[Note: I had multiple date-logged screen-captures to back up my widespread commercial dissemination points, but I decided not to include them, just to be on the safe side. I could see them coming down on me again with the same charge for what is merely exposing other big sales sites' decisions.]
I am now to be sentenced on the 5th of September. I pleaded guilty in court to one count of recklessness in disseminating materials thought to potentially be of use to a terrorist (I try not to fall into the trap of capitalizing that general purpose noun, as if it were a specific ideology and not an all-round descriptor for a myriad groups' physically violent direct action to brutalize a civilian population in order to bully governments towards an ideological goal). I’d been advised on this by my lawyer. It wasn’t as if I could claim I hadn’t performed this action, especially given the way that wretched law is written.
A link to a pcloud folder I had created containing two folders named ‘defence’ and ‘survival’ were placed by me on the Youtube alternative video sharing platform World Truth Videos, the massive artists’ music-sharing database Drooble, and on my personal Wix website. The sentence is 4 years, with time taken off due to a guilty plea, and further time taken off due to mental ill health. My barrister thinks these two factors should bring the sentence down to 2 years, at which point he can then argue for a suspended sentence.
The second psychiatrist who analysed me confirmed from video evidence that I was in delusional psychosis at the time I uploaded the documents. It still galls me that they were readily available to download from a standard e-book library on the clear internet to which I had a subscription, and indeed still are, as well as remaining available to view (and to download in part) from Wikipedia’s UK servers.
These manuals are also still marketed as available to purchase on Amazon’s UK site, where Amazon also provides free preview samples.
I also notice that goodreads.com provides an open 4.49-star review of one of the books, along with previews and links to purchase.
The UK website, abebooks.co.uk provides a sales page for a selection of the books also, some delivered from within the UK, some offering free shipping, and from stockists with 5-star seller ratings.
Indeed, Kurt Saxon’s writings are available to buy from the UK booksellers Waterstones’ website with free delivery within the UK.
The UK bookshop chain blackwells.co.uk also offers Kurt Saxon books, available for UK delivery, or to reserve and collect in-store. I notice their categorizing places the manuals under “Military engineering” as a subset of their general “Technology and Transport” category.
A further in-depth subjects categorization is available on the UK section of Google Books, making no reference to terrorism, and again providing a list of sellers and stockists.
The books are even available openly for sale with 5-star reviews on Etsy’s UK market page, and by US-shipping on ebay.co.uk.
It’s easy to see from this short selection alone how one could conclude that downloading or purchasing these documents and then sharing them was not illegal in the UK. In effect, all I did was copy-paste someone else’s already widely available e-book material and then present it for free, in exactly the same manner as Wikipedia, or indeed the search results of the search engines provided by Google or DuckDuckGo. Simply typing the names of these manuals into any popular search engine will provide immediate uncensored pdf download links.
The manuals I disseminated that I was brought up about by the CPS for were “The Poor Man’s James Bond” and “David’s Toolkit”. I doubt the CEOs or website-design employees of any of these companies will be subject to 4-year sentences, or indeed any of the private stockists. Again, I am forced to conclude that the authorities simply don’t like me, for reasons of political persecution, and merely require a laboured excuse, in effect allowing these sales companies to profit whilst rigging the internet with ‘mines’ that guarantee them easy convictions, in a cynical crackdown on any-and-all dissidents to the UK’s authoritarian system, not one of them a genuine terrorist.
Much as they make a great deal of the fact that they ‘could be of use to a terrorist’ they do not suggest the more obvious question as to anyone else the books could be of use to, thus shoehorning all other curious (non-practical use) readers and survivalist mentalities into the terrorist bracket.
I don’t have much time to write today. I have to return to a psychiatric unit in under two hours. I’m currently sectioned on a month-long Section 2. Following the usual terrible household stress, with me pleading with Abby not to shout at me or to react to my every statement aggressively (which only makes her more aghast, indignant, and angry in effect, increasing the chances of her slandering me with ad hominems, silent treatments, and threats that inconvenience my future appointments, or claiming character assassination), and with the threat of the sentencing drawing ever nearer I broke down two weeks ago, and entered a paranoid state where I accused Abby of spurious infidelity, in a ridiculous setting, and collapsed crying on the stairwell.
