Casey, my friend, shut up.

Not too good right now. Casey won't shut the fuck up. He has been gouging my eardrums out for a full half-hour now over a game of chess, which, I actually, find as remarkably boring as his horrid wrecking ball of the English language. His language is pedestrian and sophomoric, as if he were brought up amongst a cage of wild chimpanzees and his nose runs, never ceasing, and the sniffles ring in my ears like monotonous tortures...and the constant blowing into a handkerchief-utterly disgusting. Yet, Casey is really the only company I keep here at the group residence. We have sessions of "playtime" for an hour...anything beyond that and I would poke a pencil through both my eardrums and wail in agony. Or, I would simply, physically, shut his mouth for him and extricate his sinuses with a butter knife. So, yes, an hour is plenty good, because, you see, I HAVE to be somewhat social and WORK on my social skills. HA! With these lunatics! What is this establishment thinking? That Casey is the only being I consort with is bizarre, but he seems to be the only semi-coherent lunatic in this residence as far as my perception allows. I am, luckily, quite functional and stable as long as they've had me on this new regimen. I can articulate. My body is never quite under my control...nor are my facial muscles, bur I get by. I have developed a great insight regarding my illness. But, I have to say straight out: I am bat-shit crazy when the meds don't work and, yes, I will eventually deteriorate cognitively, and lose all remainder of sanity: My illness has a poor prognosis. Now, Casey here is a real bundle of bricks! He sure can run his mouth like those choo-choo trains my distant father used to maintain back in Newton, KS. Quite some ways away from the tiny township, good old Pleasant township, in which I was raised by my invalid and bickerish mother.

 Anyway, about Casey. Casey is the kind of fellow that talks a lot of empty bubbles that just float around shamelessly and aimlessly. His language permeates the air with a dank cloud of swamp-smelling stagnancy. His breath reeks of a septic mold that encapsulates the sense of smell and inspires a disgusted fury. At times, he takes well over twenty so minutes to make his point and the horror of it is that he never really succeeds at making that point, rather, he makes obtuse angles and broken squares and jargon unbeknown to anyone, not even to  himself. I don't bother much with trying to correct his lack of command over the English, or shall I    say, American language, for obvious reasons. HE NEVER SHUTS THE FUCK UP LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET A WORD IN. Sure Casey, it's all butterflies and pond lilies and flying horses. They place the state of things, or status quo, on the back burner: they make anything relevant to the present cease to exist.

I recall during one chess game his insistence on repeating over and over his resentment towards the rats that had infested his former home and how they were sent to his house for the sole purpose of tormenting him. He said it was bad enough being an ugly bachelor that frequents "titty" bars and lurks amongst the dregs in porn cinemas. He said he would come home from the job that "drained his life away" only to find the piece of steak he had defrosted and was looking forward to dragged across the kitchen floor and mangled by ravenous rats. Casey believed that they did this to him to torment him. He did not understand the source of the problem: he rarely sealed properly or put away his food items. Call it lack of common sense, memory, whatever. His idiocy combined with the drudgery of his feeble preoccupations brought out the worst in me. I often berated and ridiculed him. This did not phase him. I wonder if maybe he even liked it. Sicko. I can also recall, with great misfortune, the tale of how his dog, a mixed breed of something or other, shat upon the living room rug as soon as he left for work. Everyday. Not one day did he not come home to a pile of shit on the carpet of his living room. He even went as far as to punish the dog by refusing to feed him for days. I asked him how that would have solved the problem and he replied "Well, I couldn't make him stand in the corner for two hours, so I decided he would only learn by starving. No food, no feces on my carpet." Completely logical, The dog died of neglect weeks later. Casey is a big asshole. Literally. He is off his rocker. I haven't fallen off mine recently. Good, good.

