Finally, A Scientific Explanation of Why Babies Are So Dumb

16 04 2014

BAHFest 2013 – Zach Weinersmith: Weinersmith’s Infantapaulting Hypothesis

Life is short, …

14 04 2014

Life is short, art long, opportunity fleeting, experience deceptive, judgment difficult. – Hippocrates

from Hippocrates, from the Wikipedia entry on aphorism. Aphorisms sort of converge upon basic grounds when it is that the thoughts are invigorated by a struggling population against some sort of calamity. In short, these are “inspirational” ideas that lie low like the superflousness of pessimists in times of great insouciance, when it is possible to accept moral cowardice, when the chains of the poor and the declasse intellectuals rattle in our dreams, when we die the little death each comfortable day.

The middle class is a sort of drugged household pet, one that does tricks, some quite impressive, for token reward. But, even in our little beds, wearing our little collars and piddling in the corners of our weirdly confabulated and conforming landscapes, we cry out, because these struggles will come to rest heavy in our dreams, because we are not alone. Somewhere beyond the artificial horizons of our skylines, beyond the increasingly empty quarters of our suburbs, beyond the agrideserts of GMO corn and soy, beyond our trash-choked and over-fished oceans, lies the open territory of space, black, eternal night. When we lie down and are washed out to this cosmic sea of interviduated dreams, our collective unconscious recognizes archetypes of longing, of desire and sorrow, like little stars, little bright lights, and like moths even unto death, are we drawn towards sources of illumination.

The urban poor who crowd the perimeters of street lights at night selling drugs, their bodies, each other, weapons, are only the vanguards of a greater population of the impoverished and disillusioned. Lying awake at night, when we should be dreaming, worried about food for the hungry, do we wonder what the 1% are worried about? Do we care how they suffer? Is their cowardice and callous indifference to the suffering of the great majority of people going to change how they act tomorrow, when they wake up and slavishly bend their minds upon the anvil of greed, forging sharp weapons of their thoughts to cut away the chaff of the working poor, to enjoy minimalism, the emptying of our shanty towns with all their incongruent lives living so shabbily upon the shores of Cash Island.

Do we tell our children there is no hope in changing the system? It is the rare species of artist, of intellectual, of theologian, of scientist who, inside the furnace of this great devouring beast of Western civilization that finds a way to reject the pallid trophies handed down by the crapitalist masters, to look at this decoupage we are encouraged to call a value-system, to call a “civilization” and say, I’ve been robbed. What I have is shit. The trappings of conspicuous consumption, the fear of the lash. The proud business deal, the iron bars upon the minorities, locking down who cannot be locked out. It’s the same thing if one cause the other. If, by excluding the majority of people from access to good food, clean water and air, shelter and education to create technological advances in civil engineering and medicine, in art and culture, if we trade these zones of happiness for the chance to have a swipe at these pinatas of bullshit, then we have for prizes to share the mendacity of our own retreating courage to share.

We are encouraged to deceive our children. It is a tradition. We feed them ideas of imaginary, gift-bearing creatures that come to sweep us away in a pageantry of joy and sense of belonging. And, behind each holiday, we have an industrial-scale system of slave wage workers pumping out the goods that we can share for these brief respites from the crushing, endless road of struggle we face. We know things are not going to get better. We know the banks aren’t going to return the possibility of interest to our savings accounts.

The grain silos are bought, the land built and bought-out. There are no more corners of the globe to explore that we haven’t already been, haven’t covered with commentary and given substance to the shadows of our vacations. In the light of day we all hide in the open, waiting, waiting for what? I feel like I’m watching a lumbering beast lying before an advancing forest fire, aware it’s in danger, but not willing to stir from its cool shady mud bath until the oxygen is sucked from the air, the mud dries, until it is trapped in the mire that once served as refuge from the mosquitoes that feasted upon its immobility, its great bulk of comfort, congealed like glue, holding it fast forever, the vice of comfort.

