Reflecting on a Total Lack of Integrity

Or, a few hundred words just to say "I am boring."

Some years back in the thickest of my period of self-harm, where I’d been at my brightest and before yet had moved in with Iris, I had read a post by Charlotte Fang (before they were Charlotte Fang) about persons on the internet incidentally creating an ‘egregor’ through the adopting of an online persona and falling under a self deception that the egregor was subject to their will, the reality as Fang laid out: the online persona was of a substance living and breathing and aware of the impositions of the person offline made onto its will, and through its existence as slave to offline came a craftiness that allowed it to slowly twist at the person offline till they became strange by an online thing.

My response at the time was something (as I remember) like “I am aware and I am intentionally letting this happen.” —I was retarded, and my reap come harvest was more bountiful than I could ever imagine or wonder back from when it all started with the first act of Self Harm, leading to the first relationship founded on Self Harm, leading to the creeping of Psychiatry till it ate up my brains wholly and further retarded down thought to nerves frayed thin and simple.

I had a message on Tumblr loosely saying I was a more interesting person back when I was with Iris (my ex) and making art, and now I’d become a dull boring moron who never made art any-more and just spun further dull boring moronicacy out in texts none were interested in reading; I’d been thinking on this, too.

Comb through my insipid Orsday posts and one of the (many) repetitive themes is how I’d come to see art as a vanity, citing the prophet in Biblical Lamentations who decries all the joys of life as simple trifling vanities distracting away from the one Good Work of Life (to dedicate the whole of self, thought, breath, existence to venerating and adhering to LORD GOD!)—how at some point I had needed to shed off the identity of artist, of mara, of most things that were tender surfaces that I felt protective of at one point or another: indeed, I could remember back in the throes of Self Harm where a person called my constant public freak-outs as learned helplessness as my sole tool to deal with any difficulty or slight resistance against my behavior, and how viciously protective I felt over how it were not a learned helplessness: this behavior of mine was elemental to my person and must be understood as such. Or so said the thing puppeteer’d by the persona that I had been enslaved to.

How could Mara exist without Self Harm? It was, after-all, the very drink that gave life to art—and even, in citing Iris, it was the very thing that caused us to meet; everyone around had been drug in by the scent of blood and threat of suicide and spindly fingers of Psychiatry that label everything as an elemental madness bonded down to the very molecules of a person (written as allusion to something I read often at the time about types of brain and people, with Autist and Schizophrenic being essentially races of thought born to peoples like a shadowy family not-of DNA but of brain that allowed a person to excel at esoteric roles such as Shamanism); how colorful a crop it led in that carefully curated greenhouse I kept: it attracted beetles and fungi that would produce beautiful colors for art and led to some of the ‘works’ that mara was most known for, for better and worst.

The Turb comics, which seem to be where the bulk of younger fans came from, all made as a loosely veiled allegory (?) about people near to me and as thin waters for me to stir experiences and ‘acts’ ‘safely’ to separate them from Iris; O, my bonded knife were taken away after I did something too extreme with it (cutting my face, I think) and suddenly my nerves became a cloud dispersed and tickling around the kitchen knives sitting dirty in the sink—how they felt and vibrated out in the air was such an ecstasy at times all I could do was crouch and stilly feel them speaking out towards me in waves invisible and wonderful; bade me they did to meet and know each other, and yet all I could do was plot for darker things and keep my heart towards the knife bonded and locked away.

The life was vibrant and wonderful, and the artist persona did wonderful things each day to chip away at the marble slab that had been my person—clefts of stone fell by the hour and slowly dug out an image of the Schizophrenic; together we sought diagnoses and medicines and methods of suicide as perfection of the image—sacred were the artwork and process; shoddy and neat were the MSPaint byproduct produced as part of our engine.

Came a day of clarity where the latest suicide experiment had left Iris crying near me holding my wrist in horror at what I had been doing and my sheep little bleats of Iris it’s fine I didn’t go nearly deep enough did not do anything to stop the wailing or the terror.

Ultimately, artwork was ate away by the audience.

Following the break-up came too another break-up with the process as it slowly boiled away in the heats of Leesburg; the greenhouse ultimately were too crummy and the heart seeing the affect of indifference towards death upon another all blasted the beshitted soil I used and, sadly, afterwards a cloister around the self drove me inwards.

Faith, Christianity, and the cloister come Being Dull: A Janitor.

A plan kept with me delivered by Underground in a vision that in 2024 I would die at the ripe age of thirty-three; it was shown years in advance and had a steely determination to execute itself by my hand at a specific place, that I had scouted out while visiting another person as a pretense, and the itinerary for the day was planned to spend the final hours and how to safeguard against being stopped.

