After drinking and smoking copious
amounts the third day in Copenhagen, I staggered to yet another bar
with a young lady who came to visit me. Due to different reactions
to varying...vibes,emotions, call them what you will, I felt the urge
to dance in a skeezy graffiti-strewn basement bar. Stone walls, dark
atmosphere, you can picture it. I got in a group with some people on
a work do,as I was unable to get a response as to any unpleasantness
she was going through.
Long story short, utter bastard that I was,
ended up leaving my current partner to walk home (at her suggestion)
before returning to the house of a mass culture and media degree
owner, apparently just returned from America where she studied at
Brown Uni and had a few plays perfromed. Her name was Ursula, she
said, before assuring me she had heard all the jokes about her name
in her hometown before. Tempted to say I was usually attracted to
Ariel, I instead spent a wakeful night on a sloped roof of high-rise
in the centre of the city on a picnic blanket. Simple pleasures.
Spent another night in Copenhagen –
having previously somehow getting back in touch with the fine
'people' at the Church of Scientology, and feeling the customary
paranoia (though used to certain tactics, less emotionally responsive
than before). Towards the end of the night walked past a trendy wine
bar, and had a stange urge to go in and order a drink. Not my usual
haunt, I figured I'd go along.
Taking a seat at the nearly empty bar
next to a couple of guys talking, with a party of four at a table
behind. Ordering a bottle of Tuborg to what strangely felt like
condescension from the rest of the premises, I drank quietly, aside
from a hoy to the people at my side. As I was drinking up to leave,
one of the women stood up and asked me a few cursory questions in
English, before inviting me along to join them at a place whose name
escapes me.
Figuring without any good reasons why not, I went along
with them down a few side streets before walking up a nondescript
alley. At the end of which was a heavy ornate door, with stained
glass windows. As we approached, a man with a bright purple jumper
swung open the door and beckoned us inside, saying somewhat
theatrically, that we were invited to an asylum for people like us.
He seemed strangely familiar, and his
words triggered several waking dreams and thoughts I had previously
had towards the work we do (difficult to explain), as well as a
reminder of my own time in an asylum and the understanding that
brings.
Still high, slightly drunk, and tired, I followed the group
to the back of a very modern bar area, with wooden panelling, large
arched windows and a high ceiling. The place was packed, yet there
was a table empty at the back of the room in the corner – a
seemingly perfect seat to choose for many in the location. One guy,
the ex-boyfriend of the woman who invited me offered to buy the
drinks – I ordered a Valkyrie cocktail and started to observe and
listen. After a few minutes, my perceptions started to shift, or I
began to become aware of things around me in a slightly disassociated
way. The person who bought the drinks, despite being of a completely
different build had nearly the exact same face and expressions as a
friend of mine back in Scarborough.
We talked amiably enough, while
his ex leaned in to me and told me that the people at the table
across from us who were glancing across at us were from television,
and that they thought I was a Danish actor (name escapes me) and were
asking to join us. The repetition of "celebrity" amongst
other things got me on the defensive, and so I smiled and nodded
agreement, despite only seeing a slight similarity in hair style. I
turned my attention to the other two people at the table. A blonde
woman in her late thirties was introduced to me (as Sister,
bizzarely) by the man in the purple jumper who had invited us in who
looked in amazing health for 40 something; with glasses and smartly
styled blonde hair.
Trying to focus on his conversation,
instead I found myself drawn to his body language, his mannerisms, as an
attempt at mesmerisation. After a minute or so, with effort, I
wrenched my focus elsewhere and tried to regain my calm.
After a moment of thought , I realised
where I had seen this man before – he was almost a perfect double
of the head vampire from the film The Lost Boys. I rubbed my head in my hands and
started rethinking what other people had thought and demonstrated to
me recently – plagued with voices calling me Satan, vampire,
rapist, pedo, talking of bestiality and incest, I felt confirmation
at what had been hinted at (admittedly repeatedly) before – the CoS
were part of a cabal of emotional vampires, draining and building
people's energy for purposes occluded from most of the mind.
Knowing the beauty of the method (try
explaining your reasons for thinking that to people without being
labelled as psychotic, mentally deranged, delusional etc.) a strange
sort of acceptance came over me, and we all had another drink while
our conversation seemed to flow between us, yet it is more than
conversation. One moment the woman and man to my right were talking
happily, the next we had seemingly exposed our child-selves to each
other, and the striking blonde to my right was pinching the nipples
of the burly muscled man to her right, while he tried to flap her
away with his hands, saying how annoying she was being. I slapped her
hand away, saying that what she was doing wasn't nice and she made
farting noises at me and laugh-screamed. I trust that serves as an
example as to how we can be together.
Once again I am reminded of the
beauty of the experience I have had so far – having 'randomly' felt
drawn to the Kirk in Amsterdam, while smoking, then meeting someone
who took me in and deprived me of sleep for several days, then
returning to my parents' house to be told that I am now a very
different person and require therapy from a team of psychiatrists who
then proceed to try several anti-psychotics on me without labelling
my diagnosis until I feel the entire psychiatry profession is part of
a scam to keep people emotionally grey, while all the time
Scientology is present with a heavy-handed campaign to prove to
people that Psychiatry is death. Almost like the two...businesses?