When I was young, I threw away my life. I threw away most of my acquaintances, slipped from my identity as if it were some sort of robe, and decided to travel, if but to struggle alongside the people who made my blue jeans, who harvested the food flown in to my city that I might enjoy “a night out”, who toiled in the gardens under the threat of deportation, who didn’t have places in which to gather and protect themselves with legislative representation. I wanted to do black market agricultural labor, to find a window for refugees to at least find egress from collapsing city-state and nation-state. Having lived in the jungle in Malaysia as an exchange student in high school, I had learned that there is no safer quarter for the heart than in poverty. Poverty is honest. Where the masters have taken away nearly everything, you still have song, you have heart, you have a love of your compatriot that you can’t get when packed like sardines in the corporate matrix. I went to greece to work. I thought i would fill my pockets and move on. As luck would have it, Ii was robbed of my possessions, my camping gear, and in the course of some work for free room and board I landed a job as a youth hostel manager. Suddenly, I realized, my job would be the geography of discovery, and not the land itself. The world was going to come to ME.

I wanted to ride the ragged edge of struggle. I’m just glad i never entered any violent enclaves of war. I don’t know if I would’ve made it out. When I ran a youth hostel in Sitia,Crete in 1992,, I watched the walls of jingoism and ignorance fall away. I encouraged artists and poets to write upon the old plaster, to draw pictures, to dream themselves anew. The place was a crossroads. I met tourists, refugees, criminals, the insane, the truly lost, even a couple of ghosts, and when I left, I had become a kind of chimera, a less-than-me individual full of more-of-you. I had become the crossroads I sought, a fertile ground for ideas, very fragile, very pure, and when I returned to America, about two minutes inside the airport, I felt myself fall apart. The immensity of the culture shock took me nearly a decade to internalize to the point that I could function within my community well enough to try to volunteer and help others again. It took a decade for my broken heart to heal, my body to overcome the self-destructive invitation to consume the lies that would allow me to wallow in the refreshing filth of an uncritical lifestyle, to have the strength and courage to abandon self-pity.

Life is short, art is long, opportunity fleeting, experience deceptive, judgement difficult, said Hippocrates. But, with better tools, these things become easier.

We have acces to information. Democratic control of information gives rie to democratic control of life-resources, to medicine, to food, to a safe environment. I am not so blind to think that my dissidence is pitted against an unfeeling machine. There are those who worked inside the machine that is destroying the world who are waiting for the parallel infrastructure of rebellion to appear, to pick up the slack and pull just as mightily to bring down the rabid monster of unchecked power no less passionately than the minority youth who languish in prison on stupid and racist drug charges. Black urban men who wanted to get ahead and feed their families, protect their communities, build their churches, their sanctuaries, they were unfortunate to be the low men on the pole for the money-laundering, international banking cartel slave-drivers that are running the whole planet to the ground. They went down first.

The first thing people can do is stop buying garbage and putting it in their bodies. If it comes from a company traded on the NYSE, if it has an “investment class” behind it, you can be sure they’re not investing in you nor your future. If you think they’re going to wake up and say, wow, I want to relinquish my choke-hold on the planet’s resources just so I can selfishly maintain this need to sit atop this heap of misery, you’re wrong. The subaltern dissent in the technical sectors, in the outsourced management communities, they’re just waiting to vie their trades for the right reason, but too afraid to stick out their necks, to be the “no man” in the board room. This is a death cult, and it will come at a price. If it is that the declasse intellectual sitting at his desk in his cube farm stands up, declares mutiny, it would take a small amount to arrest the flow of capitalized wealth, destroy “investor confidence” and grind the machine to a halt.

Seriously, I don’t want to see the cities burn. I don’t want the paranoid masters invest more time and money to militarize the infrastructure of the police and surveillance state. It’s already ridiculously incompetent. After all, this was all done to fight the “terrorists”, and the very rich are deathly afraid of losing wealth. If you have any understanding of Karl Marx, you would know that the working poor are terrorists, that doctors and social workers are terrorists, artists are terrorists, children are terrorists. They are unknown quantities of imagination and freedom. They are making decisions to have fun, and to share good times. Crapitalism is not about sharing and preserving resources. Crapitalism is about excluding the greatest numbers of people from the greatest abstractions of wealth. We’ve been singing along, alone in the night, for so long. Can we get it together and make it right? You said follow your heart. You said to be true. You said kill your idols, you said to be the change you wanted to be, you said you would wake up and make a change. Well, honey, sing it louder.

