when you start talking... you rarely unravel the brain's conspiracy for secrecy, you never want brain = heart automation with solid theories that are rarely given an individual bias to be based on... a bit like those pencil-pushers working in offices for MI5 or MI6 who thought spying was all in fiction, but rarely confirmed the fact: in the c.v. it was stated: show your intelligence to prove the vulnerability of others easily persuaded... that's called providing intelligence... and those adverts for london hipsters on brick lane and hackney pavements just blew my cover... because no one really knows if one will doppelgänger the plot... with the body alcoholic and the shadow intelligent, or vice versa... the oddity... please call david bowie.*
in the freudian sense we get an origin of understanding
with a little boy, who's about to become oedipus,
we have diagnostics from a complex, the oedipus complex,
but with jung the childhood origin of diagnosis is
missing, childhood isn't the source of the problem,
after all we are born with a weak bladder and weak
**** muscles, hence the diaper, hence the elevation
of the problem into the realm of a collective unconscious,
i.e. the plumber doesn't know what the electrician does,
the electrician doesn't know what the artist does,
or how he does it, it's not that we're all unconscious
unable to craft any collective or individual meaning,
but i can recognise a freudian sympathy in 21st century
practice of psychiatry from a jungian one...
the freudian simply assumes your childhood was a nightmare,
that you were abused... but to a jungian - with the
offshoot of the testimony of laing's anti-psychiatry
never mind szasz... you say you go drinking at night
into the woods alone... they sense a fear in themselves
and simply un-diagnose you; which i managed to do...
i can count about 10 psychiatrists who diagnosed me
this that and the other... but they never asked me about
the problems in my mature being, they were looking for a
hurt child, sure i grew up in an environment without
a father between the ages 4 & 8... my father was just
a voice on the telephone and the first nintendo,
a gameboy... but i was surrounded by older people,
my great-grandmother read me a picture bible
and taught me to tie my shoelaces like i'd tie a ribbon
of a present, my grandfather took me for walks with
the two dogs i owned: axel a dobberman and bella
the alsatian, me piercing one of his bicycle tires to get
him off work at the steel factory for a day...
the steel factory closed, went bankrupt, or simply sold-out
to foreign spanish investors, many people left the city
of my origin... never mind...
children are not compulsive liars... but those who
emerge from childhood become compulsive liars...
children are selective liars... once the cookie jar is
opened... once the dog ate the homework...
they can't even combine lying with imagination,
after childhood you can't even do that, you can't
even combine lying with imagination -
there are no images involved, only words, black holes,
symbolism... all you get from an expected combination
of lying and imagination is that imagination
becomes ****** expressions, bordering on apathetic
****** expressions.
but guess what, above all what i said...
i was diagnosed as mad... but i never set foot in an
asylum, a knothouse (knot, yes, madmen are
like knots, jumbled up, the linear pattern of vitality
suddenly becomes a knotted sphere with only cats
able to unwind it - set loose the cats into the madhouses
of the world!) which can only mean ONE thing...
if i was diagnosed mad, but never entered a madhouse...
i'm assured by the laws of deduction, that, i, am,
in, fact, in a society that's a madhouse...
no wonder people can't appreciate the beauty of
the world, they took theology to the parasites
and explained things that way,
plus they advertised, started traffic signalling...
now days people simply pass trees and mountains
nonchalantly... they're more interest in what's organising them,
once words were kept in books... those great bricks,
but since people managed to make everyone literate,
the words broke out from the alcatraz of their
enticement and ventured out, like robots trapped,
and became adverts coca cola and warnings 50mph...
then the beauty of the word disappeared, because everything
in diamond contortion odd simply became dull,
dull because life became faster... and there was
no way of allowing reflection on unmovable things
to contain any speed - otherwise become a dog,
hold something resembling a branch in your mouth,
bite down, keep it in your mouth long enough
while you carry down the stairs a copy of witkiewicz's poems
and your tongue will become alive and numb
with poison... it will become a poison arrow...
and now that arrow is aimed at your heart.