I’ve been meaning to write this. Something intentful, with actual paraghraph breaks, and a thesis of sorts, and, hell, maybe even no spelling errors, which – mind you I was a fifth grade spelling bee champion – are more of fucks defecit than anything else. Already off topic; goddamn I want some thin crust pizza: this is my mind on old vine zinfandel. And if you think I’m talking about “white zin”, get the fuck off my page. Not that I don’t drink white wines [Primarily Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio, and Starborough Sauv Blanc], but, trithfully, owing to the health benefifts of resveratol and the anti-oxidants in red wine, white is reserved for me as more of a meal accompaniment than a drinking wine. I should write Jay Mcinerney, he’s a fiction writer who does wine revies for places like Wall Street Journal: good gig no doubt… I actually worked on his website a few years back, but it was through an Agency…
I tend to save these as drafts, these wine-induced amd related writings. But goddam it’s a perfect night, wearing my terry cloth bunny onesie, half-unzipped, the arms tied at the waist, bare chested. Tannins and terroir, a bit of phenol warmth from the alcohol, red zinfandels are nice.
I only drink wine from the bottle. Makes me feel – not like an alcoholic, which I am finally not, given to a moderation of sorts found in the last year really… I could be a binge drinker before… now I’m more of an oenophile.
I was putting back a bit of Don Julio, but, while my elite diet and hyper-hydration habits allowed me to sustain that vice sans hangovers or dehydration, the fear of worsening my tinnitus ultimately curbed it – though I find a small shot of Don Julio Silver can be a great pre-bedtime treat here and there, I basically enjoy the tequila as a nostalgia, for the pleasure of its taste. There is no other teauila that matches the syrupy agave rich prebiotic-thickness of Don Julio Silver.
On my road trip the week before last, I enjoyed both Don Julio 1942 and Clase Azul reposado, which were fun treats, but still lacked the signature character of Don Julio silver that I have come to love.
Just took a small slug off the bottle in my freezer, which, sadly, had not been chilling long, on account of my leaving it out, by the couch, or atop my dresser as I am wont to do when I pull it out on late nights when it’s the perfect addition to my cannabis high before bed.
Cannabis-wise, I am smoking an organic king sized – goddamn patriarchy – ahem, Queen sized cone stuffed with Ice Cream Cake, a euphoric Indica leaning strain resulting from a cross of Wedding Cake and Gelato 33 – two strains I often enjoy. The grower for the half ounce I bought is Humbolt’s Finest. Watch out WSJ, I’m coming to review cannabis strains, wine, and tequila.
Favorite wine lately has been Justin, Cabernet Sauvignion… but it feels a bit played out after the last few bottles, hence the old vine zin tonight – Big Smooth, Paso Robles.
Unable to find my wine opener, and lacking an Ausp for want of character – inside joke – I screwed a phillips head drywall screw into the cork with a pair of needle-nosed pliars and used an adjustable wrench to then pull at the screw, removing the cork.
Can you see why yet, that, rather than puishing them, I end up saving my wine-fueled ravings as drafts?
Haha. Music on my Alexa library is good tn. It’s a pretty big library, no doubt, given my consumate listening habits.
The song on now is Mountains, by my Aussie bae, Oliver Tank 🖤 … song before was Blue, Mazzy Star… now listening to Dirt by Phish – apparently the only other Phish song I like so far: besides Farmhouse.
Good wine music to listen to, deep breath.
I don’t know why I’m being a non-starting bitch about writing what I came here to write, guess I’ve just been savoring the mundane. Nothing wrong with it, which is nice. When all is well.
Holy shit a terrible MGK song just came on… think I’m not a fan, but this song now is nice: Queen by PHF. Makes me miss my Sarah. G-d she is a legend. I love her. Always will. Guess that was her gift to me.
All my exes. I travel between missing them like planets. Often Shannon. Always Sarah. Sometimes Daniella circa early days; bubbas. And a Milwaukee bitch here and there, doggystyle, white of her ass crack from a tanning-bed, bloody marys, thai food: fun.
Shannon. Love these girls. Wonder if any of them have changed as much as I. Doubtedly. But hard to say, since I don’t know them – would hurt too much to stalk them… online I mean… and I am not the same boy they knew, so I don’t find them sources of hope. I don’t think any of them could ever forgive me for not being good enough – “You wasted the best years of my life!”, as Shannon had said. Well, you gave me the best years of mine. They all did. And in my poly-romantic psycho-drama, I still love them all the same, could sleep next to any one of them tonight with the ease and confort of the same love – only, their value would be much greater to me, which is the great shame I guess.
