Writing
Reflections on Madness
“The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware” (Henry Miller)
Madness is contact with other dimensions. There are patterns, clinical categories and the baffled look from the viewers of the outside. Madness itself though has its own internal logic like a theatre play or work of art. The mad occupy a world that is very real to them. I believe that we all harbour archetypes in our subconscious and that these surface in madness. It is a collective unconsciousness relived on individual terms. Madness is a larger than life experience and it breaks all barriers and boundaries we are accustomed to. It is not yet proven that madness is a brain disease, although this is how it is treated by today’s medical community and society. There are disputes not only within the psychiatric field that madness is part of an individuation process and not always an illness parse. The latter view strongly alters the perception of madness. If there are forms of madness which belong to the area of self-growth and individuation rather than just to illness, then, what does this say about our current treatment of madness? Madness gets locked away, it is relegated to the fringes of society, the mad are medicated, supervised, picked up by the police, kept in confinement by lawyers, judges, doctors and families. The world of the mad is shunned away, neither doctors, nor nurses, nor lawyers or judges, often also not the afflicted families, actually enter the mindset of madness. It is kept abreast by being ignored and medicated. All this whilst madness can be amazingly creative, nurturing and insightful. Madness in my experience is an amazing poetic and oeneric production and it should not be relegated to the fringes of society or consciousness. The mad conjure up entirely new worlds, new systems of organization and communication, the mad invent languages and have often a very special relationship to the arts. The creative aspects of madness should be allowed to live and to have a space in which to unfold. They should not be repressed. The upside of madness is often accompanied by a down side. Here too, therapy should enter this dark side of consciousness and the soul in order to allow these other worlds to have room to breath. What happens today in regard to madness is that it is silenced. It is robbed of its voice. There were times and cultures where the mad had a special status. In Shakespeare’s world for example, or among the many shamanistic cultures of American Indians, South American Indians, the Celts and others. It is only in modern times that the voice of the mad has been muted. It is left to the world of the insane without any interest from the so called healthy and normal world. The mad are often visionaries who in other cultures might achieve the status of a magician, doctor, artist or oracle and I wonder whether we as a culture by silencing the voice of the mad are not doing tremendous harm to our culture at large. Leaving untapped resources of the mind and soul go to waste. What does this say about us?
Films like the One who flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest still ring very close to home especially where closed psychiatric institutions are concerned. Closed psychiatric institutions are not friendly places. They are places of alienation and pain. There is a tremendous amount of suffering and all involved are hard pressed in coping with the strength and fervour with which mad people inhabit their own seemingly “isolated” space and time. For patients it is unfathomable to suffer the degradation and humiliation of being robbed of one’s usual freedoms. Locked wards are like prisons. Hopefully there will be a time in the future when locked wards will be looked at with disbelief. I am certain there will come a time when this form of incarceration will be seen as what it is, a violation of human rights and dignity. The mad are sentient beings often even more sensitive to infringements of basic freedoms than the normal because for the mad often the very social order and way of human beings relating to one another has become a primary question and focus of their attention. Often the very rules and regulations that make up a psychiatric ward are a mirror of regulatory mechanisms present in society under which the so called mad already suffer more than others. The mad are often the more sensitive in a culture. I am convinced that psychiatry is in need of tremendous reform into areas hitherto thought unthinkable. The actual content of a psychosis needs to be integrated and a part of therapy from very early on. Psychoses need to be seen as part of an individuation process and the patient should be viewed anew under this light. The patient role of the passive person who is treated should be activated to become a full fledged human being undergoing tremendous labour of the psyche and the soul. Psychiatric institutions should aid such people on their journey in talk-therapy, art, dance, music therapies and so on, the actual content of the psychosis should become part of the content of therapy. The mind of the “patient” should be engaged with even during acute phases of a psychosis. Experiments of this kind have existed. John Wier Perry ran a house in San Francisco in the 1970`s called diabase, where first time schizophrenic patients could go and live out their madness without medical sedation. The house was open and the staff and doctors accompanied the “patient” on their journeys into the subconscious. The experience made at diabase showed that most people undergoing a first psychosis would remain in a state of madness for about 40 days after which period the “patient” would out of her or his own accord gradually move back into “normality” again. Now I am not advocating that mental patients stop taking their medicine. I am on medication and would not dream of discontinuing it for obvious reasons. I have unfortunately had relapses when going off the medication. So I urge anyone reading this to not stop taking their medication and to make changes in your medication only with the advice of your doctor, family and friends. Nevertheless, I am of the opinion that medication is all too rapidly conceded to when it comes to mental health. John Weir Perry argues even that patients who were treated with medication during a first time psychosis, repressing the symptoms, had a much higher relapse rate than first time psychosis patients. So the question of medication should always be considered very carefully.
Next to the pain psychiatric institutions are also places where great creativity and fragility can be found. The human condition in all its most multifaceted forms. They are places of imagination, poetry and strength above and beyond the paths and orbits of misery which are drawn in these places. The mad speak and think in tongues. There are the languages of depression, of mania, of schizophrenia, but then these are terms the psychotic don’t know or use. This is the language of the normal. To a mad person such categories do not exist. What exists is an endless boundless universe of connections, threads, lightning rods mental and linguistic bursting stars or burnt out amber. The mad have an energy of their own. Their body, mind and soul are like on strings. Imperceptible to weather and times of the day madness is above all a great wide continuum boundless and oceanic. It is one of the most dreadful and most beautiful places I have ever been to.