              Casey talks incessantly of plastic animals and rubber devices sold two for one at the dollar store. To put it plain: his talk is cheap and monotonous. And the ballgames, oh the ballgames! Enough about ballgames! I care not for games-they bore me to tears (if I had any at the right moment). Going food shopping under the surveillance of one of our group home musketeers is such an adventure for him. To me it just looks like food coated in fluorescent lighting and sounds like the worst horror of a radio station being played in between blaring announcements that have no appeal to me. I don't even see it as a break in the monotony of group home life. I would much rather read or write in solitude at my desk. My desk. It is covered with several books with pages marked, chocolate remnants, chap-sticks, nail clippers (about six pairs), and many notebooks I have littered with my writing both coherent and, on bad days, non-coherent. Who cares about bananas sold at a price that Casey claims is exorbitant? Fuck that! Not me! And golf....oh Lordy. A ball goes into the ground and everyone cheers....so the fuck what? People actually make money off of getting a ball into the right hole. Absurd! And Casey REALLY cares about such silly tripe and the blah blah latest news on Tiger Woods expose. I guess Casey is what you can call a common blue collar type. The only thing that makes him interesting is his psychosis when it takes over his ability to talk or move. I know, that sounds awful, but life often brings awful to the table and too damn bad.

I also had an ear-full about the making of candles. Casey insisted that the bees work very hard to provide wax for the distribution of candles, scented and unscented. He said it was unfair that we should keep them as slaves for the pleasure of modern housewives and deadbeat druggies that do not prefer light bulbs for some reason or other. I really thought he was starting to go into psychosis as he spoke of the bees and the wax and all that nonsense, but he remained completely chatty Kathy coherent in a surreal sort of way. I had an unpleasant thought, maybe somewhat insightful. Do I sound like this freak when I am not well? Hell, I sound worse than that when I am unwell so who am I to talk....one might say. But, as a medicated schizophrenic free, for the time being, of any symptoms, I am very down to Earth and straight. Anyhow, Casey kept blabbing about how we should allow the bees to inhabit their own territory and stop caging them for our own purposes. "What happens to the queen bee when all her minions are gone?" He asked me. Dead straight in the face. No hint of sarcasm or jolly joking. He went on to explain to me that the queen must become mad and then die a horrible, abandoned spinster. I asked him what did spinster have to do with it, but he brushed me off and dove into another delusion about how the queen bees must be saved. "Oh yeah" I said "Like God save the queen dude." I said this, of course, very sarcastically, but he did not pick up on it. He said simply "Yes," "like God save the queen. But, don't say dude because the queen would not like that sort of diction used when referring to her "Heinousness"."  I am reporting this story in my own language. If I were to relive the language of Casey, I may die. Well, maybe it is better I give you an example of his language. For instance, when talking about the queen bee he actually said "The mother bee is probably sad that her worker friends leave her. It is not nice that the people (whoever they may be) steal her workers away and make them work full time for the humans." There, that is enough. When "social" hour is up I flee to my room and make daily logs of did I experience any symptoms? Was I coherent today? Have I noticed an improvement since the change in meds? I also go over my day in chronological order as a way to improve my grip on reality and events as and when they truly happened. I do what I can to stay sane. I have yet to decipher the last book of the Hexastix. I know, I know, it has been a long time, but it is not my fault if I suddenly become haywire and scattered, and I have thoughts that are like grains of sand, many, but each a separate particle unattached to their brothers and sisters when dry. Many thoughts unhinged and beliefs incredible. I am tired. Casey. Trying to remain patient and calm when we dabble over chess is so, so tiring. I would actually like to grab him by the throat and scream "SHUT THE FUCK UP AND PLAY CHESS!!" But, no,no, that does not happen: I would be strapped down to the loony bed if I acted on my impulses. Nap time. -Henry O'Malley

         

What if you ran around screaming and turned into an insidious vapor?

What if you ran around screaming and turned into an insidious vapor?

Answer here

Ad Astra Per Aspera or Regarding Henry

W

Ad Astra Per Aspera translated from the Latin means "To the stars through difficulties."

I will now do my best to explain why I am so damn esoteric most of the time. I must warn

 you though, it may become esoteric. Just kidding. HAHAHA. Ad Astra Per Aspera. I was 

officially diagnosed with a subtype of schizophrenia called "Hebephrenic," or the more

modern " Disorganized Schizophrenia" about fourteen years ago. This implies that my

mental illness progressed due to the Doc's blindness or sheer stupidity. Now that

I am medicated with the proper diagnosis and educated enough about it to keep

the prognosis above ground, I can see better...better than those docs past, or, 

if you will YESTERYEAR. Fancy words eh? Ever think a crazy fuck like me could

vomit out a"high-end" word such as? Well, GET THIS: Hebe (pronounced Hee-bee),

according to Greek mythology, refers to the Goddess of youth: Hebe is used before "phrenic"

to denote early onset and puberty and what not. Yes, my disease has a rough history of destroying 

the lives of blooming youths. No more flowers cowboy! Here comes Hebe! Oh. Am I being

esoteric again....or am I?

