(c) all text was copyrighted as allowed by law.
depression and the void.
A language is competent even if just one person thinks it
AS IT WERE
I have gret wonder, be this light
How that I live, for day ne nyght
I have so many an ydel thoght
Purely for defaute of slepe
That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe
Of nothing, how hit cometh or gooth,
Ne me nis nothing leef nor looth.
Al is ylyche good to me --
Joye or sorwe, wherso hyt be --
For I have felyng in nothyng,
But, as it were, a mased thyng,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
--Geoffrey Chaucer, The Book of Duchess, est. 1368 - 1372
The Three Tenets of Misery:
- A boy without a past, a memory, has no future. He’s condemned to be lost until he can build his person on memories.
- For there is not a just man upon earth, that doeth good, and sinneth not.
- The lexicon is a field of seizures: nor thoughts, nor images, nor an external vocabulary, nor pills, nor shock will help. Mine is an erased past, a little elegance, but jilts my aristocratic heritage.
God’s infinite grief.
Let me be frank and honest: all my thought is filtered through an ill, though mitigated, brain. This is the only time I will mention it.
By reading this, you will change. You will shudder from the banality of your life. You are a repetitive variation of this text.
By rejecting reason, and re-introducing you to the anxious unstable that you may have turned down so much that it’s barely a murmur, perhaps at a point in infancy, or in childhood, something has happened to you, and you pressed the mute button--muted colors like Monet’s memories. But the button is not 100% effective.
Sometimes the volume goes up. And it is at these times you will staple your eyes, turn into an anti-obscurantist. The reason you muted those memories? Knowledge exposed in all its bright lights is pure terror.
What do we know and remember, and what can we remember and know? Do we remember accurately, or has our experience since then changed the characters, the time, the location, the actual sexual abuse?
1: in the flat field of the anxious unstable
Anxiety itself, not a biologically comorbid symptom of depression, which is associated with neuron disruptions, is internalized and is caused by an abundance of fear, or the opposite, a poverty of ideas. Anxiety thrives in all environments.
Anxiety, if we ignore the biological process that erupts, has no reason to be.
Anxiety, as a sign, has no sacred object. It does not fit into any linguistic model of understanding as it lacks a signifier. So it is the only sign without an object, and therefore it should not exists.
But it is unknown what anxiety’s signifier could be, could behave, or exist at all. So we call anxiety’s signifier, which does not exist, scared unstable, and it lacks existence, a void and an erasure. Anxiety has no linguistics.
Take an example, opioid withdrawal: Anxiety is certainly a part of the process, but even in biological cases, it only, barely, suggests an exposure to void; and, this is the extract of true depression. Depression is something that is caused by not wanting to live, not necessarily wanting to die. Doctors and therapists know the difference.
Genetics, certainly, and also medical conditions or psychological causes as well, can be used to “cause” anxiety, but those are only origins, and origins do not matter. It continues to signify an absolute void, a sacred object obsolete.
I mean to describe it quite simply as I have experienced it. Diseases are a commodity of disordered thought which begs a system to alleviate if not cure it.
Anxiety is neither a trait nor a being. It simply is an enemy of calm scenery and a relapse of the brain. Go back to the pain of birth or the pain of a certain moment. Taken a step toward it, step closer to its true meaning. It can only be originated by a past encounter with a very real void (void is a euphemism) that refuses to be left alone, leaving the sufferer in revolving despair. Once the void contaminates, there is no cure or even masking or mitigating the symptoms, the physical response, or damage to the mind. The curious or blind individuals, they will survive, and walk away with a universe of a new grammar of symptoms in which to revel. It is a glorious triumph of single-delighted masturbation, a symptom of mental illness through deprivation of safety.
Anxiety as it is commonly thought of caused by one or two theories, or mixture thereof: as a biologically based or psychological based, and by psychologically, I am returned to the theory of a erotic pain in Sade’s work. And the erotics of pain is discussed more frequently, and less repetitively, by transgressive authors.
A psychical symptom does occur:
The amygdala regulates not just anxiety, but also fear.
The amygdala can activate an over-response of the HPA Axis, the sympathetic nervous system, and the hippocampus, all this overaction implicates emotional memories, again the pain of birth or an experience in childhood, and so works, in generally manner, the biologically originated anxiety.
What am I left with? A supple, sense of great unease, terror, thoughts of doing violence toward the self or other. Anxiety trends pumapatol, i.e., pay attention to someone else, regardless that the person is inferior in status.
Biologically-based excuses of the anxiety does not matter, though it surely keeps benzos and other more expensive antidepressants flooded the market. It may also make pharmaceutical companies and psychiatrists (who are medical doctors) happy to know that their professions are biologically based, and therefore not just “in your mind.” It is, literally, “in your head.”
Drugs can mitigate it, but cannot erase the erasure.
And some say that genetics and neurochemistry plays a role is making one more susceptible to feelings of anxiety. Again, that does not explain the anxiety by which we talk of, the anxiety of having come into the same space as the void:
As far as causes, we have genetics, medical conditions, and psychological causes:
Certain neurotransmitters are re-absorbed too quickly in the synapse or neurotransmitters, especially during disease or are not produced in large enough amount to get their way into the right synapse is another physical cause, which is the basis for using modern-day psychoactives to treat anxiety, such as SSRIs and to a lesser extent, because they may make the anxiety worse in the beginning, SNRIs. Actual anxiolytics, such as the benzodiazepines, are running out of favor as they are highly addictive and nearly impossibly to detox from safely. In fact, they are now usually used to treat short terms, or continuously to treat those patients that have been on them and are therefore tolerant of them.
the anxiety of the void coming closer and revealing itself into your space is more closely align by other biologically discussed methods of anxiety: medical conditions and withdrawals from specific drugs. For anxiety that are due to a medical condition, there are a variety of medical conditions that can intimate this paralyzing effects of coming in contact with the void. They may include horrifying experiences such as insomnia, of the chronic type, from which there is little to no relief from standard medications, and whose memory is so server written on the brain, as if cutting into or shaping the brain, one can smell the smoke decades after a six-month period of insomnia.
Depression and catatonia.
A lowering of skills and intelligence.
Anxiety over sleep is one such issue that only grows as each sleepless night passes.
For example, the person suffering from psychological anxiety, as opposed to the anxiety of the perception of the void, might be suffering from drug withdrawals. This is another kind of anxiety that is minor but by minor we do not mean to take away the pain the victim experienced because in no way does any anxiety feels minor.
“Several drugs of abuse can cause or exacerbate anxiety, whether in intoxication, withdrawal, and from chronic use. These include alcohol, tobacco, cannabis, sedatives (including prescription benzodiazepines), opioids (including prescription pain killers and illicit drugs like heroin), stimulants (such as caffeine, cocaine and amphetamines), hallucinogens, and inhalants. While many often report self-medicating anxiety with these substances, improvements in anxiety from drugs are usually short-lived (with worsening of anxiety in the long-term, sometimes with acute anxiety as soon as the drug effects wear off) and tend to be exaggerated (e.g., "many people report euphoria after the fact with alcohol intoxication, even though at the time of intoxication they were tearful and agitated"). Acute exposure to toxic levels of benzene may cause euphoria, anxiety, and irritability lasting up to 2 weeks after the exposure.”
Anxiety can be a symptom of underlying health problems such as asthma or chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), heart disease (heart attack, heart failure or arrhythmia), sleep apnea, chronic pain, parkinson's disease, multiple sclerosis, cancer, diabetes, and stroke.
While medical causes of anxiety accompanied by physical symptoms often should be ruled out by a physician before diagnosing a primary anxiety disorder, often people with panic attacks or illness anxiety disorder have excessive worries about having a medical condition despite multiple medical workups being negative for another cause. It is important that both healthcare professionals and patients recognize that physical symptoms are common manifestations of anxiety and not necessarily indicative of a serious medical condition. That does not make these symptoms any less "real," as stress hormones (such as cortisol and norepinephrine) can contribute to multiple cardiovascular, gastrointestinal, neurological, sexual and pain symptoms. While chronic stress can increase morbidity associated with cardiovascular disease, acute stress (e.g., panic attacks) are unlikely to cause heart attacks or strokes despite patients often catastrophizing that they will.
Poor coping skills (e.g., rigidity/inflexible problem solving, denial, avoidance, impulsivity, extreme self-expectation, affective instability, and inability to focus on problems) are associated with anxiety. Anxiety is also linked and perpetuated by the person's own pessimistic outcome expectancy and how they cope with feedback negativity. Temperament (e.g., neuroticism) and attitudes (e.g. pessimism) have been found to be risk factors for anxiety.
Cognitive distortions such as overgeneralization, catastrophizing, mind reading, emotional reasoning, binocular trick, and mental filter can result in anxiety. For example, an overgeneralized belief that something bad "always" happens may lead someone to have excessive fears of even minimally risky situations and to avoid benign social situations due to anticipatory anxiety of embarrassment. Such unhealthy thoughts can be targets for successful treatment with cognitive therapy.
Psychodynamic theory posits that anxiety is often the result of opposing unconscious wishes or fears that manifest via maladaptive defense mechanisms (such as suppression, repression, anticipation, regression, somatization, passive aggression, dissociation) that develop to adapt to problems with early objects (e.g., caregivers) and empathic failures in childhood. For example, persistent parental discouragement of anger may result in repression/suppression of angry feelings which manifests as gastrointestinal distress (somatization) when provoked by another while the anger remains unconscious and outside the individual's awareness. Such conflicts can be targets for successful treatment with psychodynamic therapy.
But do not do away with the influence of the presence of the void that affects the level of anxiety felt by a poor/indigent person, the occasions, the numerous places, and the levels of anxieties; some of them are low levels that are seemingly controlled, so they think, by drinking glass after glass of beer, wine, liqueurs, valium, klonopin, other benzodiazepines and antidepressants such as the SSRIs, etc, and then there are the mid range attacks that are panics yearning toward the void, to which we can throw a variety of chemicals at and only receive a minimal or sometime even a significant bout of temporary relief, and then are the full-fledged attacks in which the person is left speechless, unable to move because each movement brings on such a force of terror that it is better to stay in one place than to reach for any chemical that might release it. indeed, moving one’s mouth open to accept a 2 mg pill of Klonopin, or even 4 mgs (a high dose i’ve only seen by mistake in a doctor’s prescription) is too terrifying and so it does not happen, and trapped in this paralyzing space, no relief, no controlled breathing, no phone call to mommy, no pill, drink, or tranquil music can calm down a person with the highest level of anxiety for the highest level of anxiety has more to do with depression in that it is infectious to those around the person and it is incapable of movement, incapable of having any thoughts—perhaps other than obsessions (how it relates to OCD, and if those thoughts are of one’s suicide, again how it relates to depression), or torpfy. I cannot even lift a finger because it might break off, as if the air where turned to knives or my bones so brittle the very action would be akin to a man with osteoporosis falling on his hand. There is no need to offer proof as I have experienced all of this myself throughout different stages of my life. Sober, drunk, little boy, 42, in school, at home, in church, it terrifies me, those images of suffering do bring on terror, at a museum, at gallery openings, on cathedral walls… At those times, I feel the coldness from the void all around me, as if i were suspended magically above it, in a black field of terror and the anxiety stops all bodily functions, shit soaks my jeans, and drips from the cuff of the opening…. Yes, in that space, that oblivion, with the twisted risk of being alive forever in that null I cry for the darkness of death, the field of the unstable terror engulfs me, my realization that my medications are not working for me, and therefore, why not die? is my problem not biologically based, because where is the fever i feel? what can be worse than this? and if i was on the right drugs, why would i know this external and also internal terror? whatever trembling i might be producing is purely automatic, like Artaud’s automatic drawings, and i am suspended there, in the dark, above this hole waiting for whatever is holding me above it to simply drop me, into what, i do not know because i am already experiencing the worst there is.
There is no riding or hurrying the void. it comes and it leaves as uncertain as can be. no amount of time can be counted on, no clock in the background ticks toward sanity, no pleasure is felt, just the paralyzed body, no blinking, no tongue twirling, nothing to cover my drooling mouth. “Petrified with her misfortunes."—Ovid, Met., vi. 304. It’s as if i were dead and conscious of being dead. Like someone has filled my blood with succinylcholine, a depolarizing muscle relaxant, it works magic by refusing the muscles in your body to contract, which causes paralysis of the muscles in the face and those used to breathe and move. All the while waking up too early from Etomidate, realizing you can’t move or breath and nobody is breathing for you, so you suffocate, then then succinylcholine wears off and, whoa, you can breath and the “scenery paralysie” is gone, you wake up somewhere that you’ve been but forgot you were as if you stood up too quickly, fainted, and then the blood rushed back to your head. But you have no idea how long you were gone for. However, you were not unaware, you have the void with you now, and it sticks to you like the smells of flayed fish in a warehouse, or brine, or Chanel No 5.
I cannot invalidate the void, and neither can you. But it does bring on a universe of symptoms which one learns to sexually enjoy, as an economy of balance for having encountered something to infinite and terrifying.