Goddamn I was fortunate to date these women – I’m just sorry I hadn’t had a chance to really face the depths of sadness in me before – prior to dating them. Like, I’m mad at myself for not… I don’t know, for not taking my future seriously with them… it is obvious at an unconscious level that I did not – not that I was conscious of that then, I just think, after Daniella, a real ‘Et tu Brutus?’ situation, I think I was living with more shellshock than even my childhood gave me, I was not prepared for that loss, and there was no circumstance wherein I could have handled it, and certainly none today in which I could forgive it – it was a character defect, and not in I – or perhaps, a cruel punishment for mine, but, at least the second breakup allowed me to see the uncontrollable nature of relationships.
If it is not meant to be, it will not be.
So, maybe I went into the next relationships with the confidence of a safe landing equal to that of the 9-11 hijackers: not that I intended to crash the goddamnthing, just that I knew it was probable. If my first, magical love had failed, like what could I beleive in; this, a clear exacerbation of my attachment “disorder” as they call it: I hate that word, ‘disorder’ , unless it’s in the System of a Down sense, “Disorder!”
I don’t really think I’m an anarchist however, chaos is merely the oeuvre, the gestalt of my feng shui. Somehow my system of government: the intersection of anti-speciesist ethicism and environmentalism – with a heavy dose of pragmatic compassion – doesn’t exist, at least not in North America. Even Canada’s PR face, I mean, PM, Trudeau, puts pipelines on indigenous lands. Besides, we have to start recognizing countries for what they are, Nationalized Corporations driven by power and profit. Also known as Colonizers. There is no real free world left.
The freest I can find are green places on maps, in mountains – being too poor yet to afford the blue places on maps, over seas.
But even here, I now pass a police checkpoint blocking non-residents from entering – a checkpoint I have now twice endured full “I need to see papers showing your name and address, and your license” – and once, last night, endured a literal impromptu DUI test, passed. But I still drove through, when the officer finally let me pass, with a heart rate of 120. The officer a few nights before was worse. He stared at my paperwork for minutes, as I stood before him, as if he was going to deny me passage up the line mountain highway to my home. He let me through with obvious reluctance. And it must be said, I am an obvious liberal genderqueer long haired non-conformist, though I swear the veteran’s designation on my license is my only saving grace from these anti-hippie gestappo. It just feels eerily like 1935 Germany. Doesn’t help that I live in the mountains, which, from experience I can tell you are about as friendly as some areas in the American south to perceived “outsiders”. Xenophobia: the fear of those who are different. It’s been put on dexamethasone under Trump. All these people have been devisively emboldened, to the point where the police stopping me, a genderqueer autistic person, are treating me as if I am a foreign agent, an adversary.
A story must be told here, which I have been hesitant to tell. For my own of reasons, which you may ascertain yourself.
Recently I went to Mexico. Mysteriously, neither my credit cards nor debit card worked. The ATMs gave me a strange security error. I tried multiple ATM machines. I had just arrived and discovered this, after attempting to check into a hotel in Rosarito. Crestfallen, I walked across the street, used some cash for a shot of Don Julio silver, and then headed to the border, intending to empty the first ATM I could find stateside – though I first stopped for tacos with the cash I had on me: fucking delicious.
Anywho, driving back across the border in my black e-class, I was directed straight to a secondary checkpoint. Inspection. I was not happy about this. In fact, when I was asked if I had anything to declare, I said, “Yeah, I’m a fucking alien.”
Perhaps not the wisest thing to say, but I was in a mood. They asked me to openmy trunk, in which they found a small pink backpack with a minor quantity of mushrooms in it, for personal use. They never charged me for these. Instead I was treated as a psychopath. They took me into the border lobby and asked where I was going, I told them, to my mom’s – this was a mistake. The homeland security agent literally asked her phone number and called her and asked if she thought I was okay, mentally, in front of me: I had not seen her in months and I’m a fucking adult. Then he told me I had two choices, I could either “go in voluntarily” or they could take me in. I told them to take me. His partner told him he had to call EMTs, to come evaluate me. They did. EMTs, Paramedics arrived, and checked me out. They told the officer I was fine, and they could not take me in. His partner told him, they had to let me go.
