by the spirit
of gravity, for your
sacrifice has allowed me
to break free
from the being that
can no longer contain
me. i have learned to
to look past myself,
to see much beyond our
subjectivity of experience,
to feel the rains of all
things fall down over me,
washing blood and tears of
our innocent battle away and
in this churning whirlwind
of storm can i now let go,
free now to spiral out.
Some time ago, I wrote a short piece lamenting the apparent loss of most of my old pieces of writing. While I still have not ascertained — and very well may never know — what became of the floppy disks that housed all of those precious tomes, I did make a priceless acquisition during the process of our recent thousand mile relocation:
Flickr Image via zoetnet
Motherfucking hard copies, yo! While there is still a significant amount of work missing (and that’s only based on what my less than stellar memory can recall), I am completely ecstatic at this sick discovery. Or, I was until I read some of the shit…
“You serious, bro??”
Let’s just say, as it relates to my early years as a bard and a wordsmith, I thought much more highly of my skills and the brilliance of my creations at the time of their writing. What I’ve found thus far (here’s hoping there’s more!) is mostly really shitty poetry, some questionable short fiction, and a few self-aggrandizing essays on philosophy and literature. Regardless, and perhaps somewhat masochistically, I will be sharing bits and pieces of these Lost Tomes of The Ryan in coming weeks, or months, or as the inclination strikes me. Still…don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Flickr Image via Gilderic Photography
Seriously, though. The unjustified pretense is thick in this one…
On a recent Netflix documentary kick I watched the outstanding film Salinger, about the late, somewhat reclusive author of Franny and Zooey, a handful of stories, and some other book that I can’t remember right now… #ImJokingYouPhony
In the film, one of J.D. Salinger’s associates (I’ve already forgotten who) remarked that, as the reluctant bard struck an imposing presence due to his stature and build, Salinger was often overly gracious and accomodating towards those in his company in a deliberate effort to mollify the unease he felt his presence fostered. This was, of course, before the man became Kurt Cobain famous and everyone started trying to crawl up his asshole…
Anyways, the point I was struck with is that it occurs to me I generally do the exact opposite. #MiserablePrick
The origins of 1 April’s unofficial holiday, April Fool’s Day, are more ambiguous than the motives behind your creepy uncle’s lecherous advances on you (“I’m just kidding with you! Don’t be so sensitive…”). Many historians, internet-based and otherwise, attribute the first known recorded mentioning of the trickster’s holiday to Chaucer’sThe Canterbury Tales. In the Nun’s Priest’s Tale from the late 14th century, Chaucer weaves a yarn concerning the narcissistic cock Chauntecler, who is nearly consumed (literally!) as the result of being duped by a clever fox. The passage reads:
When that the monthe in which the world bigan
That highte March, whan God first maked man,
Was complet, and passed were also
Syn March bigan thritty dayes and two
The passage appears to be self-contradictory, and Chaucer scholars continue to debate whether the writing refers to thirty-two days after March was complete (May 3), or thirty-two days since March began (April 1). The latter interpretation is more convenient for those who wish to attribute some significance to the work concerning our foolish revelry, and appears to fit with the humorous tone and themes of trickery within the tale. However, the more popular interpretation among scholars leans toward the former, with many editors often changing the text of the passage to more clearly suggest a May 3rd time frame.
Still others argue that Chaucer was intentionally ambiguous, and did not intend to provide a specific date at all. Rather, they purport, Chaucer purposefully employed confusing language to not only further the humorous tone of his work, but also to parody the language of Medieval philosophy — a satire of the times.
We once met the frontman from Bad Acid Trip, hanging out on the lawn at Ozzfest the year System of a Down headlined for their “hiatus” tour. This was not long after we had road-tripped to Dallas to see both of those bands perform along with The Mars Volta. On the way back, I was too focused on my sweet, sexy cajun chicken from Popeye’s while trying to drive, and damn near sped us into the ass-end of a stand-still line of traffic on the freeway, itself gridlocked due to an accident involving a tractor. This is one of those “near-miss” moments I’ve talked about that I sometimes think actually killed me (us), making everything that has happened since a product of run-out electrical activity in a dying central nervous system. But that is another story…
The BAT vocalist was wearing a shirt depicting George Dubya Bush in an Islamic shemagh. Pumpkin, clearly overcome with veneration, complimented the guy on wearing a Mother Theresa shirt at a metal gig. Because, hey, they are basically the same person, right?! ;D
Later in the day, we also met the vocalist from Dragonforce and his magnificently curly locks of mighty gloriousness. I think that may have been the last year that Ozzfest was any good, right? A few years later, after the demise of the Ozz-Man’s tour and once Mayhem had moved in to claim the throne of Shitty Mainstream American Metal Festival, I would break my ankle in the moshpit during a fucking brutal set from Slayer. Yeah, I kept moshing…like you had to ask!
Why am I thinking about all this now, at 8:00 a.m. on a random Friday, and sharing the memory with all of you? Who the fuck knows. Have a nice day, yeh bastards! 😀