“Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. For there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, wither thou goest.
This shot was taken by me on a cheap webcam about ten years ago. it fits with the rest of the history rant below, i think.
(beginning to the history rant is “HERE”: the page prior to this one HERE)
HISTORY CONTINUED… into the black and red:
Sleeping with my x-girlfriend and my current girlfriend and my ex’s flat mate and some girl (girls? lost days before I found my way back still high and getting higher) I found at some club… drank everything in the house and this was the time when I decided actually picked; CHOSE to go as mad as I could. Push it and see what was on the far far side.
I bought a bottle of brandy and hung it upside down in the fish tank the fish’s name was Death he was left from my friend who jumped. Painted and drawn figures of me I had done all over her walls I know AT LEAST SHE WAS A FAN. She kept them all around her mirror twisted bitch she once talked me into cutting my wrists; fucked all five of the guys I knew. I sure as hell didn’t care.
What was that to me?
Moving UP the scale wild chattering flitting out of my mouth so many quotes inappropriate walked into a glass door and fell down hurt my damned nose again. Didn’t eat didn’t sleep. Sick by now of punching holes through windows doors and wardrobes drew a lion and a witch on one I wanted more wanted to find the other bits delusions and voices I KNEW were waiting in the back of my mind: Fuseli’s The Nightmare I thought he was a genius until I read his prose inadequate and nothing never should have become a part of history.
Spitting words snarls and more and more cuts appearing razors eaten. When everyone has hidden everything sharp in the house you can chew through a safety razor and there it is you have your sharpness in your hand; though you WILL cut the hell out of the inside of your mouth while you do it. That’s ok though huh? course it is blood covered teeth mean their words more and there are so MANY to say.
Going up and up.
Could feel it in the base of my spine. Could feel it in the back of my head and behind the redness of my retinas.
A black storm; black as coal black as pitch blacker than the blackest witch. Rapturous fascinating terrifying spinning with immensity and weight and clouding my vision with red. A nightmare of power that I could TASTE.
By the time I was halfway there I was speaking in riddles and rhymes… glossolalia. Told people about the tower of Babel – babble – about the storms in my mind told them again. Told them about how Poe died in the street how that was me how I was already dead how they were fever death dreams. Temporal distortion ooh I loved it soaking each moment into me feeding on the surreality breathing out mind sickness absurdity hell. Things would slow down for me and I could watch others in a different world in a different time. I could lace a sentence with jokes and references and then I would just wait to see who if anyone got what. Movement so free easy loose my hands shaking so much I could hardly hold the bottle slippery from the fucking fish tank but I was so STRONG. My skin burning hot to the touch could feel myself heating up.
I was careful I drank only enough and not more I wanted to see where it would take me not pass out. I was never as mad when truly drunk it was the day after for me and I held to that state some part of my mind relentless and deliberate. Nursed and cajoled it intoxicating; tempted and caressed felt it shattering over me a glass club smashing inside my head.
And it worked.
All the things blood-mean and suppurating inside all coming in concert, allegro evaporating like the ground beneath me.
Like when the plane hits a hard gasp of oblique and swift air and the whole thing shudders and jerks like the thin and absurd metal that it truly is.
Like the handstand I held and held at the cliff edge while tens of metres below insects stalked across hard, hard stones. Like when my arms shook above them as the ethanol poison sucked my strength from me like age; and I quivered and shrank before the realisation of my deadly wish.
Like the painless smash of a steel toed boot hitting my cheekbone before the nerves fire and the my mind reels and shock stabs across the awful clarity that I feel.
Ocular: Suddenly starred and flared before failing and tricking as a fall into strange dislocated darkness.
