Writing about my life. When I'm well it's math and code… But when the schizy demon rises it's prose and poetry.


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I aim to get a real flow going with this writing. Once I wrote so much that it induced a kind of change of consciousness, as if there was a cloud of words fluttering about me, recombining and shifting. Maybe that is the mindset of a true writer! It started so powerfully but after a while I found I was getting overwhelmed. It hit a little bit of a panic stage so I shut it down. I just killed the thoughts I guess. Perhaps I shoudn’t have…

I am managing to order and organise a lot of things in my life. In honour of Gurdjieff perhaps who said “you must order what is disordered” as one of his pieces of advice to a niece. OK, so I have rejected most of his stuff after my latest “Skepticism Frenzy” but I think I’ll retain that maxim. It is quite a good description about what human life is about, especially a writer’s, again. The jumble of notes… disconnected experiences poured out onto the page in a random order. Then slowly tweaked and perfected into a finished result that is readable and speaks of the period of life where that maelstrom of raw experience was first felt.

I just rejected a call from Andrew, I can’t get a word in edgeways with him. Mum thought her facebook had been hacked but it doesn’t seem likely. Having a hat is good because if you are in a rush you can put it on and skip brushing your hair. I woke from a dream: an asian family had moved into my flat, taken it over and were refusing to leave. I was going to cancel my rent payment. There were other elements in the dream, to do with aggression, but I can’t remember them.

Again, a series of completely unconnected statements, like a dream. Including a dream. But I can weave fragments together, I’ve done it before.

I don’t know what I’m going to write until I start typing.

This is day 2 of not switching on phone but writing instead, first thing.

I wake and cough, retch and vomit… my eyes go pink and stream with tears, there is a burning sensation around them. I am plunged into total pain, of a kind that you remember as a child during a tantrum. Tantrum is quite a cruel word when really the child is simply expressing themselves emotionally. That’s what I remember about them, anyway.

After the first coffee I feel a sense that the day is less intimidating than I felt earlier. Is this my defences kicking in? I think so. The dream world can be frightening and sometimes filled with desperation and unhappiness, but after waking I come into the day and start to feel more balanced out within a few minutes. Unless I want to hang onto the feelings of the dream, for exploration purposes, that is. Again I’m not sure which is right, to stay with the night’s emotion, or to paper over the cracks and go to a feeling of coping. I think the coping this time.

Second coffee and smoke. I am doing more than 2 pouches a week. I want to trim down somewhat on the smoking.

I wish I knew what the pain and crying on waking means. “Means” – that’s a perpetual obsession, but perhaps it is too broad an inquiry. I am not getting memories coming during the puke… hmm could it just be the smoking? it is partly the smoking but why the tears? I don’t know but it may come to me what is happening. Strangely on the mornings when I do the purge I tend to feel better after about 20 minutes, then for the morning I am more connected. If you are connected then sometimes that basic feeling of contentment arises, just a thing where you feel good to be alive.

As the day progresses I may hit other stressy bits, like not being able to find anything to do, and constantly looking at my phone in a desperate attempt to get enough stimulation to come into full function, full consciousness.

I have told Dave not to come. He was a little short with me over the phone yesterday. He doesn’t give much except passive aggression. When Dad heard about Bob he made a reference to “people with damaged lives” or something similar. I question that he can know remotely much about the people I know.

Maybe I should cut the locals out of my life and try and look up the old friends. It’s dependent on the love and concern in my own heart, which I can build consciously myself if I get a chance. Everything’s fine I’m not completely in the Styx.

I’m going to have poached eggs in a minute.

Day before yesterday I had no idea that the scrbbled notes I produced would turn into a blog post. It’s very casual and rambling, but contains a couple of nuggets which have some validity as observations etc.


Written by Luke Dunn

November 8, 2018 at 11:47 am

Posted in Prose

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