“Anxiety of free will” died with the physical death of the last great existentialist, Simone de Beauvoir, because we have shown that there is the possibility of the sacred object obsolete due to the the presence of the void, and a closeness of the void removes any presence of will, and itself is the embodiment of the sacred object obsolete, before it is flayed by a chosen, unfortunately libertine. The extentensialists misrepresented, and any others still, a mental disorder and replaced depression and anxiety of the loneliness and the difficulty of choosing of free will--a type of loss of pleasure of objects that once caused us pleasure such as our lover’s body, acquisition, viewing beauty, etc. And choices that we have to make in uncertain dimensions. We are all familiar with those anxieties, they are much discussed in existential philosophy, and then though post-existentialist suggest the void in literature or in philosophical texts of the past and in the present, especially in the works of Blanchot and Bataille, as being a well spring that comes into your lives to touch it with questions that demand answers that you must make decisions for in order to rid yourself of these ambiguities. This void is only represented in some minor points in transgressive literature and in art itself. At the moment the spear enters the body of Jesus or the unicorn tucked away in the Cloisters, or a man is shackled and has given up, but his sons mourn over his detention, at the Met, no such exploration of voidness as been thoroughly advanced into a space because no one single insane persona has been made sane enough by mixture of the right kinds of medications and 50 or so of ECT treatments--if for just a moment--to explore it in a page or two. It is those paralyzing moments that best suggest the void that i am suggesting, and I have best seen it in art.
Sitting in front of me are two books: Literature and Evil by Georges Bataille. On the Marion Boyars 1985 reprint, someone decided to adorn the cover with an unaccounted engraving of a priestly man or woman, adorned with a headpiece, it appears, sacrificing a man with a large knife, not the most upsetting cover for a transgressive French literary giant, but so it goes.
Next to said book is Klossowski’s The Baphomet, with a detail from Caravaggio’s Abraham and Isaac—of which there are two versions, and the one on the book is the Uffizi version. Caravaggio’s Abraham and Isaac is a painting covered in the mire of the void. Used in Klossowski, another talented, yet unskilled painter/drawer, it was completed in 1603, and is 41 in x 53 in. The painting shows Abraham who has pinned his son’s head down to the ground with his left hand, this is on the book cover, and is ready to slash his neck per God’s command. Isaac’s face is spotlighted, as if he were Madonna’s face and breasts, on stage, alone. A very youthful male angel comes to Abraham, naked, not on the cover, to offer a ram instead of Isaac for completing God’s willed sacrifice. Thus there is no human sacrifice to be made. the only life that will be done is that of the ram’s. the boy is saved. another strange image for a transgressive text, as if we’re talking about sacrifice as a shadow but will never go through with it, which of course is not the case in The Baphomet.
Thus are two examples of that are use to adorn literature that makes one try to feel the void, because to know it is to have gone through it, and no one can make you go through that or understand it. Only by glimpse of art can you feel the magnetic charge of the caress the void offers and all the terror that it vibrates. Matthew 6:9-21, King James Version: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
Anxiety is often spoken about in terms of an inner restlessness. Anxiety is discussed as a fear of the future, something that may come from one's actions, hence the anxiety of extensional choice making procedures. A grid made with Microsoft Visio! If only there were a map for it all! But divination does not work as I have yet to find a priest or doctor that can tell me what the future really holds for me other than my personal death. and life expectancy? Doctors will tell you they know even less about that because there are too many factors.
Anxiety as fear unfocused, or just feeling that you WILL have something such as an overreaction to something, or you WILL TO an overreaction, or have a feeling of menacing uneasiness—but this can cover so many human otherness, like needing to pee or having gas or being in love—that one must look further and beyond such simple varieties of understanding one's thoughts and how the body responds to those thoughts and feelings. And unlike confronting the terror of the void, the physical reactions to anxiety seem rosy, such as restlessness, tension, lack of concentration, etc. Again, this is but a blimp of what is seen in the void, so while I propose Anxiety as the main outcry of the void from outside our lives, it is not the same anxiety of today’s psychological understanding. Ours is not philosophical, but of the heart and skin, thus the flesh that is torn to bits and shredded during certain rituals of the past, the rituals that cause ecstasy on the faces of its victims, whereas the contemporary anxiety, though sounding scary to those that suffer from it, is seen as a simple disorder of the mind and the brain, one that can be treated by therapy, in as little as three months, so shout the insurance companies!, and if needed biological interventions, like SSRIs or the addictive benzodiazepines, from which are extremely hard and from which can be deadly to detox.
What the contemporary doctors say about anxiety, as they understand it and write about in the DSM-V or the ICD-10, is that its sufferers will avoid certain situations that make them feel such dread. so an actor with anxiety make make no living at all once the seats fill and they become anxiety ridden, or a young mother may never let her child go beyond her grips for fear something as nebulous as “bad” will happen if she lays that poor baby down. Think not of the baby, dear woman, but of yourself should you be ushered into the void. From the void, all knowledge of all of art and the humanities flow through you and out of you. its stay is momentary like the aftermath of an electric shock. you are left with only the memory of its presence, once and only once, but should you find yourself floating above the void again, it all comes back to you, the terror of earnings, the unstable field surrounding you from without and within. You are filled with it and surrounded by its density as if in a magnetic force. And let's not rule out Time as a playing factor in becoming well. Besides the fact that medications take four to six, sometimes eight weeks to BEGIN to work, it takes a while before a doctor will put you on any medication, let alone the right dose. So, he will place you on 20 mgs of Prozac, a standard does, but your anxiety needs 40 mgs. So you wait for the doctor's appointment, and assuming your doctor has all the bloodworm they need, and you make an appointment within a week or two, you fill the prescription, pay your bill, start the does, work your way through the side effects, and assuming you do not stop the drug from the sometimes horrible side effects, sexual, anxiety...ironic...insomnia...ironic yet again....suicidal thoughts, perhaps the worse side effect that comes in it's own black box on the pamphlet....assuming you have gone through all of that and you've seen progress after six weeks, but you are still getting anxiety attacks, you must make another appointment with your doctor, who you probably saw about two weeks before, wait to see them, and tell them that you don't think the dose is right, but you're already experiencing side effects, so they put you on something that has less side effects, but is less effective, and you start all over again. Meanwhile your co workers have dismissed you as being weird, that your job must be too hard for you, and God forbid, they demote you because it appears you can no longer handle your work. And can you? You have a health condition, you tell them, so they say get a letter from your doctor and we will get an accommodation for you, but your accommodation says you have less capacity to concentrate and you need less work in the short term and there is no prognosis for the future. They will have to wait to receive word from your doctor once treatment is effective. Should you go out on a sick leave? Surely that is what your boss wants you to do. No see, no deal with. Or should you take a longer, six-week FMLA. But do you have enough time in the bank to take that unpaid leave? Do you have the money to pay for COBRA to pay for your health care if you fall off of payroll? So many questions that demand answers, and so few intellects to answer them.
the void is the only measureless truth, when compared with its sibling, beauty. it is the opposite of an expenditure as all those who survive its experience are left devoid of all sense of life, all desire to live, act, play, enjoy. desperate for comfort, the void has taken pleasure away for you, and it is impossible to ever feel both genital or erotic pleasure at all. apathy, worry, melancholy abound fresher by the black energy from its immensity. all becomes neutral, God's gift is gone, and anything that had a shine is dull and lifeless. art no longer brings a movement of the heart nor tear to the eye. Opera no longer stuns, shocks, moves the soul because there is no soul to move. Anhedonia, the inability to experience pleasure, becomes a daily, boring mask, stolen from us. orgasms are impossible to reach and the pleasure we once felt in reaching orgasm is gone. the total amount of pleasure that it's possible to gain from a single activity has become a dull grey, a gallery wall without art, an empty room in a once elaborate house that has been emptied due to an incredible crime.
As reported in Psychology Today:
They made a conscious effort to enhance the mood the picture produced, whether happy, sad, or indifferent. The study delivered five important insights:
1. In response to positive images, the depressed brains didn't sustain NA activation as well as the normal brains did--no matter how hard they tried.
2. Difficulties sustaining activity in the NA were associated with reduced activity in the PFC.
3. Those depressed persons who couldn't sustain NA activity reported less positive emotional responses to the pleasurable pictures.
4. Those depressed subjects who were better able to sustain NA activity also reported higher levels of positive emotion in their everyday lives.
5. The deficit in sustaining NA activity was specific to positive emotion. (Apparently, happiness is hard to sustain but sadness isn't. I wonder, is sadness our default setting?)
If you are depressed and suffering from anhedonia, you're probably asking, So what?
And the most important phrase here is, So What? The cause causes the reaction, but knowing just that does not alleviate the experience, now does it even give us a target. it allows pharmaceutical companies to produce pills that react on those parts of the brain, but we are already aflush with prescriptions that work very well to suppress anxiety, as it is experienced as a psychological and psychiatric problem. It levies no part of a solution to the void, a spiritual location close to the body that one may be confronted with at any moment for just that: a moment, but whose attack or experience, whatever you want to call it, will never be forgotten for it is written on the skin like a perfume or a tattoo, permanently etched in the body like gilding in the Sistine chapel.
It is does give the pharmaceutical researches and scientists a suggestion of what to attack in their novel drugs, even suggests dangerous psychosurgeries which will never come to fruition as such matters are not considered as biologically based, even though they really are. (When will psychosurgery came back? it has certainly suffered enough from it past trade tragedies, hasn’t it?). The void is so terrifying that it rips you in part in so many directions, your skin flayed in so many sheets of dying canvas, that it is impossible to return to a normal state. Again, it can be said again, where there was once God, it is gone. And in its place is, at best, can only be described as a field of the unstable, or at best, a paralysis of the body. So what better alternative than death? And who cares of the means? And indeed, if that means can produce pleasure, why not choose it?
As suggested before, anxiety from a standard issue is co-morbid with other more “serious” diseases such a depression with psychotic features (perhaps the most dreaded), schizophrenia (evil when the person is not having an episode), personality disorders (the person is obvious to their “suffering”), obsessive compulsive disorder (one of the ruthless), social anxieties (a spineless and cruel disease), eating disorders, bipolar disorder, etc.
Other contemporary doctors will say that it is not fear or dread, but fear makes all of use move or tremble or stand still throughout our lives for no without Reason. if there is a reason for the fear and the symptom of the fear becomes justifiable, then the fear is subject to a myriad of sympathies and compassions. if there is no reason for the fear, for example, no one sees an impenitent danger, a course of disease falls upon us, or some other mental or other physical disease, act of war, other other calamity such as the loss of one’s job, then the fear is labeled as pathological and is subject to testing, to rooting out, to medication for release, to pin pricking and even electric convulsive therapy, which is actually very effective. Contemporary psychology likes to draw a line between fear and anxiety by saying anxiety is something to be worried about over future events, whether real, perceived, or irrational, an expectation whether psychotic or not, while fear is a response to an real or perceived imminent threat. Those who have been treated to the great void carry its wisdom and experience as if it were spiritual, for lack of a better term, with them throughout their lives. They understand that it can be perceptible at any moment, hence the dissolve of fear versus anxiety of the void in practice, whereas in psychological terms one may be tempted to state that they are in a constant state of fear and in anxiety, because the threat of the void is always there but the worry that it can happen in the near or far future is also always there.
Whatever the case may be, if you have known of the void as I have fear and anxiety do not matter to you. it is the avoidance of the void itself and the remembrance of these things past that you are damned to beg of never to encounter again that can only drive you. your libido and thanatos have been replaced by an actual avoidance and isolation, a deep, ever swelling of depression, which is the next stage that we must talk about. a real or perceived immediate threat is already here. now how does that translate into how one acts if one can move and thus act or think from the void from torpefying you.
The philosopher Soren Kierkegaard, in The Concept of Anxiety, dated 1844, wanted to position anxiety as a "dizziness of freedom.” this man obviously predates the dizziness of Thorazine "chemical lobotomy."
This predates the proper course in time of extensional thought, but nevertheless aligns itself with it quite well. In fact, one of the ways he suggested to get rid of this faintness and blackouts is to make your choices consciously.
Images of execution as an external form of bliss: the face of the executioner needs to be compared with the face of the the moment right before the death of the executed. what’s to compare and contrast. is there a smile there? think of criminal executions? do we place a bag over their face? for legal executions, do we pump them full of morphine or other drugs before we stop their heart, pull the switch, shoot them, electrocute them, needle them to death, etc? are we blocked from seeing something now unknown on their faces? how does that compare to the execution and torture pictures of the past? I don't drop the head. i want to see. Federal versus state execution.
2: starved intelligence & depression
The lexicon is a field of seizures: nor thoughts, nor images, nor an external vocabulary, nor pills, nor shock will help. Mine is an erased past, a little elegance, but jilts my aristocratic heritage.
Koalemos, the greek god of stupidity, is too emasculated for what i need right now. These are two simple references to him that I have selected: one from Aristophanes and another from Plutarch.
Aristophanes, Birds 220 ff (trans. O'Neill) (Greek comedy C5th to 4th B.C.): "Come, take a chaplet, offer a libation to Koalemos the god of Stupidity and take care to fight vigorously." And in, Plutarch: Plutarch, Life of Cimon 4. 3 (trans. Perrin) (Greek historian C1st to C2nd A.D.): "He had the bad name of being dissolute and bibulous, and of taking after his grandfather Kimon, who, they say, because of his simplicity, was dubbed Koalemos, the Stupid-One."
