The Second Coming
All is gladness, all is mirth!
Last some weeks were splendour of existence, enhanced greatly by that gentle miss Mary Jane. I had a job – making computer games!, I had had a girlfriend, and had been ditched – no tears shed, I had gotten friends in music, I was a dancer, I had short gloves – No Fear. Life was being unveiled before me.
The boss is talking to/at me, and I’m all grin and smirk, struggling to contain my laughter, amused by gods know what. I’m designing a Christmas newsletter graphics and am feeling incredibly inspired – the Santa is something of a stripper and the colors are all pink and electric, in place of the tired old red. It’s all so novel and rethought and whatnot… and fun.
But here’s lunchtime, and I head out. To a parking lot by the main city square. I take the stuff from my rucksack, fill a small pipe with weed, light it, and inhale. Here we go.. Perception is immediately altered, flattens somewhat. I walk into the square, thinking ‘Have I forgotten my phone?’ and it is answered to me, with great certainty, ‘You only need to shout and we’ll be there..’ They’ll be right here.. Good enough for me. I leave the sack on a bench, never to be seen again, and .. it’s somewhere at this point I zoom, lose awareness, and all goes black. I get a few flashes, how I seem to want to play, running across the lawn, around the corner of a shop.. but it’s just a couple of flashes.
… Some months later, I will have stumbled upon a highschooler. He will tell me they had observed my ‘playing’ from the nearby school. They had seen me dancing and supposedly praying in front of the town hall. The fellas also took my rucksack, containing the weed supplies, notebook filled with varied thinkings of mine and a tube of sex lube. Later he will then return the notebook at least, to me a valuable artefact …
In blackness my consciousness is not entirely gone. I receive reassurance and simply understanding. That these are good people, I will come to no harm, and that I can trust. I can trust. Who exactly is doing the reassuring, I do not know. But somewhere along, I started thinking of them as my team.
At some point, I become aware of motion and of someone tying my arm and injecting a needle. My body instinctively flails and struggles a bit, but still all is black. I remind myself to trust and calm down, not waking up. Next realization is of entering through a door, which I know to be the entrance of the closed department, psychiatric hospital, yet I’m still in black.
I open my eyes, finding myself in the surveillance room, seemingly not tied down. Ahh, this relaxed feeling, joy of being certain I’m amid good people and all is going to be grand. I scratch my balls .. and get up eventually. I will spend a week in the closed ward and will certainly not remember all of it, but the few points I do .. will be shared with you.
First, I talk with the technicians – sign my admittance, sign the list of items I brought with me, get into a pajama.. One remarks smiling, they saw me attending to my balls. I smile back. Doctor will come tomorrow.
I’m decided to make this visit much more pleasurable than the first one. There is indeed great lightness to my being in the castle, free from concerns or regrets, swinging about full of confidence in the white and brown ward. The ward consists of a common room, infirmary, surveillance room, two bathrooms, a toilet, doctor’s office, smoking room, and the patients’ rooms. Part of it is placed in the castle tower, crossed to via a narrow corridor. The common room is filled with tables and chairs, TV in one corner. In the other is the full windowed infirmary, from where the techs dispense the healing potions and keep an eye on the moon men.
The smoking room is small, painted yellow, with benches around a standing ashtray. Walls are full of scratchings and doodlings by the inmates, snapshots of turbulent minds. It is usually occupied, patients sharing their tales and feelings over the smoke and stench. I’m not a smoker (yet), but I view it a kind of confessional and am happy to participate in the warmth of troubled hearts occupying small space. I hang there often.
Days start with a morning exercise in the dining/common room, around 8. I’m fit and agile, happy to do the simple stretchings, but there are some patients, not quite limber and possibly quite sedated, that flail about comically. After, breakfast – the smallest meal and usually an unimpressive affair. Then the techs administer each patient’s alotted morning drugs. I accept these candies as something inconsequential, feeling not even such poison can bring a good man down. Around the 9, on most days, a doctor pays us a visit.
I’m in luck, as the one this time around is the chief psychiatrist of the hospital, an easy to trust older man, perpetually hunched over, as if tracing pennies on the floor. I like him. He informs me I was found lying unconscious on a sidewalk by a concerned citizen. As I didn’t appear to be a hobo, but a young man full of potential, an ambulance was called .. so here I am. I report on my situation – what occured, how I feel quite well, these spiritual happenances seem to do me good and indeed all is dandy. He’s glad to see I’m fine, but expresses concern that while some do find extraordinary states of consciousness much fun, they can well turn truly sour. Perhaps indeed, but for now.. I’ll be blissful.