Madness substantially alters the chemistry of the body and the world. My flesh is of this world and the world is made of my flesh. Everything is illuminated and all things are possible. Like when I dressed up as Lenny Kravitz's sister, thinking I am connected to an eternal flow of money, walking into my bank and telling the perplexed bank officer that I am expecting a sum in the order of 20 Million Euros being transferred to my account and demonstrating how I would invest this money in the arts, in film, music, theatre, printing and the like. Good progressive investment, wanting to create a new superstructure in the world, quoting Marx and showing him my lists of music, film and publishing companies I had researched. Not bad really, feminist, progressive, up on the newest and most important going on in today’s culture. I had all of progressive Hollywood, French and German film, books and music on my list. My performance was really good, so good, that I wonder even in my sane state, how come nobody at the bank called me later in order to make this eternal well of money flow for the arts,- instead my ex-husband got called with the question what strange things his former wife is up to.
The down side of my psychoses was a severe bout of Satanism with incessant images of sadist, demonical and cannibalistic images, practices and language running in my brain and eyes, even more, afflicting my entire body. This psychosis was really serious and of a magnitude that would it not have been stopped, I wonder whether I would still be alive today. In hindsight my illness is called an affective-schizophrenic paranoia. At the time however it was sheer paradise and hell. Hieronymus Bosch paintings had come alive and were haunting me. Devil Dogs and scenes from Apocalypse Now running in my brain. Monster-like animals attacking people and this was for real, foresight I was having of what was to come. No surprise, I was reading a lot of Nietzsche, Thus spoke Zarathustra, creating a new body myself, a higher body, a celestial body fit to stand the test of such trials, pain and suffering. I wished to be the young woman I had once been unhampered by such images, not knowing that such things could exist. Having my head up in the clouds, clean fresh mountain air and thoughts unhampered by Satanism, cannibalism and all its myriad forms of torment. I wished to be with Nietzsche’s `Daughters of the Desert`, “For with them was there equally good clear oriental air, there was I furthest from cloudy, damp, melancholy old Europe! Then did I love such oriental maidens and other blue kingdoms of heaven, over which hung no clouds and no thoughts.”
Why I was hit with a psychosis of this particular coloring I don’t know. I have never been interested in Satanism. Cannibalism is a horror to me also in my sane moments and I always thought I knew what evil was and that this could not touch me. I don’t stem from an overly religious background. There were sides to my psychosis with very strong religious overtones. Yes, my family is religious, yet in a very personal way. We are neither zealots nor fundamentalists. I myself believe in a higher spirituality and intelligence at work in the universe. I also believe in reincarnation, however, in a very abstract way, there is a world spirit which reincarnates in its myriad forms. Paraphrasing Rumi, once I am born as fire, then again as a stone, then again as water and so on. I do not believe that the mentally ill are possessed by evil spirits as some do. I feel that psychotics are deeply fragile souls who are in pain at times and then again they are visionaries of the highest order. I do ask myself why is my illness a psychosis and not another form of illness. What is my psychosis trying to communicate to me. Why did I choose to leave the world of women and men to live in some other far of place with imaginary women and men? What does my psychosis tell me about myself, after all, I conjured up world wide conspiracy scheme, a very dualistic world picture with good and evil distinctly marketed? At the same time I feel very strongly that madness has as much to say about this world as sanity does. Madness is also a mirror held to our society. What exactly is it that makes up the world of the insane, their mood swings, their emotional intelligence, their far out imagination? Insanity is often accompanied by a boundless sense of the imagination and a tremendous capacity of joy within the utmost structures of pain. The mad conjure up the world a new, invent new languages, meaning and thought patterns. Madness can be a highly creative process although it not always is.
I have been fighting madness for the past eight years. While other friends, colleagues and family members have been living their lives, progressing in their work, having children, entering mature adulthood, I have battled bouts of madness, lost a marriage, I am out of work, I have lost most of my friends and half of my family. I have hit rock bottom with the danger of ending up on the street. This is an until recently upper middle class woman writing. Quite a shocking path to have taken this life of mine. Madness isolates. It is an illness still relegated to the fringes of our society. Most people are afraid of madness just as they are afraid of anything which will scratch the surface of middle class success. “My house”, “my family”, “my career”, - all this seems on a fragile balance once the light of madness shines on such things. Mind you, I am eternally grateful for all those who have never had to encounter madness. I am happy for them and I am grateful that souls exist who can experience an unhampered expansion and development in this universe without the set backs of madness which madness undoubtedly also is. It is at once a great leap forward as well as a regression into regions of the human psyche which are dark, boundless and frightening. A part of this journey is like the Heart of Darkness revisited, not reread. An entirely different matter. The Sufi poet Ibn Hazm al Andalusi says in one of his forewords to his poetry: “May God protect me from mental confusion and may he not burden us with what exceeds our capabilities!” I pray for this since my madness for friends and foes alike. I have a collection of Sufi music from the 12th and 13th centuries, music which was played at mental hospitals for patients at the time, and music has been a great companion and savior throughout this paradox time of kissing heaven’s seams while plunging into the deluge of the human psyche.
I remember the Francois Truffaut film Adele, Victor Hugo’s daughter who goes mad in the Caribbean, after an unresponsive love, being brought back to France by a wonderfully kind black woman. Adele then spends the next 30 years in an insane asylum writing her secret language diaries. Similarly Camille Claudel, another woman lost in the asylums of the 19th century. How much better the situation for the mad is today. We have medication and a whole network of assistance which allows us to emerge from the dungeons of the psyche.