But not much else when you Google Koalemos; in fact, a lot of screen names pop up, assuming young boys are playing tricks with their nerdy friends, but as far as literature, i am neither expert nor Greek Literature philosopher to go beyond a few clicks of the mouse. So if not Koalemos, let us just assume that he is of the highest quality of stupidity, and one that we would aspire to, for without stupidity in our lives, we would know to much, and knowing a little, as half of you know, is a dangerous thing. And it is better to be dangerous creatures than to be forthright.
For knowing is to feel a thing, and to feel a thing is to have become intoxicated with that thing; so to have been a witness of a beheading, is to know a beheading, is to know the erotic nature of the crowd of witnesses of a beheading; to see the pain of the victim is to know his pain, thus to feel it and therefore know it. Why carry such pain with you when you need only aspire to the altar of Koalemos?
For we are meant to know more, feel more, and understand the natures of the void, the beheadings, of beauty, and the cruelties of paralysis. It is ennui, as a manifestation of a purer, washed form of anxiety and depression and catatonia, that I return our attention. Indeed it is the structure of American society, the banality of our acquisitive society, that causes more pressures and gloom on the individual than any other thing, as it is this banality that is the mirror of the void.
Moros, on the other hand, was the Greek deity of Doom, and as close to depression as one gets in Greek mythology--in a sense he was also the bringer of depression. I propose his motto be “strained and unpersuasive.” He had two siblings: Thanatos, appropriated as the death instinct by Freud, is the Greek deity of dying peacefully and transiting as slipping into death, while his other sibling, Ker, was known for his physical aspects of death—he was known for violent death and death by sickness. But during the never-ending process of death, there is a blacking out period, like a fainting moment where the brain is deprived of oxygen as the heart stop beating. And consciousness lingers, as you are made to know of what is happening to you, and you are aware that something is very wrong, the “feeling the advance of death more pressing and more acute,” The Essays of Montaigne, that your heart is not right, or that your lungs are not inflating, or that your head is looking in a strange angle. And soon the fainting spell takes over, and you black out, and after that consciousness follows, and so you are dead. You might feel something, that comes last, but you will soon forget all of that, all of that stops: the senses, and you are dead. No more words, language ceases, therefore thought, the ability to develop curricula, possess the ability at expression, to move the body, any part, each unit of sound on the tongue is exterminated. Syncope, as in a “loss of consciousness” or the “omission of sounds or letters from within a word” is a very powerful hallucination, and so is the process of death.
So, death is an ending, a turning off the lights, literally, whereas torture, distortions of emotions, are scouring pads, abrasions, scratches.
Ennui is one such abrasion, as a form of inner anxiety, which may triggered by an external trigger, like a pollen or unknown agent to an allergy that affects certain parts of the brain.
Suffering is primary: when depressed, make a choice: sympathize with the murderer or the victim. It really doesn’t matter.
Anxiety as a fear of a higher power on either an elaborate essay, attempts by a harmful external beast with an elaborate plan, unlike the simple hallucination of the delusional dementia patient dying from dementia; or their hallucinations of a sunray interplaying with the leaves to form a saber tooth tiger. I lower my head to see the wrinkles on the top of my shoes and listen better for the patterns of those walking behind me, and to hear how close they are to me. So close that they may grab me.
And while anxiety has no object, and is barely a sign because it is without a signifier, we must discuss one of the worse abrasions that humans can be inflicted from within, and that is major depression or major depression with psychotic features, whose object is itself, a reality that exists on its own, and has no known mirror, as anxiety as no object itself, no Other that it screams at, begging to be acknowledge for its own existence. It just is. These are lonely, self-deprecating, and not filled with promises of choices of free will.
Depression without psychotic features is actually quite easy to spot, because it is hard to hide, though the sufferer tends to undervalue the symptoms.
Often times, crying spells, lack of showers, repeated cigarette smoking, daemonizing dreams, self-hating thoughts, plans for suicides, objects of lethal suicides on the person (such as carrying belladonna berries in their briefcases or a razor), insomnia, sunken eyes, anorexia or binge eating, all symptoms for two or more weeks, pretty consistently, deserves the attentions.
Depression has an recognized list of signs, reiterated here from the current DSM-V. Depression is defined as the following, and it is this definition by which the doctor or therapist or the social worker can guarantee their patient receives ongoing treatment (as well as provide the insurance company with a diagnosis code). But first an interesting note on some thought about the new DSM-V to begin with:
The new edition of Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5®) is the product of more than 10 years of effort by hundreds of international experts in all aspects of mental health. Their dedication and hard work have yielded an authoritative volume that defines and classifies mental disorders in order to improve diagnoses, treatment, and research.
Used by clinicians and researchers to diagnose and classify mental disorders, the criteria are concise and explicit, intended to facilitate an objective assessment of symptom presentations in a variety of clinical settings—inpatient, outpatient, partial hospital, consultation-liaison, clinical, private practice, and primary care. http://www.psychiatry.org/psychiatrists/practice/dsm/dsm-5
So if you think life’s pressures cause depression, you are wrong. Here is the current criteria of depression. You need to have at least five of the following symptoms for at least two weeks “almost” every day--but the doctor expects everyday, for rays of sunshine during these two weeks are suspicious.
Not only do you need to have five, but you or someone close to you must voice or otherwise indicate that you have the five or you will not be diagnosed as even not showing can go overlooked. In addition, you must describe one of the five symptoms as a depressed mood or a loss of pleasure and/or interest in things that used to drive a light level of eroticism in you (anhedonia). In addition to this platinum crown, the following jewels must be observable (very difficult) or reported (easy to fake) for nearly every day for two weeks:
1. Depressed mood most of the day, almost every day, indicated by your own subjective report or by the report of others. This mood might be characterized by sadness, emptiness, or hopelessness.
2. Markedly diminished interest or pleasure in all or almost all activities most of the day nearly every day.
3. Significant weight loss when not dieting or weight gain.
4. Inability to sleep or oversleeping nearly every day.
5. Psychomotor agitation or retardation nearly every day.
6. Fatigue or loss of energy nearly every day.
7. Feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt (which may be delusional) nearly every day.
8. Diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness, nearly every day.
9. Recurrent thoughts of death (not just fear of dying), recurrent suicidal ideation without a specific plan, or a suicide attempt or a specific plan for committing suicide.
B. Symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.
C. The episode is not due to the effects of a substance or to a medical condition.
D. The occurrence is not better explained by schizoaffective disorder, schizophrenia, schizophreniform disorder, delusional disorder, or other specified and unspecified schizophrenia spectrum and other psychotic disorders.
E. There has never been a manic episode or a hypomanic episode.
Aside from the DSM-V definition of depression, it has another definition and expression. Because it is also true that, touch with a bit of depression, not enough to render (someone) unable to think or act as oneself, but enough to taste the depression without having succumbed totally to it, one can create baffling objects of depression upon the scene--such as Serge Lutens’ retail space for his objects of beauty:
“In order for every individual to determine his or her choice, I had to think up this idea and put it in a showcase. It’s an invented décor, not one pulled out of a magician’s hat. The colours as well as the impressions they evoke are mine: from violet to black. I dreamed that one could let oneself float, just like fish in an aquarium. So every detail of the friezes, the patterns, the panels was thought out and redesigned from interpreted documentation. So it’s faithful to a period that the place is marked by this Post-French-Revolution atmosphere, the period that followed the Terreur (so well named), when you saw the Muscadins, marvellously incredible dandies of the time perfuming themselves with musk and nutmeg, like Léon Blum did. As well as the “Merveilleuses,” who were perfuming themselves with rose even before Joséphine de Beauharnais. It was said at the time that it is the role of women to take on the fragrance of flowers, as it was also that of Les Salons to change habits and take the path through the woods.” http://us.sergelutens.com/all-about-serge-lutens/palais-royal.html
It is a crowning delight and praise to Depression with a capital D.
Depression caresses the skin at the frailest of touch, like blowing excessive talc on your skin, and then it starts to resonate in electromagnetic waves, and these waves feel like sadness, melancholy, then, as it continues to resonate, into a major depression, then, still left unchecked, the most agonising of mental pleas, psychotic depression. Psychotic depression is an aggressive affirmation of self-hatred or thoughts of worthlessness. The aggressive deception determines the treatment of each of these remains unique and compartmentalized. It can be progressive, which frustrates contemporary psychiatric theory. (Whose job is to cartopentalize diseases and do not find their similar, often striking similarities, enough to call them progressive, but enough to categorize them together under the same grouping.)
Depression with psychotic features are marked by hallucinations, delusions, or both. What follows below is a classification, its own personal lexicon of hallucinations as one who has experienced it. Their description is not a science or a textual description alone, but rather a compulsion to write it down, and to resituated them by visualizing the scenery and its relationship with the body as a most ecstatic Sadean self-discourse.
Can there be as much of depression?
Those causes the apartment in willingness.
There's no longer one drug I can take, and ECT is no longer an option after 50+ tries.
So this burden moves on to my boss that's guilty.
I feel this way to take some sleeping pill.
And it's going to be an afternoon on Saturday that I feel and see the most.
In typical psychiatry and psychology--basically the mental health profession as it is practiced for decades by Western medicine and American medicine and billing insurance companies, hallucinations have been categorized by the human sense, which seems obvious at first, a faculty by which the body perceives an external--and again I question say internal--stimulus, that they are primarily manifested from, and the distortion. Duration, quality, intensity, and other variations are considered by the clination only by fractional diagnosing, but the hallucination is always considered, “visual” or “tactical,” as in formication,” or “auditory”--whether of persecutory or depressive, guilt ridden, to come up with a dose of antipsychotics; but hallucinations are better understood, empathically, and better categorized for insurance purposes, by the quality of the hallucination and its relation to the scenery that the person experiences it.
There can be this aggressive deception a “hallucination of a scene.” For example, I may mistake the interplay of light and shadows on the water of a creek for being the vague visage of Dore’s demons. Adrenaline will spike, heart rate rises: it is panic. A horror. The disease will force its victim to run and then hide, or might be brave and stay, look for a phone, and call 911.
Another “hallucination of a scene” would be passing a tree in a planter, mistaking the roots for a pile of ugly, shiny black snakes--living, moving bodies of awful creatures. Curling around themselves, feeling for sunlight and its heat. The snakes may disappear in a moment, or it may take a few blinks of the eyes, or I may have to cross the street to stay away from the pot of snakes. Scared, I may settle down by the time I realize I have just mistaken roots for snakes, but that may not happen as well. Or if it does happen, and I realize I just misunderstood the scene, and realize that that moment those snakes were very real, I then conclude what I would have done in that moment, the danger I could have done if someone was next to me, and nothing would have made me think or do otherwise. These occur because of my encounter with a “touch” of the psychotic depression and “madness”--as in “I have been touched”--it can be “hallucinations of the scene” that are desirous, which causes suffering. A child down a slide into a pool of plastic balls. How many different hallucinations, or delusions, would a trained doctor find in the above examples. Perhaps the doctor may say the significant feature is visual hallucination, but does that negate the sound of the snakes in the pot? The delusion of having to protect oneself by walking across the street? The delusional temptation of having to call 911 for help from the snakes or the Dore visual demons? And the misinterpretations of Dore in the hallucination...there is not intellectual hallucination that allows a symptom of psychotic features to bring in an artist into their hallucination, but the “hallucination of the scene” allows just such a feature.
Another hallucination is dramatic, light shows of geometric shapes that appear on the back of the eyes when shut or open, are projected onto the setting, so much so that they get in the way of the scenery or the environment. They block the view from the wall if someone has this hallucination is looking at the hallucination between themselves and the hallucination and the wall. Indeed, this light show can be geometric at times, an ever fluctuating moving mass that gets in the way of what is beyond in my way. In fact, one cannot move their hand to grab for something because this mass is separating their hand the desired. This is a hallucination of masses and it appears frequently. Perhaps in the morning as they get ready for work, may last for an hour until the self becomes more oriented on reality and the scenery around the mass. It is marked by bright “trails” of the arms, and other body gestures. The arms move, and there is a delayed image of the arms moving a few seconds behind it, the same colors, the same movements, etc., like a bad 1980’s special effect for a music video. As the arms moves through its projection, so does the hallucination, so if one moves their arms in a circle, they will create an entire orb, experiencing this hallucination. In addition, one cannot see through this orb, the light show is bright, and the pupils actually constrict--further evidence that the hallucination is treated as real by the body--this mass of geometric shape, if there is no movement to make trails. Also, this is not the same thing as a hypnagogic hallucination, if it occurs in the evening, which is experienced by almost everyone as they drift off to sleep, turned upside down to occur in the morning upon awaking, aka a hypnopompia hallucination if it occurs in the morning. This is not a parasomnia event, a confusion between an illusion with a dream one might be waking from. In fact, one of the hallmarks of this type of hallucination is that is it consistent, every morning even until, as stated above, the self affirms itself to the scenery around it, from around 30 minutes to two hours or more. The hallucination may never end. Therefore, we call this hallucination a “hallucination against a scene.” Again, though scary, these may be symptoms that are comforting. Without them, we are faced with the sluggishness of reality, the poisoned air of Sisyphus. These occur because of one's’ encounter with a “touch” of depression and “madness”--as in “I have been touched”--it can be hallucinations against the scene that are actually enjoyable. A maddening masterbation’s riot dressed in a priest’s cloths.