Industries?.. seem to have a shared interest. And once again the
reminder does little to assist in deciding what to do to improve
things for others, and how to escape from, to use a term that is
rarely heard – this Prison Planet.
Feeling mentally hurt, as if from
repeated psychic attacks, I downed my drink and said goodbye, walking
out into the Danish night air, and found a park to sleep in, under a
tree for the night, before resolving to move on in the morning.
Next morning I decided to see the rest
of Scandinavia and Russa later, and headed back towards Germany. Got
relatively lucky with the trains – got all the way to Berlin
without being kicked off (a few more fines on my rap sheet, but
still) and am writing this after a night in a park. Going to have
another wander round East Berlin, then head towards Italy. Still
trying to figure out the best way to get to Egypt.
This
morning I met a mouse on a table as I was walking along. The right
side of his face had a nasty wound – like a cat had taken a swipe
and only just missed from decapitating the poor little blighter.
Naming him Sir Crusty, The Cleaved, I
have adopted him and he has been travelling with me for about an hour
now, mainly in my jacket pocket. He's stopped shaking as much and
finally consented to be stroked without stretching and clawing along
my palm. Another companion on my adventure, though how long this
party member shall last remains to be seen.
Would it be better to let him free in a
park, where he would struggle in his condition to find food and avoid
predators, or to keep him with me, attempt to nurse him back to
health, and if he dies, he dies? Tempted towards the latter, and not
just because it means I get to keep a mouse in my pocket.
Later that afternoon I let Sir Crusty
out of my pocket, and put a cup with some milk and cookies on its
side for him to run into and feed himself. Instead he chose to
scamper across broken glass to get to freedom in the undergrowth,
despite the ease of access of both food and safety. Seems that only
once you have something taken away you appreciate what it was. I
tried not to be too despondent about another animal abandoning me,
and walked round, uneventfully, for the rest of the afternoon and
night, bombarded with unpleasant thoughts and suggestions, designed
to provoke a reaction on the subject/host.
My language and
mannerisms are continuing to change. I fear that I shall soon lose my
previous self entirely, my body reprogrammed to serve as a tool for
those whose true designs seem elusive.
I realise how insane this all seems –
especially after like so many others who attempted to stand up for
positive change, I find myself mentally imprisoned by the very world
around me; layer upon layer of synchronicity deadening certain parts
of the self.
The voices and visions are getting more
intrusive. I see a group of attractive women walking down the road,
and I hear a voice ask if I want to rape them. I communicate with a
child, and within moments I'll hear voices saying "paedophile".
I keep my head down usually, riding the emotional waves, pulling down
on my kit bag when I want more pain and emotion, laughing like a
madman seemingly apropos of nothing walking down a street.
I'm also having trouble focusing like I
once did – deciding on a route has been replaced by following
'signs' that tie in to my psychical (for want of a better word)
character while my desires, to put it mildly have been tempered,
replaced by anxiety levels. That isn't to say that I don't still want
things, don't override attempted repulsive forces, only that things
are increasing in difficulty. I suppose that's part of getting old –
things still have to be challenging, albeit in slightly different
ways to keep one inhabiting this body, and not ending it once, and
changing from this dream to another. Or maybe I'll make a last
contribution to the Great Work, taking a massive leap forward for.
all species at the cost of my resultant life force. So be it.
On the train from Berlin to Prague,
getting there with relative ease. The scenery is impressive, with
towering hills with overgrown pines coating them, a fast running
river flowing alongside the tracks with a suitably sombre grey and
cloudy sky streaming away to the horizon. Out of funds again, yet
have managed to somehow (erm, pilfer) coffee bread, cheese. If I was
writing this less than a hundred years ago I would be considered a
millionaire, living a lavish lifestyle few can dream of. I'm planning
on heading to the south of Italy to try and live for a week or two,
longer if I can find work. Attempting to cross from Italy to Egypt
could prove difficult – I'm not sure if there are regular sailing
routes from nearby and if someone were to provide a bespoke service
the price would be astronomical.
Arrived in Prague last night, wandered
around for the night, marvelling at the architecture of the buildings
while enjoying the balmy additional few degrees compared to the
already warm Berlin. Going to head south-west afterwards, unless
someone I know from back home meets up with me, might wander a
different way with a similar goal then...
Sat in an Absintherie, after indulging
in a few hashhish joints. That reminds me of a dream I was having the
other night, where I was chasing along rooftops, my hidden blades
retracted yet ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice, preparing
to leap down upon a fleeing man, practically indistinguishable from
the shadow. I woke up before ritually disembowelling him, yet somehow
that knowledge remained intact.
The pleasant green lighting contrasts
nicely with the mid-afternoon sun outside. A table of 20-somethings
opposite have ordered a line of shots, while I am pacing myself, one
at a time. Moved on to a glass of Absinth-Beetle, or as I called
it, Beteljuice! Apparently the flecks of blackness at the bottom that
looked suspiciously like ash are in fact the remnants of caramelised
sugar. That is, if the waiter thought of highly of me as he looked
to. Still seemingly locked in to a state where random people around
me seem to mention various words apropos of nothing to try and spur
thought/feeling. Makes things difficult when the words are either
things related to you personally at a different tone to signify
importance, or something so outré that it breaks off a train of
thought you were living(?) on quite comfortably. Such is life(?).