“We found love in a hopeless place…” is Rihanna’s singing that I’m swirling to in the common room, in one pure morning.. engraving a memory of redemption that will last, perhaps lifetimes. It is just a couple of swirls really, but I feel content. It is freedom’s flight. As well a reminder that I had found rather earthly love in this place before.. who knows what all goodies I might scavenge this time.
As for goodies, another memory that will burn deep is a certain lunch. No feast unto itself – vegetable soup, main dish, yoghurt. However, I am inspired! and pour the yoghurt into the soup. Oooh, this goodness, alchemy of gods! It works truly well, fuelling further my feeling that nothing could go wrong. It occurs to me that my nevermet team is on the other side of light, nay! they are the Night! Out of black infinities, starclusters of possibilites are born, hinging everrushing lanes of fate.. them all traversed by the night team, then collapsed, reduced to almost nill.. what is left is mine to live through, without ill. And as all of us are linked by bonds of trust, only good will come to pass. It’s what occurs to me. I’m an american footballer on the forefront, full of gusto, eyes closed.. I dig into the souffle-like dish, it sparkles in my mouth, being just so right…
One of the few things we can do in the closed department is watch TV. It helps create a somewhat homelike mood. Voices from the box (it’s a flat screen really..) soak the room with bleach of normalcy. Channel selection is either at the mercy of the technicians, or a matter of agreement. I am often found cozy in the chair, watching the dreambox and musing. Much like many a thing, to a psychotic/elevated person, your regular TV might have some info that’s there just for you – a love/hate/droll letter from God/god/devil/Devil/your ex. Finding relevance in stuff that ordinarily has none is a tricky hobby, one that I will eventually indulge too much in, but currently I am hip and keen.
My family comes visit, bringing sweets and fruits and necessities. Brother got me a replacement mobile phone, old one, but it’ll work fine.. along with a new SIM card, meaning I’ll have to start adding contacts anew. Eventually, my father and mother are sitting in front of me, TV at their back, while I’m gleeful. They’re seldom seen together, but now they’re here, happy to see me happy. In fact, they seem as if suggesting something, mom resting her head on hands in an odd pose and peering at me like some grade schooler. TV in the back is showing a film, of a couple of westerners and one asian youth, somewhere in some asian woods. Amid that, the parents talk to me, how they want to see me happy, for me to meet myself (in our language, ‘happy’ and ‘meet’ sound alike). The woman on TV exclaims to the asian who does something right: “You’re a healer!”. Really, truly? I could just be…
As they’re leaving, seemingly relieved, the TV is playing some sorta fishermen series, and there’s a newbie, coiling ropes real nice, and a salty dog comments – “Young one’s got it handled!”. I’m damn proud myself. I take it as fatherlike approval, may it come from his mouth or from the TV…
As part of occupational therapy, they occasionally let the willing inmates ascend a floor into a kinda workshop, filled with stuff to create with. Always happy to go there. This particular time I am inspecting the PC and happen upon a folder of curious pictures. The noteworthy is this Yo Dawg meme, which I find very poignant to my own explorations. Or maybe it’s this one… Also, it indicates I’m not the only one passing through the establishment who felt s/he’s onto something.
Few days in, I’m writing a poem for the head doctor. It’s an inspired thing too, it includes dragons, place of Isnot and other spiritual meanderings. When it’s time for the doctor’s visit, in his office, I offer the thing of beauty to him, he reads it, mildly smiles. He proceeds to draw on a piece of paper and hands it to me. It’s something like three spirals in a circle. Tells me there’s places where they bake potica (our traditional cake) by combining three walnut covered rolls of dough into one circle. Of course, it’s then baked, becomes delicious and is fast eaten. That’s what he informs me of and I leave. Indeed, I haven’t seen potica prepared like that yet…
Thus, a week has passed in the closed department. I’m not feeling particulary troubled still, and the hospital doesn’t find much problem with me either. I’m being unleashed. Still being prescribed drugs tho, can’t leave the funhouse without some sweets. It was good times, the hospital redeemed, no longer a place of anguish.. Azkaban become spa. Soon, it will be Hogwarts.