circumstance causes great discomfort to that critter.
Simply put: it ain’t fun.
My notebooks were journals of both physical and psychological aspects of my life. They were, in a sense part of my “therapy,” allowing me to document my everyday existence. When read (by myself or someone else) as an objective log of my daily life’s events, my own shift from “reality” to “fictional reality” became apparent. The goal, obviously, was to grasp and maintain awareness of the difference between these “realities” and “fictional realities.”
Prior to having been knocked into a life of perpetual confusion, I had been a mediocre writer who had spent his time scrounging for money and drinking booze. After the blow in the bar, I had become (according to the recorded writings) some sort of covert operative working to subvert a world-domineering entity that controlled the entire human race via subliminal, economical, political, philosophical, educational, sociological, psychological, spiritual, mathematical, irrational, unnatural and vital means.
My façade was as a drunken bum.
“No one would ever think twice about a bum!” my journal read. “When flooded with alcohol, all neural roads and byways become inaccessible or downright treacherous. Their brain-scans are almost impossible to conduct—like going to a mountain pass during a blizzard to do a sobriety test on vagrant….”
Oh, how clever I supposed myself to be.
But the truth was, during these stints I’d disappear for a period of time, prompting Mona to call the police and file a missing persons report on me. Eventually I’d be picked up in a random ally, sidewalk, freeway underpass, or park bench, stinking drunk and muttering incoherent gibberish while clutching one of my notebooks.
“You arrre leeving een a dreeeam und vaaking state hybreed.”
That’s what the Doc had told me.
SPEAKING OF Dr. Sydney Götzefalsch: he was a world-renowned psychiatrist. The reason I had originally landed in his office was because the Blonde—I mean Mona Malena—had heard about him in an ad on the radio for his clinic in the Redondo Beach area. His specialty was working with and curing cases such as mine. He deemed these cases the suffering of “temporal neurological displacement disorder,” the symptoms being “figments of reality intermeshing with fragments of imagination for a synthesis of strange perception.”
Yeah, I thought it sounded like a bunch of quackery, but Mona seemed to think it would help get me realigned with reality.
And she had pretty much come to her wit’s end at that point.
Götzefalsch had invented a revolutionary drug called “Fractalyn,” which he decided to test on me. When absorbed into the system, Fractalyn sends micro-robots deep into the brain so the patient becomes a living movie studio in which every tangent of thought is perceived and downloaded into a visual file and stored.
The patient becomes both spectator to and part of the entire mind production. These neural director-robots label all mental perceptual procedures as “fragments of reality” or “figments of imagination.”
The director-bots then organize the two components into their respective camps and send them to the “thought editor/producer bots”—who decipher which thoughts would be profitable to the organism’s sanity. The chosen ones are then released into consciousness or as dreams.
The drug acts as a type of “psychological Roto-Rooter” which cleans out the pipes in the brain from all the hallucinatory and irrational clogs. Booze, of course imperils the effects of the treatment.
Whenever I relapsed into drink, the progress I had made would regress back to the starting point and then some. Hiking is a good analogy: if I had hiked one mile, then had a slip with the booze, I’d find myself two miles back in the opposite direction of my starting point. When that did occur—which was not irregular—Dr. Götzefalsch would intensively sober
Simply put: it ain’t fun.
My notebooks were journals of both physical and psychological aspects of my life. They were, in a sense part of my “therapy,” allowing me to document my everyday existence. When read (by myself or someone else) as an objective log of my daily life’s events, my own shift from “reality” to “fictional reality” became apparent. The goal, obviously, was to grasp and maintain awareness of the difference between these “realities” and “fictional realities.”
Prior to having been knocked into a life of perpetual confusion, I had been a mediocre writer who had spent his time scrounging for money and drinking booze. After the blow in the bar, I had become (according to the recorded writings) some sort of covert operative working to subvert a world-domineering entity that controlled the entire human race via subliminal, economical, political, philosophical, educational, sociological, psychological, spiritual, mathematical, irrational, unnatural and vital means.
My façade was as a drunken bum.
“No one would ever think twice about a bum!” my journal read. “When flooded with alcohol, all neural roads and byways become inaccessible or downright treacherous. Their brain-scans are almost impossible to conduct—like going to a mountain pass during a blizzard to do a sobriety test on vagrant….”
Oh, how clever I supposed myself to be.
But the truth was, during these stints I’d disappear for a period of time, prompting Mona to call the police and file a missing persons report on me. Eventually I’d be picked up in a random ally, sidewalk, freeway underpass, or park bench, stinking drunk and muttering incoherent gibberish while clutching one of my notebooks.
“You arrre leeving een a dreeeam und vaaking state hybreed.”
That’s what the Doc had told me.
SPEAKING OF Dr. Sydney Götzefalsch: he was a world-renowned psychiatrist. The reason I had originally landed in his office was because the Blonde—I mean Mona Malena—had heard about him in an ad on the radio for his clinic in the Redondo Beach area. His specialty was working with and curing cases such as mine. He deemed these cases the suffering of “temporal neurological displacement disorder,” the symptoms being “figments of reality intermeshing with fragments of imagination for a synthesis of strange perception.”
Yeah, I thought it sounded like a bunch of quackery, but Mona seemed to think it would help get me realigned with reality.
And she had pretty much come to her wit’s end at that point.
Götzefalsch had invented a revolutionary drug called “Fractalyn,” which he decided to test on me. When absorbed into the system, Fractalyn sends micro-robots deep into the brain so the patient becomes a living movie studio in which every tangent of thought is perceived and downloaded into a visual file and stored.
The patient becomes both spectator to and part of the entire mind production. These neural director-robots label all mental perceptual procedures as “fragments of reality” or “figments of imagination.”
The director-bots then organize the two components into their respective camps and send them to the “thought editor/producer bots”—who decipher which thoughts would be profitable to the organism’s sanity. The chosen ones are then released into consciousness or as dreams.
The drug acts as a type of “psychological Roto-Rooter” which cleans out the pipes in the brain from all the hallucinatory and irrational clogs. Booze, of course imperils the effects of the treatment.
Whenever I relapsed into drink, the progress I had made would regress back to the starting point and then some. Hiking is a good analogy: if I had hiked one mile, then had a slip with the booze, I’d find myself two miles back in the opposite direction of my starting point. When that did occur—which was not irregular—Dr. Götzefalsch would intensively sober
Similar Books