      Anyhow, now that we all know what Hebe refers to let us look at the word"phrenic"

which means "pertaining to the mind." "Schizo" means "split." It is not nice to call

someone a schizo. People should know this, but, as can be expected, they refrain from 

reason and respect as usual. ANYHOW again, we now know that Hebephrenic is a subtype

of schizophrenia that corrupts the brain at an early age and that the personality of the

schizophrenic is split. This tells us nothing. Renamed "Disorganized' in the DSM-IV-code

295.10. The dictionary definition pretty much sums up the beast: Hebephrenia n. A type of

schizophrenia characterized by foolish mannerisms, senseless laughter, hallucinations and 

regressive behavior. A wonderful decline of the intellect is also ominous. I had to drop 

out of college the beginning of my sophomore year. I was riding  a college scholarship

with the intent of earning a PhD in literature. Well, this did not happen. Instead, my grip

on reality slowly and steadily leaked from my brain. Yeah. The ripe age of twenty-one. All

my goals ripped from me. This type of schizophrenia is a monster. It turned me into, for

lack of euphemism, "a lunatic." I began to have sensory hallucinations. A smell, best described

as gasoline with a twist of sewage, would infiltrate my nostrils just before "HE" took control

of my mind. "HE" is what I call IFRANKTHEMASTER. HE is pure evil. A sociopath. He does

not often become physically violent-just verbally corrosive, spreading the upchuck of "paint

it black" onto whoever he comes into contact with. I began to have sensory hallucinations

displaying improper or incongruous body language: Volition askew. He laughs when a 

situation calls for sorrow and claps and jumps when there is no reason to do so. Disorganized

in every way. My body becomes his "tool." I make no sense whatsoever and, at times, am completely

inarticulate. I spit upon the Mennonite religion I was brought up with. I attended a Mennonite

college of high regard. Yes, IFRANKTHEMASTER is evil incarnate. He took some time to make

HIS full appearance, but when he did, oh boy! Was I/HE a fucking lunatic!!! Picture yourself as the

opposite of yourself; pissing on your own morals and revealing values that do not correspond with your character. Values. Innocence lost. You are now the Devil himself and you cannot do a thing about it. You fail to communicate with your peers. The line between what is true and what is false is lost in a watercolor

created by an autistic three year old. The colors run into each other confused-indeterminate. 

You are a terror to yourself and others. And then, lo and behold!, comes the silly prankster

that laughs at all the wrong moments and cries incongruent, perhaps, when a situation calls for

laughter -a light-hearted demeanor. You have no idea what is happening. The horror seems as 

if the World has changed and left you behind when all it is-some fucked up chemical

imbalance in your mind. Picture your body or posture, if you will, mutating into several strange nonsensical contortions.

       The deterioration of my intelligence happened at a rapid pace. IFRANKTHEMASTER , however, 

entered me at a sluggish pace: The usurpation of Henry O'Malley was a slow torment, but when 

HE came fully into me, HE came with a seismic thrust of Hell. My intelligence was shamed. My

conversation consisted mostly of neologisms (made up words), or "word-salad" as they say. I

was no longer the scholar, but the young loon that made no sense, sliding into a distorted 

kaleidescope of monologues that sounded intelligent, but something was horribly wrong

with the sentences and paragraphs and diatribes . I spoke as if  intelligent, but, in reality,

I made no sense whatsoever. I was already a loner type of sorts, but Sister Hebephrenia 

injected pure outcast chemicals into my veins. My blood, my wit, my mind-all gone.

