Restart

Some realisations wait in the wings; quietly murmuring their lines until some mysterious stage hand points towards the lights. An aroused audience of one bristles as our player stumbles across the boards. Flowering at last, a bloom of gestures and revelatory dialogue which can tranquilize or incinerate with a pyroclastic fervour.

Its been quite some time since I’ve posted on this site. Sat down and tried to fulfil the promise and purpose of this little domain which I long ago intended to discuss the aspects of, and issues around, “my illness.” A nebulous term which draws its authority from a peculiar and potentially dangerous branch of pseudo-science. Considering bipolarity a disorder has never helped me. Lithium reigned me in, though I cannot say that there isn’t an alternative method for equalising my moods. To my great shame a vein of cowardice – or worse apathy – makes it unlikely that I’ll ever seek one out.

Epilepsy has given me a metric by which to measure the pathology of my psyche. Epilepsy is quantifiable. EEGs can demonstrate wiring faults as effectively as any halfway competent electrician. The MRI sketches poured over and waved triumphantly above the heads of psychopharmacologists appear to suffer from an a certain object impermanence. Traction subsides, and the diagnoses and treatment plans of every mental health professional I’ve ever encountered comes from defaulting to a sort of conventional wisdom; perhaps characterised by instincts which would be familiar to Witchfinders General.

The last 36 words aren’t necessarily dismissive. Perception is everything after all. If you treat bipolarity as an illness – if that helps keep you as healthy and happy as can be – then that is the reality as it applies to you. My experiences (within and without mental “illness”) have instilled a Ballardian appreciation of unreality and dominant fictions of the world around me. The recalibration of my mind and moods comes from repeat attempts to calculate and reconcile the contradictions and inverted logic of the suspicious and deliciously perverted “real”.

From here on in, my thoughts and attempts to make my way through this world, will hopefully hinge upon a more conscious appreciation of these dim repressions. The human body is a mechanical wonder driven by powerful and adaptive OSs. To drive the mechanism onwards, to maintain its inward integrity whilst engaging with competitive systems, requires flexibility and mutation. Consciousness, the imagination, the psyche: all crucial constructs which can neither function nor exist within fixated boundaries.

The query has become: how do I function? The query has become: why do I function? The query has become: how and why don’t we function the same?

Satire!

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Black Eyes

Here I am treading carefully. Trying not to stroke that much-thumbed fetich (paranoid psychosis) in the context of what I’m typing about; although I do have an almost preternatural focus on any tenuous form of synchronicity, so I guess this effort has already faltered.

Let me start again.

As a child of the 1990s, many of my formative years took on a paranormal hue. The X-Files had captured the popular imagination, and pre-millennial tension encouraged a resurgence in “New Age” philosophies and practices. Many people, frequently well-meaning and credulous, took such things to heart; and fostered enduring fascinations within their sons.

Their son recently encountered the ‘Black-Eyed Children.’ Not literally of course, because this rather delicious urban legend is tenuously weighted in reality. Often what repels or intimidates us births our keenest curiosity; and so it is with me and home invasion tales. Alien abduction was my greatest fear as a child; the certainty that I would be teleported from my room the second the lights went out.

Mysterious children, sometimes teens, arriving at your door and attempting to gain entry to your home. “Just let us in. This won’t take long” is a classic gambit, delivered in a hypnotic monotone. The intentions or actions of BECs remain unclear, should they ever cross your threshold. Similarly the rationale of two teenage girls, stabbing a third to appease the entirely fictional Slenderman, is desperately unfathomable.

Fox News took statements from locals regarding the normality and seeming balance of the attackers and their families. With little explanation or justification or causal links, we are again bereft; stranded with the knowledge that sometimes there are no reasons. Or that reasons defy anything rational, anything quantifiable. True horror comes out of sight, and I feel enormous sorrow for all of these children; victim and perpetrators.

Anthony Cotton, attorney for one of the attackers, remarked: “She’s 12 and she has mental health issues,” […] “There’s no questions that she needs to go to the hospital.” Those of a more Icarus bent might frown at the apparent self-evidence of this point. Clearly intervention is necessary, but such tragedies have occurred before and will unfortunately occur again, and it is foolish (dangerous even) to attempt to tie things off like this. No neat bows will get this done, though naturally Mr Cotton’s evocation was far more strategic.

I’ve been distracted I’ll admit, but the backlash against sites like Something Awful and Creepypasta has been relatively muted. And to their credit, Creepypasta posted this heartfelt, sympathetic and dignified statement on June 3rd which I urge anyone concerned about freedom of speech, net neutrality, self-expression or basic goddamn humanity to read:

Statement on the Wisconsin Stabbing.