1: I read the comic series Promethea. From start to about 20% into the second trade papeback. For more info on the first click here: Promethea (Book 1)
2: I went on an internal Gnostic Journey.
3: My single serving friend who turned out to be a Mormon Elder. So we spoke for about 2 hrs on the history, founding, and architecture of Mormonism.
This post deal with #2. I suppose we could thus call them Brain droppings.
What is contained below the cut was the stream of thoughts I went thru as best as my hands could keep up. Most won't make sense. My internal voice is either my conscious thought or my un/sub-conscious quick response. The latter of which will hopefully be italicized.
My story begins with the nose of my plane over the city where I met the man I currently call my Bishop. All of what I've just written in true, after a fashion. But my desire to write begins becuase of the question I just asked and the answer I received.
"Why haven't I given you a name?" The voice responded, "Because you aren't ready yet." That voice, for the moment has gone quiet. But even now I can hear it echo that it is still here. All this goes on while the music of "Rent" plays random selections in my head as well.
When you perceive that your mother is a paranoid schizophrenic (albeit not diagnosed but observations of her behavior fall into several text book definitions) you pay attention to your own paranoia. Insanity has been linked to genetics. So, you keep yourself in check.
I am typing now instead of carrying on the conversation because I have the compelling need to elabourate the back story that put me in this mental place before continuing down my own personal rabbit hole. Events may not be in order or even seemingly relavant but... hopefully they do the job.
I've been reading the beginnings of a series by Watchmen author Alan Moore's Promethia. To the fans of this series... I stopped first at the moment of Sophie's initial meeting with Margaret to fall prey to nature's call. My mind reeled. I read about a chair. I closed the book. I am not Promethia. I am not a warrior queen. But she is within every man, woman, child... as stated above, "After a fashion."
I often forget that I am a magician. I wear the rings and the jewlery, I attend the events, I perform rituals... But at times, I shrink back into my mortal shell and push my philosophy on others regardless of what I am thinking of myself. This seems like I am craving penance, but interestingly... I am okay with this.
Are you there?
(Silence)... I'm always here.
You, me... Disassociative Dissorder's all the rage now isn't it
Must be hard to keep up with the typing.
Well, what do you expect?
I expect you to think for yourself, not your 'audience'
My primary inner voice has been with me my whole life. Interestingly, my inner voice was abussive as a child. Which was odd, because I really wasn't greatly abused. As a child, it would insult me, tell me I was horrible, make fun of me. Say horrid things about my childhood friends. It made me scared, shy, and different.
Today, it doesn't pop up much. But when it does, it's a more comoforting voice of knowledge. Telling me the choices that really I already knew were the right one. HGA? Who knows. Theoretically in my studies I'm on the verge of a greater understanding of this.I could just be reading into it all. But then again... what is the imagination, the astral, the faerie lands, heaven, hell, stovocor.... but reading into it. (The song on auto repeat is primarily "Halloween" where Mark asks why life transpired the way it did, it does, and why and how he interacts with it)
You've gotten quiet
You've gotten distracted.
I can't share the real discoveries.
Why are you upset (Roger: Tell you why)
(pause) I don't know. I want to know more. (thinks) I want to know that I'm not crazy
(Rapid fire unidentifiable words from La vie Boehem)
Never Ending Story, Promethea, Binkly standing at the edge of his Closet seeing a horse waiting to take him away not knowing if he should stand up and jump on. Twilight Zone's Willoughby Funeral home.
One man's spiritual Journey is another man's foray into insanity.
Altered States, Brazil
(Tries to turn down the mental volume of LVB)
Mark: Is anyone in the mainstream?
Show times over
What's that supposed to mean
Save your file
(heh) (I name the file 'Chat with my HGA')
You know why.
Yes, Rent is on my head so my subconscious is using it to assemble it into symbols to draw on the deeper things that I'm thinking about. But why now.
You can figure that one out on your own.
Hard time the last few months. Grasping at straws. Surviving defensively rather than offensively.
You forgot to be a magickian
My words exactly.
(I float...random half passages of music combine in my head) The inner voice is replaced by my narration as I type. The tail of my plane over the city where I met my current Bishop. The elabouration on this... I am on Jet Blue. There is a TV screen showing me varying maps of our trip. It so happens that my urge to type started over a city I have been to once and yet, forms an interesting piece of my life.
Show time's over?
I still don't get it.