      Regarding Henry. Ad Astra Per Aspera. Okay so I understand that my rantings are esoteric

at times, but I CAN assure you all there is a perfectly logical reason for my communication

breakdown that may exist whilst you, or her, or him, are trying to make sense of

what may appear to you all as gibberish, but it makes fine damn sense to me. I AM A 

DISORGANIZED SCHIZOPHRENIC! REMEMBER! I CAN'T FUCKING HELP IT! IF I COULD

I MOTHER-FUCKING WOULD! I HAD A GODDAMN SCHOLARSHIP IN LITERATURE AND

ATTENDED A MENNONITE COLLEGE OF MORE THAN GOOD STANDING! See? I just 

yelled, but I did not feel the sensation of anger. Hebephrenics can be described as 

"emotionless." Hebephrenics lose the sensation of pleasure; the proper term

for this phenomenon is anhedonia: lack of the ability to feel pleasure. So, if I 

seem alien to you, or maybe like a peculiar robot ranting about The Hexastix,

chicks, dicks, sticks....stick-people...wait, I lost my train of thought. I am breathing

rather heavily. It is to my dismay that I cannot attach pleasure to anything-be it

doritos or prime rib or love or...I am asexual. This illness has absconded with my

emotions and sensations that most take for granted. 

           The depressions came mostly at the beginning, but I still do suffer from

them. The depression can be offset by a number of factors: knowing I have a 

degenerative mental illness; feeling extra-terrestrial and not getting through 

to anyone as they just brush me off as a loon and walk away; I feel invisible; I

know there is an evil entity, at present, dormant within me, but very plausible

HE can re-surface when I get really sick. I hate that evil with all my might. I

attempted suicide twice. Once by asphyxiation. Once by hacking my arms with a 

butcher knife. I could have bled to death, but my dear bitch of a mother happened

to open the door to my room as if it were her own. She saw me and began to scream.

She then called the local health-police and they took me, blank-eyed and full of hatred,

to the boring sanitarium for loony buggards. 

     I am alone most of the time because my illness makes communication with

others precarious. People get scared. People think I am a good-for-nothing loon. 

Most cannot handle the dismembered sentences and phrases: the broken puzzle-

language and "invented" words deter them. I am actually quite fortunate to have

"normal" spells. Very lucky. Some Hebephrenics take to the six feet under and

retreat into nowhere land: they become strangers to their best friends and family.

I still have some of my intellect intact. See? I am making sense, RIGHT? It is a vacation

to golden Jupiters not to be in an exaggerated state of delusion and hallucination. 

  The most people know about schizophrenia is the "paranoid" type. Well, there is a 

whole shit-storm that comes with the hebephrenic package. and I am not paranoid.

Not many speak of the type of schizophrenia I have. I find it disturbing because

it is so full of disorder: One would think the psychiatric journal bitches would

pounce all over it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

       Anyhow, I also tend to write alternately in capitals and lower-case letters.

My writing may often appear like, not only broken shapes, not only nonsense, but 

like borderline personality disorder as well. Great. I posted a letter I wrote at the

onset of my psychotic break:

March 28, 1986

Dear Piece of Paper,

I can see the movement of my mother’s mouth. I can hear 

her words. I understand them perfectly. But she is not here or there. 

She wrings her hands, says “Stop grimacing!” I know nothing 

of grimacing. The conductor waves his wand and the 

penetration of wavy grasses and orphan-like trees embrace 

the color red. The penetration is a tattoo. My mother has no tattoos,

 but she knows Jesus and is quite fond of Him. 

The sand causes the house to slide. No one knows, but the stick-people,

 and the barn wears the wind like a cross, He said “You can 

go now,” and so I retired to my room, alone, waiting for the right temperature.

There you have it! A real treasure that one. And yes it is stereotypical that schizphrenics

smoke like five thousand cigarettes with an iron lung. Yup, we Hebes are a chain-

smokin' riot! But, mind you, the disease relies on the already present characteristics

unique to each individual. The individual struck with this sickness own their own

fucked up delusions. No one else can see or begin to imagine them. What it is like.

Ad Astra Per Aspera. The pariah takes over and makes its tool maladaptive. The

more time schizophrenics spend away from people, the more withdrawn: the delusions 

capsize their ship. Devour them unlike a horrid carnivore.In this solitary state, 

there remains only the delusional perspective of the unfortunate brain gone haywire

and the poison eats away at it. Lonely. Loon. Sorry if my grammar is off a bit at

times; I have forgotten some of what I knew when a pursuant of  the great

literature PhD.

