The Lightning Storm

Nikola Tesla relajandose en su laboratoria (Colorado Springs, 1899)I witnessed one of the most beautiful happenings in all my life on this planet:  a thunderstorm. Oh, how utterly standard and mundane you may think. But, this is not true (in my opinion) for the first time I comprehended more of the immensity that is a thunderstorm (really I ought to say lightning storm, for that was the star of “performance”). Having spent some time researching and studying electricity (and, again, here lightning be the star of the show) as well as neuroscience (more electricity) so with the history, movement, evolution, and tomes of electricity coursing through my fevered and excited brain (fevered and excited at what new things I am learning and thinking and comprehending), this lightning storm was completely different than all others I had witnessed before it. I thought of the reports I’d read of Nikola Tesla supine upon his couch in his laboratory beneath the great windows contemplating lightning, perhaps giving birth to new thoughts, ideas, inventions, and inspirations.

Benjamin Franklin Drawing Electricity from the Sky (ca.1816)I thought of the report of Benjamin Franklin and his famous (albeit usually incorrectly described or outright fabricated) kite and key experiment. It’s funny that this is what is most associated with Franklin and yet it is but a minor event among his feats. One must never trust the schools to impart any kind of information or knowledge. It is greatly misgiving and deceiving.

Mostly, I contemplated the power of efficient use of lightning. What can be accomplished with its unleashed power (nowadays such a natural occurrence as electricity is leashed and has been since the days of Thomas Alva Edison. What insanity is this? What absurdity I this? To leash the abundance of electricity?! Prior to the innovations of Edison, electricity was studied because its powers were so mysterious and so curious. But it was Edison who thought of how to leash it in order to profit from it. It was Edison, so I’ve read reported, that came up with the idea of charging people by the kilowatt hour. Up until then, electricity was merely turned on or off, like the valve of a water hose). I can see how all those great minds were as enamored with electricity. How all those fevered minds were excited into experimentation.

Double StrikeSuch beauty, this lightning. It’s the action, the interaction of cloud, ground (earth), particles, atoms, molecules, direction and current, all combining into this reaction called Lightning. How interesting its origins. Light-ning. Yes, light. It is brighter than any other I’ve seen on Earth, and enough to spoil the sun before my eyes. And I thought of the brain, and the “lightning” that is said to occur there. I love the possibilities of this planet, I truly love what it is capable of including growing humans). What disturbs me are the utterly unnatural (as blatantly arrogant supernatural) regulations performed by humans.

*Image Credits (all work used through permission of CC license or public domain)–
“Nikola Tesla relajandose en su laboratoria (Colorado Springs, 1899)” by Recuerdos de Pandora
“Double Strike” by Michael Bolognesi
“Benjamin Franklin Drawing Electricity from the Sky (ca. 1816” by Benjamin West

The Parable of the Cage

The dawn of freedom--digital-artOnce, on the air there lived a bird who loved to fly. The bird was not at all extraordinary or even beautiful, but all of its extraordinary beauty was seen in its flight. It loved to fly higher than any other bird even the prettier ones, as if it were not afraid of ever falling to the earth. And this bird was not afraid of falling to earth, for it never did, so skilled and adept it was at flying. As if flying were an extension of its thoughts, as if it were mate to the air and the air pleased to do its bidding. The bird would wrap the air round its body and wings in such ways that it could perform the most difficult feats with an unmeasured ease. The bird loved flying so much it did not build a nest for the clouds cradled it, it did not mate for the air was its soul mate, it rarely ate for the feel and view from the air sustained it.

mutationOnce in a while the bird would plummet to the earth as if it meant to crash headlong into it, but would flick a wing at the last moment and always the air was there to catch it so would soar once more into the depths of the sky. People would gather below to watch the bird and even the dullest of wit could recognize its art. But it was not the dullest of wit that sought to possess the bird and its artful flying, so planned to capture the bird on one of its rare plunges to the earth. A man, the cleverest of all the rest, devised a contraption that he may have the bird for his own use. He also built a cage, a special cage, customized for the bird and its special talents.