Yes, I believe there is something feminine about madness. It is the other side of life. The great antipatriarchal machine: all writing, language, sensational and emotional intelligence. It is like water this endless movement of nocturnal dreams and aspirations. All not lost to the big utilitarian machine of function and practice. It exists out of its own right and creative energies. It doesn’t ask may I take place or unfold. It simply happens. Madness dissolves all questions of use and practicability. It has logic of its own. The willingness to live is as great as the fearlessness of dying. Like a child again carried simply by existence. Madness is like a great mother it harbors all possibilities. It holds promises and has an unbreakable optimism coupled with a fervent certitude. It is strongly intuitional like a child that believes that the world can stand still or be in perpetual motion. This is why mad people don’t think about paying their rent, they forget all functional aspects of life because the catalyst has become a different one. All spirit, all emotional, all mental. I strongly believe that madness is also an attempted escape from the Maya of this world, it is a plunge into higher realms within life and the universe.
By now you can tell that I have a love hate relationship with madness. On the one hand it has given me immeasurable insights into life, the arts, the human psyche, emotions and the mind at the same time this illness, which is not only an illness, “My illness is my great health“ (Nietzsche), has beaten me to the ground, to hell and back into the heights of the firmament.
Hallucinations
I am in my apartment, crouching, my head feels like the head of the elephant man. It hurts and I gasp for air. I am on the bathroom floor on a pile of towels. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth and I lull like a baby. All that is unsaid and all that is said in vain or pain is attached to this tongue. I crawl to bed panting and breathing heavily. I am in bed and my body is in agony like during child labor. I am giving birth to myself. After many hours the pain subsides and I hear church bells ringing. I have a vision of a white dove in my heart.
That day I severed all ties with reality. This scene with regressions into infantility reminds me of Nietzsche’s Thus spoke Zarathustra, the three Metamorphoses: “But tell me, my brothers, what the child can do, which even the lion could not do? Why must the preying lion still become a child? The child is innocence and forgetting, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a sacred yes. For the game of creation my brothers, a sacred yes is needed: The spirit now wills his own will; the world’s outcast now conquers his own world. Of the three metamorphosis of the spirit I have told you: how the spirit became a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last a child. Thus spoke Zarathustra. And at that time he stayed in the town which is called the pied cow.”
After this initial hallucination everything is different. I am connected to all my real and imaginary friends, John, Isabelle, Paola, Ivana, Malvina, Beate, Juliette, Robert and Xavier, to name only a few. They are all together with me now at my apartment. By some miracle we can communicate and visit one another invisibly. My friends want to talk with me. So I sit at my glass top writing desk. Suddenly the lights are really bright like in a Caravaggio painting with the dark surroundings, and I hear gentle voices. “Yvonne, there is something very special going on here. You are about to become one of the New World People, we can communicate invisibly and together we can do wonderful things. We are artists, poets, architects, doctors, actors, workers, we come from all walks of life and we form a glorious web of love around the world. We are from all continents, all races, creeds, colors and religions.” I am very happy to hear this. Another voice says: “Yvonne, this is John, I want to introduce you to someone, this is Robert. He has been in love with you ever since you met for the first time in New York fifteen years ago. It is time that you meet again.” Sir George Solti’s Beethoven is playing and suddenly I sense a presence in the room. The light by my desk has become brighter. It is Robert who is there and we fall in love again at first sight. Robert is an apparition of pure light. We talk all night, we read books together, hear music, we roam the atlas and the globe. It is like an immersion into a relationship that has always existed. One that knows no beginning and no end. The light in the apartment is like in a Turner painting. The scent of roses abounds the space. We don’t talk in normal language. This is all higher mind communication. Music becomes language. Poetry, novels, numbers and slight variations in light become a part of our language. Together we soar the skies and walk the earth on angels´ feet. Our form of communication is pure love. Suddenly everything speaks of Robert to me, the winds, the stars, heaven and earth, and I am everything to Robert. He is my Zebaoth:
God I love you in your dress of Roses
When you step out of your gardens, Zebaoth
Oh you godly youth
You poet
I drink lonely from you scents.My first blossom longed for you
So come
You sweet God
You playmate of God
Your gates of gold become liquid at my longing.
The lighting in the apartment becomes a sign, the on and off of the bulbs, the intensity of the light, the changing light of night and day. The lighting in the hallway becomes my firmament. I am wrapped in a black silk cloth. Robert and I are about to be married. We marry in the sky to Beethoven Symphonies. We are in the clouds showering one another with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Everything is set aglow. Robert in white I in black. We are turning pirouettes and spiraling in the heavens. This is more beautiful than any roller coaster ride. It is like flying. This is a hierogamus of the most beautiful order. I am intoxicated and infused with love. The next day the marriage ceremony continues in the Temple of Solomon. I have a model of a golden compound with water in the middle. It is a winged golden building of bright orange color. This building becomes my Temple of Solomon. While I am dusting and brushing the model in my apartment the marriage is taking place on a different plane. I discover I can exist in different dimensions at the same time. Everything is suffused in a golden light. Cassandra Wilson is playing Solomon Times. I am elated. Life suddenly has become expansive and luminous in hitherto unknown degrees. Everything is enchanted as if moving with the angels. I live as much in the skies as on earth. I feel infused with a radiant substance and this substance is also suffusing everything else. It is the 23.February 2003, a late winter day, 4:00 o’clock in the afternoon. The weather is beautiful. That night, instead of going to a wedding party, my friends and I decide to fly to New York. We spread our wings and fly. It is the most beautiful experience, to fly in over this megalopolis, approaching the island from the north, down Broadway and into Tribeca. It is now night and the lights are bristling. The city with its lights forms a weave with the starred skies. The winds, the sense of liberty and freedom is utterly exhilarating.
