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

         

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

     

My Mental Illness

While I am lucid and my medication regimen stalls my mental deterioration I thought it appropriate to explain to my audience the nature of my mental illness and why you may not understand or be able to follow some of my writings due to my condition that causes me to become disassociated and esoteric. I may even make up words or, if you are familiar with the term neologism which simply means fabricated words or "word salad." For now though I must go to my group house meeting and listen to the lunatic tenants blab away and the house staff blab away for about one hour: awfully boring. I apologize that I have not presented an explanation of my condition and how it effects the way I communicate earlier, but better now than never, as the cliche goes. You will be hearing from me soon, but for now, G'day!-Henry O'Malley

This may have been where it all began...

Long, long ago, in a time when I was constantly misdiagnosed and rebelling against the mental health system and various pharmaceutical companies, I wandered while victim of my delusions to a land far, far away. Actually, wandered may not be the proper word to describe my sojourn for I did not initially begin my journey on land but by sea.  There was some unseen magnetism drawing me to a destination. What destination? I hadn’t the slightest idea, I just let the magnet pull me headfirst into the North Atlantic ocean and I swam, determined and pulled by some supernatural force, to another continent: Europe, France( When off my medication I harbor supernatural powers). The place in which I came to shore was Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, a fishing village in France, but at the time I did not know the place or the reason I was compelled to swim such a great distance to arrive there. I sometimes tend to wander aimlessly and without purpose when my illness becomes my master; this time was different; some force had guided me there; I had a purpose. As I drew myself out of the water and my feet implanted themselves in the sand of the shore I was quite astonished by the air quality. It was as if I was inhaling some from of alchemy. The smell was quite unique, pleasant, but powerful; a mixture of magic and strange spirits. As I began to walk the shore, I noticed something unusual after a period of trance-like obliviousness: there was a set of footprints beside my own and by some instinct I was compelled to follow them. They were well engraved in the sand and I had a premonition that they appeared before me so that they could guide me-I knew not to where, but I knew it was in the cards for me to follow them. I was acutely under the influence of the delusions of my illness, but, oddly, my archfiend I Frank The Master did not attempt to possess me. Now, looking back, I knew I was being protected by the saint Sara the Black- saint of the gypsies, also known as Sara-la-Kali. As for the footprints, they seemed like safety to me and I knew by following them I would be deterred from evil. I did not walk beside the footprints, but rather placed my feet into their mold. They matched the shape and size of my own feet with a precision that was uncanny, but I was not...

Resentment is useless...the airbag didn't go off when I crashed!!!!I am still working on the fucking Hexastix: I just get pushed around by my "mental" condition sometim

Lately I have been in a special place I like to call "Trance Island." When my medications fail to keep me from having a "Hebe" episode, you will see or read rather about a part of me that is disconnected from this dimension but highly adaptable to planet fucking weirdo. I hate my mental illness, but I remain unresentfuyl. No resentment towards my condition exists inside my fragmented brain because resentment is absolutely useless. Yeah, fuck, so I tell somebody I won a purple bulldog one day, but the next day I say.."Purple bulldog? What are you crazy?" I am pushed around by my "mental" condition sometimes and it makes it hard for me to be consistent. But, damn it, the last book of Hexastix will finally be revealed now that I have been "stabilized." Oh dear! I also have to fucking write a Hexastix For Dummies manuel for clueless, or, rather, "less evolved" individuals. Poor, poor humans.I just get sick of people not getting it sometimes.....most times rather. Grow up! Evolve! Turn off the television and read a book (not Winnie-the pooh). Whateva! And poor,poor, Christopher Robin. I am so glad that pitiable kid is dead. Just Kidding. And if you don't like my sense of humor, I am informed by my greater forces of intellect to tell you to go join the sheep factory like all the others. I don't give a shit!!!! It is a hardship to be esoteric and invisible, but what the fuck ever! That's life Henry!! I find things that are esoteric  fascinating because it's not some beating a dead horse piece of information, what ever the form it comes in (book, a person says something. I am very curious and my illness has provided me not only with severe stress of the body and mind, but the ability to be curious of what I find to be an anomaly. I must say that a being what I am t does not reject (unless it was immoral to that person) , but tries to gain an understanding of the planet so and so comes from  is courageous: it is amazing how many cowards inhabit the earth. I can only take so much cowardice. I abhor cowards and self-pity and being pitied. I detest it!!!! Anyway, this cigarette is particularly great this morning. Why do I smoke? Well, I'm only human. Humans are cursed with one vice or another. Soo, that is all. -You want to know what is truly weird? Good, because I am going to tell you anyway. People....upper-middle class people-like to put books on their shelves and never read them. I thought books were books. I thought books were produced to be read. WTF! Books as decorations make me think the world is a bit crazier than me and meaningless and seeking negative attention.l, AND JUST FLAT OUT STUPID ABOUT IMPRESSING OTHERS. Suburban zombies with housecleaners that they share and gossip about. HOLY FALLEN COWS!!! People can be and are, to me, boring dusty tools. Re-runs of the most horrid movie. Acting-poor. Script-worse. Brains-exempt. If you have certain things one is accepted-  total dolts. What?  That defines most people? How boring! It is a great misfortune I must endure. The boring and stupid. I also have to deal with the nut-cases in the group home I inhabit. I find them to be annoying and I want to yell shut up so loud their eardrums become disabled. Same old shit. Okay, I am done with that tyrade. HA! -Hnery
P.S.-I do not rresent the airbag. Airbags can't help it if they are lazy.