Built To Spill, “You Were Right” 

You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright
You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright

You were right when you said all that glitters isn’t gold
You were right when you said all we are is dust in the wind
You were right when you said we’re all just bricks in the wall
And when you said manic depression’s a frustrated mess

You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright
You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright
You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright

You were right when you said you can’t always get what you want
You were right when you said it’s a hard rain’s gonna fall
You were right when you said were still running against the wind
Life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone
You were right when you said this is the end

Do you ever think about it?
Do you ever think about it?
Do you ever think about it?
Do you ever think about it?


Sitting on your hands and watching the world go to ruin will eventually lead to the flash points of violent uprising that the power structure is designed to profit from.

Painting – Tropix Flower

11 04 2014

Painting - Tropix Flower

Oil and ink on canvas board [ 8" x 12" ], decor

A line about Moby-Dick; or, The Whale – just spitballing here

9 04 2014

Put the Greek classics in the Bible, put that in Shakespeare, add Kant and Hobbes, stir in some stolen salts from old Araby, tenderize with the finest skrimshanders of the six drubbing dirt heaps and their paucity of civilized barbarity, dip the fine onion of it inside a creosote sarcophagus of timeless sea lore, and let it drift across the ocean a better part of a century, ’til its cook dies and leaves it to the world, mysteriously like a tree seduced by lightning, blackened and hollow, the wind through it moaning why, why, why will you often wonder would a will so unquiet, so malcontent and furious provide such an ample promise of emptiness for us all in its scorched breath, could beg you, would plead you cozen close to the blaze of fury that lurks within the mortal agony of suffering life, that you for a spell may reflect upon the beautiful filigree of prosody woven into the whip-cracks descending upon the long backs of each chapter, yarns woven with wily cunning through it, binding the failed quietus  that roasts this epic tale, to wit, gives you respite’s own ladle to pour the black ink of the deep sea upon your brow, some for yourself, all the while demanding you as a reader ask  this enigmatic Melville who burned  with glowing, low sullen passions so steadily from the crow’s nest of Western literature, so you may ask after you’ve poured it well upon your skull – lest you keep from scorching, pour carefully, while you brown nicely, your skin becoming a tough leather – you will bear this food for the uncaring gods, come to table unchaired, a hot cask of your own lardage, until the embers pull the last red spark from your eyes and your question from your blistered lips, how do we defy the end? Or you may ask, indeed, if it ends at all?

Hast seen the white whale?

Hast seen the white whale?

Kind of bland. Like eating a night rainbow. If you wanted a literary feast, beware, this tale starts with a black hole – you are going to tangle with a turduken you never dreamed possible. This is the one that gets away, and with you in the belly of it. Now with extra hapax legomenon.

Oh god, that was the longest sentence I ever wrote. Dear grammar, I’m sorry. Please don’t be so troubled.


Sketch – Tunneled Cheek

8 04 2014

Hairless Tunneled Cheeks

If I step back and hold this at an angle it seems less angular and severe.

I’m working out a picture and applied a phi ratio to some of the contours of this profile.



neg 10 angle

neg 10 angle

Improvement to the ear.



And turning the face into a nice rug



Quote from Crow…

7 04 2014

Quote from Crowfoot

What is life?
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs across
the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

Crowfoot, Blackfoot Warrior 1830-1890

The Ballad of Crowfoot, documentary by Willie Dunn, 1969

Features awesome archival images.

Is this racist? It’s racist, huh… – Imgur

7 04 2014

Is this racist? It’s racist, huh… – Imgur.

