Hm. It seems I have got NPD as a diagnosis appendable to bipolar affective disorder. I passed a pregnant woman in the coffee room who had lizards’ eyes, untouched by her polite smile. Of course, I believe she was here to see her husband. No wonder he cannot cope or hope at home. I think I saw straight through to her soul and it was very cold there.
NPD translates to narcissistic personality disorder. More homework – I have to find out exactly what that means. I don’t qualify for many parts of it as I am not actively malicious, and will not sabotage anyone but myself (with deliberation that is). It is the attention that I crave. Fucking footlights that I crave. Even in writing this I am writing to a vast silent audience, even an older version of myself. Not so I can record my thoughts and later pore over them and what they might mean – fresh from the mental ward – no; more so I can read later and be reassured after sudden chill of reality that I am still something unusual even in here amidst the lunatics and Nietzsche’s abortive saints. And of course, I am. Though if this is an advantage to me I do not know.

I am restless today as ever. I have already worked for hours this day and paced the beautifully carpeted halls, smoked my strong cigarettes and cleaned and reloaded my memory. I am a little better than I was though. The intensity of BEING seems to have abated to the point where I only have to squint and not close my eyes and cut. I am on very light meds. Who knows if it is them or the 2 sessions of electro-convulsion that I have experienced that have improved my existence. Or if it is just me and I turn slightly away from my own searing light, from my own blistering, inward, fucked up, sun. I need more cigarettes, must smoke I need to hold my head in my hands since there are no other hands to hold it for me.

It IS better to die on your feet than live on your knees.
I have done pushups sit ups and dips, lots of each. I am trying pretty hard not to let the medication make me fat this time. It is so strange to have all these people on the inside of these walls – and they do seem more sane than the generic freaks that I may meet were I to paint in public for a few hours.
I miss my car. I feel so trapped here. I won’t go ANYWHERE normally without an easy escape in case I am anxious and feel trapped, not even for a few hours. And this is for weeks. WEEKS! Argh!
I have at least another week and a half TO GO. Fuck THAT. Man… I mean… sure I have a lot of my stuff here and can still work but not as much as I could were I at home and I don’t have my computer, I miss my friends and I need sex pretty bad. I miss my cat also. I wonder if they have a policy on that. I am sure they have planned for such contingencies with a hearty rejection.
No Paul you cannot have sex or bring your cat or even your computer with you. This is a hospital after all. Perhaps I could charm an administrator into it but I would have to find the RIGHT administrator to charm, ok giving up on that whole train of thought; derailed now.
It would probably be the pregnant woman with the lizard eyes or someone like her. It seems that she is here visiting her mother. I imagine that seeing those flat grey lifeless eyes peering over the edge of a bassinet, cot or nipple would be enough to drive most women insane.

There must be some kind of ratio between those of us who are artists and those who can wander around appreciating art and telling the artists that they are cool. I wonder what it is and how it grew, skewed amidst our bizarre archeology; skewed even then. What else have we to describe but ourselves; what better describes us? I suppose this is the point. Though I hardly paint anything in my life that I can actually SEE ALREADY.
Some other thing, some other truth maybe.
I know that it correlates with something others see out there in the wind in the night. If they cannot see any of what I saw in my work I don’t think they would buy it: It is not just the buying there must be some special thing about owning original art some different kind of appreciation, some once-ness. I just know that I have no choice and must MUST keep going.

Lots of credit in the real world gets you HIGH.

And the sky was made of amethyst.
I am restless tonight, my god the understatement say is the universe big? Shall I eat? Shall I spend a great deal of time ruminating on eating and even fucking WRITE ABOUT IT???

Ach, yes, hey what the fuck? Did I get electricity passed through my BRAIN (or as I like to sometimes call it my Brian) this very morning? I believe that I did. There are many things that indicate that I did…
This morning Lisa came to visit me (“come up and see me, make me smi-ile”) and we walked under thick green leaves and talked softly. We soak each other up, I feed from her her eyes and skin water for my soul.
This morning… deep rapturous moments, long languorous and full – wandering around in her eyes, her eyes oh.
I have to learn from her. I think I learn from her. She is so alive – she does not even attempt the things that I do to assure her that she is alive that she is real. That the things that she sees, that touch her, that move her soft pretty heart are verifiable in all of our senses. She does not to do this. She does not need to; it is my trap and if I can pry it from her sweet fingers then I will, I might. I wonder…
We walked together and kissed on the grass in the bright summer sunlight. I cannot let go of her she holds my attention better than I do. I hold her body, her hands. I take her radial pulse, her carotids, once, twice. I am in the sweet scented pollen of her, on the grass stretched and ragged against her. Ah… something there, something lifelong, unfoolish and like a splinter of life.



Perth, Australia

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shock treatment 2nd last entry

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  • Glennis  Siverson
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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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