MadalenaOne day, everything done and after much stalking and careful observance, the man knew the bird made its plunges only on rainy days, for the bird adored the sun, so loved flying those days most. The next rainy day the man took his contraption and his plan down to the place where he knew the bird would plummet, and stood ready. The man placed his contraption on the ground, painted to camouflage the ground; gate open, painted to camouflage the earth. The bird, fooled by the disguise Prison Planetbecause it did not know harm could come by it on the ground, for it had grown accustomed by the air, sky, and sun, plummeted, but before it had chance to flick its wing to again take the air, it heard a clang and found itself trapped inside walls. The bird tried to escape but could not feel the support of the air in order to gain speed enough to burst through the walls. It would not have mattered, as the man was clever and fashioned the walls much too thick to break. So, the bird lay on the ground held fast by its gravity. Like this, the man carried the contraption, the cage, and its prisoner back home.

How do you interpret The Parable of the Cage, reader?

A.D. 2050*Image Credits (all work used with permission through CC license)–
“Caged” by Jeff Babbitt
“The dawn of freedom — digital-art” by balt-arts
“mutation” by Ozge Gurer
“Madalena” by Catarina Carneiro de Sousa
“Prison Planet” by Mark Rain
“A.D. 2050” by jaci Lopes dos Santos

Deranged Delusions

deranged delusions dance before dawn
daring to be real in the fit of a new day

apologies for carefree freedom rings
ringing but w/no bells, just sound

trees killing themselves in cities
ocean waves rolling tides over white music

but no voices
volunteers borrowing some other country’s sorrow

in the middle of the day, crying
crime of 3:30am prepubescent penal passions

love raining elusively over neo-noir-nouveau fashion

silly salacious serenity says too many faces of insanity
saddam hussein’s feral feeble reminders

of a death invented just so we can stay alive
sublime silence screaming behind bars

bare & naked & nothing else to see in

sensing this moment: a now, & now

the end

The Guise of the Neurotypicals

Rain for 3 days changes one’s countenance. What one could have begun in high spirits after the middle of the second day (and certainly after sleeping two nights in the damp) one’s spirit have plummeted and take to finding any small not-even-an-imperfection worth bickering over. The bickering is not the humdrums, though; it is the sulking that can drive one mad.

heaven's glowI try not to sulk, although, I admit to becoming rather pensive and confused over otherwise simple matters. This is the effect rain, cold, and damp have over me. It is why I prefer the sunshine to any other weather because I love to be out of doors. To frolic with little clothing, bare feet, flowing hair, the sun warms skin burning in the ultraviolet, vitamin D chemical reaction (ah, but we are such waveforms, our lives the modulation of frequency), grass and soft dirt beneath the soles of my feet. The soles of my feet softened by earth rather than blistered and calloused by cotton and leather imprisonment—how I hate socks and shoes—skin perspiring and pores breathing oxygen high; there is nothing like the sun and its reaction upon me. I prefer the sun, despite knowing its illusion. I prefer the reaction of, the chemistry of it all.

How it affects my form, the same as the animals and the flowers and the earth, all but the buildings and pavement, which reject the sun, irradiates it back into the atmosphere like the hell it is. “Pollution” of excess heat, no absorption just toxic waste. I abhor that my chosen avoidance of neurotypicals would force me to dwell in the rain or snow just so they will not follow. But I am sick of the running, I am sick of their false power. They have none! No more or less than I. Why do I behave as if they are my superior, as if they are the determination of my choice?

fractal stock dg 11012012It seems as if I enact the predestined pre-determined whims of some unseen force always trying to show that I should milk the cow, to benefit from their (neurotypicals’) willed obeisance and their unconsciousness, because I have conscious. But my question always keeps me from this game. Why is that the only game in town available to a conscious being? Why must a conscious being consume the unconscious? Does that not make of me a vampire? Why is it only vampirism that is offered? Is there nothing else other than vampirism or escape? Is this the joke?