Dream – Waves of Aquarius

6 04 2014

I am feverish, unable to sleep properly. I lay down last night, get up. I’m freezing. I bundle up in a jacket and burrow down under the blanket. My bones are all grinding together. I twist in the sheets on a perfectly good bed. The clock says 2:20am. I go from the bed to the couch downstairs, the lounge chair, the floor, the bed again. I will drift off for a half hour and have the same dream all night, but in installments. Whenever I awake, head splitting – I check my face for nose bleeds, it’s that bad – I am aware I’m having a ridiculous dream. I am a ridiculous person having a ridiculous dream.

I went to bed after studying titanium oxide crystal refraction. Different crystals produce different colors, measurable by nanometer wavelengths. I don’t know why. I have applied them to the classic “nautilus” curl of phi found in the Golden Ratio and am plotting a color scheme for a painting overrun with kites. I spent three hours yesterday deciding how best to accentuate my 2ft x 3ft oil painting with the beautiful, highly refractive colors of rare brookite, which is more brilliant than diamonds. Usually, I’d be curled up with a book, having some cocoa. But not tonight. The fever is invasive and troubling, like someone dropped a pound of raw, unstable potassium in a swimming pool and the explosive result is blasting away my sanity. I’ll try to get through this, but I’m having trouble.

In the first installment, I see scalene triangles and pyramids everywhere. It’s one of those things where you fixate on something and then, miraculously, you see the object everywhere. I see their shapes lurking in the environment everywhere. Also, water is condensing on everything in unusually large amounts. Wading becomes necessary. I am thinking in my dream that enough quartzite minerals holding brookite crystals have entered the atmosphere to turn the planet into a giant resonant cavity superconductor, whatever that means.

The next installment starts with me having a eureka moment. I dream that I realize I am experiencing one of the larger waves of the Age of Aquarius. The age arrives in a truncated series of waves. That explains the water everywhere, and the triangles (no it doesn’t, I remind myself). I am experiencing a physical change, as are every object in the solar system. Electronics no longer work. Religious zealotry spreads. Terror floods the imagination.  We are preoccupied with various apocalyptic scenarios. Human begin to revert to tribalism. I join an anarchist syndicate that grows urban gardens. We throw clay seed balls into empty grassy lots full of hardy seeds. We dress like Jehovah’s Witness solicitors so as to not arouse interest. There would be a need to plant enough food for everyone, otherwise hoarding would lead to a bloody power struggle. It was difficult, lonely work and I missed my family.

I wake up and think to myself, this dream is absurd. The Age of Aquarius is stupid, and so are triangles. My head is a split, rotten melon full of spilling crazy juice. I go downstairs and drift off into a storm of rudimentary equations proving the arrival of the Aquarian Age according to the precession of the equinoxes. With unshakable confidence, I feel I have found evidence of the end of humanity and the beginning of a new evolutionary form based upon the oil painting project color scheme I dreamed up. The numbers of the Fibonacci sequence, of Phi, of angles of refraction of a rare titanium oxide crystal, it all adds up. I’m witnessing this like a spectator in my dream. I’m arguing it doesn’t make any sense, but my dream self is unaware of rational observation.

I wander the house in lots of pain for a half hour again. Looks like my plans of running 15 miles is completely scoobied this day, I muse. I’m a wreck, weak and confused.

I drift off and make my way to a meteorological station where I help in the construction of a tempest prognosticator. The hard part is getting the slimy eels into the little jars. I feel like I’m being microwaved, ashes on the shore on a bright summer day. Reports from sientists circulate that the most massive coronal mass ejection has sent a lethal wave of energized particles towards earth. Recently remodeled electronic equipment, if not shielded underground, melts. Humanity continues to slide into chaos of the Age of Aquarius because of a meteor storm of rare crystals have turned the earth into a superconductive generator unable to contain its huge amount of energy, and all things emitting an electromagnetic field is being  affected badly. My teeth loosen, gums and eyes bleed. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t decided to create a nice golden ratio of six colors with which to make a painting of a bunch of kites flying high above an arched bridge that crosses a beautiful deep canyon. And triangles. It all adds up.

