Twisted Treatises

About a year ago, I got an idea bug. Bunch of projects I wanted to do. I knew I had to write a book about my time on the street, washing windows and grabbing scrap ladders for dope, of the Strange Playground I made of Houston and Reno. John Bruni, Bizzaro author and Bubba to me, had made mention of wishing someone would make illustrated audiobooks of his tales, or a similar thing. Well, I can do that, I thought...and after all that thinking it was time to quit dope. Six weeks of agony and eight weeks of neurosis later, I still hadn't even begun. My muse died. My heart died. Everything I'd built in dope died, which meant I died. My brain felt wired backwards. If an emotion sought life, I crushed it with a process called Neuro-Linguistic Programming. So what, who cares, love is unnecessary, emotional investment is death, whittle it down to one-word responses, and above all, show no emotion. Listen to no memories of the havoc, the destruction, and the vainglorious waste of time of

"The human body is a battery." -Sadhguru Orgones are the energy built and released by sex, so sayeth Wilhelm Reich. They're the ping pong balls fired by sex that sex magicians are always trying to capture and direct in their hedonism. While most think of those sorts as dingbat perverts, here's a secret--world leaders play around with it. They do. They don't talk about it on TV (and they damn sure won't TikTok it) but they do it. They must, for its symbology is found in most city architecture. Those people are driven and have a lot of success under their belts, and that's a great validation for the practice, and for orgones. I can see how orgones may kill neurosis. When you are about to fuck, you can't think about anything else. You're just looking at the other person's body, touching, impetus driving you so hard you can't think about stupid shit at all. It's time to fuck. That's it. Then bang, all that shit comes out in a nut, and a

I imagine writers clacking it out like James Caan in MISERY, their fingers rattling out succinct palabras stringing sentences first heard in the brain. And when they proofread, selah. Narry a discrepancy. The story moves like a river's linear stream flowing into the Pulitzer Sea. The satisfied writers kiss their nimble fingers, drink some red wine, and the editors line up. But it's not like my imagination. It takes practice. Honing, and craft. For all of us.  My first drafts are skeletons with no meat. Bones lined up on the page with only the rudimentary tissues intact, just enough to give it form. I can tell this is human. I can tell this wants to be a book. But I have to stitch muscle to bones with taut tendon and ligament pulley. Snippets of action act as muscle, a miseducational narrative holds up the frame, but the flow is choppy, a broken mosaic. Takes a lot of sit down and think, adding meat, adding skin. The flesh. And once that is all finished, I realize the body has n

Childhood wasn't rife with Dad's Trips To the Ballpark, and fighting the neighborhood kids three times a day like a diet sucked balls. I spent most of my formative years dodging my father, not running to him. When we kids played in the cornfield fun became battle.  We stripped hard corn ears from deep green stalks and threw the grain missiles at each other from various stomped out locations in the field. Barring that, we chased each other with baseball bats and pellet guns, basic white trash kid behavior. These weren't the easiest times. When they ended, I got to start over in a new town. I was 15. At that time, I knew exactly two people, Bubba and Dave the Glam Kid, who is now a Photographer. He tagged along for the first night walk, to the Hillside Theater. I barely recall that walk, but it started a lifelong love of night walks and great stories that still covers my blood cells like the soft sick whisper of old addict memory. We saw Wayne's World, if memory serves.

I can't watch anything educational without taking notes. When they don't become flash fictions like Beauregard's Flow, they look like dystopian telegrams mingled with schizophrenic news headlines. Ankgor Wat's bent sunlight decimates Cambodian Pump Zone. Khmer Rouge outlaws spectacles. Sell human guinea pigs. Probable terrorist attack. Vishnu sought. Devastating water pressure leaves temple gnomes in blowout chaos. Need safe passage for expats. Miserables entitled to a coastal lodge. Cambodia's history is gruesome, like that of most ancient peoples. Lots of bulls killed. Priests using all the parts.  Fresh marrow slurped from a hole in the bone juts from a severed arm life force suckled fatty through the meal straw won't tolerate such bad behavior. Watch for Milk Ass. Buttons explode in charnel house horror obstructed through the drinking straw of legalese. A wendigo investigation meandering from Native American legends to talk of gruesome sacrifice rites of anc