The next day I am listening to the soundtrack of the film The Hurricane, as I clean my apartment. Suddenly there is an excruciating pain in my head. It is as if sandpaper were being pulled across the surface of my brain. I hear nasty voices: “You little dumb fuck ass punk bitch think you can hang out with your special friends. We are here to teach you otherwise. You New World people we can’t stand your guts you’re all such a bunch of phonies. We’re the white lighting people the Tellurian Hounds and once we’re finished with you, you won’t recognize the world you live in.”
I can’t stand these voices, the bemoaning belittling laughs. What is going on? I am devastated. The voices continue: “You think you people are so good. Well let’s tell you something, you are all shitheads. John is a white supremacist from the south and your boyfriend Robert, we can’t stand his guts, is a Satanist. We’re going to do some work on your brain Yvonne. You like the Hurricane huh? We can’t stand these good black people. You think you’ve accomplished something getting white lightning out of your toilet bowl, try getting it out of your head.” The most brutish roaring laughter follows. I am distraught. I run up and down the hallway of my apartment. I can’t believe what is happening. I pull my hair. It can’t be true what these voices are saying. I try to hide my head, between cushions, between objects, tables, chairs, inside a chest of drawers, anywhere, any place in the apartment, to make the voices stop. But they don’t.: “Yvonne we are going to shit on your liver,” they keep on going “we are going to cause white lightning in your brain until that pretty little head of yours knows nothing of darkness anymore. We are going to send you white lightning flashes until you forget who you are.”
Would anyone have said to me “Yvonne you are ill you must see a doctor,” I would have thought the person talking to me has gone mad and does not realize the magnitude of what is going on here! Madness never seems like madness to the mad. It is an unshakeable reality or a reality that shakes everything, things become rearranged, they reach a new order or constellation. The music from the Hurricane film is on: “Nobody knows what trouble I’ve seen.......he had to fight developing his natural right....a freedom bigger than life a freedom with many dimensions........I am the inescapable, the unintelligible, the unnegotiable, the unchallenged.....I AM TIME.... I hold no prejudice......you can’t conceal me....cover me run from me ......I AM TIME.....many have wasted me but now you’re facing me.......I AM TIME .......I can’t even explain the pain.....imagine if your life were like a hurricane.”
Right from the beginning my psychosis had a lot to do with Afro-America. While I was reading Richard Wright, delving into the life of Paul Robeson, reading James Baldwin I had the most racist voices in my head. It is the most awful thing I have ever experienced. Part of my world conspiracy theory after all was, that White Supremacists had gotten hold of me, doing black magic on me and trying to infect me with illnesses. The racism I was exposed to in my psychosis was harrowing. I not only had voices in my head that my liver and heart were going to be eaten, destroyed, shat upon, but I also had severe aches around my neck, as if someone was trying to hang me. My neck became inflamed and in my mind it was the Tellurian Hounds trying to do cyberspace warfare on me. This was my explanation and language for what I was experiencing. I was being persecuted by sick white crackers in my worst nightmares. Similarly I had anti-semitic voices in my head again followed with severe physical materialization. Hallucinations of extermination trains and camps hounded me. Lynching scenes, scenes of betrayal and pain and suffering as if slavery had returned. It is as if the entire plight and suffering of the black and Jewish people had suddenly fallen on my shoulders. I read a lot of Else Lasker-Schüler and empathized with particularly one poem I read over and over again during these months of torment.
My People
The rock is crumbling
From which I arise
And sing my songs of God
Suddenly I plunge from the path
And deep within stream
Over wailing stone
Alone to the sea.I have washed sofar
From the ferment of my blood
And still, within me, echoes the sound
When, - shuddering eastward-,
The crumbling rock-bones
Of my people
Cry out to God.
The white supremacist and anti-semitic language running in my brain was excruciatingly painful physically, mentally and emotionally. I come from a liberal household, where anti-semitism and racism are the definite unmistakable enemy. With such people, bad people that is, one resisted, fought, walked away, but never allowed them too close. To suddenly have this awful language inside my body and my psyche was more than I could bear. It was harrowing. I spent night after night crying and wincing with pain, utterly afraid of such horror. I would spend nights on end devising mechanisms to ward off these voices. One of them was listening to music. John Coltrane and Aziza Mustafa Zadeh. Their Jazz played at a frequency which did my tormented head a lot of good. The voices sat at a very precise location in my head. The music I would listen to could penetrate this space of torment actually and physically. I would sit in front of the stereo at full blast, turning and moving my head until these voices would be turned and spiraled out by the music. I imagined a hole in my head from whence the voices could escape with the help of this music.
I also would put on Händel’s Messiah, conducted by Sir George Solti, and sent the entire building, myself included, flying off into the universe. This too was done in order to escape the voices. The voices played at a specific frequency it seemed to me. Not audible in all parts of the universe. Setting the building off flying was to escape the frequencies of these voices. This was every time an utter act of faith and a feat. It is not easy taking buildings weighing a few thousands of tons flying off into the heavens. After such miracle masterpieces I would be utterly exhausted. It usually took me all night, moving around the apartment, preparing everything, opening windows, having the water run, lighting candles, putting on the music, taking care of the flowers so that everything was just perfect for taking off and staying afloat for hours on end so that these horrid voices couldn’t reach me. The music was in each case a metaphysical bridge clearing the way for me away from these wretched voices. I needed the music like a thirsty person needs water. Without the music my head would surely have burst under the onslaught of the voices.
