paranoia to poetry.

I have tended to accumulate a lot of unfinished creative writing over the years. Some of it is paranoid, some of it isn’t. It is interesting looking at some of it, I was trying to express a range of emotions but it seemed caught in paranoia. In some ways after doing graffiti for years and having people after me and all of that sort of stuff. But now I can ask was anyone actually after me? Well there was Soen’s for a while and he did try and look for me a while back. I wrote on various topics trying to dramatise and recreate that sense of drama that comes with the story of graffiti in a mind. The stories though were attempts to unravel the paranoia of those dramas. There were some negative types around and the thing I found weird was that I was trying to express the drama of that and the fact that those types were around. Initially I wanted to write a book but never really found a voice that I could write with well. I chose voices that were aggressive for the effect but really I should have chosen a neutral voice. As my condition improved I started to find a normal voice that wasn’t so paranoid. As my schizophrenia was treated and I was less paranoid I could use a neutral style and sometimes change the voice to create drama then switch that off again.  Some of my writing just makes little sense but it tends to become a little more poetic in later years. I want to make a dialogue based artwork with a lot of the snippets of text work. It would be good to hear it as a larger dialogue that jumps from paranoia to poetry.

The character walks by night, we never see his face. It makes you wonder if he is real. The face gives everything away. It holds you and you use it to focus, to find a point to locate a relationship. This face is never there so there is no dialogue other than you watching. He is focused looking away, even when the camera is noticed he hides. What is he hiding from? Rejection? Knowledge? His victim? His oppressor? Maybe he hides away in shadows in the night to conjure up a dark power like a witch doctor. Maybe he hides to evoke curiosity or fear. If you see him is it best not to know? If you knew would the light illuminate him as the mask falls away and a naked face comes to view? What of the mystery? What of not knowing, of seeing the dark shadows envelop the stalking dark figure playing with shadows. Cutting with fear with the power of remaining unknown, a figment of your imagination something that can’t be touched but felt with blade where only pain is the message the loss of blood the force of a needle the haemorrhage of blood the loss of consciousness. A place where ownership is not negotiated or agreed upon but taken by a blunt force. Where anything is possible but never any different where wealth slips away and poverty reaches in taking everything away. Where the perpetrator is the victim and the victim a criminal who will never have to answer for his crimes. Not to say the relationship is not full of benefits they sit under the one roof, they know they exist but never feel they will meet until they do and the answer is forced out even though there is no question. It is never a question of rich or poor as both have means. The banker wears the hood, he waits in the shadows. He takes your power away momentarily leaving you empty until you are out of his power and ready to accumulate. He wears the hood to hide an identity and to create an identity, it makes you wonder if any of this is real.

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The park was the only open space with a lead sky bending the ground with it’s weight, We all moved through the tagged door, The hall smelt of piss while televisions made a meaningless chorus. We all had something better to do but couldn’t be bothered doing it. The bong got passed around we had a laugh followed by silence. We found ourselves at that Christian group again, Not the bible, never the bible it gave us a place to exist within Maybe a big pair of arms would come out of the sky and cuddle us. Get a job, I have one already I just need a sad story to tell someone. Hey keep listening, it’s a movie, it’s amazing, someone gets lucky at the end. They realise something and then something happens, it gets a bit boring after that. They get so bored they get addicted to ice and then their life is interesting again. Some well meaning people get robbed by them while helping them out It’s addictive, a shot of dopamine, pain is real and it is a cathartic moment. The piss is real, I swear it’s piss, amazing piss

In a sense I would feel that I was part of a larger more important reality when I was wondering the streets tagging. Everyone was unaware living their directed lives and I was the ghost wandering the streets waiting to be found. There always seemed to be so many unanswered questions, I couldn’t know everyone or everything. I had fallen out of the network of life into a psychosis. I had become the living dead.

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