Henry's Psychiatric Session to Determine Prognosis Part II

Henry returns to the room of Dr. Kentworth. He is smiling and fidgets with his hands, flops down on an empty chair, swings both legs over the left side of the chair,  and begins to laugh.

Dr. Kentworth: So, the cigarette went well I see.

Henry: (now very serious, no more laughter)
Create in me, O God, a pure heart--
but I am not pure!


Dr: Henry?

Henry: Create in me, O God, a pure heart--but I am not pure! The smell comes first,

but I am not pure! Then the man that calls himself "Frank the Master" pours into me and O God, a pure heart I am not!

Dr: Henry (pauses trying to capture henry's attention), have you ever been seen by a psychiatrist before?

Henry: On this day, O God, drop oil on my head as a symbol of healing. I saw a man once. His head was like a leper's tail. He told me I would be okay if I just stopped brushing my teeth. I thought, said, that sounds mighty dramatic, to the man...then he held out his hand.....and I took it....BLAST ME!

Dr: So, in other words, Henry, you have been to a psychiatrist before?

Henry: So much energy, and in one section. It tires me out to speak of it, but, nonetheless, yes, his name was O God! That's it! His name was O God! And he laid out his hand before me and tried to protect me from The Master (laughs) but, oh how The Master ripped off that hand of poor O God! And then I saw no one but Him. He told me to go to Kansas City and kill the board of Congress like I was some ol'white son-of-a-bitchi n'-dog-hearin'-son-of-Sam!

Dr: Henry, there is no need to raise your voice, I can hear you perfectly well when you just talk. (long pause, Henry kicks his feet up and down against the side of the chair and smiles at Dr. Kentworth) So, Henry, you're telling me that your first psychiatrist was O God?

Henry: (laughs and then swings his legs back to the front of the chair, crosses them, folds his hands and places them on his left leg, he now speaks in monotone) Yesiree, O God was his name-o. He told me that Frank was not real and that my mind was playing tricks on me. I was like, tricks. Who plays tricks. Not me, for sure. Tricks aren't anything but a young skeleton wearing a body, you know. 

Dr: So you have seen someone before me. Why did you see somebody before me Henry?

Henry: Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. See that man there, that accompanies that wretched smell, be gone. I don't care if it's bloody fucking Siberia, send him away. Send him away. Send him away. His eyes are expensive and violent. They cause an explosion inside of me. It is very uncomfortable and I damn my mother. Mother-fucker go on now to Siberia like O God says I say.

Dr: God was your first psychiatrist Henry?