I do not think so. I think, no, I intuit that there is something more. That more than 2 exists. How can choosing from only 2 promise freedom? Was I not then forced to choose? What freedom holds there within? Would not freedom arise from presentation of any number? Or from the fields and folds of my imagination? What of this 2?! Who made it up?

owl fractalAnd this idea of happiness: why does it only arise from either of the two? What is this happiness? What probable unfulfilled promise is this? Who are the parties of this contract? Who is selling this dream? The same misery supposedly arising from the either end of the two? Who invented this will, and why should I borrow it? Why should I trade for naught? This is what I cannot comprehend about it.

I would rather live outside the 2 and the guise of the neurotypicals, forgo such commercials and happiness and misery and, live instead until I die doing as I will, always expanding, always genesis. What wrong comes from this? What expectations?

I have no expectation, great or small. I was once asked did I have expectations. I said I had none, why would I? How could I? I wait in the moment until another moment arrives, until then I have no idea what should transpire once there, and I have no judgment afterward; for every moment is fleeting. For this, I am called naïve. I do not know why really. I am also called autistic, I do not know why really. I have heard the definitions of such accusations and still do not understand. The terms are always rudimentary to me, as easily applicable to genius or wisdom as naïve or autism. Does that not depend only upon the beholder? As I have no such estimations of my own. I do not know why, yet, it seems that neurotypicals do have some kind of expectations of me, that pop quizzes are always laid before me that I inevitably fail. But my failure is not from lack of study, only from a differing version of perception.

It is if I am not expected to have ways of seeing unique to how I am, but must circle the correct answer on the test before I am permitted worthy enough to pass the next level. Will I never graduate from school?!

fractal stock 8I do not want schooling; see I dropped out of schooling (although, I possess both high school diploma and college degree, but these pedigrees are not what I mean). I will take my chances at autodidactic, thank you. I do not need a mentor, nor do I need validation in order to be comfortable with what I see and think. I do not care if no one believes anything I say or if no one cares about what I say. I am not in pursuit of celebrity or guru or other such nonsense. I do not understand why that is difficult for neurotypicals to grasp. I really do not care if neurotypicals and their guises think me stupid, intelligent, pretty, ugly, man, woman, disgraceful, pleasant, love, hate; why would any of that matter?

When I argue with such nonsense it is not the accusation I counter, but the premise presented. The argument is untrue, a contradiction, so I make the mistake of trying to unwind the contradiction, but I lack patience, sanity, and motivation to tarry effectively or very long. . . . because I really do not care, and more it drives me screaming into madness days required from which to recover.

So, the quiet is far more preferable than proof, disproof or thought. I want to live in the woods and the sun, not to avoid certain kinds of people or to escape industrial civilization, but because I wish for quiet . . . so I can think (intuit, i.e., thinking without words). So I can Be (i.e., chaotic stillness). So, I can share true conversation and swat these gnats from my mind.

A job or social security are both just banks to me, a place that deposits money to an account electronically. What difference does the name and architecture make? They are both symbols of bureaucracies, both ships steered by regulation and law, both subjects of the Ancient Ones. Why do I care the guise? Madness beats beneath each mask.

*Image Credits (all artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“Heaven’s  Glow” by PapayaPirate
“Lights of the Mind 0007” by agsandrew 
“Fractal Stock DG-11012012” by DsyneGrafix 
“OWL Fractal”  by dzikir
“Fractal Stock 08” by Ox3ArtStock

When the Edge Is Near: An Outline of a Psychotic Episode

It is so easy it seems for my mind to be wrecked, thereby, wrecking perhaps an entire day, or an indeterminate number of hours of long, prolonged moments trying to piece my mind together. And people (the egos of Society) always say I am gaming or manipulating or faking or stupid or some other such nonsense to explain away the means in which my mind attempts to recover from its shattered state.

I would rather not have this happen; I would rather not be affected at any moment, like being stalked by a monster wearing your own face. Like being stalked by your best friend, whom only a second ago was still your best friend and not the lumbering, snarling, shrieking, screeching ogre stalking you. Knowing where all your favorite hiding spots are; using every secret shared; every years-discovered nuance; every shift, pitch and frequency of your voice; knowing with precision every line of your face and using that knowledge as weapons against you. Because it is your own mind that stalks, at any moment turning against you. Turning in on you, twisting and distorting an already upside down world, like an inverted stream of consciousness. A psychic whisperer so can use truth like lies.