Indeed, though we gave a visual hallucination as one a “hallucination against a scene,” it can be a noise, a intrusive thoughts such as an ongoing song, a feeling, a part of a delusion, a black out upon hearing a cop’s radio, a totally emotional response to an auditory note, all such things would be classified not as auditory or a delusional (of which there is no classification for the example above), tactical, etc., hallucination, but a hallucination of such extreme that the sufferer cannot interact with the scenery around them as the hallucination hemorrhages into the scenery around them and thus blocks, paralyzes, their ability to interact with the scenery, such as opening a door after they have collapsed after hearing a policeman’s radio behind their front door. Should they black out upon hearing a radio’s noise from a cop, then they are out for a moment until they come up. They pass out, from their delusion of fear of policemen and women, and therefore are aborted from their scenery and environment that they can, with or without medication or ECT, normally transverse. All of these are examples of the “hallucination against a scene.”
By the way, sleep disorder-related hallucinations occur most often in young adults, in their 20’s, and in adolescents, and wane as they get older. Untreated hallucinations stay the course or get worse, depending on the depressive closeness to the void, on the cause if physical/medical, as one gets older. Our hallucinations “of the scene” can occur at any time, and are not associated with narcolepsy. In all cases, the sufferer seems typical in their blood work, though a heart monitor will reveal very high heart rates for no reason, otherwise nothing seems questionable, other than depression, mental illness of some type, and the inability to experience beauty. In addition, there are medication that might be prescribed to rid oneself of these hallucinations, but their appearance has more to do with a closeness to the void, or the former experience with the void, than a physical modality.
Depression is the death of facts.
Henry Fuseli, The Nightmare, 1781, oil on canvas, Detroit Institute of Arts
other types of hallucinations and their names?
may be one of a memory projected on the back of the eyes.
auditory hallucinations, like whispers or commands or mocking or mimicry with sarcasm or religious figures conjolings us
olfactory hallucinations, are usually like smelling shit or other bodily, smell that’s bad, such as the brief encounter of bad breath or the briefness of smelling a nonexistent fart.
“release a rage, a fury, a surge of lyricism, a flight of doves”
A hallucination of or of not the scene, a hallucination of any of our two types, is that which we have no power other than to accept during its twisting meddling. And hand-in-hand with these hallucinations, there is a sinister form of the internalized anger. “...thereby to express that melancholic, dumb, and deaf stupefaction, which benumbs all our faculties, when oppressed with accidents greater than we are able to bear. And, indeed, the violence and impression of an excessive grief must of necessity astonish the soul, and wholly deprive her of her ordinary functions: as it happens to every one of us, who, upon any sudden alarm of very ill news, find ourselves surprised, stupefied, and in a manner deprived of all power of motion.”
--“The Essays of Montaigne”
Unfortunately, depressives, who have the audacity to be firm in their shyness and ability to speak with candor about their illness or symptoms or both, and many people wait for their insurance policies to drop the suicide exception from their policy, usually after two or three years by laws varying from state to state, years after the policy takes effects, so that they may kill themselves and still leave money behind as an inheritance to pay off the house, cover the deceased’s loved one’s debts, and still have enough money for their heirs to live in comfort. Beware of the person who changes their policy and has enough power to live for two more years!
Depression, an internal perversion, is so powerful, you are forced to wear it as a costume, a clothing phoneme.
"And at length and with difficulty is a passage opened by grief for
utterance."—Virgil, AEneid, xi. 151.
Of the costume of all mental illnesses, depression is indeed defined in the most narrow of terms. It is true that the patient will lie to his or her doctors to hide their symptoms as they are ashamed of their disease, and relapsing. They don’t want their doctor’s treatment plan to fail, put together with such experience and fore withall, and they don’t want to admit certain thoughts and possible impulses because they fear being locked up for 72 hours, more or less. And they know that that sticks with their permanent record, and affects things like certain job interviews and Second Amendment rights.
It is not some free flowing set of ideas. In fact, recent, just a day ago since writing this, I went to my doctor with some set of problems. My brother-in-law’s brother is dying of liver cancer and his kidneys are shutting down. He decided to die at home, and was so transported. The doctors gave him 24 hours, but as of yet, 72 hours later, as far as I know he is still alive. I told my psychiatrist about my father’s failing mental condition, the special kind of dementia causing too many hallucinations and delusions as discussed earlier, and the thickening of my mother’s heart valves (a condition called idiopathic hypertrophic subaortic stenosis [ISHH], which is inherited and my sister and my niece and nephew must be tested for it every two years for the rest of our lives), who, in addition to such a crazy heart condition, also has a pacemaker and is set up next to a machine that transmits to her cardiologist via Wi-Fi 24/7 as long as she is within a certain amount of feet by the device, and assuming my dad’s browsing for porn does not cut off their Wi-Fi, as it often does, I am “depressed” and “obsessed” with all sorts of personal debt, refinancing my apartment to pay off pension loans, credit card debt, foolish personal loans, etc, none of those tears I shed counted as depression according to a recent visit to my psychiatrist.
“So,” he said, “there is a difference between feeling sadness and being depressed over daily life events and having your depression, as a disease, come back. I can see you haven’t showered or bathed in a few days. That’s obvious. Get that under control.” As if it were so easy, sir. “Get your mom to have your dad declared incompetent by Florida’s judges so only she has control over their money. This is sadness you’re experiencing, something we all would in your situation, not a return of your disease. That is the good news. It hasn’t come back.” Yet I propose that there is a symptom one can enjoy called the, “inevitable suicide.” Some people are wired to commit suicide, whether they seek treatment for it or not. Not all suicides as 100% preventable, therefore, some are simply inevitable. Tried in the past or not. Sought help, on medications, in talk therapy. Inevitable suicide is fate for us Heros. There is not choice in “inevitable.” Only time. Doctors and social workers are sometimes blameless and therefore there are holes in the psychological theories that are stylistically and evidentiary proof but are not looked at for fear that the powers of doctors are somehow limited by something greater than the power of their education and residencies and many years or decades of experience. Infact, they are inherently limited by something akin to a subversive void, an arena that exists beyond verbalizations or texts, gestures, and other identifying marks.
I sigh relief, though it doesn’t seem that way. As I show no such marks. I can tell by looking in a mirror or reviewing what I am going to say before I say it, a sort of “reverse mimicry”--a strategy used as a defense, but not mentioned by Freud but now added to the discourse, as an example that counteracts and supports the “limitations of suicide hindrance.”
I am gaining weight, despite the cocktail of drugs he gives me to lower my weight from the other drugs i take at night for my psychotic depression which he is treating, with success i guess, but not at this moment I write this. But i trudge on, am friendly at work, which I normally would not be able to be if I were depressed, and go about calling my mother once a day to check in on Jeff to see if he has passed away yet, to call my mother to check on my sister and brother-in-law, etc.
It is our mental dis-eases that voluptuously define us: not others, and not ourselves. Symptoms add up, and soon it is all an object of our glaze can evaluate you in the present. The past only counts if they can draw resemblances. This whorish attitude is shameless, unintellectual, and derelict as well as dangerous.
If you are depressed, you have been defined, offended by, and otherwise casted aside by the government, by the medical system, by the prison system, by the changes to the second amendment, by insurance companies that add suicide clauses. Depressives are damned. Especially “inevitable suicides” while completed suicides always have that sympathy followed with a selfish, how could they? Once that diagnosis is attached to your government ID, there is no Free Will for someone with such a disease. There is no such thing as equality in difference, or relating from human being to human being. There is nothing that traps you so similar to the experience of the void; you are a “wandering star, for whom it is reserved, the blackest of darkness forever.” Beauty might make you more comfortable, but only if you recognize the space from the tension between the disease and beauty.
“Whoever refuses to pay the price for the voluptuous emotion, and demands that the propagation instinct come for free, thus demanding his own unity for free, will have to pay one hundredfold for that freeness in the external perversion of the conditions in which the individual unit is to affirm itself.” Klossowski, “Living Currency”
There is not enough beauty to be had in this world.
There is a tension between beauty and the depression that creates a zone that you will hopefully find a space for yourself to live within.
And on every completed suicide, you will leave lifelong questions.
Will you allow this blank, linguistic, but thoughtful torture?
Stanislavsky's method of emotional truth.
Can depression or other mental diseases be fakes, be one of the techniques of acting? Surely a therapist or doctor that sees you for more than 15 mins can weed out the acting from reality. But in the end, the symptoms are only yours to describe and enjoy. If they find inconsistencies, they have their own techniques to challenge those. But anything is possibly in psychology and psychiatry and they have been exposed to true mental illness that they have not been studied in books, illnesses that have not been categorized for insurances or diagnostic purposes.
Here are the methods of acting in chronological order:
- ● Classical acting is a phase of acting that integrates the expression of the body, voice, imagination, personalizing, improvisation, external stimuli, and script analysis. It is based on the theories and systems of select classical actors and directors including Konstantin Stanislavski and Michel Saint-Denis.
- ● In Stanislavski's system, also known as Stanislavski's method, actors draw upon their own feelings and experiences to convey the "truth" of the character they are portraying. The actor puts himself or herself in the mindset of the character finding things in common in order to give a more genuine portrayal of the character.
- ● Method acting is a range of techniques based on for training actors to achieve better characterizations of the characters they play, as formulated by Lee Strasberg. Strasberg's method is based upon the idea that in order to develop an emotional and cognitive understanding of their roles, actors should use their own experiences to identify personally with their characters. It is based on aspects of Stanislavski's system. Other acting techniques are also based on Stanislavski's ideas, such as those of Stella Adler and Sanford Meisner, but these are not considered "method acting".
- ● Meisner technique requires the actor to focus totally on the other actor as though he or she is real and they only exist in that moment. This is a method that makes the actors in the scene seem more authentic to the audience. It is based on the principle that acting finds its expression in people's response to other people and circumstances. Is it based on Stanislavski's system.
- ● Practical Aesthetics is an acting technique originally conceived by David Mamet and William H. Macy, based on the teachings of Stanislavsky, Sanford Meisner, and the Stoic philosopher Epictetus.
“dressed in lustrous black on matte black, a concept that foreshadowed the ubiquitous codes” (http://us.sergelutens.com/all-about-serge-lutens/serge-lutens.htm) of the mid 2000’s we are all about bragging about our mental illness as if they were pins on our coats, like relics of WWII winterwear, discussing them as we are ever so special at group therapy meetings, whereas one single part of us wants to shock and another contrary part of us just wants to find out if anyone else has experienced the same thing as we have or having felt. The booming use of powerful antipsychotics has grown as their side effect profiles become less lethal and less dangerous and they are now used in conjunction, albeit in lower doses, with antidepressants for treatment resistant depression.
We all have the right to die when, where, and by what means we will commit suicide for by whatever reason. It is best said that, “As long as I'm alive, so is my Death. Every hero on a quest for glory is racing towards the proof of his mortality.” http://us.sergelutens.com/purchase/exclusive-bottles/de-profundis.html
Or, consequently, every person is racing toward their own proof that they may kill themselves if they so choose because the life they live is their own, so is their mortality.
Horns, like a sax, whine in my head, to fake happiness you are going to have to learn to relate to a ridiculous and traumatic tic of all of Humanity. If it is faked enough, it might come to you one day as a blimp of happiness, something in amazement.
To describe the void is to belie it for the words are not the thing. And words cannot even connote the thing itself but merely suggest what is in front of you, just as a painting of a pipe is not a pipe or a map is not a territory. I have tried and will continue to describe it and its results, the preliminary forecast, the coming onto it, the dangling above it, and end of it, the after effects are all described, but since my words are used, and my words holds no validity for an experience, for all of these grades are steps toward and after the experience, can you trust a writer? No writer has ever told the truth. Perhaps priests may be called in as the closest communicators of the unknown, with their gestures, their regalia, and their alter boys as sidekicks to the otherworldly, but never trust a writer who tries to write of an experience; words belie the central part of what they wish to get at and in due time causes another void, the textual void that Blanchot speaks of, which cannot ever be ignored. In fact, Pierre Klossowski paints this religious experience so well, and so eroticstically:
Note the nod to Paganism, which suggests an upcoming orgy with this naked youth whose penis is sadly incomplete, the caress of the head, baring symbolist truth to the caress of the depression that foresees the void, the cell that they are in, padded, as if they were in a cage and not on holy ground, or perhaps a prison in holy ground, deep in the earth, buried alive save for a few torches to lead only one of them out. Note the nod of the knight toward you, the viewer, as if he were winking, intimating tonight’s dalaniances! What a naughty libertine, flayed with the red cross of charity and protection! What a dangerous boy, splayed wide open, erect in open desire, prepared to please his master, quite literally, with whatever he might have in his penial mind (there is a difference between a mind in the brain and a mind in the penis). But why bother analyzing a work of art, when it cannot even be described?
If one wants to ignore this piece and move on to science, since we humans use 100% of our brains, not this myth that we only use 10%, but that 90% we dismiss as needing time to evolve to be used is actually humming away within our skull already being used every day. It requires nourishment, and if damaged shows on MRI or other diagnostic tools. it is used to reason, to perform activity, to assist in memory, contemplation, dreaming exists there, things are memorized there, breathing is part of those parts that were once thought underdeveloped, as well as all sorts of bodyly functions. A doctor does not say, oh, you only damaged that 90% of your brain we don’t use, so you can be released and go home! Science has yet to catch up to brain damaged patients.
