MADNESS HISTORY 1. (Miserabelia.)

pauldrobertson

Perth, Australia

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Artist's Description

this is from my journal and my webpage…
I have a huge swelling feeling growing in the back of my head, reaching forward in grasping fibrillated and soggy claws. I know this feeling, frenetic as it is, coiled and sprung and filled up with sand. It is MANIA jumpstarting my head and collapsing into itself like a singularity or a sandcastle or a limestone blow hole. I love it and cherish it at the same time as despising it and feeding it my wants and desires and lust to make it bigger and nastier and more of itself as it swells.
There is nothing to it but what I have invented and scoured from the crusty sides of my eyes but it exists with strength and yes futility that I can not help and can almost touch. I AM filled up with it though in twitchy and hyper accelerated mannerisms and cigarettes smoked too fast with dark music always always in the background.
And I’m so tired fucking sick of it wish it would go the fuck away out like I always dreamed of being able to control it and switch it on to the times when it’s wanted and fun for one and all. Wish I could eat but can’t huh that’s prey for my meat than the other way around, and it hurts me just to keep breathing sometimes when it’s sharp and red so red like a blow to the head huh.
Oh yeah ah huh right now for fuck’s sake. I must say this I have to spit it out though I don’t know that I really want to see it all laid open like a finger on a slide.
I was committed first time in – voluntarily no I sure didn’t want to go there. I asked the psychiatrist filling in forms if she wanted to have sex with me and took off my shirt and lay on her desk and told her secret things about the stars. I couldn’t accept it because I believed that I was smarter than the people who committed me, and I still fucking do. I did put blades in my arms and I did want to die far more than I wanted to live I did cut In school when I was twelve years old I sat in class and cut my fingers with a pocket knife. “Paul, what are you doing?”
“Is this some kind of fucking trick question?”
These things are real, they exist in my messed up and inaccurate memory but they ARE still there.
And for a moment a singular pervasive short-lived killing moment memory floods every sensation that I have. Twitch lurches across my face like a wire hook. Brilliant so bright but hard to see. I remember I do some weird party no idea how I got there kissing and groping some old woman while huge old men did lines and watched me with ugly wasted eyes. Running thru the forest afterwards blood streaming down my face didn’t know where I was how I got there it was the middle of fucking nowhere and it sure felt like the end. Beaten to a pulp but wild with energy and painting my face with fingers full of blood I felt like I had slid into a Bosch painting. I remember my face swelling I think some guy had hit me with a BAT. They stamped on my head while I lay in the road and fractured my eye orbits apart from other things I had deep black under my eyes for a YEAR.
And I stood in the trees in the woods spinning around and around and laughing before I sat quietly by myself found my knife tried to write my name in my arm with cuts. Woke up in the dark with ANTS in my wounds everywhere my face swollen up like a sick balloon. No idea where I was; none. Started running and kept running. Memory fades in haze. A few days in hospital the normal kind I walked to the bottle shop every day with IV shit sticking out of my arm.
I remember oh yes different time (time is a sickness) I woke at the beach some kids standing over me saying LOOK AT ALL HIS CUTS before I pushed them away and vomited into the sand.
Found some girl some night and tried to show her I could draw by smashing a bottle and carving a face, my face, into a table in a café. I put a beard on it and it looked like Jesus and I fucking laughed so hard and laughed and laughed.
I stood in the street and hit the wall with my hand until I could actually feel it; I think I broke my wrist not sure it stopped me from being able to play guitar without being drunk for a long time and of course drunk, drunk, drunk I was most of the time anyway.
Ah yes oh, helpful POLIcemen to whom I would not give my name; I told them I was Zarathustra a Nietzschean reference I don’t think he GOT. They chased me down the street and I couldn’t stop laughing until they all crashed me to the ground and I punched one with my broken bleeding hand and spent some time screaming in a cell and throwing myself at the walls.
They let me go somehow and at court I got to plead INSANITY which I also thought was pretty fucking funny or rather do now as I could not raise rage from my heart, black blackest humour finally swamped by massive doses of anti-psychotics
Broke my guitar and held it like a baby in the street for hours and wept and wept and wept.
So many girls I could never EVER remember they were going to rescue me each one – had all my catch phrases worked out “wake me when the war is over” and something about drowning men and a head full of Shakespeare quotes. I couldn’t believe they worked every time but OH YES THEY DID. Sometimes I could not make love to them I was too drunk I think who knows more ritual phrases morning ones were “where am I?” followed by “who are you?” (Insert snarl/grin/panic.)

continued

Artwork Comments

  • Amy-lee Foley
  • pauldrobertson
  • Melissa Vowell
  • pauldrobertson
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