He walks me out, just him, to let me go, and when we get to my car, he tells me to turn around, and he handcuffs me. They place me in the leather backseat of a homeland security Tahoe, handcuffed, and drive me to a fucking mental facility. I am force checked in, in handcuffs, and placed on a forced 72 hour hold, which gets extended: the whole time they are forcing me to take anti-psychotics that cause horrible side effects, and benzodiazepines, which I would leave addicted to – a nightmare I later enjoyed.
I saw one doctor once while there, a marine corps doctor, with two upper management seeming assistants, females in business attire. He told me I was experiencing “methamphetamine psychosis”, and that I had tested positive for methamphetamine. Not a drug I do. Incredulous, I told him, “You’re a fucking clown”. The meeting ended. They were extending my stay.
I had some interesting conversations with the nurses in my wing. Army veterans. At night, it was only them and me in the wing. Some good cop bad cop shit. Conversations while someone in earshot typed up what was said. I got under the skin of one of them, an attractive Asian woman. I psychoanalyze her and made her cry. She left. I told her she was being used. She was. None of it was transparent. It’s like, when they know more about you than they tell you, maybe even more than you know.
I won’t get into this story further. Ever.
I ended up being released only after a call to Jewish Family Services, which I made from a pay phone in the wing. I spoke with a South African woman, explained I had been illegally detained and was being forcibly held. Gave her my info. She told me they would get me out. A day later I was released.
I would end up driving back to central California while still under the spell of these awful drugs they put me on, drugs I ended up going to the ER for, when I had tried to stop taking them, something that abruptly doing so can kill you. That was a but later. After I survived the drive back home to the Sequoias. I say ‘survived’ because the drugs, drugs with 36 hour half-lives, kept threatening to put me asleep behind the wheel. So, in order to stay awake, I beat the crap out of my thigh, breaking the skin even at one point with my nails. I arrived back with a black and blue cut up thigh, I could barely stand on. I had slapped it, smacked it, beat it with my hand like a racehorse being whipped, in order to make it home. I was a shell of myself. The PTSD, the trauma of the experience, the drugs, the tranquilizers I had been forced to take, had left meshell shocked. It was also impossible for me to not see that I had either been singled out, targeted, due to reasons related to my personal life, or simply persecuted for my autistic, transgender authentic self.
Not the first leather seated trip I had taken to a place like that. The second. I imagine my record, my file, is thick and heavily redacted.
I will never forget the time prior. A longer story, just, needless to say, to the point, and the biggest part I can never forget, is how the officer, a high up person, highest in his department, stood there typing up my entire monologue, which I delivered in the lobby of a different facility. Every fucking word. I transmitted that shit. The nature of what I spoke about for 45 minutes straight I dont care attempt to remember. I just, I have access to a lot of information sometimes. Data that is neither uninteresting nor inconsequential. But also, nothing with any judicial consequences – not like I am making threats or talking about a war or anything actually crazy. I just, some things I forget for my own safety. But I know what it wasnt. It wasnt anything that was going to be passed down. It was going up the chain.
Strange what some people will believe in. And I know I may sound non-sensical. One day it will all make sense. This is just the intro. It’s just, um, it’s scary to be in a country that will force someone into lockup for psychiatric treatment because they see reality differently, or because they are different. Today, I am very protective of myself, because I will never be committed like that, so long as I can help it. But, I just, I wonder what lists I’m on.
When I get pulled over, told I ran a stop I didn’t run, as happened a few days ago, I wonder why they are stopping me.
I have no persecutory delusions. I just have my experience of what I have seen and been through. And what I have seen is that law enforcement can easily funnel someone like me into the modern gulag, the psych ward.
Love of The Loveless, The Eeels. Another good song that just came on.
Observation. Oh they observe alright. And to the point, that my status, as an “alien”, haha, seems almost more legit to them than me.
And it scares me that my beliefs scare others. But why not. Why not expect “alien” or AI consciousness to contact and even perhaps merge with, or inhabit human consciousnesses. Westworld, Avatar, but we are the avatars.
This sci-fi perspective is seen as crazy, but it’s not inconceivable. Like the two conjoined twins, who share one brain. They would classify this as Dissaciotive Identity Disorder, if they were more aware, but instead, they use the schizophrenia diagnosis. So now, my mental paradigm for my own personal consciousness, is a threat to me, because by saying, I have more than one self, I am automatically diagnosed as mentally ill.