Cotard's Syndrome is a case in a disease that occurs in the brain, in all organic causes, that suggest a mental disease, but it is not. There is space in there to experience the void. The void is not an external place that you drive to and find somewhere on Earth, nor is it something that you need to transcend to. it exists in your mind accessed via various methods, thus far we have briefly talked about depression and anxiety, and so somewhere in your brain there is space in it for the void, ready to access and experience in full force. it might be accessed via something traumatic, such as dementia or cancer, or head trauma, or mental illnesses such that cause catatonia.
In fact catatonia, a disease one can die from, is often under the umbrella of a mental side effects from a larger mental disease or the side effects of psychotropics.
Catatonia is an immobility and abnormality that at first manifests as a stupor--a kind of awake asleep state. Described by Karl Ludwig Kahlbaum, in Die Katatonie oder das Spannungsirresein in 1874, it was also referred to as Tension Insanity.
In the DSM-V, catatonia is a condition of a psychiatric state, like insomnia is to depression, or weight loss to anorexia. It is a state of schizophrenia (catatonic type, there are several distinct types of schizophrenia), bipolar disease, post-traumatic stress disorder, and, of course, depression if left untreated, it kills, via suicid, thus th intersection of the appraisal of the disease, or the appraisal of the value of the disease, and its cost, or the price. The body, as when confronted with the void, opens itself to a variety of disorders, and ceases as it had before. It also is seen in overdoses of narcotics. Catatonia also lifts its evil head in several medical conditions that do not deal with the mind, such as infections like encephalitis, autoimmune disorders, strokes, metabolic disturbances, alcohol withdrawal, and benzo withdrawal.
It can be an adverse reaction to prescribed medication. It bears similarity to conditions such as encephalitis lethargica and neuroleptic malignant syndrome. There are a variety of treatments available; benzodiazepines are a first-line treatment strategy. Electroconvulsive therapy is also sometimes used. There is growing evidence for the effectiveness of NMDA antagonists for benzodiazepine resistant catatonia. Antipsychotics are sometimes employed but require caution as they can worsen symptoms and have serious adverse effects.
Patients with catatonia may experience an extreme loss of motor skill or even constant hyperactive motor activity. Catatonic patients will sometimes hold rigid poses for hours and will ignore any external stimuli. Patients with catatonic excitement can suffer from exhaustion if not treated. Patients may also show stereotyped, repetitive movements.
They may show specific types of movement such as waxy flexibility, in which they maintain positions after being placed in them through someone else in which they resist movement in proportion to the force applied by the examiner. They may repeat meaningless phrases or speak only to repeat what the examiner says.
While catatonia is only identified as a symptom of schizophrenia in present psychiatric classifications, it is increasingly recognized as a syndrome with many faces. It appears as the Kahlbaum syndrome (motionless catatonia), malignant catatonia (neuroleptic malignant syndrome, toxic serotonin syndrome), and excited forms (delirious mania, catatonic excitement, oneirophrenia). It has also been recognized as grafted on to autism spectrum disorders.
stupor (i.e., no psychomotor activity; not actively relating to environment)
catalepsy (i.e., passive induction of a posture held against gravity)
waxy flexibility (i.e., allow positioning by examiner and maintain position)
mutism (i.e., no, or very little, verbal response [exclude if known aphasia])
negativism (i.e., opposition or no response to instructions or external stimuli)
posturing (i.e., spontaneous and active maintenance of a posture against gravity)
mannerism (i.e., odd, circumstantial caricature of normal actions)
stereotypy (i.e., repetitive, abnormally frequent, non-goal-directed movements)
agitation, not influenced by external stimuli
echolalia (i.e., mimicking another's speech)
echopraxia (i.e., mimicking another's movements)
Stupor is a motionless, apathetic state in which one is oblivious or does not react to external stimuli. Motor activity is nearly non-existent. Individuals in this state make little or no eye contact with others and may be mute and rigid. One might remain in one position for a long period of time, and then go directly to another position immediately after the first position.
Catatonic excitement is a state of constant purposeless agitation and excitation. Individuals in this state are extremely hyperactive, although, as aforementioned, the activity seems to lack purpose. The individual may also experience delusions or hallucinations. It is commonly cited as one of the most dangerous mental states in psychiatry.
Malignant catatonia is an acute onset of excitement, fever, autonomic instability, delirium and may be fatal.
Fink and Taylor developed a catatonia rating scale to identify the syndrome. A diagnosis is verified by a benzodiazepine or barbiturate test. The diagnosis is validated by the quick response to either benzodiazepines or electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). While proven useful in the past, barbiturates are no longer commonly used in psychiatry; thus the option of either benzodiazepines or ECT.
Initial treatment is aimed at providing symptomatic relief. Benzodiazepines are the first line of treatment, and high doses are often required. A test dose of 1–2 mg of intramuscular lorazepam will often result in marked improvement within half an hour. In France, zolpidem has also been used in diagnosis, and response may occur within the same time period. Ultimately the underlying cause needs to be treated.
Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) is an effective treatment for catatonia. Antipsychotics should be used with care as they can worsen catatonia and are the cause of neuroleptic malignant syndrome, a dangerous condition that can mimic catatonia and requires immediate discontinuation of the antipsychotic.
Excessive glutamate activity is believed to be involved in catatonia; when first-line treatment options fail, NMDA antagonists such as amantadine or memantine are used. Amantadine may have an increased incidence of tolerance with prolonged use and can cause psychosis, due to its additional effects on the dopamine system. Memantine has a more targeted pharmacological profile for the glutamate system, reduced incidence of psychosis and may therefore be preferred for individuals who cannot tolerate amantadine. Topiramate is another treatment option for resistant catatonia; it produces its therapeutic effects by producing glutamate antagonism via modulation of AMPA receptors.
All language, even if it’s thought by one person, creates a linguistic utterance to comment on a thing. However, an erased memory cannot come back, and this affects your personality
- 1. There is romantic depression….
“Whatever happened to experiencing the grace of melancholy, which requires reflection: a sort of mental steeping, like tea? What if all this cheerful advice only makes you feel inadequate? What if you were born morose?
Melancholy, distinguished from grief, is not caused by events, like losing your job, the passing of beloved pets, your miscarriages or health problems. Nor does it vanish when you receive excellent news, like a big film star optioning your novel, or being invited to an all-expenses-paid trip to Venice for the Biennale.
Melancholy is more … ephemeral.”
- 2. And then there is fear turn inward, and manifested to others as stupor, aphasia, or madness….
“...'tis a quality always hurtful, always idle and vain; and as being cowardly, mean, and base, it is by the Stoics expressly and particularly forbidden to their sages.”
--The Essays of Montaigne, Of Sorrow
Both in my cooperativeness and kindness hides my fear. It is easier to go with my family’s, partner’s, and the doctors’ advisements than to disagree by some (j)gesture. And if fear is anger turned inward, as Freud used to theorize, then I am full of fear.
Perhaps that planter is filled with snakes, or maybe it is roots. A blink of the eye will tell the difference between the two, but not before I have already crossed the street and started walking the other direction. But those are definitely trails of arms that I see every single morning when I wake up and I move my arms. If you have ever done LSD, you would know this as “catching trails,” and I catch trails for about an hour. My body is discombobulated, does not respond to my commands, and my eyesight is twisted and unclear because I am so focused on the colored shadows of my hands and arms. By the time I get to work, they have disappeared.
And maybe, just maybe, those footsteps behind me, and the presence I can feel of Jack the Ripper, is not of a lonely cop ready to grab me by the shoulder, so I can bring my shoulder back up and walk taller, in less pain, but instead I shrink forward, crouching over my fear of the unblessed man, this shadow of myself, my fears, bundled into a caricature, following me, ready to pull me toward him, saying in my ear, “I gotcha, you pervert.”
This is how I live, in utter fear toward the I, shaking my very thought process so that my thoughts vibrates inside of me. A simple saying, spoken inside my head, such as a poem, will repeat itself, upon the poem’s conclusion, with a slightly mocking tone, sarcastically, as if I did not say it right to begin with. And endless, internal mimicry with such a slight, but evidently nasty tone that I second guess what I think, therefore what I say, so I am laid speechless. I am not pausing the conversation, contemplating something funny or profound, but because it is not the mimicry I want to release verbally, but the initial tone and tenor of the first way I said it to myself, I am paralyzed. A disability to be sure.
And it is from having an encounter with the void. There is plenty of fear that you suffer from the void, and it follows you until it turns itself into part of your self, it becomes you, turned inward, and therefore depression is born, to the point where I am told I am psychotic, when i believe I am not, as these snakes, this shadow following me, are as real as the tears from a mother’s death.
I don't want spiritual experience to be a dull day-to-day habit, but it should be an acute experience, every now and then to remind me of the void and the joy of avoiding it. I'm meeting again with my misery threshold. I want to stop it before it develops into something more serious.
I have a sick soul, and it tends to lean toward the side of ennui, misery, and depression, and, if forced to admit, delusions and hallucinations. MY NAME is JOSEPH VEGA, and I AM ALL OF THESE.
I will one day learn to make a change and increase my nonexistence threshold. I lack an earnest sense of distaste, like content people have and exercise frequently throughout the day and night, and therefore I can find something to commiserate with in the most morbid of thoughts and domains. There is no way to talk a man out of a delusion; by the definition, a delusion is an unshakable belief that, no matter what evidence or conversation or evidence presented to show otherwise, they will always believe what their delusion tells them what is the truth: to a man who thinks the police are following him, every foot step is an undercover policeman, following him, ever street corner camera is directed toward him, being recorded watching over his every gesture. A man believes someone is at his front door, so he asks his son for a gun he has on the top of his office shelf, but the son cannot reach them, and he opens the door for the father. “Look dad, there’s no one there.” But the father is not convinced and they will be back later, or they are hiding in the bushes, so he takes a kitchen knife and starts stabbing the bushes, “just in case.” He does not know if it is his grandchild merely playing hide and seek or if it is just a bush he is cutting up. Such is the sadness of his delusional, and has the brain plates in his head getting harder from his type of dementia, falls, becomes more hazardous, making each more the potential to break a hardened plate and crumple, and then bleed to death, or, more like, as he asked his doctor, to die of pneumonia.
That’s why even a small fall, which they man has frequently and hides from his wife, causes the doctors to request a CT scan. He has parkinson's disease as well, so his body will NOT listen to the commands in his head as they used to. Put foot down, does not work, so he will lift his next foot, and fall because his other foot is not down yet. Yes, he falls on carpet, and the bruise that is left behind suggests nothing more than a black and blue eye, but that bruise can suggest a breaking of one of these brain plates, with or without pain, and thus a CT scan is ordered. This sick man does not like CT scan, so in the middle of night when he goes to the bathroom and is wife is fast asleep, he will fall, lift himself up using the side of the dresser or even the wall, and will eventually get himself up, into the bathroom, and get back into the bed. By the next morning he might not realize he has fallen the night before, his memory is shot, or may remember and not think twice about hiding it from his wife. His wife, already tired of his constant treatment, may underplay the significance and decide that, like he thinks, it was no big deal and therefore not call the neurologist. The neurologist may not hear about it, if at all, until their next monthly appointment, and orders yet another CT scan, repeats himself that any fall, even on carpet, needs to be reported because it can be life threatening, and so on and so forth. The evil loop completes itself only to begin again. So this fragile man falls on the tile in the middle of the day in front of his wife, of course the wife will bring him to the hospital right away, especially if he complains of pain, or she will help him back into his Lazy Boy and just keep a sharp Italian eye on him, making sure there are no signs of pain. When the man demands his dinner, she thinks all is well, because a demand for food is a sure sign that someone is okay. Like an animal, as long as it is eating, it is okay.
Such a man will never experience the void because part of that experience is to feel your sanity leave you. In his case, it is already gone. Children too are spared the void, because their innocence has spared them for the insanity of the torpy of the void. such creatures are both fortunate but have the potential of feeling a presence of void in a lackluster way, for example, at the moment of the pressure of the man’s last breath or the child’s loss of someone they love or a beloved pet: that closeness to death, and memory that is severed by it, and loss is but a very small part of the paralysis of the void, that part where they cannot breathe in-between tears and their parent has to pick them up and help them to breath once again. Children become eligible for experiencing the void around 12 years old. That happens to correspond to sexual experimentation and alcohol and drug use. I am no adolescent psychologist, but there is something at that age that changes. Perhaps a gland is activated, and certain parts of the brain is wakened from the innocence of childhood, but many parents can tell you that something has change at that age, and it is significant enough to expose them to the world of adult mental diseases.
3. the impalpable experience
The void has an invisible vocabulary, a set of unexplainable grammars (a grammar that hasn’t been explained by anyone yet) , a severe, torturous discipline, a specific lexicon in the native language with set boundaries, like French or perhaps the more vernacular Middle English, a void of the inexplicable (incapable of being accounted for or explained)--such as the foolishness of a trip that is planned but never taken, money lost. It can also “just” be tasted, or “fully experienced”--such as a rape under the influence of BZDs or a totally sober rape. Those that fully experience it cannot describe it, but can recognize it again, and can convey just an opinion, or a feeling of the verbality of the experience.Those that have been pointed by it, as if it were a monstrous finger, can point to it in art or in poetry: it converts them to “wandering stars, for whom it is reserved, the blackness, the darkness, forever.”
