Four twenty five.
I had some inspirational dreams tonight that had to do with my victory over schizophrenia. I returned triumphantly to my high school, which bore a resemblance to the psychiatric rehabilitation center. I sat in my old place in the cafeteria with my peers who never had liked me, but then something happened to turn it around to my favor. Amid the jeers and general disapprobation of my sitting there, Ken from Laurel Hill came over to my table and expressed his appreciation for my endeavors; then I looked over and saw a whole table of the mentally challenged who were cheering for me. Finally, my old peer Tim gave a laudatory speech to honor me, although he was so drunk that he could barely stay conscious. I think my dream is a fairly accurate indicator of how successful I’ve been in the last few years, acknowledging that schizophrenia and alcoholism are not easy to live with; indeed, I’ve done the best I could do to recover, with quite commendable results.
Ten o’clock. I have to plan my next trip to Bi Mart to get my prescription. Should I walk or take a taxi? Darcy said walking is great exercise and I should keep mobile. So I guess I’ll walk over to the pharmacy in another hour or two. The air is even smokier than yesterday. The sunlight on the ground looks amber or burnt orange. Again the issue of climate change raises its head. I’ve heard some people say they’ve been preparing for a major cataclysm; stockpiling supplies, etc etc. I’m too lazy to do anything like that, or maybe not paranoid enough. Whatever happens, I think it will be a natural phenomenon, although the dreamer in me wonders at a metaphysical complication. The human imagination has been an item since the time of the Egyptians and Moses and before. Hearing a voice in a burning bush. Hearing is the last sense to go. What voice will we hear out of the machine when the time comes? What vision out of the shadows? There are always mirages. What happens when time breaks down; do we see eternity behind the wall? Or are we merely dreaming self indulgent trash? What can we do instead of dreaming?
Eleven o’clock. By now you can hardly see the sun for the wildfire smoke. When I get up and walk to the pharmacy, I need take nothing with me. Maybe my iPhone. And I can take my own sweet time. I’ve always liked Bi Mart despite its conservatism. It might be a different experience if I were Black or Hispanic stepping in the front door. Something to be mindful of at all times. Put it off until tomorrow?
Quarter of noon. I ate most of my cottage cheese for lunch and I feel much better than I did over the weekend. After today, my dad’s anniversary will be over with. Nothing to worry about then. There’s really no pressure on me to do anything today, so I don’t know what the trouble was before…
I miss the days of New Age music back in the early 1990s. Somewhere near is my copy of The World’s Getting Loud by Alex de Grassi, one of my favorite CDs from the era. “Facing South” is such a beautiful song, so acoustic and understated, yet so powerful in its depth of emotion. The deceptive simplicity reminds me of Satie. There’s a lot of space in between the minimal chords, giving room for speculation. His approach is very modern and progressive, and overall very creative. Years ago I sent a copy to my Scottish friend, and she was delighted with it. I guess it sounded like the epitome of American music to her ears.
Three o’clock in the morning.
I had dreams of intrigue: of kidnapping people and stealing cars. My nephew Ed came to the house and we did some paperwork together. It might’ve been application for Supplemental Security. In real life, my mother helped Ed with the forms, and he never seemed to appreciate it. His five year old son had leukemia and he couldn’t have afforded the medical bills without government assistance. In the dream, as he left he took a car I had stolen. In reality, Mom made me give him my old Roland synthesizer, which his family sold and used the money to buy a home organ. I always resented this injustice by my mother, and Ed didn’t deserve to take away my keyboard and convert it to an instrument for praising the Lord. Today, it’s hard to say what was right. If Ed’s family was Charles Dickens, mine was probably Scott Fitzgerald. Over time, life has a way of equalizing things. Or at least it makes you think about things with a new perspective.
Ten thirty five. There are still a lot of xenophobic people in the world. They can’t be reasoned with. If it’s different from us, then it must be bad. We drink coffee and they drink tea. We have football, they have soccer. They drive on the left side of the road. They’re on the metric system. But our way is always better, just because. It’s a very egocentric way of looking at the world. If I could singlehandedly bridge the Atlantic and open communication again, I certainly would. But it will take more than just one person’s efforts. It’s all very wearisome and depressing. Maybe someday people will read my posts and say that I was right all along. We really are better together than isolated. The world is a big place, much bigger than we think. We need to think globally again and work together to save humankind. It’s not just foolish idealism anymore, but a real necessity. I hope to see some positive changes in my lifetime. I had a dream last night that the election was already over with. Can you guess who won?
Wee hours. The antipsychotic I take has quelled my paranoia. I can chat with my sister without feeling threatened or devoured. My perspective on my family is more realistic now than before I started the Vraylar. I don’t make second guesses about what they are thinking. This used to be a terrible habit. And the change is all inside of me. Everyone else is the same as they always were. This is the sanest and soberest I’ve ever been. Also I’ve stopped the gabapentin. Now I won’t have to worry about withdrawals from it… Psychosis is really just imagination run amok. I think I’d rather be realistic than deluded. Schizophrenia is bad enough on its own, but alcohol makes it a lot worse. My brother used to weave daydreams about people’s behavior. He could talk about it for hours and hours. A lot of it was inaccurate. It was as if he needed to tell stories about people to make sense of life for himself. But these stories were lies, and he lived a lie… Is it better to be realistic or to tell stories about life? I guess it depends on the storyteller. And how psychotic is it to weave a web of fantasies? Depends on the dreamer.
Noon hour. FedEx just brought my new flatwound strings earlier than expected. I’m going to save them for a while, but they will probably go on my Mexican Fender. I hope I can play with the church, at least. Maybe I’ll email Pastor about that today. I feel like the ultimate geek because no one wants to play music with me.