I am actually getting scared, thinking I’m losing my mind. None of this makes any sense. I go back to bed, try to discredit the reality of conditions in the dream, try to discredit the fraud of the dream, but there is such an unshakable quality to it that i tire of the struggle. In the dream I continue to practice ancient arts of guerrilla farming. I realize I am the only person on earth capable of being punctual. No one ever makes it to occasions on time. It’s sad, knowing that time will be lost forever in the struggle to regain our humanity. But what good is it to be efficient when I’m getting bathed in X-rays and gamma rays from lethal CMEs from the sun, wading through water endlessly in a hellscape, one for which I was responsible. The dream revolves around me wanting to paint kites with a balance of nice colors, and now we’re all going to descend and devolve because Pandora’s brookite box had opened and let spew forth into the void the Waves of Aquarius, all up in this bitch.




I just need to relax. I feel like my head is going to explode.

The Tempest Prognosticator, your handy leech barometer

6 04 2014

The tempest prognosticator, also known as the leech barometer, is a 19th-century invention by George Merryweather, in which leeches are used in a barometer. The twelve leeches are kept in small bottles inside the device; when they become agitated by an approaching storm they attempt to climb out of the bottles and trigger a small hammer which strikes a bell. The likelihood of a storm is indicated by the number of times the bell is struck.

From Wikipoedia

When you prefer the agony of leeches writhing in glass bottles to a wind sock.

The invention was inspired by a couple lines of poetry of Edward Jenner found in Signs of Rain: “The leech disturbed is newly risen; Quite to the summit of his prison.” It was shown off at the Longon Great Exhibition of 1851, but never gained popularity, despite its supposed accuracy.

Dr. George Merryweather tried to show it off at the Great Exhibition of 1851



My Zoloft Overdose

5 04 2014

This happened like 19 years ago. It was a bad time in my life.  I decided to see what would happen if I took a month’s supply of Zoloft in one day. I thought I would, theoretically, get to experience very intense daydreams. Needless to say, it was crazy bad. Don’t do it. I almost died at least twice, from tachycardia and from intestinal poisoning. The tachycardia actually felt nice, so I would’ve died with a smile on my face at a Jesus Lizard concert like this one, which would have been just horrible.  I have not been able to find much information about people who’ve survived this sort of thing, so I thought I’d share my experience.


I took 100 mg every hour, or more, starting on a Friday afternoon. After 300 mg I felt sick, left work, puked, shit, and collapsed in bed for an hour. When I awoke I felt weird, but better. I began taking the 100 mg pills with water every hour, smashing them and then washing the powder down with a tall glass. Each pill was a day’s worth for a 275 lb. man, a friend of mine who’s psychiatrist gave him all sorts of stuff to help him deal with schizoid episodes that were upending his ability to get a job, act sane, and stay out of jail. Since he was losing on all fronts he figured  it might disappoint me as much as it had him, so he told me to knock myself out, and laughed. I read some medical journals at a university library and decided to experiment. I didn’t enter into this experiment lightheartedly. What I was doing was risky, unknown territory ahead. I treated this as though I was going into a rough place for a few days. I secured my responsibilities, planned my window and got down to my serotonin experiment.

I had to abstain from eating, that’s all I figured out. The body could absorb only so much of the drug, only produce so much serotonin. Associated with the SSRI is a two-week adjustment period before plateauing, the productive, sustainable (and addictive) phase of the drug. I thought I’d gang rape my chemistry and kickstart the plateau with a small overdose.  There wasn’t much available to the public about adverse effects of SSRIs  at the time.  However, there was a broad consensus on food and drug interaction. Other drugs could produce harmful or diminished affect. Metabolic processes kick-started by calorie intake could cause a cascade of bad reactions that could result in coma, death or permanent damage. So, I decided to fast for the weekend, drink juice if necessary.  A couple of hours after taking my first dose and falling out, I went to a concert and, about an hour into the show, I felt as if someone had inflated a balloon inside my rib-cage, as though my diaphragm had expanded like a helium balloon. I felt like I would ascend. I felt that. Every few breaths, the feeling of weightlessness, a tickling like a feather under my sternum (probably tachycardia, but it felt nice). My senses sharpened. I wadded up some paper and jammed it in my ears. I didn’t drink any booze. I didn’t want the interaction, I was fearful. The show was loud and weird. I kept to myself at the back of the room.