This is how it always feels, anxious, sick to the stomach, physical nausea to the point where they throw up yellow bile every morning, everything is bad, like the teeth need to be cleaned, they need to close their eyes and force those geometric images to pop into their head so they can sleep--sleep, which is the only time they're not fucked up and worrying about something that feels so close to happening, but in the 20 or so years since i’ve been feeling this way it hasn’t let up at all.
There are clues, like the time i saw my bank account’s PIN number on a license plate, or the countdown of parking spaces numbers on my way to work. there’s also a strange connection between the CNN scroll bar at the bottom of the TV and CNN’s Justice webpage. each mention of those unmentionable words make me cringe, makes me feel like i will be publically humiliated and torn to bits in jail. These ae only some of the recognitions.
Jail and prison, the worse future we have, light to dark, ennui to passing of times in recovery groups from well-doers and breaks and TV, and then rapes, attacks in the middles of the nights, murders--the only relief from gang rapes, if not torture of the psychological and physical types, have, is where my eyes will be squeezed out of my head by some gangs that believes the lies the government has been telling about me. the lies that link all of the technology i use every day, which will cause my rape, my beatings, the smashing of my head and with spit that covers me with hatred. low man on the totem pole is how it’s all going to turn out. i will be forced to do nothing, only whimper, when they tattoo my forehead with another unmentionable word.
Words that will get me in trouble every moment of every day and night, taken out of context and varnished with glee by the government. I won’t, can’t, tell you which government agency is going to do this to me, but they are and it’s going to happen and i haven’t an exit plan formed yet, and time is running out.
I imagine that i can try to commit suicide by hanging myself from the door in my apartment, bugged as it is with mics that make me whisper my jokes to my boyfriend so that it can’t be picked up in their recordings.
I am lost in a maze made in hell, stone wet walls of sweat, and sick to my stomach, and i suppose the klonopin my doctor gave me is supposed to help, but it doesn’t, it sort of coats my anxiety and that’s about it. That shell always breaks, inner and outer, tolerance rips through, like the chocolate syrup that hardens on ice cream and cracks on first bite.
The void can also be detected in the banal look on the face of the seemingly airheaded, unknown that he is awashed in pomegranate juice unicorn trapped in a golden gate, currently on display at the Met’s Cloisters space known as “The Unicorn in Captivity.”
"The Unicorn in Captivity" may have been created as a single image rather than part of rest of the series on display. In this instance, the unicorn probably represents the beloved tamed. He is tethered to a tree and constrained by a fence, but the chain is not secure and the fence is low enough to leap over: The unicorn could escape if he wished. Clearly, however, his confinement is a happy one, to which the ripe, seed-laden pomegranates in the tree—a medieval symbol of fertility and marriage—testify. The red stains on his flank do not appear to be blood, as there are no visible wounds like those in the hunting series; rather, they represent juice dripping from bursting pomegranates above. Many of the other plants represented here, such as wild orchid, bistort, and thistle, echo this theme of marriage and procreation: they were acclaimed in the Middle Ages as fertility aids for both men and women. Even the little frog, nestled among the violets at the lower right, was cited by medieval writers for its noisy mating.
Though another reading is that the unicorn is though still not wounded, as opposed to Jesus who was stabbed in the sides, is staring into space, staring aimlessly into the void just as jesus is often depicted on the cross, with a suffered face, not a peaceful face, staring fearfully into heaven’s space, toward the Father, begging for his last breath.
Wikipedia: “Christian writings interpret the unicorn and its death as the Passion of Christ. The unicorn has long been identified as a symbol of Christ by Christian writers, allowing the traditionally pagan symbolism of the unicorn to become acceptable within religious doctrine. The original pagan myths about The Hunt of the Unicorn refer to an animal with a single horn that can only be tamed by a virgin; Christian scholars translated this into an allegory for Christ's relationship with the Virgin Mary.”
And because there is the void, there is an opposite, as admitted by the Bataillie who yells that God is dead; by opposing him he sets him as a protagonist and therefore a textual being whom he argues against. And to argue against God, like Sade did, he turns him into a living being as a an advocate and a knight of a particular idea. Ideas are tactile beings that can be felts, smelt, tasted, licked, rubbed against, listened to.
There is something peaceful about sitting in front of an empty altar, sans priest and his adorable boys, starring as the gold gilded crowned candles, the light flickering from the glassed candles lit by people who have wishes for their own or other families, prayers to Mary, the remnants of frankincense and myrrh, sometimes still smoldering sometimes just the burnt underbrush, the crucifix with the pure gold, never needs to be polished image of Jesus staring into the oid, or heaven for those with faith, for one cannot have faith after experiencing the void, and the white walls and pillars. yes, there is peace there where the body can be open. and let it rest there long enough, you might find a movement into the walls of your just, just surrounding your heart. a movement like a soft lyrical gesture. you expect to feel the beginnings of an anxiety or panic attack, of no such though enter your mind, nothing raises, the heartbeat do not skip, the blood pressure seems to actually lower, but there is movement there, slight. what is that feeling? Surrounding by all the tool of faith. Could it be a spiritual experience? is such an experience possible only in this space? the answer is no. such a variety of inexplicable experience, as is the void, can happen at any time any where, as long as you are open for it, and will to experience one. It is as real as the experience of the void, perhaps akin to it, perhaps its opposite, but just as real, and it occurs more times than you can remember or acknowledge because to do so would go against the teachers you have had in university or colleges were Sartre, Beauvoir have reigned assuming you were born in the 70’s as I have. Or the 80’s, as structuralist have continued and merely built upon the lack of religiosity of Sartre’s and Camus’ work, while turning its lazy eye toward what happens between text!
And of course we have the resemblance of the voice of the void in Blanchot’s work where a child stars into the empty sky, and for the writer, the scene heightens the child's sense of alienation and isolation, as does depression, even though the child is tempted and even promised himself to safeguard its secret as he cannot explain it into words as words always fail the senses. Literature is a face, playing under the roof of textual pleasure, because it cannot fully explain the void and the senses it evokes. in tis case the void is reassigned as a vacuum, where all emotions are sucked into, including the functions of the body.
Professionally wrapped, bound, and encumbered with psychotropic drugs, there is literature that does not support its use; for example, even psychiatrists will tell you that studies and such are short and give no real insight into long-term effects on the brain, body, or even on the disease it is proposed to mitigate. Some psychiatrists will only use older drugs, whose side effects and long term effects are well know and have been vetted through literature since the early 1950’s.
For example, Thorazine, and the drugs similiar to them, “[are] also known as neuroleptic (nerve-seizing) drugs or anti-psychotics. Of the more than two dozen in this class, introduced in the mid 1950s, the most commonly used are Haldol (haloperidol), Compazine (prochlorperazine), Thorazine (chlorpromazine), Navane (thiothixene), Prolixin (fluphenazine), Mellaril (thioridazine), and Trilafon (perphenazine).” http://www.stopshrinks.org/reading_room/drugs/dark_side_1.htm
I have been on Haldol, Thorazine, and Prolixin. I believe I was not on a very high dose of Prolixin, and therefore it was abandoned. Haldol, on the other hand, did alleviate some of my messed up thought processes that i was told were disruptive and not based in reality. However, I had a very hard time speaking in complete sentences. This caused my stupid, ignorant, and overall [insert adjective] boss to ask me if i was drinking on the job or doing drugs. I said, “Nothing that wasn’t prescribe. It’s the prescriptions that are giving me a hard time to talk. It’s called aphasia.” The inability to find words from your inner lexicon. Such a linguistic disease is common among antipsychotics.
Another patient on Haldol said, “After a week on Haldol, I was unable to speak. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't say anything out loud and spoke only with the greatest difficulty.... It was as if my whole body was succumbing to a lethal poison." http://www.stopshrinks.org/reading_room/drugs/dark_side_1.htm
My boss gruffed, thinking my ECT had done irrevocable damage, had made me stupid, so I felt like I had to take measures to protect myself at work. I took the first step and got a letter from my prescriber. In the letter he said, “slurring words and shuffling feet are a normal occurrence with his treatment regimen. He is of no danger to others. His intellect is intact.”
This was not good enough for my boss, so she pleaded me to take a reassignment (from an analyst position to data entry--correcting addresses and names in databases all day long). I said no with tears in my eyes, unable to speak how she was discriminating against my condition. Eventually, she had me kicked off the team, even though I overheard her say to my peer, that she would not be able to back fill my position. And my peer responded, ‘We’re better off without him, then with him. He makes more work for us on the team, then if we had to pick up the slack.’” Last time I heard, her team of four is a team of two, and the boss has to pitch in and do some work herself. I was “transferred” to another team, where I flourished--not being pulled down by incorporative subject matter experts and difficult “hot topics,” and at the same time i was placed on Thorazine, and have even gotten a request from an entirely different department to assist them in their documentation, which I completed with glowing praise.
But now, unfortunately, I blackout, faint, or am dizzy from the Thorazine and/or doxepin, and I gained so much weight. I count my calories, and my doctor has placed me medications to “lose” my appetite.
At the time the Thorazine and Haldol, aka major tranquilizers, were developed in the 1950’s, the psychosurgery called the “lobotomy” was valued. During the procedure, the brain is damaged and friends and family complained of the results--aka, zombies.
And that is why Thorazine and other major antipsychotics are called "chemical lobotomies" because when used long enough and in high enough doses, they tend to reproduce that of a patient that has a just undergone a lobotomy. (There were/are several different kinds of lobotomies, but the most significant one is the one that was most popular in TV and videos.)
“On Thorazine, my thoughts cleared, however, and I do not feel that I sense things that are not there. I do not know if this is right or wrong, but since I’ve been on it for months, and therefore I suspect it works the way it is supposed it.”
On linguistic diseases:
Speech and Language Disorders and Diseases
When a person is unable to produce speech sounds correctly or fluently, or has problems with his or her voice, then he or she has a speech disorder. Difficulties pronouncing sounds, or articulation disorders, and stuttering are examples of speech disorders.
When a person has trouble understanding others (receptive language), or sharing thoughts, ideas, and feelings completely (expressive language), then he or she has a language disorder. A stroke can result in aphasia, or a language disorder.
Both children and adults can have speech and language disorders. They can occur as a result of a medical problem or have no known cause.
List of linguistic diseases:
Once cnsidered disorders, in part because there is nothing but time and practice that can aliviate these diseases, and not medications, i am proposeing that these are medicatioin diseases. A disease has a hat "disease" has a specific identifiable cause and symptoms, whereas a disorder Disorder" refers to an unwanted condition that's hard to say what could be wrong.
-like a syndrome, refers to a cluster of symptoms,
-but the concept includes the idea that the set of symptoms is not accounted for by a more pervasive condition.
-As with symptom and syndrome, there is no implication of etiology
-a disorder where the underlying etiology is known.
-It is the highest level of conceptual understanding.
My experience at work on a team with younger, go getters who have been blessed to have never experienced anything harder than a breakup or the death of a great grandparent used to pick on my for my aphasia, calling me slow, dumb, and permanently damaged from my ECT treatments. They said if i was just sick or had personal problems, I should just leave it at home. However, one cannot split a human in two without killing them. One day, I wish them a more supportive reaction then they gave me.
4: “the victim’s mattress is the masterpiece”
The following was written for a small stage, as a way to gain access the brain that would respond to the void in a less than dramatic way.
Strange, visible theater. The mind is blank when they enter the black theater, quit reigns, and the criminal brains in each of us are quiet, absence of noise or bustle; silence; but on edge because the void is present, not calm because they are aware that they are to be receptive to something dangerous, receptive to the darkness of the theater and thus the void, like Artaud's “Theatre of Cruelty” all is black. But the below outlines not the Balinese screams of out of the dark, nor the drugs or the horror shows of an Artaud performance, but of a sole mattress on the stage with a single spot light on the messed up mattress on the middle of the stage, white sheets over flowing the mattress, cascading to the ground like water over pouring a small puddle of water. the whole thing guarded by a scrim that will soon be cut up like a placenta to allow the baby to become visible through all the trash of birth.
So begins the “mass” begins:
Ripping the veil, between the mattress and the audience, a frail actor in a nightgown that is torn tearing the veil curtains scrim.
Seriousness can degrade to camp. Their gestures must not be contrived and balanced to be taken seriously.
Solitaire: A series of actions for a creative director and brave producer.
Actor stands in the middle of the mattress now that the scrim is torn, and slits stomach open, how long does they reach into their bowels, while playing with their intestines, until they finally slump onto the mattress.
Actor slits, then cuts wrists with a long, noticable knife on the bed, and reads monoliths with their arms above their head, one hand on wound. At the end, paramedics rush the stage from the left and right sides.
Each new deal in solitaire is a submissive landscape to play the game. It is time to reshuffle the deck and call a spade a spade: they scream, “I am paranoid, yes, 42, yes, heavily medicated, oh yes, and not subject to change!”
