The Schizophrenics Notebook

Between June 2006 and March 2007 I was stoped by the police 7 times while screaming. I could calm down and I would insist I was fine, but I'm schizophrenic with advanced touret's syndrome, and eventually, the seventh time, they took my into the hospital. I'm schizophrenic, delusional, aural and visual hallucinations, and was by that point borderline, meaning psychotic. During this period, starting June 6, 2006 (666) I had decided to write a novela by writing one paragraph a day. I managed a little over 200, deteriorating noticeably after day 190 or so, and I will now included an edited version.
1, June 6,06

I stared into his new void ; someone was nibleing, still nibeling, emoting and iritating but this new failure had beeen passed to me with the season: down and down and down , towards an intersection that crossed with the last entrants nemisus, some black personality of death not aquired; the essence behind all that screeming; some of it was mine, So I concentrated while someoneises pawns moved forward again; the paranoia of failure.

to be posted daily or:

(rough draft)

http://www.newflippertexts.com/negated.html

narator murdered

That was on answer to the impasse in WALDO SMITH NEGATED (full rough draft text at:

http://notbugatti.8m.com/ Actually, the author is schizophrenic and, this happens every times he's tried to write a book, the narrative slides off into a cornfield, failure, and then madness; as seem in the intallments below (last 4 or 5) shoudn't all there was to talk about was the haldol experience, his whole world exploding towards the psychworld (worse that shizo-culture, just...schizo).

Think of editing down the poetic writing donelast year ( a paragraph a day no matter, and I really was nuts) http://www.newflippertexts.com/negated.html as The Schizophrenics note book" and self publish...something do. Currently (lithium, clonodine and zyprexia) - if I owned a gun, I'd be dead by now.

First madness, then suicide

Waldo had little to say in the hospital. He hadn't admitted or realised how crazy he was. City engulfed in flames while he walked in smaller and smaller circles Turrets syndrome; jack knifing and screaming and then hospital and Holdall. Really, he might as well have stayed there for the rest of his life, but that realisation came after. He was entranced with his vision, that they could be so obscenely elaborate. He sat there getting skinnier and skinnier in a panic , that his life was ruined. His father visited for a few hours from Maine. He had a mixture of anger, how could you do this to me, and relief. There were people in the ward who had been there for six months - they didn't what to do with them. He felt he had been pulled up by the roots, but he was still crazy, still manic and unrealistic. He had to admit, new york city thing, that was just your basic crazy person all of a sudden, unable to care for himself or work; he tried to think further and further back, but even that was like a braid that would abduct him back into madness. His brain had broken, all he could remember: everything.

He picked his way through the images, text, memories, his mind as some sort of dictionary or accounting maze. Time, he had a problem with time, the intake worker at the shelter where his spend a night said playfully on giving the date of his birth:"Just about the big five-o hu" and he was shocked as he had lost all sense of time; some bad habit to go back in his mind to new york, punk rock days, painting and drinking, trying to play the big shot and the start sneering and explaining as, well, other's didn't see it. Bottom feeder society. Some wound or argument and then, madness, not that he was George Normal, there were symptoms, drinking, and then flat out madness so his life became looking at a a river of ice, which he did some, cracking and break, this part of life went so far, then madness; started over, that part when not quite as far, and he'd write, novel or novella and it was never finished as he cracked each time, some apogee, story over.

above left, Bush home on a drive with my case manager

more Waldo in the hospitol

Waldo had a feeling horror. He felt his life was over he was locked in the hospital and had no idea how long it would last. His whole life had vanished. It was hot outside, that new york hot, and there was little his friends could do for him

Mean while, he would remember how dramatic the experience had been, locked in his kitchen with the world exploding around him. It was a dramatic experience, surreal in the extreme, better than a movie, and he had wondered the streets for days dogs faced having no real idea what was happening while cartoon characters appeared before, smoke billowed from his head, light shows exploding and, finally, the police came to his door and took him away screaming.

Mercdes connection

When Waldo had his "breaks" he became obsessed with conspiracy theories, gambling, nickle bags (anything pyramid) proto-naziz and fast cars. He was particularly obsessed with Porsche's, thinking they were some signe of german neo-nazi tendencies. Eventually he found himself running around with an Instamatic taking pictures of offending cars. The Mercedes 300 sl shown was a particularly big catch; something there was a strange shadow in the image, that would prove some carbon pyramid (as he conceived them) or bandwidth, radio and waves and magnets.

psychotic break

So far, he was oblivious to his paranoia, other that being abducted, as it were , for visits to the hospital ( a two month long visit.) In fact, his thinking, all things considered, maybe even was rational; what was not rational were his visions, more elaborate than even drugs like lsd had provided in his limited experience, complete with lazer fights and strange beings, the sky turning pail pail blue, and strange attaches (he wasn't sure: telexes to his head? lazer beams? radio waves aimed at him)? but as he sat there day after day he realised he was threw. A complete disaster, he was insane apparently, and he would learn in the years to come, he wasn't going to get better. It was a permanent condition.

sick, forever sick

They were allowed cigarettes three times a day and he was sitting there with smoke still in the air, fans running, as it gnawed at him that he was so sick,and that his life was forever ruined. He was pschizophrenic. A new catagory for his life.