For ten months, I haven't had a stick, snort or dose. Not a single pill to crush, or strip to dissolve. No wafers. No tiny snap bags of Boi. No shards to crush. No plungers to depress, and no fucking sick...almost.  When a human wakes, the body begins a process of booting up. For most, that takes twenty minutes and a cup of coffee. Pre-dope me was like that. Current me wakes up ready to barrel through a fucking wall. My adrenal glands puke in my blood. My brain is never ready for it, and translates it as anger. I cough and grind my teeth. My chest contracts with electricity, evicting all the air from my lungs. Breathing won't happen. It's like I forgot how. Sounds like panic, drowning on dry land. So what? Is this the rest of my life? I wonder. I have no recourse to any writer on the subject I respect because they all became drinkers. I refuse to do that. Fucking no. I'd rather be a junky than a drunk. Call it preference.  Any doc would say I should have normalized by n

Today I attended an internet poetry workshop that allows writers to submit poems for critique. Anyone can have their Writer's Orgones vivisected by editors and pro poets. Submissions are chosen, and the pros chop and screw the stanzas and phrases from live feed. Honest chat contributors throw unapologetic, constructive feedback. All writers mentally soapbox themselves. During proofreads I think some lines are Pulitzer fare. The work may be rank but I can't adapt false humility when submitting with any faith. Conversely, I have no idea how a stranger might react to my work. An inured sense of audience is tantamount to success in art. I feel like I'm school again, and I enjoy that. We all need class sometimes.  I learn that the chat critics all hate basic accidents, those draft scribbler's mistakes. Use of cliché and tense changes mid-paragraph. I comprehend their perspective. I'm not learning "how to write". I know that already. There's a behavioral stu

S chool was kiddie jail occupied by a bunch of kids kicking the shit out of each other. Some kids weren't good at sports and the athletic kids would pick on the fat kids. After about a season of insults and practical jokes we fat kids had no choice but to go sudden and put the spines of our preserative-stinking science textbooks across their bumping gums to save further hazing. This propitiated more fighting. It didn't seem to end. I was walking home from the park one day and I saw a black trash bag lying tied up in a ditch. The shape of it was too flat to be trash, I thought. When I gave it a kick the contents didn't scatter. My foot hit one heavy object with little give. I knew it wasn't garbage. When I lifted it up, the top knot unscrewed itself and the skinned, decapitated corpse of a dog fell out. Pebbles jumped from the dirt when it landed. It still had paws. I didn't scream and run like most kids. But I didn't pick at it, either. This memory is fuzzy. My

 "I can understand the profound human need for comfort and ease, but I do not understand why truth should bend to this need."  Jung, THE PSYCHOLOGY OF INDIVIDUATION, Conclusion It took me a month to read that book. Learned quite a bit. Not only about psychological types and the intricacies of human thought forming, but the results of such thinking. The book points out the positive and negative results of both introverted and extroverted thinking, and the action and neurotic tendency resultant of over-abundant employ of either one. It exhorts the student to understand balance, and cautions against attaching much importance to symbols lest one fall prey to the soft lie within themselves and create a counterproductive persona. Or worse, fall prey to full psychosis. It was a great book. But it may have caused my head strings to tie strange neural laces. Here are some: People attach unreasonable degrees of spiritual significance to the flora and fauna floating in humanity's co

Welcome to I WRITE, I DREAM.  The following is a result of using the Cut-Up Method on my meditation logs. I need a blog to keep myself focused, and hell, folks might get a kick out of reading it. One never knows.  With no subject in mind I thought why not chop up some of my private words, make a gumbo of them, and see what happens? That's what this post includes. Many diary entries treated like Waffle House hash browns. I ran through the diary chopping words and lines here and there, then tossed them together in a coherent mass. Other posts will be different. I'm not sure yet what I'll do with this blog. The fun for me is in finding out. And I don't mind giving everyone a twisting peek into the strange mind of an incredibly odd duck. That in itself tends to be fun.  Enjoy. "Fixed the technical difficulties when I first hit the abyss after some fuss. I gathered prana and waited for intuition to come. It did, and the file sharing works, along with the mic and the cam