                         My delusions occur less frequent now as a result of proper medication that,

because of  progression in the world of pharmaceuticals and the generosity of science

(cough), I have been granted the gift of some normalcy and coherency. I am grateful

for this. Ha! Not really. Just testing you. I know intellectually I should shine like a giant 

beam of gratefulness, but I feel nothing. It is like wind through a tunnel of humid apathy. 

The Mennonites play a major role in my delusions. I remember one doctor told me

I had rewritten "The Sermon on the Mount" and I made IFRANKTHEMASTER the Sermon.

It was bloody ugly. I will share that with you some other time.
                           When IFRANKTHEMASTER surfaced for the first time, he did  make
me shout violently; I FRANKTHEMASTER is more cunning than to use violencee as His only weapon. HE did, however, pick up my mother's crystal lamp and crashed it upon
the fine oak floors because he lost patience with the police who were rather simple minded.
THE POLICE WERE NO MENNONITES: THEY DID NOT UNDERSTAND THE FORCES OF EVIL. NOT TRAINED TO HANDLE  THIS RATHER ACUTE DELUSION. "MY WILL BE DONE!" SCREAMED IFRANKMASTER FROM OUT MY MOUTH. HE PICKED UP MY MOTHER'S FAVORITE CRYSTAL DELUX LAMP CONTRAPTION AND CRASHED IT AT THEIR FEET. HENRY, AT THIS POINT, VERY CONFUSED, COULD NOT RESIST THE STRONGHOLD OF THE FORCE. THE POLICE FORCE. AS THEY CLOSED IN, THEY BRUTALLY MANHANDLED ME TO A SCRAGGLY HOSPITAL STRECHER AND FASTENED AT LEAST 20 BUCKLES TO PREVENT VOLITION . MY BODY WAS IN AN IRON MAIDEN...OR SO IT SEEMED. THIS DID NOT MAKE IIFRANKTHEMASTER HOLD HIS BREATHE AT ALL, RATHER, HIS MOCKING TENOR BECAME AN AWFUL DEATH-Shriek AND HE BEGAN TO NAME ALL THOSE THAT SHOULD NEVER BE NAMED.: 

“I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!!!!!” HE screamed. “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM!!!” “DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM!!!” “DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM CAPABLE OF!!!” “I AM FRANK THE MASTER” “Abaddon! Accuser of our brethren!  Adversary! Angel of Light! Angel of the bottomless PIT! ANTICHRIST! Apollyon ! Beelzebub ! Belial ! Crooked serpent! Devil! DIABOLOS ! Dragon! Enemy! Father of lies! God of this World! LEVIATHAN! LIAR! Lucifer! Lying spirit! Mephistopheles! Murderer! Old serpent! Piercing serpent! Power of darkness! Prince of the devils! Prince of the power of the air! Prince of this World! Roaring lion! Ruler of this world! Satan! Serpent! Son of the Morning! Spirit who now works in the sons of disobedience! Swine! Tempter! UNCLEAN Spirit! Wicked one!”

            BOY! WAS THAT A DISASTER, THAT ONE, yEAH, rEGARDING HENRY, THEREFORE AD ASTRA PER ASPERA. HENRY HAS A LOT OF FIGHTING TO DO . HE IS A WARRIOR AGAINST  HIMSELF. oH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD...I HAVE SUCCEEDED MY TIME SLOT FOR YACKING ABOUTMYSELF AND OTHERS. tHIS STORY OF MY LIFE WILL BE CONTINUED. I HAVE ABOUT FIVE LIFETIMES OF MATERIAL TO MAKE THE WAX IN YOUR EARS FLOODS OF THAT WHO SHOULD NOT BE NAMED X 10,0000. ROUGHLY. 
   I RETIRE NOW, VERY BORINGLY, TO A GAME OF CHESS WITH CLANCEY THE LUNATIC. hE SURE KNOWS HOW TO PRESS MY BUTTONS IF THAT BE ALL HE IS GOOD AT. IT IS LIKE PLAYING RUGBY WITH A THREE YEAR OLD. I AM SICK OF TALKING ABOUT ILLNESS. I WILL TAKE MY ORANGE JUICE AND MY LEAVE AND SPEAK TO YOU CURIOUS FOLK NEXT WEEK? sAME TIME? hOW ORDERLY! tHANK YOU. nO, THANK YOU.-hENRY o'mALLEY

     

Not Right Now. But, yes, "The Principia Discordia."

