Twisted Treatises

It never seems to occur to any square that it isn't the dope causing violence, but the person using it as an out once they're in trouble because they're a fucking coward. Even cops will tell you that there are a vast variety of addicts whose only real crime is possessing an illegal substance. They moderate and go to work and you'd never fucking know they were hooked. I did every kind of dope there is for 25 years. Never smoked any weed that made me hallucinate or chase a reporter and this is everything from stringy bammer to 6ft dab rigs and I had freezerfuls of every fucking strain you could think of for sale--never hallucinated. Never not even once. Didn't stare at the wall aside from Shambavi, which is a yogic practice. Didn't think my dog was Jesus. Didn't chew anyone's face off. Did IV H and Ice for years and did hallucinate if I was up for some days yet STILL never killed a friend or family member and I for damn sure didn't push toddlers a...

What a cheery guy. Veteran, biker, grower, truck driver, marine. Mechanic. Rebuilt his Buick's engine. Didn't teach any of it to me. Touch Dad's tools, lose a hand. Not just the empty threat of a father who's trying to convey he means business, but the threat of a father who will pick up that hammer and hit with it. I didn't cross my father; I held to the rules as a child. My friends thought I was a wimp until I was around 12. They always wanted me to do crazy shit. They didn't understand that you don't cross Robert Alfred Tannahill Jr., and if any of the neighborhood parents called him to complain, holy fuck.  We'd go to the Rockford Speedway sometimes. We didn't always go alone. Sometimes friends came, ours and his. Most of his friends had children of their own and we played with them a bit. April and I, or at least I, liked the tiny playground there. I liked the iron rocking horse on a spring in the center of its giant sandbox. Beer and soda cans ...

Unfinished, but pretty.   That happens to me a lot. More than I'd like to admit. Especially with drawings. I have numerous sketchbooks full of these unfinished pieces. That's okay. I myself am an unfinished drawing. Anyone who knows me at all knows I use strange methods, divers methods they were once called, to dig into my deep structures and fix the wrongly wired neurons. Pills won't do it. Have I said I can't take anti-depressants? Zombie pills, I'm good. So ritual. It's not weird. Now, any literate person can find a million books on ritual practice and purpose, but it's poorly explained. Maybe because they never show you their work, like the kid in math class who can do everything in his head gets F's for not showing his on the worksheet when called for, occult writers fall short with their furtiveness. I guess they don't want to embarrass themselves. Might fuck up their shot at deification. I don't care about shit like that. Maybe that makes ...