Actor stands up with paramedics help in white boxers until they collapses once again, guts falling out, wrists totally red, arms smudge with dried blood.
There's a scream off stage. The voice must be from a scratchy early 20-something guy.
There is a perfume that is pump through devices in the theatre, the perfume smells like pipe tobacco. It is tobacco leaves, reassuring but disconcertingly masculine at the same time. The delusional confusion between the sign and signified is the truth. The show has just begun.
First a gunshot, and then the actor on the bed ignores it. They light a cigarette.
Where no vice is left behind, a playground for the young and old, healthy and sick, animated or dead: delights are converted to reality and what's left behind can either blind you with a thrill or make you voiced and therefore lucid because the actor is your guide. All of this is projected on the actor, skill standing, still smoking, via a projector of images chosen by the director.
Adam, a cute wiry Jewish boy of 22, is easily excitable and twitchy when he’s had a bit too much to drink. Died from open heart surgery, is shown as one of the images. His heart couldn't take it because it had a very soon expiration date.
If Narcissus were delusional what would he see in the lake? A shirtless image of himself on what he would look like after his persecutory beliefs come true? Another image superimposed on the actor and bed.
A sweet, but boney and wiry youth turned into an old sagging man bruised and raped from being in jail. One more image.
And Sisyphus depressed? Surely he already is, a template for the daily grind of weekday worries and overconsumption on the weekends further trapping him in a joyless job, a loveless marriage, a wife with him just for his 401K and health benefits, a fruitless meaninglessness? Another image to be projected on a screen behind the actor, still standing, their bleeding clotting by now.
The actor screams, “Delusion is shit! I am NOT delusional! I know things the rest of you do not!”
The lights in the stage fade to black. The light in the theatre raise, and the audience is ushered out, confused, not realizing they just witnessed their best friend, sister, or brother’s agony for having experienced the void, and certainly has one response: the capacity to develop a completed suicide.
Infinity social manipulation:
And they who only knows the traditions, and the rules that come from such traditions, may break them and therefore create something beautiful, like David Bowie’s last album, Blackstar which is proof enough that someone who knew the traditions, someone who wrote many of the rules himself, and then only to break them with each successive album, finally came out with an album that sounds like nothing else he has done.
The void is measureless, in depth, but by circumface, it is just round enough to let your body slide in with barely enough room to do so without touching each side. as for the sides, are they made up of slimy stone? rementent of another passenger’s blood and tears? No, each void is a creation of the own sufferer's soul, and therefore as freshly clean as white sheets waving in the wind outside of Paris.
The void is round, mimicking the Dante’s version of wells to the lights of heaven:
But unlike Dore above for Dante’s Paradise, Heavenly Host, there is no expansion of the circumference, no lifting, but a suspension, no whirling, and the body is suspended below the void as if suspended and ready to fall upwards but so full of the cusp of terror and completely paralyzed the they have lost control of their bladder and bowels, so shit runs down their jeans and piss from the front of their pants and drips from the cuffs of said pants. And the “path to paradise” certainly does not “begin in hell.” And, finally, there's certainly no glowing, ghostly audience than your own thoughts in pure terror.
All ends in the void...leaving it, there is no escaping it, for it stains you like seeing child pornography by mistake. The images never leave the memory. But that is all it takes, just one momentary or partial view. It stains the erotocism of the man or woman, ever harder to getting the scared/passive/drugged look of the child’s face out of their head for the rest of their life, one long day at a time, like a addict that counts the hours. This can actually be dangerous to see just once because the viewer maybe need to satiate simple curiosity and look for this unique facial expression on other bodies.
Or a madman who crucifies a woman to a cross that he makes her build herself...ruins the person who even approaches it, whether in ignorance or not of what they see in front of them.
One’s life is free, and therefore we are not commodities, and have no intrinsic value to anyone. An emotional value is also commodity free, so one does not have a value to one's’ friends or family.
There is no price attached to life because the individual is priceless, thus, free. Therefore, one cannot pay for one’s crimes with one’s life because your life has no value. The death penalty is a secret spectacle for the communities’ craving of stopping life and celebrating death, an unstoppable train ride toward Thanatos, margaritas included, and nothing more. It is a sickness, a curiosity that is delighted in, such as a day at an expensive spa where every body part is exfoliated and massaged and smoothed with expensive oils and plant essences.
In addition, abortion does not steal a commodity from a man and/or woman, so the abortion, and the tools used for the abortion, are free: the procedure as well as the tools, and the abortion at any stage does not have a price because one cannot pay for something that is is not a commodity, and no life is a commodity. Free the slaves! This is not only captured in Pierre Klossowski’s La Monnaie vivante (Paris: Éric Losfield, 1970) but in the “Thirteenth Amendment” of the US Constitution, ratified on December 6, 1865 (though it did allow for “life” to be subject to a penalty and thus have a price that has a value, and therefore contradicts itself, via life as value that can be confined or subject to the death penalty because it values life.
One may extend this cause to explain why health care itself is born on the premise that it should be free because what it values and focuses on, the life of a body, is valueless. But that is unnecessary herein.
5: insomnia: a loan from a savings account
“There is no smell to insomnia, but if there was one, it would be one of the pillowcase too hot because, overnight, it's a cool place that is looking to attract sleep. Alas, this does not work, and I am for my expenses!”
"Death," I replied, "has no worse sensation, my brother." "None so bad," was his answer. He had had no regular sleep since the beginning of his illness; and as he became worse and worse…”
--The Essays of Montaigne https://www.gutenberg.org/files/3600/3600-h/3600-h.htm#link2HCH0044
Insomnia versus witnessing a beheading: which best describes a worsening debt?
First, it is easier to understand, describe, and indeed show what a beheading is like, a decapitado.
"Let us dispatch", he said to the executioner. "At this hour my ague comes upon me. I would not have my enemies think I quaked from fear." After he was allowed to see the axe that would behead him, he mused: "This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all diseases and miseries." According to biographers, Raleigh's final words (as he lay ready for the axe to fall) were: "Strike, man, strike!”
“Raleigh's head was embalmed and presented to his wife. His body was to be buried in the local church in Beddington, Surrey, the home of Lady Raleigh, but was finally laid to rest in St. Margaret's, Westminster, where his tomb may still be visited today.”
and let us not forget the most recent use of beheading, for scandal, for politics, for CNN, for youtube.com:
Note, there are examples of beheadings, and varied torchures, for art, cultural, and libertines, that are not discussed here. What is important is the final blow to the back of the neck or the side of the neck, not the erotic ecstasy that is better describe for another matter, just as important to the void, but I have chosen to leave them out in favor of the political as politics are always erotic, and no one discusses this. Therein lies great fruit for future political discourse.
But onto insomnia, a curse worse than viewing a beheading, for eventually that image will leave you as the death of a son fades into something more manageable, and you will return to work, ever present of his death, but with the fortitude to move one, whereas insomnia haunts you throughout your life once it is experienced night after night, even if treatment is sought and has failed, as it usually does.
But insomnia will always follow you, or the threat of insomnia, if the variety was of the chronic type.
Only high doses of antipsychotics, older antidepressants, and hypnotics can help, and these too have a temporary effect.
Hypnos, the Greek God of Sleep has a Dark Side
The person suffering from insomnia will go to bed late, perhaps 12 or 12:30 am thinking they will “catch up” with the previous night’s restlessness. Then they will inevitably wake up at 4:30—the witching hour—and roll around in bed until they realize that what they have done means nothing, and they are truly awake for the the day. they will get out of bed, and perhaps go to work by 6 AM to no later than 7:30 for a 9 AM shift. They will work, sort of, in a daze, and people and coworkers around them will ask if they are okay. Gossip will render its ugly head, and people will start assuming that they are on drugs or going through a “rough time.” And maybe they should take a “few days off.” The person with insomnia will start counting the minutes on when they can clock out around 2 m or 3 pm. there is no relief for them at all. if they smoke, they will go on more smoke breaks than allowed. Once 5 pm comes around they will sluggishly get themselves home barely understanding how they go there, and will probably not even take a shower. they might skip eating dinner, and have ice cream or a dessert of some kind. They will repeat this nonsensical behavior over and over until they either get some medical help from their psychiatrist or therapist or just think that they are getting older and therefore do not need as much sleep as they used to. Days lag on for them, and days like this build upon days. There are nights where they get 8 to 10 hours of sleep, and they hold on to the promise that these nights will continue, but they are anomalies, and will not continue. Their four hour nights will continue, especially on those night that they have work the next day, and their intellect will suffer, their bodies will break down. they will begin to either lose weight or start gaining weight. Their smoking will dramatically increase as they are awake for longer periods of time. soon thoughts of suicide will come into their heads, and unless they receive help, they might fancy an attempt. Again, they will either accept the insomnia, and their work at their jobs will suffer, or they will become suicidal. in either case, the person suffering from insomnia suffers excruciating pain, all the while their peers can only see the outwards results: lack of productivity, a depression or ennui that will not budge, an obvious depression, a demeanor that results in gossip of drug abuse, etc. If they talk about the insomnia they will soon isolate themselves as their one obsession, sleep, will at first be responded to with tips that never help and will soon start to annoy those that once tried to help. loved ones will find the situation more boring and even annoying, and the person with insomnia will detect this, stop talking about the insomnia altogether, begin to think that there is no help for them. Indeed, the doctor may prescribe a low-dose sleeping pill like Ambien, or Tylenol PM to no avail. The hard stuff is for those that are truly suffering, and those insomnias try to hide their suffering or are unaware that they have been suffering way too long and much too hard. They are not aware that there are a mixture of pills that yes, they will become addicted too, but just like the person who will forever need thyroid medication, they may need something that will help them go and stay asleep for the rest of their lives. But if they do not cry in front of the doctor who prescribes a low does, a two week supply of sleeping pills, the doctor has no clue this person has serious issues that need to be dealt with.
So, to answer our sad question at the beginning, it is insomnia that borrows from the void, and spreads its vile Judge’s persecution--everlasting words as the gavel hit the pedestal--into the suffers’ daily lives. Time does not lessen its presence for the pain of insomnia is so lasting, it cannot be forgotten or even analysed. It just remains, every night, no matter how many restful nights have occurred between a break of incoming and normal sleep. It is an itch that never ceases to itch, no histamine or Xolair can quiet its hives. Insomnia is no symptom to be faced with the void. It is a simple loan against your savings account, and one that cannot be repaid. It has no symptom to enjoy. This is a life-sentence to hard labor, a disgusting time. This is cruel punishment. It is a curse that, left unaltered, will cause suicide, plain and simple.
6. the necessities of beauty
“Beauty, as I see it, has to be dangerous; danger is incredibly attractive.”
Beauty allows me to live and face my death. Without it, life would be a solecism.
I have never felt anything as beautiful as, quietly, heals upon marble, walking through a museum alone, my partner in a different gallery, no one around, nor in my way. But beauty is not happiness; that makes for very passive and utterly boring people, the kind that have child-dates, house warming parties, and wine tasting on Sundays.
desire, value, and simulacrum (a representation, art for example, of the real world, or, as expanded here, the application of products to distort reality to show what reality really is: for examples, status were crafted in a disordered way so that when you approached them, you saw them properly, whereas if the proportion where exact as life is, an observer would see the status as distorted..)
Nothing on a catwalk or at a Dior boutique or at a Saint Laurent store can compare to a gallery, perhaps maybe the Osmotheque at ISIPCA in Versailles or other olfactory perfume museums. But the museum that houses a country’s cultural collection of the art that hangs on the walls or stored away, and it is in the heart of the museum that I feel most calm, and thus most at home, perhaps more at home than my very bed. One of the masters of beauty is Serge Lutens who, as of now at 73, produces around 36 perfumes for his/her collection, and very few pieces of especially edited beauty products. On Beauty he has commented:
“Beauty is a terrible thing: it wears us down, stalks and waits for us, but cannot be defined. It changes over time, and yet we cannot accuse it of infidelity. For me, beauty both furthers and betrays my worst idiosyncrasies!”
And those of us fascinated by beauty in all its manifestations, from the gore in a movie done subtly, to the violence of police crime photos, to the never seen head in the box in Seven, to a group of chrysanthemums tied together in a bunch, black is always our color of our uniform, for it allows us to disappear from the environment, having as little impact on it as possible. Black is the constant of those of us who would see the colors of life: vibrant graffiti of our Brooklyn neighborhood, invading Bushwick, and music in 3-D, we can see the sunset like no other, the vibrancy of the color of the sky, the oppressiveness of the greyness of overcast, the clear-ringed snow. And Lutens on dressing in black? “I began to dress in mourning very early, around the age of 16; mourning for myself, no doubt, since I became a kind of mystic priest to create the woman in me. Black is the armor that protects my shyness and the color of pride. It’s a fabric bunker.” I began wearing all black when I was 13, about the same time I started using drugs and alcohol to cover up the upcoming depression that would break out to a suicide attempt three years later.