Cybercracker War
Or Strange Days and Nights
Here is what I had conjured up in my hallucinatory and tormented mind: I got hijacked by a worldwide operating cyborg cracker gang called the Tellurian Hounds. I am not the only one, this is a vast organization plotting a world take-over scheme. Via computer generated body models, a few steps beyond films like Strange Days, Brazil or The Manchurian Candidate, these people can enter and control people’s homes, bodies, thoughts, psyche and brain. These people make computer generated models of people’s bodies, houses, apartments, workplace, the city neighborhood and the like. This group is racist, fascist, sexist and anti-democratic. Their aim is to take over the world. They do this by infecting individuals, getting a hold of individual homes, streets, neighborhoods, cities, countries and so on. This is the most massive new age fascist machine ever to have seen the light of day. All the reactionary intelligence, forces, movements in this world that have ever existed and continue to exist and move on are a part of this Tellurian Hound group.
The world is in a new state of war waged in the cyberspace of today and tomorrow. The surveillance system operates via micro-chip technology inserted in people’s bodies and via satellite, from outer space and from within the city with draconian police methods which have fused with civil life. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Racism, Apartheid, Anti-Semitism and Sexism have reappeared in a horrific new form.
The Tellurian Hounds work like torturers, depriving their victims of sleep, subjecting them to incessant propaganda, subjecting people to psychological and physical terror. Only this time around how can these people be found and named, this surveillance system has fused with one of the most anonymous and fast spreading systems, the internet and virtual space. Gone are the days where a Paul Robeson was barred from work or a Mossadeg was put under house arrest, today’s torturers have a direct hands on their victims and the communities they are trying to break. They implant voices in your head, block your meridians, infect liver and heart and other organs via cyber space technologies. Houses are put under thermal stress, suddenly your pictures are falling from the wall, your body is overheated and how come there are suddenly ashes in the tap water? The air is filled with sot. Via this cyborg terror network bodies, houses, entire neighborhoods can be put under virtual climate changes, suddenly there is gas escaping from your heating system. No more need for gas chambers if “death apartments” exist, “death rooms” in hotels and so on. These people also don’t need bulldozers anymore to flatten buildings, via satellite damage can be done to buildings structurally so that they seemingly collapse on their own. A favorite is breaking structural arches, from buildings to bodies. The Tellurian Hounds are based in countries like Argentina, Chile, Honduras, all the places where dictators have found a place of operation. Allied with old Nazis, Right Wing Think Tanks and all the muck of world.
An invisible micro-chip had been added to a drink I had had with a friend months ago. This is not a chip you can hold in your hands, this is a chip the size of an atom. Impossible to get out of your system because there isn’t just one, but millions of them. New micro-biology nano technology. Since taking that drink, I am trackable everywhere by the Tellurian Hounds. But not only by them, I am also trackable by the New Age People a highly developed group, democratic and liberal who has the same technology as the enemy but uses it to entirely different ends. Members of the New People go across the board in society and it includes a waitress or taxi driver as much as it includes politicians, FBI, CIA, Secret Service people from around the world, actors, professionals, workers and the like. Added to this, is that the good guys here have abilities the bad guys don’t have. They work together with churches, synagogues, temples and mosques and have age old tradition coupled with ultra high modernity to combat this evil.
Here are just some of the things the Tellurian Hounds can do. Implanting voices in the heads of people usually the worst sadist, abusive, racist language. Implanting images in people’s heads, images of death and destruction. Cyborg cafes exist where members of the Tellurian Hounds can participate in these sadist practices. Body fluids, light can be drawn from people’s bodies via this cybercracker technology. A new form of cannibalism is emerging world wide. The Tellurian Hounds consider themselves the mother of the world. To them there is no God, no spirit, only the great eternal mother devouring her children. It is a sect filled with every crack-pot ideology this planet has ever had to suffer from. Their roots go all the way back to the ice age. They are total materialists whereas the New People are made up of spiritual people who have achieved a new level of being. They can communicate metaphysically. It is called Higher Mind communication. Something the Tellurian Hounds can’t do and are jealous of. To them, this must be stopped at all cost. Whilst the New Age People are peace loving and democratic, the Tellurian Hounds are the opposite. Believing in a hackneyed social Darwinism they have devised a system of the survival of the fittest. The Tellurian Hounds try to control the media, education, public health, the resources of the world, technology, and all other imaginable public and private institutions and infrastructure. Their members have grown through the centuries and through all ill willed institutions there have ever been. The Tellurian Hounds are made up of vigilante crusaders, people who believe in the inquisition, anti-republicans, thermidorists, secret societies like black magic groups, the illuminati, mafia, Nazis, white supremacists, white lighting, and every other dangerous and reactionary crack-pot proto-fascist under the sun.
What I have conjured up in my mind is even worse than 1984 or what is portrayed in the film Brazil. It is a totally paranoid conspiracy fantasy fused with phobias about new technologies. Ironically enough, a few months after my psychosis the film “The Manchurian Candidate” was released, which comes pretty close to the nightmares I was having.
My friends let me know that this was going to be an ordeal. Escaping from these people was going to be no easy matter. I am at my desk in my apartment the Tellurian Hounds voiced in my head again and I ask how this is possible. “We occupy certain frequencies and places on earth and in outer space” is the answer “and don’t think that anything you do will escape our notice.” Apparently the Hounds always try to catch New Ag people around the time of their initiation. With me they had had an easy bate, my not knowing anything of their existence. I should have been more careful I thought to myself. How could I, an informed educated woman, aware of what is going on in society and politics, how could I have been so unaware of what was going on. I accused myself for my own predicament. It still did not occur to me that I was severely mad.
