Pythonism

writing about my life

The Invisible Prison

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I have been writing a journal for years. Often the thoughts are troubled and difficult. I wonder how I can use it as raw material for some kind of fiction.

Once, I thought all this stuff would work best as an internal monologue in the mind of a murderer. Taking a leaf out of Martin Lake’s book and writing horror. But something about that seems dangerous, I don’t think I will. Having actually been delusional, blurring the boundaries may not be good for my mental health.

Maybe it is just meant best as a diary, non-fiction. To mix real and unreal was what I did with Renfield (my first novel) and it disturbed you, Steve. But then autobiography is so often a writer’s main resource.

Much of the content is description of basic events: “I just had scrambled eggs for breakfast” etc. But the mundane bits are interspersed with a kind of reflection/introspection that does have some depth and, I hope, interest for a reader.

I will not fail completely if I forget to make notes, but it is still always worthwhile.

Souls may commune with each other. Schizy friends learn this. The great struggle ensues, and at last the Pied Piper’s magic saves all. Saves us from people. People who will always contradict you when they hear emotion in your voice. People who call you names. People who interrupt you when you are trying to say something kind to help them. People who have shut down their capability for curiosity. People who are indifferent and think that gentleness means you are “feeble”. People in general… People in specific cases…

I gave money to the refugees in Calais.

I seek a dramaturgic perspective. I seek visioning states without drugs. I seek portals opening. I seek animal spirits. I seek to escape the dimensional trap of TV reality. I seek to walk alone through dales of mortality, and describe them without cliche. I risk much.

But since the soul’s sacred raiment is love, I am safe.

Give up TV for a decade – Rip Van Winkle on steroids. Is my trembling glaringly obvious? I walk on a pavement. A man quickly raises a hand to his face in a nervous gesture. “Is this connected to me?” I ask.

I pass gigawatts of french nuclear power on the dunkerque bus. I am luckier than I think.

You seldom hurt others with your magic unless it originates from a hateful intention. If something was an accident then apologise, so the other knows you didn’t mean it. This means that little gaffes and faux pas should be forgivable, crimes of ignorance not of malice.

The soul is connected to the body through the breath. Get thee to a mountaintop – the view will teach you perspective.

To believe in dreams and magic is for children you might say… but I need to be an adult who can still believe, although the rest of the time I am trying to excise or surgically remove the irrational from myself. At least I am documenting this…

While you walk, maintain a centred and easy posture. Watch thoughts chattering like the birds in a bush.

Where do we go from here, Pele?

To “The Invisible Prison” my dear. A socially generated force-field that encloses and suffocates.The perception of the State penetrating my mind. Inside me is a chemical that removes freedom. It damps my emotions so I can never feel joy, so that bourgeois sleepwalkers can dream on un-threatened by my public suffering.

All I’ve ever seen or done is with me and like the field it damps and encloses. Like a cellophane trap that covers and wraps the body, then after the application of heat it shrinks around you and tightens to smother you. Like arms that grab you in an embrace that starts as loving but gets tighter and tighter until you suffocate.

The loving hand of psychiatry tends me but slowly it starts to destroy freedom and remake me as the conformist coward it wants. My soul is precious and it must have its say, I live for it and to express it, but the mundane world slices the apex of the pyramid to render it the regulation size. Excised from me is all creativity and uniqueness. I’d rather suffer, I’d rather be miserable, than this. This is why Dilliway burned himself. Why Zoe went off that cliff.

I must simply write and write and write until clarity comes. I’m always banging on about clarity – what is it ? Maybe it is not desirable. Certainly if it is the damping of emotion to achieve “detachment”. In my primal self detachment is literally bisection of the heart. I feel deathmurder slicing at the root. I used to see a vision of someone smashing a bottle on a lingam. To attack the phallus principle like a castrating enemy would.

To psychoanalyse is to degrade in the media’s eye. Can we understand with sympathy or gloat over the revelation of sexual secrets like someone reading a gossip column. All psychic content is dirt, it’s what we are made of. I have a nightmare about committing a murder – big deal – loads of people do. But why ? I wanted to get on my favourite Canterbury bus, the bus that’s so fast and convenient, look out the window at the flat countryside and arrive at Ian’s. But no, I had to get that dream.

Shit. So I can’t get up… and end up sleeping and dreaming again.

People with more pain are wiser, the normal camp is the fascist one. People who are untroubled are the real bastards. Its the tormented who are worth knowing. Everything upside down. Is that it? The worst dream I ever had was the one where I had a head transplant. The stitches around the neckline were perpetually itchy and scratching only threatened to remove the stitches holding me together. Later it turned into a dream of being lobotomised.

People are bastards, that’s all you need to know – My new resolution! Kerouac was slagged off and hounded by the Bourgeois Media as a “gorilla with a typewriter”. This shit is even worse.

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Written by Luke Dunn

November 3, 2018 at 2:19 pm

Posted in Prose

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