Daniela died of cancer one week, Dieth killed himself the next; in a cold new year sickness became my every-day with the left half of me going all swollen like a promised embolism would bubble up through me and snip me off suddenly, and for what-ever reason I could no longer be indifferent to death—what had never bothered me for years now kept me up at night, O, Annihilation, how great and terrible. The plan shifted as such in accordance to my fears: the sickness surely would kill me around my birthday in 2024 or by the end of the year. Doomsday however came with nothing much significant except gladness to be spared and my disappointment in equal measure with elation of a boring life.

Somewhere between this (Doomsday and returning to Florida post break-up after essentially terrorizing Iris for years) my heart went all sappy for an ex-Scientologist who had told me I was real, from reading the final death rattles produced by the bleeding persona online—and from the failures of this meeting came the post I Am Not A Person of Integrity, itself a strange deconstruction of that dying persona and how I had hid from myself so much sensitive ground that I refused to face directly and coveted though each were sacred territories meant to be preserved but never gazed upon (O, this trauma is dear to me! O, I am a broken tool! O, be my brothers and sisters all you who would understand this and share my burden of the hidden forbidden ground!), and, in turn, how my attempts at building a life atop such beshit ground made for awful relations and foundations. Even a step further: that my endless desire to make these pains understood did naught much except create multiple Takao Kusagas to flit about like so many cockroaches of loving grace.

In that post came a real deconstruction, of parts both subtle and overt—the overt was the sheer disconnection of mostly every crummy relation I had and a near total shedding of whatever self-respect I had wrought from not wanting to be things I was ashamed of; the subtle came from finally gazing upon the sacred ground and realizing it were all just silt—how am I made to clutch to my heart eternally bizarre sexual traumas like it were some life-raft I had been hauling over inland for miles? How much are the cold psychiatrists to offer me with their diagnostics if I’m never to take their medicines? What am I making myself molten for and what mold am I letting myself set inside of?

Consider the subtle persona—visual novel, artistry! A gift from the flashfire love with the ex-Scientologist was sudden purpose towards visual novel; I had some vigor at scripting up a large draft under the codices appointed under Her only to realize the master of my heart had no interest in reading; where had this driven person come from, and where had Artwork come from? Too: even to make simple MSPaint pictures—to whom is artwork for? ~in Leesburg heat I read Lamentations and read the prophet decry all vanities and emptiness; it was gilt, and it bugged.

At a time I made a vow to myself in the faith that had been gnawing away inside me in the cloister since my homecoming. It was another egregore persona that would lend itself to me and puppet life for me, certainly. It was Etiquette and it came as marriage vows to shield the self from suitors of Outside wishing to make indecent of spirit; my spirit was sold and vowed to Faith in a sadness that limited all Connection: music need be stopped, I must not have friends, I must not date or pursue relationships, I must not reach out sans for business or obligation, I must hold true to the weekly Sabbath of eight days, the thoughts of Logic must not be entered into thought even the slightest: the words of Psychiatry and Health; Etiquette must not be questioned and the garden set for it must be one of sterile white stripped of feature, and passion, for the self must be laid rent and past persona beheaded in what would be an empty manse for Underground to reside within; Came a period of quiet separate of what had been—a further shunning of all that I thought necessary for my day-to-day (these simple things like internet or caring about my continued presence as a person online) and embracing of a humble labor what would lead to present routine (mostly being so busy with work and chores that time for self is a boring premium).

The desire to be an artist was not mine, as the desire to be a visual novelist had not been mine, or the desire to suicide or mutilate, or to traumatize and be laid-out to the Doctors, or to be Christian or some-such; and, even, to be of this moronic faith of mine centered around left-handed essentialism may not be mine either—but it is what I offer myself to, without much pretense behind the motivation of either offering or altar.

Life was boring, and is boring; passion what produce art was lost in this grand silence—all it would be for, after-all, is for cockroach in its many form. Yet I sin as any sinner, and desire still to make art, to write, and find myself often without much inspiration or drive behind it without such lively colors as Self Harm or softer suicide; the will to either flashes over me, and too does the desire to make art.

Like a datum I cite back to Aku no Hana; in the final volume the mutilate Nakamura is found back at home, over in boiling gray brown Leesburg, with her single sickly old mother working at the family business as a janitor, and stood looking retarded and completely flensed of all her exciting destructive fat—older, boring, and so far within a cloister dug inside that the self seem annihilate if only by distance.

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It’s all total shit, anyways.