You willed yourself into the dreamtime.. just for a second. Explain
I stopped reading the book and went into the bathroom. My head was swimming from the astral realizations popping into my head about transcedning into the immaterial world. As I opened the door to the room, I wondered if the bathroom would be there. I entered thinking, "well of course... others are around me. For the true Twilight Zone effect; It'd have to be where there was noone else. In the bathroom I finished, turned to the closed door. I felt it. Straighened my rings and wondered if my reflection was completely lined up with me. (A beautiful scene in the film "The Craft") I rested my head against the door. I thought about two women I care deeply about...Ironically at the moment, fairly close to centered between them. I contemplated what would happen if I opened that door and the plane wasn't there anymore. I wondered how it would appear in the newspapers.. how the news would travel. Would the plane have crashed? Would I have died of a heart attack on board? How would I be found or would I. The time... wasn't right. I'm not ready. I opened the door. To say there was even a flash of anything that lacked what we call reality... would be a lie. But to say there wasn't an instant of something as Shroedinger's door opened.... might also be a lie. There are people who are too important to me to leave with far too many questions. And I turned and asked for tea.
This isn't suicide. There are no self destructive thoughts in my mind at all. Personally, I hope to live for a very long time. Longer than average. I demand at least 108. To see if my precociously obnoxious 8 year old self was right in 1776. I was told what the definition of bicentennial was only to respond that I would like to be around in 2076 to see what things would have been like had the country survived. (Mark: maybe because I'm the only one to survive.)
I'd mentioned my inner voice isn't always polite.
Should I be? You ask it yourself similarly at work? Do you want it done right or done fast.
They always answer the same thing... I want something done quickly enough that it's not done wrong.
So why am I still typing? I don't have any more answers. Except that maybe Alan Moore knows more kaballah that I do. The chorus of Rent songs continues to play in my mind. I sit somewhat afraid to keep reading.
(I close my eyes)
Who are you
Who am I?
Who are you?
Who am I?
I am that I am.
(I imagine my airplane seat as a seat in an office. I think maybe my dad's psychiatric clinc office. I look over at the other chair that isn't there.
Look at me and I am here. See me and I am visible. Put words to me and I am heard. Put voice to me and I speak. Put a name to me and I am you.
Ah, yes I forgot this part.
You asked me Andrei? And said No.
It's the name I chose for myself. "A Man", It was from the SCA. Andrei Grigorievich. Andrei... The son of (Creation of) Grigorie.
Your name is Greg, too.
I renounced that name.
You don't unmake yourself. You are what you are.
It is still part of me. Without Greg I would not be Andrei today.
I told you, "A man"
An interesting self claim when you were 19.
I liked it.
You don't know that for sure.
Don't bother with Fiddler... yes...possible... But you don't know
You're coming off as indignant
And now you're coming off as Yoda.
Not really, language is in the right order.
(Light the candle: I like it between my.... fingers... )
The voice goes silent again.
A name... what's in a name
I thought the whole idea of this exercise was not to go disassociative.
Do you even know for sure what that means?
Not connected to, I think. As in the personallity isn't connected to the reality of the core individual.
Am I separate from you?
No. Fortunately, I'm also not going to listen to you if you decide to tell me to go on a killing spree. Atleast I hope I won't.
You know two things as fact.
Yes. You won't and even if you did it'd bein ironic jest and I wouldn't. It's not who I am.
Which helps answer your questions earlier.
(nodding) not really. But thanks.
You want to read more of the story.
I don't know. *hrmnf* Though coming from you. Is that a question or a statement.
You tell me.
You're about as helpful as my cat was when I went to the Gay Bar in WV.
It's the way things work. At least for now. It's time to read more. You're ready
Yup. You've come down off your gnosis. You wanted a clearer head because you didn't want to get too caught up. Too much symbollism at once. You're still not ready to 'let go'
Do I ever let go anymore?
rarely, but you do. Your loved ones see it. You do too... but... you've got a long way to go. Baaaaayby steps.
And yet, I think I may still post this.
You will. It's your way.... Save and read.
Don't worry. I am pretty sure we'll talk again at the next required break. Remember... we're only over North Dakota... This is a long trip. :)
Did you just emoticon me?
heh. I am you.
(Timestamps at 12:04 Eastern; changes the internal clock back to pacific. Now 9:05. I contemplate how 3 hours could evaporate into non-existance like a dream... I return to reading. I sense more strangeness in my evening. Types the word saves, saves and closes the laptop.)
Promethea has defeated the goetia not fully assembled since 1904 in a war that gave me a wry smile. My plane heads over a town named for mythic legend of Troy. I contemplate the concept that a millihelen is the amount of beauty required to launch one ship.
I went to the same bathroom again. No side trips from the bathroom. I was grounded now. More grounded. My single serving friend sleeps placidly in his beliefs.
I thought to myself... and think to myself... Maybe I am ...
And the airplane drone politely offers me a bag of mixed fat. Snacks. He threatens oreos are within, I fall prey to whim. My friend awakes to a moment I knew would occur. I ask him about the origins of Mormonism. 9:58pm