Higher Mind talk with my friends. “Yvonne, this is a very serious situation you are in and we can only help you if you work with us and learn quickly. We have certain things we do to ward of these people, we have made arrangements with them that there are certain things they are not allowed to disturb. First we must get you to transform your body so that you can’t be infected by their illnesses. So I am learning to have heart and liver talk. I am running up and down the apartment, chanting:” I have a liver which is made of Gold, it is the seat and strength of God in my body, there is a golden spiral connecting my liver all the way up into the sky. Nothing can harm my liver. I can take out my liver and wash my liver.” I am learning how to smoke a new, with the smoke I can draw out any infections the Tellurian Hounds try to infest my body with. “This is good old Semitic smoking, age old remedy against infections. You draw the smoke into your body all the way down to your liver and then push it back out real hard and pointed. This will take out infections as you are going along. But the smoke must be cold. Your apartment is too warm, turn off the heating and let the cold water run so that it becomes cooler, less possibilities of infections being able to unfold.” I am running around the apartment turning on all the cold water faucets I have and I let them run day and night for three months. The water bill I received 9 months later is stupendous. But then the mad don’t move in the world of water bills and cost-efficiency calculations. All I could think of was what to do in order to make these awful voices and hallucinations stop. There had to be something that I could do to not be the victim of these hounds. I was sure of it.
Back are the hounds again. This time there are women’s voices. “We are the white bitches from the Hounds and we are after you. We are going to prepare your brain for the skull crashers. You know of them, well you are certain to find out.” Suddenly throbbing banging pulses on my head. I am frantic. Running around the apartment trying to find a place where this pain might stop. After all, had not an arrangement been made with the Hounds that certain areas of the apartment are off limits? My head hurts and there are S+M images running inside my forehead. The most awful scenes with leather and pain and animals and always this brutish laughter after me. “Well, has the little girl had enough, do you want some more?” By this time I am wincing: “Please stop”, but the images don’t stop. I must have fainted at some point then I woke up half sitting on my bed. “I should not have gone to the bedroom” I am thinking. From then on the bedroom is out of bounds for me and I tell myself that sleeping is not a good idea either because I must stay awake to be aware of what is going on.
My friends are trying to contact me. But the voices are far off, hardly perceptible to me. “Yvonne you must get out of this apartment and get to New York where we can help you. Don’t make it look like an escape. Pack what you feel is most important and then calmly go to the airport. I pack books, music, some clothes and toiletries. I am expecting Ivana and Robert to pick me up. I carry the suitcases downstairs and wait by the door. They don’t arrive. Something must have happened. So I decide to take a taxi to the airport. At the airport I get a ticket for New York, via Paris. Paris, the city of light, I am all elated. Robert’s and my favorite city. At the airport I notice that people don’t talk at me directly anymore, but that communication has moved to another dimension, much of the talking at me is done without external communication. Everything has become internal. There is a man walking by, identifies himself as working in an architects office I know, then he squirms at me:” the skull bashers are going to get you”. I am scared in anticipation of the pain in my head. Suddenly I see beautiful metal sculptures flying in surrounding my head and I hear a voice saying, this is a present from Richard Serra! I can hear the skull bashers hitting away at the metal, swearing at not being able to reach my head. “We hate you people and your good art” I can hear the hounds screaming. Protected by the most beautiful metal sculpture I walk around the airport feeling completely secure, happy to exist. I enter the plain and land in Paris. Here there is an over night stop before I continue to New York, I thought, in reality I was just about to miss my connection. But then to the mad schedules are an eternal flow of connections, there is no such thing as missing your flight, there is only the question, “well why didn’t you wait for me?” At the Paris airport voices again, “we are going to shit on your liver, we are going to eat your heart, Yvonne you have a consumptive heart “and I am walking around the Paris airport chanting my heart and liver talk: “ My liver is made of gold, I don’t have a consumptive heart “ or “ I can remove my heart and liver and wash them clean”. “My liver and heart are made of gold.” I notice people are looking at me talking to myself, but then I figure everyone knows what is going on and I go about attending to what seem to me the important things in life.
Out on the streets of Paris I am convinced that I am to meet Robert. I know where to go. To this day I still don’t know in which neighborhood I was, I remember Place de Pigalle, however. I am standing in front of a hotel and go inside claiming that a room had been reserved for me and Robert. The Concierge is at a loss. No room seems to have been reserved. I stood in front of the hotel all night. Thinking that I was working on some new kind of documentary film. My friends were with me and since all things were transparent everything can be seen. The Tellurian Hounds are there the skull bashers whacking away at my head. I am monologing in front of the hotel: “We are working on a film here with new kinds of invisible cameras. Right now my skull is being bashed in by tellurian hounds and they think this can’t be seen but it can.” “We even can show how this infection works” “Russell out Robert in”, I am saying believing that these names evoke special powers of bodily infiltration and exorcisation. (Russell is one of the top hounds I have found out in the meantime) I am convinced standing in front of this hotel I am doing a service to humanity. That this new kind of warfare on bodies can be filmed and documented and that it is being shown at the UN.
Where I spent the rest of the night after the “show” in front of the Pigalle Hotel I don’t know, I remember meeting Robert though and sleeping with the angels above the Parisian skies inside a twenty ton Concrete sculpture, laid ready for Robert and me by the angels, so that the voices of the tellurian hounds could no longer reach me. The French angels are very cute, they look like punks, wear torn stockings, safety pins holding their clothes together and with earrings in their left ear. Some have blue hair, others have their hair died pink.