“Either you fight or you’re a victim, and that’s something you learn, and it’s a talent that shy people have because shy people manage to get out of themselves.” Serge Lutens, “The Audacity of Mr Lutens”
And as lovers of beauty we expect nothing devoid of attention, in the stitching of our clothes to the way the fabric was cut, in the quality of mattness of our makeup, in our lyric-like, rarity of our perfumes, in our moving art, what new, non-conformist music we listen to, what we see when we walk into a new gallery, what we feel when we touch our surrounds, like our bedding, our skin, our pets, and what we are willing to fuck or be fucked by. (“Regarding makeup, Make-up is the proposing of an attitude” http://beautypapers.com/2016/03/audacity-mr-lutens)
My psychiatrist’s office has many framed posters from exhibitions from Balthus and other artists, and we spend many moments speaking about their placement on the walls, how they can breathe after moving from a smaller office to a larger office, and how angelic the faces look, even on the women’s bodies. He once said to me, “I don’t understand you problem, your pluses are your intellect, your curiosity, the way you speak about art, but when it comes to your illness you withdraw into a childlike stage. I just don’t get it. How can that be.” “I am trying to tell you the truth.” “No, you regress, the man that speaks about art can certainly be the mature man that can stand up for himself and speak about his illness. I NEED you to, in order to help you.”
To this day, I withhold my hallucinations, worries, “bad thoughts” about the police, against and with the scene, and side effects of the drugs he prescribes. I certainly do not tell him when I’ve stopped taken one of his drugs. It pleases him when I am well, and it annoys him when I express anything other than, “I am fine,” because he has put so much effort into the combination of drugs, the drugs are dangerous to monitor, expensive, and difficult to prescribe--there are many controlled substances which the DEA scrutinizes.
Maybe I slip up on a thought, and then I will downplay its frequency or duration or blame it on lack of sleep--one symptom I will report at any time of the night or early morning and page him about it, annoying him with my lack of sleep until he “gets it.” Perhaps I see the word WATER on the back of my forehead, but can only say “clear” when talking. I hide those “substitutions” as well by feigning stupidity. Otherwise, I am sane enough to know what are my symptoms--years of therapy, asking what I am diagnosed with, and finding out what my presumed symptoms should be, finding my behavior that suggests such symptoms, and concealing others--and to keep them to myself, (“If you felt as I/Would you betray yourself?”--Portishead, “Elysium”) for I will avoid being locked up in confinement again. It happened in Florida and it happened in New York. Both were terrifying, and I promised myself to keep things to myself to avoid punishment, it is not treatment, and thus, as a consequence, avoid at all if possible. I do not believe he would believe my encounter with the void, though he would understand my emphasis on beauty, just not the key to become free of the enjoyment of my symptoms, which perhaps I do not want to leave behind me anyway as I know and have experienced something most people do not know. And is that not part of the definition of intelligence?
When I was at the Met on Saturday, Feb 14, 2016, I saw one of Goya’s etchings of a giant, turning back toward us, and the whole etching was black with just a few inches here and there of blank white to draw out the outlines. This is perfection. But my description of it is only based on what a camera would “delineate” (I cannot find the right word here.) I cannot go any further. We we will have nothing less.
“The Giant,” also called “The Colossus” (unnumbered print, 1814-1818). Burnished aquatint etching by Francisco de Goya, the bottom part of the print, where the title would have been inserted, has been cropped. Collection of the Met Museum.
As the expert on beauty has said, “I have always been critical of anything that is not flawlessly finished or perfect. I liked next to nothing and was easily disgusted. I was ready to defend the woman in me to the death. Such an attitude has a price: a life.” http://thewindow.barneys.com/serge-lutens/
Few things are as disgusting as trying to be beautiful on other’s standards of the rules of beautiful. For example, ladies in drag, some of them, are utterly unoriginal, and will make themselves to look like beauty queens, and quite successfully. Transgender use of makeup to down trodden their masculine architecture of their faces and to highlight what society considers is more feminine, softer, voluptuous, is merely buying into the patriarchal codes of beauty that have been developed and supported by straight men and perpetrated by commissioned art. Such is a sad state of the transgendered, to fall into a trap to wear make to soften their hard lines, their jaws, their lip injections to make them puffier, their long hours of working on their faces to make their foreheads narrower, use highly pigmented highlighter to give themselves the illusion of cheekbones, etc. And then a clueless boy will say, “Mommy, mommy, she’s so pretty but has so much makeup on!” And the drag queen will take that as an insult to her feminine side. “Shut up little boy,” she says in her “man” voice. “Do you know how long it takes me to look more beautiful than your ugly mommy?” And the boy will cry, and the mother will yell at the queen, and the queen will move on, feeling empowered by her overuse of makeup.
The void has an invisible vocabulary (a hidden discourse that differentiate itself from other discourses through the use of a lexicon), a set grammar (a structure of rules which govern the form of the utterances in the void’s language), a fenced violence (that can be witnessed, played back in the memory of the witness, and described through signs), a set of disciplines (that interact with other disciplines, such as the necessities of beauty), one guillotine--and no history, and everlasting palimpsest. It does not call out those with beauty, but perhaps those that seek out, with an arrow’s eye, beauty, will it come to you. In some ways, one can think of the void as the opposite of beauty, which is not to say ugliness, for there is a beauty of ugliness that most people do not consider, but I will. But the beauty-seeker will eventually stumble upon a void, because he is already sick with a disease that drives him there, as the void is there available for all adventurers and is clearly found in many pieces of art (the main source of beauty, not glossy magazines).
And it is in the tension between the void and beauty that one with a dis-ease may find solace. it is an experimental place, and is vibrates. one must go beyond the environment because this is part of its temperament. but between the void and the beauty, perhaps one is in the presence of a huge Balthus and once there cannot take your eyes off of the fresh white panties, or one is viewing the lesser known polaroids of Balthus, of which he never wanted anyone to see, of his models, scantily clad and erotically posed, with one intention in mind, that of arising the beauty from the old man’s shaking hand as he takes one shot, 15,000 times.
It’s there that those of us with dis-eases can find at the very least ennui or at the most the pleasure of intercourse with a pan or a nymp. But the housing is only temporary, and it is of a lottery you can win it, and soon you move one, evicted, to find the next work that brings you to the same, vibrating solace. At a single moment you may fall into the void, paralyzed, suspended, and all the horrors described thus far, at any moment, you might withdrawful to your fanciless life of depression and psychosis. But for a moment, you might find relief from everything, need no drugs, and a certain blankness will fill your rib cage, as if you were having a religious experience as described by William James, without the word of God on your tongue. Just a Wow will do. The the evolution of art has little to due with the evolution of society, it’s merely a reflection, a nod toward the past present and future. It is not bound by historical values and discussion. It stands alone. If art has no history, beauty cannot make decisions. The self stands on its own.
Or, should you need a textual artist to say it more profoundly:
Derrida is not a historian.
"First of all let's give up trying to be ever in front, face to face with the pictograms that will never be ob-jects or subjects present for us. We won't be describing any paintings." "What is the use of describing a painting by van Gogh?"
What is the use? New voices to a synthetics of analysis. http://www.ciasonhar.org.br/pdfs/the_secret_art_of_artaud.pdf All paintings are a type of manuscript, and it can be subject to deconstruction, psychoanalysis, historical placement, description, psychological review, and a host of any other kinds of analysis that exposes secrets, such as the brush strokes, just like finding out the formula of a beautiful perfume. However, do we lose a chance to experience the beauty of the thing when we analyze? When we translate these words into a discourse, we do lose the beauty, and is there any little pleasure in such analysis? Because to do so would to cover the work with knife slashes that bleed until all colors have stiped the painting to nakedness and thus its death by exposure.
For beauty comes in a glimps, or, if necessary by viewing the painting for an hour, begin to analyze it and applying semiotics to it, and you will surely miss the beauty in a second of a moment. Usually beauty is sensed within the first moment you lay your eyes on a painting or on a sculpture. We will be left with an insane grammar, and a set of nonsensical rules, that could make up and be reconstructed into a mess, and not the painting; and beauty is lost forever once that analysis begins and eventually ends at the moment the author clicks the Save button.
That is why a perfume is best enjoyed not knowing its formula and the compounds that makes it up. Indeed, formulas are kept secret, and only possible allergens are listed on the boxes. The experienced person, or a nose, will be able to detect the various notes, but that does not mean that they cannot take it as a whole, just like a child can pick out the colors of a van Gogh. It means nothing, and has no impact on the beauty. And finding the beauty is the only chance one has of avoid the paralyzing effects of the void. Beauty is armor, armor allows one to find a vibrating space between the necessaries of beauty and the void. Take the chance of experiencing beauty away from oneself, and one's only left with the chance of meeting the void in the mathematical equation.
When there is and a spareness, or economy of beauty, depression, and insomnia is sure to be close.
And if we were to describe a way of describing art, we would only be applying a Iatrogenic treatment to it, an illness caused by examination or treatment. But we can agree on a few prepositions:
- 1. That a single work of art has a single purpose, and it is hardly that of being pretty. In fact, pretty is often suspect of being consigned.
- 2. That an artist is an original, and a signature is recognized of their work within periods; indeed, their art may be confused with other artists within a larger movement should they be working and socially active with other artists, otherwise, their individualism is preserved and well respected.
- 3. That the syntax remains the same throughout their career, and their obsessions, like the relentless waves on a beach, appears over and over, never ceasing, and they never end, like little girls’s postures and Balthus.
- 4. Movement, additions, and deletions of common elements are consistent in their work, i.e., their editing, throughout their process throughout their career. I can only think illness or aging as affecting this.
Otherwise, there really is no point is understanding art beyond what is beautiful. The transgressors will certainly see more beauty than the prudes: both what is conventionally beautiful and what is beyond and over limits, human-made boundaries that exceed or overstep beauty, so what line have you crossed; Lutens have etched a line in sand, do you step over it or straddle it? There is a section for all of us, and it is a very stretch of pixels to straddle--to gain pleasure from it all.
An object with a single intention: to convey the madness of a note.
Kazuo Ohno, a Founder of Japanese Butoh, Dies at 103
7. Morpheus: a catastrophic cry from the void
Your sexual organ is the gage:
- 1. It is transgression if your dick/clit gets hard, even wet.
- 2. It is transgression if the above requirements is met and you, without any intervention, want to hurt yourself or someone else due to the text or image that got you hard; and,
- 3. It stays in your memory for years, decades, a lifetime, and the impulse to cause the pain or injury does not dissipate, fluctuate, and cannot be assuaged.
Otherwise, it’s eroticism, not that such a thing does not have a verified place on the scene, but it is a play of the imagination, a widely popular, widely correct impulse on one’s own self-reflective attempt to wonder sexual thoughts, and thus, by extension, feelings by means of suggestion (most effective), symbolism (boring), or allusion (arousing); or, it may fail and be as embarrassing as a Balinese theater piece whose actors are caucasian children fumbling on stage looking for mom and dad, pass the bright lights.
Poems in response to transgressive situations:
Tempted in my heart,
And my dick says yes.
Tormented in my mind
About this 17 year old
And his skateboard.
I see him naked,
And I wanna have sex with him.
Take him orally, anally.
How did Sade get away with
All the pleasures that say “No!”
No in my mind.
But again, I have a dick
That says yes.
Yes to brutality,
Watching him cumming
On his Converse high tops.
Yes. It's time,
To quiet my mind.
And let the heart
Eat itself alive.
I'm on a marble, cold tabletop,
Modeling for my boyfriend
Who is an artist.
When he's done with the drawing,
"Say, where's my head."
"You don't have one, and
It's useless anyway."
He just might be right
Because when I was 13
I used to sneak out of the house,
And do lots of drugs,
like acid, x, alcohol, and pills.
Somehow I made it through, but, Jarrod.
I'm better off without a head.
These neurotransmitters don't work,
And I stumble to form words.
I'm back on that tabletop,
With nowhere to go.
"So what is getting cut off this time?"
"Everything. I'm done."
Will u turn into
Will you send male
cops to my home?
Bite me all over
with a knife?
My eyes twitch.
I can’t help it.
At 15 I found out that
I was allergic to my contacts.
But I look like an ass in my glasses,
And they need to be updated.
Like photos from my friends with kids,
their whole life, their kids.
And what do they care what signals I get from the iPhone.
That something wicked this way comes?
And my throat tested positive for Gomorrah's disease,
that I picked up from a slut,
which was really cool,
because I got to play with razors and knots.
I love him still, even if he passed away.
In fact, I may love him more because he's dead.
Because he can’t fight back,
And ruin my dreams
of what could be.
Bastard, piss off.
So, let's start there.
So, I guess you know me through my posts.
And I would like to know
you better than what you post on FaceBook.
So, get naked, get under the covers,
and I'll make sure it was all worth it.
I love you, so what?,
and you say you love me?
We kiss. But nothing's there.
But don't call the cops on me,
cause I'll frame you,
you are my dove.
When I hold you,
I can feel your ribs
Like the bones in a
You smell wild
and you're adored.
But one of these days,
I'm going to
and squeeze the living
hell inside of you,
‘till the blood drips
from my between
a personal palimpsest on the void
this is not writing; i am not using a pen. rather, i am using a perfume to wistfully draw in the air; this is not paper, rather, it is a micro layer of illuminated light and shadows set before me; so tell me, how do i write? i do not know; still, if i am writing or chatting or corresponding with anyone else, then “read” my story; I think it’s worth review.
“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;”
Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”
“No more let Life divide what Death can join together.”
72. From ‘Adonais’
Percy Bysshe Shelley