Quarter after six. Feelings of shame lead me to do regrettable things. The opposite of shame is pride, and pride, rather than a sin, is indispensable to a guy’s wellbeing. Being rejected by the drummer this morning with no explanation made my pride implode. I can be okay one moment and then the next be thrown into a vortex of depression. If no musician wants to play with me, would it help me to know that I’m too good for him? “The better you become, the fewer the people you’ll have to play with.” A music teacher told me this truism in 1998, and now I’ve fulfilled the prophecy. I don’t even want to play bad music like I once did 20 years ago. I can laugh at rock and roll’s absurdity today, whereas then it gave me delusions of demons. The medication changed all that. Currently I feel I want to do something serious with music. The same teacher told me that I’d be a perfect candidate for music school. Said I could major in composition and play any instrument I wanted. I didn’t pursue it because my illness was not under control. But how about now? Could Eduardo introduce me to some people at the school of music?
Finally I perceive church as it really is, a place and time of worship, and now, worship makes no sense to me. What are we worshiping that we cannot see? And the communion, the ritual consumption of Jesus Christ. The whole ritual of a worship service seems hollow to me now. This is why I can’t participate in it anymore. Who’s going to pull the curtain aside and expose the Wizard of Oz? Are dogs allowed in church?… Vicious comments, I suppose. Pastor told me that my email to him hurt. I understand that and regret it a little. He thought about it for a long time and then suddenly showed up here last Thursday morning. I guess it’s really over for me with the church. Until now, I hadn’t been able to process my feelings about it. Am I just too smart for my own good? My mom and my brother have both been brilliant people. But you know, now that the end of the world seems to be a reality, does it make sense to divide people into the saved and the lost? How do we really feel about that now? Any one of us could be marked for hellfire according to scripture. I’d rather see the world continue through the pandemic, and human life with it. And together we can build our heaven right here on earth 🌍. Why not? We’ve fulfilled many of our other visions. You know we’ve got the power to pull it off, and yet we sabotage ourselves with petty greed and folly. Can’t we call together our greatest geniuses and put them to work on making the world a better place? Or do we have to stand by and watch it self destruct again and again? Are poets just fools, or instead should we start listening to them? I envision a great convention of poets and musicians and other sensitive artists with a heart ❤️ to lead us in the ultimate project of building a paradise for all the world’s citizens. It can be done. We shall do this in time or else all perish together.
Six thirty 🕡. Only ten more minutes to sit here waiting. Okay, so playing the green bass did something to my mood today. It disturbed the dust of old memories and feelings. Can I overcome this? Or will I have to stop playing that axe? What made me pick it up again in the first place?
Eight thirty 🕣. I just got back from church. It went merely okay, but it was nice to chat with R— after it was over. We had only four singers this time; I was the sole guy. Some people are talking the end of the world due to the pandemic, but I try to be optimistic about the future. It would be awfully weird if we were the chosen ones to see the apocalypse, right? It would be psychotic to believe such a thing, wouldn’t it? And yet I had a dream once about being in church and witnessing Armageddon. The sanctuary was packed with people, and I had a conversation with our musician’s wife. I don’t know what we talked about. But anyway, the eschatology stuff scares me because maybe I’m not chosen for the New Jerusalem; perhaps I’m destined for the pit. My dream was very strange but vivid. Still I hope against hope that God is not real and not coming back to judge the living and the dead. It would be just too bizarre for my sanity, for the parameters of reason and sense. Has the world gone crazy? Or maybe it’s only me.
Nine thirty. I had a nightmare about making a midnight run for beer. I was backing out of my driveway in my old Nissan truck. The clock on the dash said 1:05am and I couldn’t get the gear into drive. The engine stalled—and I woke up. So the store was already closed. My truck was stuck in the middle of the street and everyone would know what I was up to. Like a little crime I was trying to get away with. Busted! The guilt was the worst part. And the apprehension everybody used to feel because of my addiction. The nightmare was bad, but also good in an instructive way. No one would want to see me drink again. It seems that alcoholism is a terrible lizard that never completely dies, though it can be reduced down to a cute baby alligator. Just don’t feed him, particularly after midnight.
Wee hours of the morning.
Just going with it. I’m up now, might as well write what I feel. Pitch blackness outside and nobody’s awake now. I wrote a poem. Turned out pretty good. I might change the title. It’s about the poet’s intuition, almost a statement of mysticism. The poet grasps truth directly and not from anything intermediate. This will be my new credo. Sure, it exalts the poet, but in a way, everyone is a poet. Everyone who dreams is a visionary. What is it about the sky, the sun, moon, and the stars? What can the heavens tell us about life? I guess everything we see is a mirror of ourselves, so that the truth is always interior. It is dream. I ought to read The Inner Reaches of Outer Space. Joseph Campbell is beautiful. His writing has a flow of eloquence to it similar to Emerson. I think it’s because both of them were steeped in the East, particularly Hinduism, that they were so articulate and poetic.
I don’t know what to do with this time. There’s a chimichanga in the freezer I could eat. To a certain extent I am still free. My parents ruled my life with an iron fist, and I’m rebelling against their ghosts. They weren’t very smart, and they weren’t very good at raising kids. At this moment I am resting potential. In another moment I may be eating or back in bed.
Quarter of eight. Well now I know of a real case of the coronavirus. My heart is penitent because it happened to a young poet. She says she is recovered, so I hope she feels better… Time to go to the store in a few minutes. Aesop needs dry food and treats. I’ll make an effort to be more serene and accepting of what I can’t control. Music may or may not come to fruition. This will have to be okay. It is out of my hands.