Hexastix. Not Right Now. It has me on the edge. I cannot cross over into its allure. Not Right Now. In the meantime here is some entertainment. -OtheMallyHenry

A jug of wine,
A leg of lamb
And thou!
Beside me,
Whistling in
the darkness.

Be Ye Not Lost Among Precepts of Order...
- The Book of Uterus 1;5http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~tilt/principia/intro5.html

BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: TOTALLY SARAH!!!!

BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: TOTALLY SARAH!!!!

This may have been where it all began...part II

…but I was not surprised, do not ask me why, it all seemed natural at the time. Not to deviate from the main plot of my story but, as you see, I am perfectly aware. I have been perfectly, acutely aware that I must finish the task of the Hexastix. It is my burden, but also a delight. It also gave me a fright because the Black Sarah, or, Sarah the Black came onto the scene. Kind of fucked up my reality. I had a running dialoque of being in the present moment I am, I am , I am HERE! But, the, then. About the Hexastix. I have to wait until the lab rat adjusts to his medicine. The lab rat is me. I am not fat. HA! Yet, not me, me because I know I am a human being put on this Earth with Brilliant seisms of earthly delights before you all, proper! I was distracted, I was. When the footprints took me to the caravan. I said this ain't no Grateful Dead show, cause if it is I blowing my ass out of this place. But the man was gentle. Like that Jesus character. He said: "Smoke your cigarette, I will make her aware of your presence." Oh how formal is he! What I thought and I know: the meds aren't quite right and my logic is jumping around like a faggoty unicorn, (laughter for a time. Hmm, cigarette). Can't waste no time laughin. These are the best I got. No sew-intravenal fiend can stampede me now. I don't want none of that. But, This is calumny. Meeting Sarah Thee Black. Thee Sarah the Black!!! Saint of the Roma gypsy tribe. Ehm. Gypsies have always facinated me, oh well. I suppose that is why the footprints tracked me all the way here. Some gypsy mischeif. Sneaky creatures they are, scally-waggers, I see, but damn I do admire their independence and unity. The perseverance and the severence from the country that pretends it is an empire and the man at arms is Luke fucking Skywalker- Arnold fucking schwarschwarztuneggger for California!!! Hell, I ain't never setting foot in that land. What a dolt!!!!Alright where is this dark, well, off-white man?  Sara?

I Sara of Kali!!!! What magnificience!!! Like a novelty set of skin decorated in layers of fine fabrics of highly expenisve design or maybe even created by the gypsy's themselves. They are so damn creative. How I would wander among them and feel at home . That is why I had such an experience. The gypsy life fits the mold of my life. We are the same shapes and sizes and tricksters... Malarkey mischief I dang knew it~!!!!!! I was two years old when I first inquired bout the gypsies. Everyone says they are so damn backwards: I never saw the justification behind such a derogatory landslide as came out the mouths of gypsy haters. They hate them because they are smarter you see. They aren't going to give up their way for no lies. They are much sneakier and resourceful. They will always exist. Not like bronto the saurian . They were so stupid... them dinosaurs.... They ate up all their food and drank all the water and didn't save any for later so they died of undernourishment. 

