woke and the clarity of the moment; the waking hurt. As though I
had been stabbed and the punch, the blow had been dappled by the
reality of the red that pulsed through my fingers. The dream that
was now fading as fast as sand sliding through my fingers had been
alarming. Yet now all that remained was gritty feel. It had brought
me to the disconcerting reality that no matter what effort, will or
luck had found you (or found you wanting): we were all of an oneness
destined to run through the maze. Whilst we might all each enjoy the
verities and wiles of a different labyrinth; the bottom line was
that we went in, we went round, and then: we died. The rat died. We
were as rats in a maze. It had unsettled me; the notion that it was
all of no consequence. The possibility that the matrix could
be more than a celluloid conceit; that our souls might live outside
of this prosaic existence where we all bounce from one wall to the
next all to no great effect. This magical thinking disturbed me.
I had to get back with the lab rats: re-immersion meant self-
preservation. I had to get with the programme.
My mind was busy; it
wouldnít quit. A stream of thought, a ball-race: a clattering of
ideas seemingly chasing each another twenty-four seven. A density,
an overlapping: each idea a small glistening tessarae. Shiny,
exquisite: its luminosity keeping me from my sleep, distracting me
from my work. And yet each counterfeit its brilliance fading as it
is bought from the pool. Its fire a sham its beauty a hollow
imitation of its burgeoning promise. And the speed of it Ė that was
scary Ė each idea holding on to the otherís tail in a macabre
conga. A conga that seemingly got faster and faster bunching up
around the corridors as it left the main hall. The ideas were
running away from me now. Moving so fast that I only see many of
them as they disappear around the corner as I move to catch their
tails. Trying to pull the beggars back so that I might identify the
beast: the nature of that beast.
The delusions were
pretty scary too. Feeling omnipotent: a gradual building up of: ď I
can do all, I can be allĒ. Feeling like a monster in your belly:
coming from your core. Building up like a golem from within: from
insecurity - to surety. To absolute surety and self-assurance. The
big I am, the big I can.
It was all right most
of the time; lying dormant like some beggar at the beach well
covered with lithium sand. Only it would then surface when most
inconvenient: when it could have the most disruptive effect.
I have read on more
than one occasion that genius and madness have shared the same host.
But there must be a need for caution. That is, whilst allowing the
sensation to build and to harness its strength also means struggling
with and against something that potentially has the power to fuck
you over socially and hospitalise where others - if not yourself -
can bounce off of the magnolia walls.
Iíve been there and
definitely donít want to return. In fact chasing a high is a
bit like falling for someone extremely dangerous Ė then trying to
get away with only a brief dalliance: like fucking a stranger who
has the infinite capacity to fuck you up for good.
But I digress and with
such passion, for I am forgetting that which now concerns me,
consumes me, eats me. The wrath that rides hard upon the high like
a voracious succubus. She mounts when frustrated by the delay
between idea and action, when the words topple over one another as
though erupted from a wardrobe in a sweaty game of sardines. She
drives ever onwards when the mind stutters to frame the correct
utterances: when the genius is palsied by an inadequate main frame.
Harder and harder the bitch rides; her frustration pouring through
foul and strong with loathing. She is bitter, possessed with spite
and loath to all unfortunate to fall into her path. To personify
something so vehement in the third person will seem a cop-out to
unhand the stick that beats me but in truth when I am stricken in
such a rage it is as though I have been taken over. I am often
entered first by an irksome trifle which then takes a hold: its
poison spreading as though madness had entered by a serpentís
tooth. Its poison then moves swift to my mind until all is of it;
until it must have forth spilling from me: thick with nasty, thick
with bile. Marking with anything that will hurt, anything that can
wound. Even as you are doing it, are in the middle of it, you canít
stop. Itís as though possessed by its power you are ripped up by its
maelstrom and torn along by it. At its height the power that it
pours in to you is exquisite; a piquant pleasure that your rage can
cause so much chaos, so much pain. That you have that power is a
heady draught. And for what, and at what cost: that you are able to
wound those who care. They are but sheep that feed a monster;
ripped by the jaws of it, devoured its heedless maw.
And then remorse.
Sitting spattered by that lousy all encompassing hate of self. The
cold dawn realisation of oneís complete lack of reason. Slapped by
it; its flavour acrid and chill passing over and throughout one.
Tears catching and the terrible frightening mad urge to hurt: to
hurt physically as one does emotionally, spiritually. To span that
chasm as a token to the pain that one has caused. To put down that
with has found within you a host. To take out those demons which
you have allowed to have risen within you. That you have failed to
contain; maybe they have slipped their leashes this time because of
your negligence or maybe you were just foolish enough to think they
would ever stay contained in the first place. Yes, maybe the
latter. Sometimes that is the scariest thing that chilling
realisation that whilst for all intents and purposes as you go
through ninety per cent of your existence normal; this is for you
just the surface of the lake. Which is fine until the monster cuts
the surface and then you are a mad, insane, not to be trusted. It is
just this realisation that is perhaps the most grounding thing that
one has to live with.
Why target those our
closest? Not their proximity, although that nonetheless remains a
factor. No, itís because they are the only ones telling the Emperor
it might be a good idea to put his tackle away. The only ones who
see that which is awry and who then question, who call to account.
When we are celestial they are the one with hands sore from plucking
feathers. The acquaintance sees a vibrant mood, the stranger a
voluble character, the lover sees the erratic, the moody: sees that
which is hard to contend with.
And so now I am a ship
pitching on the high seas: at the mercy of all strange and violent
tempers. Turbulent is my nature, and inconstancy my refuge.
Sedatives try to dull and stabilise Ė cast over the mood as though
to calm the bird intent on damaging flight. But their effectiveness
is inconsistent. Too little and it has trouble reining in the high;
magical thinking creeping through the fug: whispering, imploring.
Too much and one has difficulty coping with anything other than
basic motor functions. When I must rummage in the mental scrabble
bag for every word, must kick-start every thought and sentence it is
evident that day-to-day working routines are going to be hard to
sustain. And so it goes on damping down the mystical blanketing with
the prosaic, so that the inspired becomes merely functional. Oneís
mind slows, eating only when hungry not cramming itself, stuffed to
the gills. And then this is when I preen my coat, brush off my
whiskers and follow the most optimum route to the nourishing snack
happy to be no more than I am: content in that knowledge.