A psychotic episode comes on like a holocaust, save there is no warning, no foreshadowing, no skepticism, no ‘wondering If’ before hand, nothing to have taken heed. Just at one second, friend, and the very next before the clock ticks completely over, monster. And it is worse when the break must be kept quiet else it may disturb others (egos in society) and cause further problems, which feeds back in on the break, pushing the mind farther towards the cliff. Suicidal ideations may be pondered and masticated in the mind, but the actual decision comes in an impulse, an instant. Because no one knows where the edge of the cliff is, so one does not know at which point one will fall, as such, suicide is an accidental decision. “It” just becomes too much and there is a knife nearby so you pick that up and rake it across your throat, without thought, without feeling other than desperation as if you are locked inside a 5 dimensional tessellated Schrödinger box. You just want. It. To. Stop. You want your mind to stop.

The misconception is that there are racing thoughts and voices forcing and compelling you. This is a bit of an oversimplification. There are no thoughts; thoughts at that point are not raw enough to embody such pain. Words cannot contain such concepts of horror. The abstraction of that kind of state of mind tessellates fractals, like a code you cannot crack, because it multiplies exponentially a new number to code with each attempt at cracking it. As if a hacker were trying to crack a password, but with each attack, the password randomly changed and used the hacker’s effort as its algorithm. Like tessellating a fractal into splitting dimensions. So, thought, the idea is like a joke. Thought could not possibly exist in this level of hell. Others assume there are only basic emotions, limbic system responses, fight or flight. This is another misconception. We are talking about a unique, personal, intimate, sensual, perfect, precise, tailored mental hell that is boundless and that changes and evolves faster than any “cure” or attempt to heal the gaping wound that SHINES its pain is so clean and perfect, like the most priceless of diamonds. We are talking about a spectrum of emotions. If you should see one registered on the face, then THAT is an external sign of an emergency, because that means that the internal hell is leaking out to the external, amalgamated reality, and that means the edge is near.

I wish I were at a place such that when these moments strike me I can immediately start making a song, like capturing its photography, like freezing light. Sometimes, that helps to get out the daemon. But when such avenues are ripped from you for reasons of social aptitude, it only pushes the edge closer. It only makes you wish for the edge. To need it, want it, love it. So much so that death becomes like a private joke within you. Only the laughter never ends.

No, not so much a spectrum of emotions, but a prism, so many occurring simultaneously that you cannot name them all. That you cannot possibly identify them, they are so subtle, so loud. To say that one is “sad” or “depressed” in this state is not only synonymous with sacrilege (in its wrongness) but also absurd to think that it was that easily named, that easily quantified. Madness has no hold here. Madness has come and fled before something far superior and far, far more terrifying. Satan has had his fill, Satan flees in terror, and this is Satan’s hell. His horror turned to reflect his un-ego.

That is what it is like to be in the throes of a psychotic episode.

Cosmic Consciousness

You are literally made of stardust and whatever becomes of you the particles from which you are made have been around since the dawn of time and will continue to live forever. ~Danny Scheinmann, Random Acts of Heroic Love

In other words, we are all a continuation of the big bang (if there was such a thing, but rather than looking at this as an actual event, let’s look at it as if it were the adjective about a particular event). Much the same as humans are conceived, and as thoughts are conceived, and as atoms collide, and as the earth peoples (like the apple tree apples–an idea borrowed from Alan Watts, but that is apropos I think), humans are.