Henry: In a sense, I guess you could say. (fixes his eyes on a bust of Carl Jung that rests upon the desk of the doctor) Senselessly, all around me I see brokenness: children hungry, women abused, pastors harassed, legislators befuddled, immigrants deported, people discouraged. That ain't my bag, right? My dreams were determined by my illness. How he overcame me is not altogether clear. I saw him but a few times. He was ugly. He looked like that hooded thing that takes the life away. He told me a lot of calumniation-malarkey. This hog-wash spewed from his mouth. A liar he was. His pants, were, in fact, not on fire though. That is a blasted shame because deceivers belong in the fire. Dreams, art, mythology=malarkey. Now this trash-dreamer was trying to tell me that my English scholarship went to hell because the host had sent it there. The host in my dream sent it, that is. My dreams send my scholarships to hell. Now. Does that sound right. 

Dr: Are you asking me a question Henry?

Henry: Not Henry (laughs)-the bad man dummy.

Dr: Who is the bad man?

Henry: Uh, like, duh, The Master, remember.

Dr: Yes, Henry, I remember. You did not trust your former psychiatrist?

Henry: (Cries out) WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT TRUST!!!! THE FUCKER TOLD ME I WAS INFESTED WITH THE FUCKING DEVIL!!!! NOW AWAY O GOD!!!!

Dr: Okay Henry, okay. Let us talk about something else. When was the last time you took a shower Henry?

Henry: Nineteen fucking eleven. The last time the waters did roar. They accosted me like the dickens. How they burned up my skin. Goddamn nineteen fucking eleven all good fuckers go to Heaven. Yeah, Fuck all them too-good-for-you's. I'm done with this.

Dr: Nineteen-eleven. That was a long time ago wouldn't you say Henry?

Henry: (Uncrosses his legs, gets up from his chair and goes to the window dragging his shoes along with him, expressionless) All Hell after that. All Hell.

....to be continued.....

Henry: Psychiatric interview

Dr.Kentworth MD interview with Henry O'Malley to determine prognosis

Dr: What are the main problems?

Henry:Smoke? I prefer smoking I think.

Dr: Sorry this is a non-smoking facility.

Henry: (Chuckles to himself, crosses his legs)

Dr: What problems are you experiencing? Have you noticed a change in yourself? Abnormalities?

Henry: You see, the way I fold my hands has nothing to do with the normal structure of the plantation. The Greeks came in spirit and discovered this country. This obese country. But, the Great Grasshopper plague changed their minds. (laughs for some seconds) Little hoppers on the prairie! 1874 death-machine! (grimaces, sucks in his lips)

Dr: When did you last feel well? 

Henry: I was taking a stroll through the wood-like statues. The leaves were quite dim. Then, I noticed my body was out of control. The smell was somewhat stretching my nostrils. I was very uncomfortable at this point.

Dr: What kind of smell?

Henry: (places his right knuckle to his mouth for about a minute) Sad.

Dr: The smell was sad?

Henry: Sad? Mostly prehistoric. Ancient. Like a dead thing entered the vicinity.

Dr: In the past have you ever had problems with your mental health/nerves/depression?

Henry: OOOOOO....this is getting spooky. (widens his eyes) My mother. Her nerves were like winter freezing me up and down. My hands were often cumbersome mechanical stems. 


Dr: What about your nerves Henry? Were you often uncomfortable?


Henry: THE NEW YEAR HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH CHANGE! IT FRIED MY BRAIN! SUDDENLY BLIND TO MY COMPATRIOTS!!!!!


Dr: Okay Henry, take a deep breath. You do not need to raise your voice. I understand you perfectly.


Henry: (Bursts into tears)


Dr: Why do you cry Henry? Would you like to take a break?


Henry: You're a funny guy. Just like the last one.


Dr: Would you like to continue our conversation?


Henry: (Stands up from his chair, walks to the rear of the chair, leans over it) You should quiet yourself. The air is full of them. They hear everything. 


Dr: Who hears everything?


Henry: THE GODDAMN MENNONITES THAT"S WHO!


Dr: Okay Henry. Why don't you go take a cigarette break outside. Ms.Galen will escort you. We will take a break. How does 15 minutes sound?