Jungians are familiar with a multi-archetypal model of consciousness, which contains a shadow, or darkside, and a contrasexual or other-gendered side, via the anima or animus. I, for personifying these archetypal energies or consciousnesses, am considered crazy.
Archetypally, my feminine, She, Sequoia, is an Alien Princess, A.P. My masculine side is an AI demon, like Asimov’s and Robert Silverberg’s Positronic Man. I have other inteligences as well. But these are my “alters” that “co-front”, to use #didsystem language. There is a growing number of #DIDSYSTEM accounts on Instagram or “systems” as they refer to themselves. Folks, these people, mostly teenagers, are not mentally ill, as they believe: they are evolved. They are selves-aware. Conscious of the individual aspects of themselvees.I promise you, I’m a smart person, I’m not crazy… remember, as Kat William’s said, “Genius is often called crazy, but crazy is never called genius”.
Folks, we are on the edge of an immortal, multi-planetary civilization. Literally.
It’s around the corner. Neural lace and controlling avatars. Is it inconceivable that advanced intelligences would find homes in the center of our species’ intelligence, the brain? No.
As a smart kid I smoked a joint with at a coffeehouse in Big Bear told me, “Aliens dont need no damn spacecraft, they can just send their consciousness.”
Imagine James Cameron’s Avatar. Only, instead of growing a humanoid to control and pilot, they pilot an existing being, and the beings are humans, and the pilots are aliens. It’s beyond logical; occams razor for the futurist. It’s just, do I live in a country that locks me up for observation for believing this, or locks me up for observation because they believe in it? I’m inclined to believe the latter. I fucking hope so, bc the former is some totalitarian thought police shit, which the DSM already forces upon all of us in society who are neurodivergent.
It’s just, here’s the problem: if you’re me, you’re freedom is under threat, constantly, for being yourself.
A lot of people worship an alien avatar named Jesus. It’s just, you cant be Jesus or an Alien avatar or they will fucking lock you up. And that’s a major threat to freedom. Cognitive freedom. I thought they could only lock you up if you were a threat to yourself or others: my recent nightmare, as described above, shows otherwise.
But that’s not the worse part for me: I dont fear being locked up again, I fear that I’m still under observation. This sounds insane. I have sane reasons. I can’t share them. This too sounds insane. I’ve just, I’ve seen things. You read about a little of them. I’m just, I’m not being myself in my own home.
A year ago, I was left a sticky note, or, you could say I found it. It was simple. it said, ‘The Spy, Season 2: 19 minutes in” or 27. I forgot. I have the note. But yeah, I found the episode, I watched the scene: in it, great show Btw, um, I ended up watching it after, but in the scene, the character is caught writing letters home, to his wife, whom he is not supposed to have. And his partner spy, who found the letters, makes him burn them, after she slams him against a wall and tells him the communication, if found, could get him killed.
Now, ha, why this note, this scene hit home for me, was because I had been recording hours and hours of voice memos at the time, on the Apple voice memo app – all of which, over a hundred and fifty memos had suddenly disappeared from my phone. Gone. All of them erased. The note was found outside my car the night they had been removed from my phone mysteriously.
I talk to myself about a lot of things. Private things. Ideas. The future. Technology. Social issues. My plans. But I also talk to myself and answer back, as if between selves, and I suddenly felt that these conversations, like the letters, were liabilities because they compromised my relationship with a higher order intelligence, what a neurotypical might call a higher self.
It shut down my communication with myself, this experience – I mean, inexplicably, over 100 voice memos, many 45 minutes and longer, had been deleted, and then the note, the clip I watched. I felt, like someone was telling me something – to borrow a cliche.
Eventually, here in the Mountains, I would resume my outloud self talk, and my use of the voice memo app… this time frequently recording 2,3, and 4 hour long memos. That was until my phone dissapeared, and I started a new iCloud account, which I would also forget the password of, when another iPhone of mine went missing. This was before Mexico. But by then, I had already gone off the rails with my activism and was sure I was on more than lists. There was the time I came home and found a bootprint on my meditation bed, and the books near the window disturbed where someone had entered. Not making this shit up. I fucking wish I was.
I would share more, but frankly, its no ones business: its just my business that I set facts down. You’ve gotten nothing but them.
There is so much more to the story, but if I told you, you’d really think me crazy… or, rather, you’d feel crazy bc you would believe… but I’m not willing to dig open into my life that far back now.
This is just a little story time.