TardezitaYes, no one can truly see the world the same way as another. Truly cannot see because each human has experienced his or her life, uniquely, through a unique set of happenstances and occurences and accidents and guidances etc; it is this uniqueness that establishes the subtle distinctions that can make each one of us a guru. In this way, all humans inherently possesses an infinity of probable potentialities. Each probability disappears or appears according to the conscious and willful choices made as human beings. These constitute the lovely differences between humans, which make it possible for humans to relate to one another on differing levels. When we find ourselves among greatness (whether that is a work of art, music composed, ballet, basketball game, graphic design, architecture, voice, etc.) we subjectively feel the meaning conveyed and we perceive that greatness wrapped up in a little piece of ourselves. . . so, in some ways we still experience it differently rather than the same. What we can all agree on is that as far as we know there does exist an external dimension, separate from us, yet somehow connected, called external reality (the amalgamation of all realizations, the collective mind). These are the genes of our sameness.

Fossil Sitting In Sun LightI, too, perceive in such a nondualistic manner. As the Winter leaves its cold tendrils in the early days of Spring, and as does one galaxy merges (not collides) with the other, passing through one another and leaving bits of each other within the makeup of the other, as is the nonduality in things. It can be difficult to distinguish one from the other, but only at certain levels of magnification. At one level, the distinction cannot be perceived, as a single point from which to begin or end cannot be perceived. Where do I end and Life begin?

The space around us is full of a living essence, which we are just beginning to understand. This essence is like a conduit that is affected by our thoughts. Like oscillations of a bowed string, the notes we play do matter. ~Shawn Hocking

It’s easy to travel down the nihilist path; I find myself doing this on occasion myself. Although, I don’t think of basing the why of things on their function constitutes nihilism. I think it’s a very realistic (no pun intended) way of perceiving the world about us. Nihilism only comes into play because this way does not include the existence of a god (as an anthropomorphic entity). Also, nihilism does not necessarily mean ending as in destruction. Even Nietzsche, the so-called father of nihilism, did not think this way, evident by his philosophy of the Superman. Nietzche was an evolutionist! He wanted a better kind of Man, as he was extremely displeased with the present lot.

Shawn Hocking ArtworkAnd so, that brings us to Love. Love, to me, is not an emotion, it is a way of being, a way of living in the world. Not so much with love, as *being* love’ in this way with every action, with every motion and with every will and want of your being embodies love, which is the natural tendency in humans. Love is a form of consciousness/conscience, and without them love cannot be experienced. And no, love is not only a human trait. The iconization and commodification of love is a human trait, yes. It is obvious that animals and other organisms love. Observe the cow, the lion, the cat, the dog, the deer, the elephant, the dolphin, the whale, the penguin, as well as the flower, the rock, the sea, and the desert.

Are we not all the embodiment of Life and Love, a cosmic consciousness?

[Cosmic Consciousness]*Image Credits (artwork used with permission through CC license and with express permission from Shawn Hocking)–
“Yin Yang Sky Earth — Illustration” by DonkeyHotey
“Fossil Sitting In Sun Light” by A Guy Taking Pictures
“Tardezita” by Eduardo Amorim
[Cosmic Consciousness] by Shawn Hocking
[Untitled] by Shawn Hocking

What Is ‘You’?

The real you is not a puppet which life pushes around; the real, deep down you is the whole universe. ~Alan Watts

From The Mind Of A Schizo, Affected

I am always thinking about what people are doing, so does that mean, I always know what people are doing? But, it seems as if they are always thinking about what they are supposed to do (what someone else told them to do). I even think about what I am doing. Why do I do that? So, if people are only thinking about what they are supposed to do or what someone else tells them to do, does that mean people can never think for themselves? If you are always thinking about what you are supposed to do, that someone told you to do, how can you ever think of anything else? If you cannot think of anything else, then how can you think for yourself?

They are only ever thinking about what someone else told them to do. Someone outside of themselves. Therefore, not you. So, you never think about yourself, and so never think for yourself. If you never think about yourself, and for yourself, then you are only think about something other than yourself, and what it (the socially constructed ego) tells you to do. You listen to some Thing else. When you listen to some Thing else, you react all the time to sounds. The sound of the alarm bell, the sound of the phone ringing, the sound of the television, the “sound” of the internet, the sound of voices over radio; all the time synthesised, mechanized sounds. The sounds of the System in which you reside. The System, although illusory, that you listen to, and let tell you what to do. These sounds become normal, because you have always heard them. Ever since you were born, you were born into this world of sound. And then you were enrolled into a school,
which told you what those sounds are. And you listened. You did not question. You let it tell you what to do. You do not think for yourself. If you do not think for yourself, do you know what ‘You’ is, or even if ‘You’ are? If you do not know that, how do you know what to do, unless a sound or someone (an other human with imaginary authority) tells you? If you do not know what to do, you are listening to what someone else is telling you what to do. Because even after you are out of school and you are all grown up, you are still listening to the sounds. If you are listening to the sounds, ‘You’are being told what to do and ‘You’ (that ego) cannot be real.