They wouldn't let him out of the hospitol for another month, so he sat there, cigarette break over, watching the news, anchor people and the blast with the room strangly empty except for him and the smoke. He was impassive but on the whole felt like killing himself.

SCIZOID

Schizoid; sick and terrible; new start; waldo sat in the psych ward of st. lukes hospital as the plane broke up over long island sound. He had alreardy been in the ward, just sitting, for a month and he had no idea when he would be let out. Apparently, he'd had his troubles before, he was schizophrenic and every thing he's ever thought was wrong.

otherwsie at http://www.newflippertexts.com

he thought: I envy the sane - I have no idea how they do it.

schizoid

I am and very depressed; no one liked my novel and now I'm done; don't in the walk of post-punk. Done in suicidal thoughts; done in the effort it takes to do the web for free, always free.

I refer all to

http://newflippertexts.com/

new work and links to rough drafts of waldo. Saturday, first day I've slightly out of the grip of suicide in days...

WALDO SMITH NEGATED...latter

today poetry

So now,
in the crash and boom,
so now
so now,
in the crash and boom so now, yours
(as they hand me and beyound))
I will
(as some handle dolls)
as some love the vortex of television
(some quatro and silver)
as I started this journey
(it had a start,
some attack:
their fiction, not mine and
I eloped; even lied)
as famouse cliches jumped out
(with aggression)
(a smudge in the floating mirror above;
in the paranoia of lost freinds;
voices finding a home)
find these smudges as personas
and place them around me
the most embaressing:
yes I am a criminal
yes I am a major drug trader
yes I do have an office in so-ho
yes I am a liar.
Yes I am envious.
Some broken guilt as I admit
Yes I was screeming,
Some long loss now remembered
So sitting at the curb insisting I was fine
Till finaly
They took me in.

Gas and france

mine was the little town featured on All Things Considered with low gas prices.


I don't own a car.

Instead, I bring to you the Situationist International and plug their offerings:

http://www.bopsecrets.org/cat.htm

to wit:
In 1957 a few European avant-garde groups came together to form the Situationist International. Picking up where the dadaists and surrealists had left off, the situationists challenged people’s passive conditioning with carefully calculated scandals and the playful tactic of détournement. Seeking a more extreme social revolution than was dreamed of by most leftists, they developed an incisive critique of the global spectacle-commodity system and of its “Communist” pseudo-opposition, and their new methods of agitation helped trigger the May 1968 revolt in France. Since then — although the SI itself was dissolved in 1972 — situationist theories and tactics have continued to inspire radical currents all over the world.

good luck to all of us...

Desolation

Long walk to the library to day; something I fear as I'm manic depressive (bi-poler, as they say)and sudenly all can seem lost, slower and I'm saving my poetry till monday while still searching ebay for a mini mac.

Someone wrote in from my yahoo club:

Question: if you don't drink, how come you like jackson pollock, marc rothco and charles bukowski?by the way for paintings i really have only one hero:goya.i do think madonna and basquiat are the artists of our time, that is for five years ago, the best we can do so far.

Apparently true, when Basquiat died we all thou hgt we were next in line. Apparently not - the last art star...

and...a negation (poetry)

it's tenuous,
so sad as the say, some cult of the repeat,
always starting over and notes to some sequence of pseudonyms, aliases,
all the lost identities and recoupling with some other essence
and on to nothingness,(nothingness defined) as there is a spot, ethereal
but also in greed or longevity, someone elses family tree, and their things
and the dream of their life and I'm still here, so alone
and behind me (apparently, behind me; Oklahoma) the place for that fantasy
(and the music that caries them there is some math sequence not sound towards
meaning , aesthetic or form) so, you, apparently, Hollywood, California, and
I'm actually stuck here till you stop trying to go there to document that life, a
little box, to sit there and dream, and I stare at the incidentals in the air.

nearby; little guy with a rifle there; drugstores missed half the shot.

So, today's question (war still on_

Can I, negate a negation:

naively

authentically.

Does authenticity lead to situationism:

http://www.bopsecrets.org/.

Is there an art equivalent?

Is incompetence accounted for or

(in my case) schizophrenia.

Once again ( the good and bad)

punk, n/punk or post punk.

What was punk (rock and role, energy - art?) Does punk lead to anything else (schizophrenia); is post punk something else.

my post punk statement: now, part 1 (30 pages or so, plenty of misspellings) of my novel in progress WALDO SMITH NEGATED - a surrealist murder mystery: http://notbugatti.8m.com/

coming soon: schizophrenia and negation and authenticity ( can sickness lead to in authenticity.

Punk was authentic; what is now authentic (is our war authentic

Is negation an adiction Waldo 2.1

WALDO SMITH PART 2


At home it was very quiet, for a number of days, like I should throw the I ching or something, which, perhaps is not to have told the story correctly. Bad breath or bad personality, none of my old friend were particularly enamored of me and I suddenly had no new friends. So I didn’t call. I just sat there in one of the charming chairs I’d found in the street, a New York perk as it were, they were charming. What to do? Leave town, back to school? Hide forever. Temptations of the temp.