Henry: All is well. Here and there. Smoke is good to me.


Dr: Very well Henry. Talk to you soon and enjoy your break.


....to be continued.

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Hebephrenia Happens

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I do not have transmitters in my brain or any stink-in' wang-dang paranoia-cysts. Everyone knows about thoses. No. I come from a different frontier altogether, but I was raised by ants. The queen was very demanding. We worked really hard. I do not like the pusher-man. His eyes are rocks and he kills the sky for ten bucks. They cut down the tree. This brought turmoil to my sense of self. The air became stale-like and thin. The lepers were all watching the game and I rode up on my steed with dire indifference. The boys had marbles streaming out of their cerebellums and the witch Mennonite teacher wagged her tale for the Lord to see: she said "shame." She said shame and the cops came and then the robbers pitched their tents in front of the pig station. It was a riot I tell you. It has been almost 70 years since I have seen the likes of positive action. See something? I don't see anything. My doctor asks me if I see things and I tell him where to go. If only he could stand in the corner. I slow down. I am slowing down. The lunatics get on my nerves. They pace like narcotic addicts. All tense. Oh Hebe! She is the slut amongst wolves. Crying out Jesus almighty Son of God to you Mrs. Fucker. Fucked up brains oozing out melodramatically. Oh please. Stop this facade! HA! HA! HA!.  Just like you to wince. Is it some kind of warning? Malachite shoots through the wires inside of me just like the next man. The white house-skeleton waits for God's hands to finish constructing it. I am so glad his hands are not broken and that he is an invisible man. Invisible anonymous. This is my name: HenryOMalley. Don't go to the swamp. A-MEN.

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Nothing. It all means nothing. This is my name: OMalley I am going to see Jesus tonight. He is so much a zombie these days-back from the DEAD and all. I am going to see him play at the local bar for over-sized losers and basket-cases alcohol conundrum fallacy rock and roll good times. The End.

A Day In The Life

Little Asylum on the Prairie. Stabilize and assess. Stabilize and assess. Acute schizophrenic episode chemically restrained with 50mg-25mg injections of thorazine, a “typical’ antipsychotic, given at intervals, the timing I cannot recall. Thorazine found Henry, submerged in the deep mass of antichrist: dissolved the infestation of I Frank the Master. I, Henry, was temporarily exorcised and freed, even in my state of catatonia, quite naked, submissive yet apathetic, mute. My eyes fixed on a certain point, but not seeing: the object was no object, just a stationary backdrop that had no name, color, shape, or purpose. Voices: professionals, assistants, volunteers, sometimes a practicing Mennonite, covered in layers of sterile air, mildly raised or dropped, hummed, lulled, never reached any perceptual logic or conclusion. In fact, the Henry of the future would most likely describe this past state, or lack of state, much like an involuntary vacation. Nothingness. Vapid. Vacuous. Non-being. An empty body chemically confined to a generic hospital bed, but nevertheless, FREED, from that awful raucous of the mind and body. Who would think this medication coma pleasant? Most relate such experiences to nightmares. But, to me, after months of deterioration, and the climax, an episode of acute violent schizophrenic outburst, the Delusion/ Evil entity I Frank the Master’s grand appearance and usurpation of all my faculties, this coma was not unlike having access or permission to a boat during The Flood. -Henry O'Malley

DATING?

