The Man who Would be Schizophrenic

I was just walking from the kitchen to my bedroom. When I opened the door and turned on the light, I Saw a He-man Figurine in the middle of my bed. It wasn't just Any He-man action figure, it was battle-scar He-man, the one that would magically go from having a big slash across his chest to being completely healed to having a big slash across his chest if you just punched him. That action figure was the awesome. The funny thing, however, was that there was no He-man action figure on my bed. None at all. I had Seen something that's not actually there. I didn't Imagine it....it wasn't a thought I had in my head of a bed with the quilt and the sheets with blue stripes and the unfinished Propel water bottle and the Schrodinger's cat Trilogy and Chief Modern Poets of Britain and America and my dry-humpable mac. It was a(n) Hallucination of me Seeing something within my normal field of vision that wasn't actually there. The insanity encroaches ever more closely. Good thing I'm about to head off into the cold winter of Colorado to work with adjudicated youth. That environment will surely be calming enough to ease the tensions in my mind and release me from all disturbedness. (Actually, I think that living in a white house with lots of food everywhere and nothing stressful ever happening is probably what causes these sorts of things to happen. Creating something for the mind to deal with so that the mind can have something with which to be occupied.)

Don't Tell my parents, but I have a jar of peanut butter next to my bed, and when I'm hungry late at night or early in the morning I just dig into it with a spoon and eat the stuff, double and triple and quadruple-dipping. I wonder if I should return this to the cabinet or just claim it as my own, put a sign on it that says 'property of Brett...keep away womb and spermbank.' That probably wouldn't go over too well.

Before taking a gnosh of my peanut butter, I was at the refrigerator hand-eating a chunk of cheese and a few slices of meat, I think Turkey, but I wasn't paying enough attention. Actually, the meet had that vaguely purplish color, not in a bad sickly way, just in a not-white-turkey way. Was it Ham? shit, I threw out the wrapping, so now I'll never know.

Tonight I watched a bunch of movies. Actually, the past few days have been full of me heading to the movie theatre by my lonesome to take part in the Austin Film Festival. I bought my 35-dollar pass, Brian was busy womaning it, I didn't feel like calling anyone or initiating what others refer to as 'social contact,' so I just went to the movies. I made a concerted effort to see short films so that I could size up the competition, as it were. Needless to say I was not altogether impressed. Especially with the shorts I saw tonight. Most of them were mediocre to GodAwful. One was pretty good, but the rest were either lame-ish student films or lamer internet-spawned turds.

Previous shorts-viewings had been more successful. One about a couple of old dying men was pretty good, real character-driven and funny with the old men complaining. Can't go wrong with grumpy old men. Remember that Snickers commercial with the old guy who paints the fields for the Kansas City Chiefs, and the big black football player comes over and says 'Who are the Chefs,' and the thin old decrepit white guy looks up and sees that he missed the i, and he says 'Great Googly Moogly.' GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY. That is something which everyone of us should be saying at least twice a week. Much better than 'motherfuckin' shit' or 'damn that bitch' or 'let me have my pencil back, teacher, or I'll bite your throat.'

I once had a quasi-goth girl in seventh grade scratch me across the neck with her big long red nasty fingernails and they cut deep into my skin, I even bled, and all because she made a comment about a guy with baggy pants and I said something about her wanting access to his penis. Innocent stuff, really. I didn't deserve to be attacked. Vicious artsy bitches.

You could definitely tell which short films were made by youngsters and which by older folks...the youngin's basically were trying to out-weird and out-quirk each other: a failed hot-dog vendor who kills his competition and boss, which ends up bringing him lots of business with the cops coming and then the press and the tourists etc.etc., a woman with the arctic in her vagina and her vaginologist goes on a tour with her exploitatively and everyone thinks of her as a freak but one young man takes note of how it probably aches to have vast fields of emptiness in your pussy and he jumps inside of her and gets lost but then they meet on the ocean which gets frozen because she as an eskimo-'tang...that one was executive-produced by George Clooney and Steven Soderberg (sp?) That's kinda weird.

In a sense, it's all inspiring and stress-relieving in relation to Swerve. Up to this point, I've been of the mind that it'll either come out really great and win everything, or somehow end up sucking. But WHATEVER happens, it'll be better than some of these shortflicks, I know that for sure. It's one of those things where you think in your mind 'movie at a film-festival' and you imagine it being this big huge step that must mean that a film's well-made and intelligent and full of creativity and wit...but, really, some of those short movies (especially the short short ones) downright sucked.

I should try to get some sleep. I am still having this feeling of bein depleted/un-nutrified/disconnected between brain and body with some lack of essential energy. I'll do the Colorado stuff, it may just be an in-shape deal. Otherwise I'll try to visit mister hippie doctor.