 Anyway I am waiting for the Black Lady Sarah. I am smoking. I was thinking of an axeman when all of the sudden I felt a presence. A strong feminine presence. There were colors, many colors, and soft breathing. I put out my cigarette which is out of character for me. What a day for characters! I never felt such feminine grace and purity. The Mennonites were far away from me at this point. Sarah, Saint Sarah of the Roma. She made me forget my bleak interconnections. There was only her. And me. And her. So her  presence dug into me like the sweetest thorn.  I looked into her eyes, they were black, tar-black and beautiful. Her eyes seemed to hold me into position because I,at this point, was too weak to hold myself up after such a journey. Her eyes had a whisper, not a voice, a whisper. So consoling. She knew I was afflicted yet did not know myself to be a victim. She said that I could stay so long as I take responsibility for my soul. She knew about the Master Frank and his horrid plague that ruthlessly injected itself into my tortured veins, time to time, sometimes years go by with no word from that horrid Master Frank. Do your best to keep Him at bay and you will once again find Henry. Henry is but a little boy underneath all those layers of age that have hardened and strangely shaped him into a statue of his nightmare self. That nightmare self can only erode the soft young skin of Henry if Henry does not do what it takes to stave away the shadow self. The world. You live a hard and confused life: A life of broken dreams due to a condition that is out of your hands but kept at bay only if you face your responsibilities. Sometimes it is best to remain when sojourn seems the likely answer. The comforting answer. You cannot run faster than your demons but you have the gift of out-witting them. Remember your brain, your devotion to literature and truth. Remember the gift of scholarship, that, although was lost in the fire of your illness, is still alive in spirit. You are still Henry the scholar. Your biggest gift is your honesty. Your honesty can be frightening, but it is pure. You are like the travelers. The ones that never sit still. You travel even when you are sitting still. You are outside the states and countries and montages of lands governed by terrible men. They fear this. You are not afraid anymore. They fear this. You are like us, yet you are not us. You have been brought to me so that I may remind your vagabond soul that it has worth and meaning on this earth even when your body betrays your thoughts and your actions become  like enemies to a captured human being that cries harshly from within the cold cement of a haywire brain. Let me tell you Henry. You are blessed with an intense spirit that only few are courageous enough to indulge in. You know, very well, what you speak of and yet your words are mostly strangers not only to those that cannot put them together, but to you. Although you lose yourself, Henry, you never lose yourself. Your grip is steadfast and will never let go. You will never completely lose yourself. The Master hates you because he knows he will never have you forever. The only thing you have ever told Henry, is the truth, and so your life, fractured as it may be, is an honest life. This is your strongest attribute. You, Henry, are a sedentary traveler and have much in common with the Roma. You live on the periphery, but you know how to survive independent of the evil that comes with your illness: It will not kill you Henry, it will only deepen your awareness of all that infected surrounds you and lay upon you the gift of multiple perceptions. Do not take these perceptions as a fault or a brand of disease. These perceptions will live long after your death and be subject of many a scholarly discourse. Never futile. You travel. They travel. You are travelers that travel many separate and distinguished paths. You may not be Roma, but you are kin to us in spirit. there are so many ways to be outside when the inside looks so enticingly warm. Yet, you know you must endure the wind and the hail in order to fulfill your destiny. In order to be the mouth of mouths that cannot move, but are paralyzed with cruel muzzles; some too ill to speak; some too repressed to talk. You have a gift Henry. Many people are confused by your words. The words you speak are honest and brave, at times they seem anomaly when they are only lose associations that form deep connections as time moves and talk persists. Keep talking Henry. Keep traveling. Travel light though and keep the Master at bay. You were brought here, traveler among travelers, so that I may tell you that Master or Mennonite, there exists a Henry O'Malley. A brilliant and somewhat brightly colored spectacle sometimes tempered with gray patches, but such is life and to be human is to be human. Humans all have the gray time to time. Remember that you are human Henry. We live outside the comfort of the common, but such is our plight and gift and it is our responsibility to stay true to our mission. Farewell. I must be spectacle. The place where the land ends and the sea begins; they wait for me. Henry, my spirit embraces you. You carry many worlds on your shoulders.

I cannot remember if she spoke directly to me or into me. This was not my only encounter with Kali Sara. The next thing I knew I was alone with salt water up to my ankles looking at a shore with no indentations. Not a footprint. I still had my cigarettes though. I lit one up and splashed absently to shore, cigarette in mouth. Where was I? Not Kansas for sure. The tin-man was stupid for wanting a heart. It is like asking for the plague. My thoughts turned from goddess to grasshoppers to scullions and stitches. I had stitches once above my right eyebrow. I took them out myself because I was anxious for the doctor to take them out. I had to do it to quiet my mind. No stitches, no fiasco in the right or left side of my brain. I carry many worlds on my shoulders, hey now, ain't that the truth. Thank you Sister Sarah, Sara Kali, Saint of the Roma.

And just in case you have no idea what I am talking about (such is usually the case) do some bloody research! It may make your brain a tad bit bigger. EXPAND!
-Henry

Satan and Buggery

Satan and Buggery
Originally uploaded by STANIAM

I saw this poster that I made and thought of the decline of the Roman Empire and the rebirth of the American Empire.