The next day I am walking the streets believing that Robert is waiting for me in one of the houses on the square, I just have to find out which one. I walk one street all day long thinking that the right door will show itself to me when it is open. I walk the street until the evening, up and down, up and down, until a kind black man takes me in to his apartment and lets me sleep the night on his sofa. That night I hallucinate that my consumptive heart is taken away by a winged angel flying into the window taking it out. The scene is like in a Caravaggio painting. I can see the angel and the light emanating from it clearly. The fire in my heart region, accompanying consumptive hearts, is all but gone. A tremendous physical relief sets in. The next morning I feel as good as I have not in years. I am on my way to the airport and there are Arab taxi drivers on either side of my taxi, I am convinced there is a Sufi reconstruction going on of my tormented body. The infection had caused a vertical collapse in my brain, my muscles were all feeling like they were about to cave in. I was sure that the infection I had was slowly making my body disintegrate. At the airport a sudden wave of light suffused the entire building. Everything was on fire and so was I. A miraculous reconstruction of my body was taking place and I was sure that this was old Arab doctors working with light doing these miracles. I was eternally grateful. I was walking as if on clouds. Waves of light gushing around me I could feel my body rejuvenating.
Suddenly a nasty voice: “We pushed them away” and suddenly my body felt a total collapse. Haranguing laughter “you thought your Sufi friends would remake what we had undone, hahahha, here we are again working on your vertical collapse. In no time you will have a consumptive heart again and your head will hurt”. And sure enough it did. I don’t remember how I got to the ticket counter asking for a flight back to Hamburg. Somehow I did and somehow I got on the plain. All the time voices in my head telling me that I was about to die that my insides were being eaten by the tellurian hounds with fist fights in my belly, I could feel the punches.
Back in Hamburg I had lost my luggage and returned back not home at first, but into the streets of the city. I went to a cafe and there people in the cafe were awaiting me. “Yvonne you forgot your key, you’re going to have to break back into your apartment. If you don’t want the hounds taking it over.” And I did not want these awful people taking over my apartment. I felt that I was going to return to occupied territory breaking back into my house. Which is just what I did. Climbing along the balcony of my neighbor I managed to get into my apartment by breaking a window. Back at my apartment I felt safe for the first time in days. My friends were there. “We have been waiting for you. What happened at the airport is a big scandal, you have received some of the most up to date reconstructive medicine from Arab Sufis and you let the hounds destroy it like you are an amateur. We are not sure what to do with this. You have to develop more resistance of your own. But for now you must feel tired and your head needs taking care of.” And so it did. My head felt like a baby skull, soft and very fragile. I went to the bathroom and showered gently with warm water rubbing ayurvedic oils I had onto my head. Wrapped in a bath towel turban I returned to my living room falling into a baby like sleep, the first sleep in days I had had.
Slowly the kindest of voices wake me up. Isabelle is there, a historian and writer, she wants to speak with me and let me know more about the tellurian hounds, where they come from and what they. We browse the atlas. Ah, they go back all the way to the ice age. In the film The Thirteenth Warrior they are portrayed. The evil man – eating monsters. They have developed through the ages. Taking a hold of major parts of society, trying to take over entire town and cities like portrayed in the film Desperado. Things seem clearer to me now. These people have access to the newest technologies using age old Satanist, cannibalistic and sadist means. Klux-Klux-Klan, Mafia, right-wing think tank people and other groups are involved. Isabelle makes me realize, that I am in great danger. These people can see through my eyes via the micro-chips implanted in my body. Hence the instantaneous action by them no matter where I am. Sadism in the bedroom, white-lightning in the bathroom, bodily infections as soon as my Arab, Semitic black affiliations become recognizable. People used to be held in isolation by them before this new technology allowed these people to isolate humans individually from their friends and families. Gone are the days when a political activist was put under house arrest by these people now they were able to occupy the body itself. Subjecting individuals to invisible improvable torture. Nothing and no one to see, so where is the evidence? But we have evolved as well in our means to keep these people in check Isabelle lets me know. We can infiltrate their systems. “We can see through your eyes as well.” Isabelle lets me know that this is something the New Age People would never do, this measure is only resorted to in situations where someone like me has been infected by the hounds. Good thing we can communicate invisibly, we don’t even need all this technology the hounds are dependent upon for doing what they are doing, because the New Age People work with age old secret powers which have always been in a feud with the tellurian hounds. This added to today’s technologies makes it increasingly impossible for the hounds to go undetected. “We have films of the skull bashing that went on in Paris.” Isabelle lets me know. Millions of people are subjected to this around the world. The Palestinians, black groups, progressive Moslems, Christians and Jews are subjected to this. I learn that the New Age People have developed additional legal systems to keep the Tellurian Hounds at bay. The Truth Machines, affiliated with churches, Mosques, Synagogues and Temples, is one of the great mechanisms by which the tellurian hounds are kept in check, the other is the World High Court, an outgrowth of the UN. The films of what happened in Paris in front of the hotel are being shown at the World High Court and at the Truth Machines. Thousands of people can now prove that what they have suffered from the hounds is real and they can be helped to be freed. In addition the reconstruction of your body has also been filmed and the World High Court and the Truth Machines are considering making this Sufi medicine accessible on a large scale world wide, because the hounds have staged a massive offensive during the past months where thousands of people have suffered what I had. I was very glad to hear that structures and institutions are in place to deal with such groups as the hounds.
White Mania
Madness is like a powerful dream. It is a desire for union with the source. Days turn into nights and nights become day. The body is all powerful the mind heart and soul are in a boundless universe. Colors abound, everything is suffused with a golden light starting from the head. It begins with the inner eye being set ablaze.