I went home, not tired. The fluttering vertigo went away. The sense of clarity accompanying my awareness brought no extraordinary dimension to my thoughts. I just felt like sleep was impossible, and most likely a problem I might have solved once and for all. Nevertheless, I made myself lie down in bed for six hours. It felt ridiculous. I just lay there next to my sleeping girlfriend – nothing remotely sensual about it – and tried to breathe slowly, matching her breathing. I felt calm, like an android in the dark, powering up every hour with a 100 mg tablet.

By Saturday morning I had taken the first two weeks worth of Zoloft.  I was hungry. The pills would take away the hunger. My eyelids felt peeled back with pliers. That afternoon I began to feel the first bits of weirdness. I was sitting on the porch and thought I could hear the buzzing of a transformer on a nearby telephone pole through the air in the rain, like someone speaking through spinning fan blades. I could hear the buzzing, but was aware of the distortion coming through the falling rain drops. I felt like I could feel a latent current in everything as well. And then things went weirder. The buzzing had a musical quality. I thought I was listening to reggae. I had begun to have auditory hallucinations. Also, I felt sort of drunk. Colors were bright. Where was the serotonin going? Was my brain building receptors elsewhere?

I went inside and decided to lay off the pills, but didn’t.  I was hoping to catch a bit of sleep, but knew  it was going to be impossible, so I plowed ahead with a mulish stupidity, continuing to take the pills. I looked worn out and felt sort of grimy though I’d showered twice, to cool off. I felt hot, feverish. That evening, late, I got the feeling that I could see a heat cloud around people who was causing some slight light refraction, like waves in a mirage, things around people shimmered when I looked at them. I could hold out my hand and see distant objects shimmering in the heat waves emanating from my body. Attenuated to such small nuance of my visual field was interesting, but not entirely pleasant.

I hazarded two cups of apple juice and felt a bit better. I began to hallucinate more strongly. I’d pulled all-nighters before and chalked it up to fatigue. But, like when you close your eyes and can visualize things, events, freely, that quality was available with my eyes open, but like from a tap. I could turn it on and off. I visualized things, incredible designs, objects, figures, richly detailed and fabulous. I had a spatial control over these objects I’ve never experienced before. I studied drafting in school, so I was really blown away. I could create and wipe them. I lay down that night with a pill to pass the time. I closed my eyes. Aside from the hour-long nap the day before, I hadn’t slept. I was hungry, but the pill took the edge off.

With the lights out the shadows were really shifting on me. Zoloft erased another night’s rest. I closed my eyes and practiced deep breathing. I could hear all sorts of things in the room, moving around. A dog with a hat, a banquet hall, some waterfalls, a couple of lectures in a foreign language.  I kept chewing a pill up on the hour. Supply was running low.

At some point I experienced something of an epiphany, like I had stuck my head into a river of beautiful images. There was an endless procession of beautiful images, places, artistically rendered images, some real, some abstracted. It wasn’t like dreaming. The imagery felt invasive. I felt as if I knew but didn’t know them. I don’t usually experience anything vivid like that. It went on for about three hours, like I had been thumbing through a vast catalog, an exquisite bestiary of images and things beyond my scope. Then I almost fell out of the bed. Light from the next room coming from under the bedroom door seemed to cross the room. It happened again and I had to hold onto the bed. I realized my eyes were jerking around, but I wasn’t aware of them moving.

I went into the living room and the experience continued. Every few minutes I felt like I had leaned forward to the side of a mirror placed down the center of my face and, with a single eyes facing still forward, the other was looking at a reflection of the room at an extreme angle with the other. I couldn’t feel my eye move. I had a couple of pills left and I took one by 7 am, Sunday morning. I felt petrified, totally juiced, like an ember. I was weak. I was wide awake and exhausted from it. Before I took it I felt myself shaking, but afterwards, I felt better. I knew I was crashing, maybe sick, probably sick. The eye thing was a big nope. I started to worry that I maybe had had a stroke or had caused permanent damage. I started shaking again.