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I saw something very disturbing today on my computer. My computer and I have formed a tight bond most likely due to the lack of interesting or worthwhile people to occupy space and time with. But, I saw this disturbing set of words on my computer screen today. Normally I am able to say "OK computer, you can slack a little, but please, please, try to keep the spam to a minimum." Uh, thank you. Not today. I was hyper-focused on some set of demented microbe/cyber formations of words. I was trying to write a bit about something I know a lot about, when all of a sudden, a smaller block screen rose up in front of my project that wanted to know my interests. First off, I know my computer does not give a fuck about what I am interested in since I have to tell it where to go all the time. But, much worse were one of the options next to the check-box list of "supposed" limited interests: DATING? WHO THE FUCK FINDS DATING INTERESTING? What does one do on a date? Or is it before the date that is most um, interesting? Get dressed? Why get dressed for someone else? Let alone get in the shower. Really, Is there not more interesting things to do? And what is expected of one on a date? What is it? A date? Do people actually still do that? FUCK MAN! Sounds like a complete unnecessary mission. What is it? He pays for dinner and then she rewards him with a bit of pretense of procreation? Or is it go with other dates and have a date filled evening? What do they do? Go to the movies? The Bar? The hot dance club? Do they talk? What do they say? They must be incredibly uncomfortable or, more disgustingly, horny pigs. I think that horny pigs should just skip the date and fuck. I mean, if that is all two people want from each other, why waste time with all the boring lallygagging? People are so strange to me. Hot dates on a hot Friday night. Why is Friday such a big deal anyway? All the miserable nine to fivers get a measly two days away from slavery? What is it that makes the weekend "party-time?" Why not party everyday? Why wait? People make no sense to me I'm afraid. And flirting, now that is a crock of malarkey. All these little games people play. They take up so much time. Why is it so strange to me? It always has been. Yeah, hot date tonight. I'd rather pick my nose and read. Stab at my keyboard and see a world of words, that I control (usually), assemble before me like my head split open and my brains got sucked into the computer monitor and the knowledge and the horrid spelling these days make for unpleasant contrast. Hot Date? Get real. Boooooring. Stabbing and reading make more sense to me. HA!-Henry O'Malley  

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Hexastix V

Whoah, finally. I am able now. I am able to tell you about book V of the Hexastix. I ran my face under some cold water and washed my hands twice. Anyway, after I "defeated" all the tasks I was to undergo before admission to book V-The Justice Sticks I was thrown into some kind of trance. My recollection of what I experienced during this trance is confined to an informative voice. The voice was monotonous, yet hypnotic and easy on the ears. The voice began its monologue thus: Greetings believer and congratulations for your successful mastery of the five trials set before you. It is now time for you to partake in the knowledge of Hexastix: justice. Book V is always read aloud to the master of trials. It is accessible only to The First Voice of the Hexastix. We are no foolish pacifists. We take our culture very seriously and have no stomach for prejudice, ridicule, or violence. It is, however, perfectly justifiable to commit violence as an act of self-defense. If we are attacked, we do not stand and gape. HARK! Before justice is administered to the blackguard HARK I SAY!!! The Song of Allegiance to the Stick-people must resound before the deed, eye for an eye, but not to the point of stupidity.
                                             The Song of Allegiance to the Stick-people


Pity, pity, those that abuse us, for we are masters of a sacred valve: If that valve be beaten or ridiculed because of its nature, the perpetrator shall see hell. If you come upon us with weapons or blood-thirsty fists-these actions are returned in kind, but far more brutal as to express the exaggerated ignorance that crushes your skull and needles into your delusional brain.
CHANT:
"I've got my rights."
"I don't have to take that from you."
"Or do you not know that the sticks will judge the world?"
"I say this to your shame. Is it so, that there is not among you one wise man"
"You yourselves wrong and defraud"
"Now, satisfied with your iron fists and large weapons, you may feast upon the torment you have unjustifiably thrust unto the peaceful bodies and souls of my brethren and sister-en" 


Be careful what you say regarding the Stick-people.
Take care not to use physical violence, stupidly., against our minority.

Is this what you want?

Or perhaps this?

This is a possibility as well:

OR THIS?!

Sweet dreams! Ain't feelin' so superior? Tragic!
OR THIS!

Terrible cramping accompanied by a persistent sensation not unlike being stabbed in the balls.

Just quiet. Tact. Zip. It would make much more sense for you to genuflect before the invisible Father behind the stars than to use iron fists or any such advanced weaponry on my brethren and sister-en

DO YOU REALLY WANT THIS?.

  Hence the end of the fifth book of sticks-The Hexastix. Mind you, it is always unfortunate to have to take such stringent measures in order to preserve our dignity. The choice is yours. Think.

This information has been taken verbatim from the First Voice of the Hexastix. Watch yourself. Ignorance can kill you.

_Henry O'Malley