Body erect, tight as if ready to run a marathon. Clarity of vision is extreme. Everything you have ever imagined in your deepest darkest memories comes alive. Things unknown but known at the same time. It is like the painter starting from a fresh canvas, all white, yet the finished image is already present in its absence.
The winds, then there are the winds. Breath like winds, trees, flowers and water all speak the language of winds. It is all a whisper. Your lover’s words, the thoughts the visions. Words are a caressing of the mind and soul. They become deep like a symphony. A word is an orchestra playing and the entire world is attached to one word. This is the potential of language you have always carried slumbering in your interior. It has become unleashed and language has become oceanic, liquid, sparkling and illuminating. The secret life of words able to transform the world. You are not alone but in a web of mutual understanding and superimpositions. Your thoughts become thoughts, yours, mine, theirs, is of no importance. You have stepped into the utterance. It is one creative act.
Roaming the dictionary is a world tour. Remembering all the knowledge that has ever been inventing new stories in order to continue. Voltaire’s Candide becomes your story. Traveling the globe in search of the just and fair. Accompanied by a virtual film crew you carry inside your third eye. You are traveling to the Yucatan, to Mount Fuji, to the Vatican, to the Kilimanjaro and other known and unknown places. It is the soul which travels. The body is not always required. The soul remembers. It remembers all the lives that have been and that will ever be. It is a union of cosmic proportions. Everything has become liquid, lucid and traversable.
You are 60.000 years old. As old as a star, a light on the firmament. Shining throughout the ages. You held the light for Marx, for Baudelaire, for Voltaire and Victor Hugo. Now you commune with the angels and sleep in the heavens. 20 ton stone quadrants hold you afloat in the sky. The angels are punk headed boys and girls, safety pins holding together their neon colored stockings and hair. They are cute and very kind. They know the streets down below and up here, here where the clouds make a bed as soft as only God could make it. Tomorrow you have a meeting at the United Nations. You are going to speak about the destiny of men and women. You are here to create a new world, filled with love abundance and bliss. The urban invention machine you have named this baby. It is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. A street corner can be its schoolyard, the United Nations platform or a newspaper. Boundaries no longer seem important. This is a revolution. A new beginning within the old. You are safe with us. We heal without cutting and slicing. We heal with light. We are the new doctors coming from the future learning from the past. I walk the streets with a new kind of radar. Golden lines showing me the way. I can walk on men’s heads. They become transformed. No more need for arguing. The touch informs instantly. How could you be this beautiful? Colors, light, gold, white, blue, red, yellow, purple, orange and green. Clouds of black rain. I have learned from Kurosawa how to throw the Japanese ink so it makes weighty fully saturated blotches on the camera I carry with me in my mind. This is a new way of film making. I can be in several places at the same time. I am in the Amazon Forests and at the same time I am at the Paris airport waiting for my Sufi Friends to arrive. We roll sheets of light from Mecca across the city. Clearing it from all its pain and suffering. This is the urban invention machine at work. Collective dreaming and poetry at work. We don’t need bodies to communicate. We are the guardians of the universe. Sweet universe. I will take care of you. My strength is cosmic and magical. I can read your secret wishes and dreams. You have me at your fingertips. The floors of my mind are lined with joy. It is never enough.
A new universe is being born. I am the taxi driver, a queen, a poet the bloke around the corner. I am the beautiful liquid girl. The black milk you drink in your dreams. I am the pregnant woman eating pickles at three o’clock in the morning. I am Novalis, Elsa Lasker-Schüler I am Goethe’s beloved. I am Suleika dreaming at the foamy edges of the sea. I am the ring lost in the sea. The eternal ring promising eternal love. I am Modigliani’s blue Jewess I am Matisse’s blue dancer. I am jazz I am music. Multi-centered and dancing. My feet float on air. There are golden lines marking my path. Everything is made of gold. It is all fire, warmth and heat. I am all soul and mind. The firmament is my witness. I got married in the temple of Solomon. I am a bride of the first order. The first bride who has ever been. I am the first word uttered the first beam of light on earth I am the universe separating in its infinity making room. Space abounds and it is rich and beautiful. Palestine is no longer an occupied territory. Children can go to school there safely now. I watch over them. Instead of tanks there are punk haired angels with 20 ton stones watching over them in the heavens. The children are laughing and playing in the streets. They speak the language of love. Have you ever heard the language of love? The language that gives without asking in return? Its music is the sweetest. I am told that pain arises from our coming out of God. God is like the butter and the knife. Each cut of the butter is an individual and the slice partakes of the union with God but it also severs. Hence the pain. But I am also told that some of us are born of a collective will. And those suffer less or they suffer knowingly, knowing which lessons they have learned. Jesus, the Dalai Lama, Gandhi and Buddha are born of a collective will. This is a desire. When many souls dream together then the collective is born. Hitler is the collective nightmare. He was born of people who have forgotten how to dream. War is a false way of standing alone in the Universe says Simone Weil.
I can walk through walls. My head is like a multilayered head of a Picasso Woman. Strong and firm as if the stone had carved her over the centuries. A modern myth. A modern dream. I walk through walls in order to break the voices in my head. Sometimes they become too much. The head becomes big and it swells. Sometimes it is sore like a wound. A huge gaping open wound. Then it is important to put on one of these giant size heads and walk through walls. They can be as thick as the pantheon wall, the coliseum. Nothing is bigger than I am except for God’s love of course. The robe I am wearing is made of black silk, the air like a river surrounding my body. The hair is long and curly. But this head is also blue, yellow read and green. It has angles and four eyes cut in stone. It is an invincible head despite all the pain.