My girlfriend was worried when she left me alone to go to work. I assured her I was okay, and she told me to stop doing the eyes thing. That made me worry more. I felt really grimy, filthy. The clock seemed to tick backwards. I felt like I was going backwards in time. I had one pill left but I wanted to see how bad the crash was. I might need it to break my fall from the massive amounts of Zoloft charging. Whereas on Saturday my apartment was perfectly neat, OCD neat, I was now having trouble keeping coherence. I was hallucinating. People and animals were appearing and disappearing. I felt my heart racing, and I got feverish. I called poison control and the tech told me I should be dead, go to the hospital. What else would she say? My skin felt alien and I wished I could just push it off my muscles and relax.

So, I went to the hospital. I sat next to a skeletal man who kept screaming for a pillow for his ass. He was bones and in pain on the wooden chair in the waiting room. I checked in. They put me in a chair (I was swaying, unaware) and rolled me onto a ward. This was Grady Hospital in Atlanta. Its pure chaos. Two guys on gurneys passed each other, high-fived, mentioned something about killing someone, congratulating themselves. I was strapped to a gurney and left in a hallway. Interns came by and read the clipboard and took turns telling me they were my friend and I was going to have better days. I asked one of them what my clipboard said and he told me it said I was there for attempted suicide, OD on amphetamines. I spent an hour in a hallway strapped to a gurney getting old man pats and assurance. My eyes kept doing the weird hyperjumps. The place was like a loud, horrible circus backstage.

When a RN came by I told him what I’d done and he pleaded with me to stick to cocaine like normal kids, gave me a 32 oz bottle of grape charcoal emulsion and told me I had 15 minutes to down it or he’d pump my stomach. He unwrapped my restraints and let me sit up. I chugged it. I almost threw it back up. I felt it push its way down into my guts with an agonizing urgency. Trailing my cloth restraints from the wrists, I unsteadily made my way to a bathroom right as a gigantic woman in a gown walked out, dripping urine down her legs and gown. I went into the bathroom.

The floor was filthy. Standing puddles of urine. I noticed the wraps on my wrist were trailing into the urine and I struggled to loosen and free myself of them before a hydrant of black shit erupted from my ass, but was unable to. I didn’t have time to even crouch over the dirty toilet. It just flew everywhere. It splattered all over the wall, toilet and floor. I shit so much it was like a ride. I was yelling “woah!” I wiped my lower body off, soaped up and cleaned up myself the best I could. I threw the restraints into the garbage. Suicide, my ass. i felt loads better.

I went back to the gurney and waited for the nurse. They tried to admit me to the psych ward, even took me into the unit, but I was able to leave because I’d arrived at will, and chose to leave at will. The nurse who saw me out said the charcoal cleared me, and I was lucky most of the pills were probably had been lying inert in my intestines, and a meal would’ve killed me, but I was okay to eat. Overloaded with all sorts of patients, they were happy to lessen their workload, and I left in my own clothes. I caught a taxi home.

I felt like I wanted to become a monk, I tried to put myself back together. I felt subhuman. I ate and drank and called a friend to come over with a joint and chill me out. He called a couple other friends over and we talked about the experience. While I had been at the hospital, my girlfriend had called a couple of friends of mine and told them what I did. They dropped by to check on me. The scrutiny was welcomed. I needed personal interaction very badly. I descended through degrees into a stupor. Monday was a holiday, so I just slept in. My entire body was sore, like I’d been thrown out of a moving car. The next three months I experienced a very charged existence. I liked doing art and I put out a lot of stuff. I almost died, and I used the euphoria I’d experienced upon recovery to channel a lot of energy into some art projects and hell-raising. I felt like I had risked my life needlessly for inspiration.


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Living Life Healthy, Fit, and Happy


Processing material for all

Interesting Literature

A Library of Literary Interestingness

Berlin Beatet Bestes

A blog mainly about odd German 45 rpm records. New records every Thursday.

Hello, Fig

Ben Stainton Posts Things Using a Computer


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