Anamorphic Polymorphic Sticker ...well it doesn't even exist*Image Credits (all artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“Digital Ego: Social and Legal Aspects of Virtual Identity” by Kevin Lim
“Anamorphic Polymorphic Sticker …well it doesn’t even exist” by Tommaso Meli

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Invisible Pain in an Imagined Small, Quiet Village

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. ~Khalil Gibran

From The Mind Of A Schizo, Affected:

The Thinker in the Dark -- A5The incessant noise: it burrows through my mind like some kind of advanced technological precision military weapon. And yet if one were to speak of such an occurrence, should it be vaporised simply because it lacks all the evidence of tangible reality? Yet, how does the similarity end? When the bombs are over and the rubble cleared and the dead found then buried (if they are found amongst the rubble) in pieces?

On SufferingI imagine, in some cases at a quiet small village in (allways) a “foreign country” (how insane that phrase!! How belittling and dehumanizing to be labelled such a phrase. *Foreign*, i.e., ‘You do not belong here.’ Which means your death is not only justified but righteous, because you are not human, you are foreign. Your stink, your culture disgusts the pure mind of the True American. ‘How dare you dirty our precious soil with your unwanted and uncivilized feet.’ With a “simple” phrase, entire popuations can be annihilated and the annihilator celebrated as victor! This green color be apt for such a thought: the colour of vomit and scum and shit. That is the conditioned, stupefied humanamatons created through slyly placed neuromarketing and micromanagment).

All the troubles lie on his shoulderWhat tangible reality is left them (in that imagined quiet, small village or that sly-built humanamton)? Is not the continuing pain (or equivalent) suffered silently? Wrapped up in the reticence of truth? Lingering long after the village has been re-built and daily routines returned to normal? Is not the memories weaved into stories? What of that? Does that mean that once the visible violence has been swept up that the invisible also ceases to be? That is not to imply that I compare myself to those who were murdered (on both sides) in war. I only attempt (and perhaps poorly) at an analogy.

That pain can be invisible as well as visible.

*Image credits (all artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“On Suffering” by Hani Amir
“~Painfuless~” by Stuart Williams
“The Thinker in the Dark — A5” by H. Koppdelaney
“All the troubles lie on his shoulder” by Rana Ossama

A gallery of the above thumbnails to be viewed (deservedly) larger and on black:

The Careful Minds of Reality Daytrippers

From The Mind Of A Schizo, Affected:

The careful minds of we reality daytrippers, tripping out on a reality we never belonged to and were accidentally born into.

Where's Wally*Image Credit (artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“Where’s Wally?” by Sanctu

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The Folly of the Fart

“Laughter is the music of the soul.”

It almost seems unfair from a certain perspective.

At age three, flatulence is act worth of hilarity and worship, should it be loud and long enough. Yet, at age thirty, the same act is feared, no matter how long or loud.

In youth, the expelling of gas from the rear of the body is called a “fart;” at thirty, it is called an “embarrassment.” And shall I dare say, the youth deem the Fart the most side-splitting occurrence since Spongebob Squarepants; adults find The Fart a humiliating happening and will do anything in their rectal power to prevent its release. From holding one’s breath to squeezing the buttocks together if only to halt the vile thing from exiting, especially in public!

What of the Belch or “burp” if you will. The youth opens wide his mouth and lets rip that gusting sound of satisfying pleasure, but the adult must swallow that feeling of throat eruption.

Open wide, be boisterous, be proud. . . and let it rip!

*Image Credit (artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“Laughter” by leodelrosa


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