Like snapping awake sitting up in terror as my mind sparks and flashes into waking – sickening before the horrors as the nightmare’s steel shod hoofs strike their chords in the streets of my dreams. As my awareness and memory grind into sobriety and I turn my head and see that I have no memory of where I am and that I lie amidst squalour. As my stinging blood-veined eyes tell me that I do not know the woman lying next to me, that she is old beyond her years and that there are bruises across her back that I know I could not have inflicted (could I? Never hit anyone even when they were hitting me.) That her face has been wrecked by an addiction that was perhaps similar to my own and my glance flicks onto a dirty crib next to a broken lamp.
Olfactory: Like the scent of the first girl that I ever wanted jerking and snapping my body in a chill wash of icy lust. Just like this, the impossibility of it. Sliding across and through me a thrilling tear in ancient harmonies that are irresistible, fantastic and alien. The chastity of that moment, eyes squinted shut as I realise that I will be wrenched back to this moment for the rest of my life by the trace of that scent – soap and deodorant, young female sweat. Innocent and potent, devastatingly sexual
Like the stink of drying blood, stale spirits and alcohol sweat as the poison seeps through the sprung steel rigidity of my starved and swollen flesh. The acrid common stench of failure. Pure in the twist and twitch of nausea.
Gustatory: the foulness of my own foetid breath, the 2% of alcohol expelled through respiration regardless of scrubbing my teeth until they bled. The taste of a thousand turns and turns of acquiescence and surrender. Isolated quantified and rarefied, bitter and sick.
Like when I was 12 years old and walking through the park with my sweet stupid beagle called Nudge. She helped me as I began the true fall and went mad so quickly after I first left home. She was young and wildly happy to be in grass as only a dog can be. In this simple but intensely real utopia I heard the first soft sibilant voice. And then another over my shoulder breathy in my ear. I knew they were impossible as I stood in the gorgeous spill of deep yellow afternoon sunlight. It lit the floating pollen into pale gold in a slow turning dance. They spoke my name. I was in a wide grassed park, soft and richly green in the blazing colour of a child’s sight.
An ordinary, happy child. A child frayed and decayed and raging, flailing at the edge.
Another small corner of my youth kindness, natural and known as breath for me for my own hands before the madness took them. l was loved and I loved and loved.
The voices only a small fright. Only a little. Had already inherited my father’s scepticism as he turned the world from a vast mystery into smaller and smaller pieces of information with careful and brilliant clarity for his only son and his only daughter. Pieces a brilliant young girl and a quick strange and solemn boy could understand.
They spoke to me. They told me I was an angel. Had been an atheist since I was ten. Didn’t understand until then completely what that meant, but I knew of God and I knew of my father’s clever careful words. Knew he did not believe in angels. Like boys, mad or sane, across the seething swarming teeming planet, for those with fathers who even began to try to succeed in the immeasurable task of raising a man – a father is a god. In this my father safeguarded me and saved me perhaps from being immediately branded and subsequently tortured by the psychiatric profession. His dispassion – operating on the cat on the kitchen bench “You see these things, Paul, we have them inside us also. They are the machines that make us live.”
Talked to the voices when I was alone, but knew somewhere that they were me. They made little sense. I ignored them.
They returned every few years, ringing louder discordant and shouting as I began to drown in the verdant misshapen growths of self-hatred wrapping my heart. Never lent credence to what they say, tactile hallucinations far more distressing than disbelief and rationale reasoning poor in the compulsion of trust in my own touch. Hard to walk when your sense of touch is screaming to you that you knees are bending 90 degrees the wrong way.
Have hallucinated since 12 or 11, most craven raving suffering madmen I have known who have consistent hallucinations have a great deal cringe wish distress with delusion. Paranoia fills every space in their lives crippling fear. My worst experiences in anxiety a nameless and reasonless monster in every sense in the most true most ancient most real fucking TERRIFYING and inescapable horror. I will choose pain over fear. Always.
Never could believe never became paranoid hallucinations pure and not building into unreason I AM NOT IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO BE HUNTED AND OBSERVED.
MORE NEXT TIME. the whole thing can be read starting HERE on my webpage – http://www.pauldrobertson.com/history%20rant%20...
and if you want to go to the main page tis HERE