Appalled at my paranoia and my collapse, Abby ran out the house. A little while later, my arm bloody from a small superficial wound, I took the scissors, and a kitchen knife I had also mutilated myself with, and went outside to dump them, disposing of the knife by the bins, and throwing the office scissors down onto the base of the front step in distress, along with a malfunctioning vaporizer and a cracked CD of Symphony No. 2 in E Major by the Hungarian composer Ernst von Dohnányi, a recent NAXOS purchase I really hadn’t enjoyed.
A neighbour watched out of their window from across the street, and reported me to the Police for “causing a public nuisance and aggressively displaying blood in the sight of children” (there was no-one in the street at the time, and it was during school hours - if his children were even in the house, I’m not sure why he allowed them to watch instead of just moving them from his window – the actual self-harm was carried out in my bedroom).
The Police turned up almost immediately, within ambulance in tow. By then I was on the back steps leading up to my allotments, gazing into the garden at my crops. They barged in without a warrant, and piled into the new wooden lean-to, interrogating me as to what I was doing, to which I gave no real reply, sunken in morose silence, terribly shaken and sad.
I was pulled out to the paramedics in the street, who strapped me down into a gurney and carried me to the A&E Colchester hospital where I waited for over 24 hours to be assessed by a psychiatrist panel, my wounds undressed. I asked them at that point what my options were. They replied, “either you can go home, or you can come into hospital as an informal patient.”
Suspecting that they would try to section me if I asked to go home, I suggested a short hospital stay as an informal patient, knowing I could speak to a consultant within 72 hours and arrange discharge anyway. They agreed to have me. 6 hours later, hungry, nicotine-starved, and having gotten no sleep, I was transferred by ambulance to the Kingswood Centre opposite the main hospital, on an assessment ward named Peter Bruff. I’m not sure why they didn’t just escort me over on foot seeing as it’s only a couple of hundred metres away from the A&E doors. When I got there, I went to bed.
I phoned Abby the next morning and asked her what my status was, and she confirmed that I was an informal patient, having rung the A&E staff twice at the point of my transferral, and also the staff on the ward shortly after my arrival, who confirmed that my attendance was informal. By the evening after I felt calm again, and completely back to normal, all distress evaporated, the altercation that had stimulated the distress over to all effects and purposes.
Despite this, I discovered in a review meeting three days after arrival that I had indeed been sectioned. The nursing staff did not point this out to me at any point, nor was Abby made aware, by phone, or by the customary letter sent out to inform relatives of whereabouts and sectioning. This letter has still not been composed or delivered.
A week in I was able to meet with the Middle Eastern consultant who had taken over my care. He granted me daily escorted home leave for up to 4 hours (and strictly no more), and unescorted leave of an hour around the grounds and the local area, divided into two discrete half-hour leaves, not to be taken consecutively. He was pleased to see that I had recovered, and could pinpoint no signs of melancholic distress, paranoia, or delusional psychosis. I asked him when he thought I could be discharged, hoping that it would be a matter of another day or two.
He shook his head at that point though and told me “I’m not happy to discharge you until you’re on medication, I recommend a monthly injection of aripiprazole, it has no side effects.”
Just previous to that I had been telling him about the terrible side effects I had experienced from a large selection of second and third generation atypical antipsychotics I had been trialled on in the past, Abilify (aripiprazole) included, including intrusive tardive dyskinesia across my right-eye, jaw, and neck, and endless fingertip rubbing, both permanent, and also the extreme and enervating restlessness of akathisia, pronounced weight gain, permanent sexual dysfunction, and a pronounced emotional dulling throughout the time I was on them that left me lethargic, unmotivated, and stripped of creative thought or intellectual prowess, as if I were a deadened automaton, clumsy, tired, all joy sucked out of me, unable to read, to study, to exercise, or to create, and unable to gain pleasure from the world.
Beyond that, not one of them prevented either my intense sadness, my periodic suicidality, or my bouts of nervous breakdown psychosis. I replied to him at this stage by asking him, just to test the waters, why he thought I was getting unwell, and with such recent regularity. He replied, “it’s on account of your dopamine, causing a chemical imbalance in your brain.”
I then asked him, “but what about my environment and my long-term psychology? I’m under terrible long-term stress, and in a domestic situation that is regularly unrewarding as much as increasingly toxic, with near daily stress, pain and disappointment at times, a compound trauma. Beyond that, I’ve experienced long-term abuse, both as a child and into adulthood, right up until now, both bullying and sexual abuse, and with co-current familiar emotional abuse and indifferent neglect at home. Also, since November 2001 I’ve had the threat of prison hanging over me, and there’s been massive fallout in my person life from that. I miss Abby’s three girls terribly. I spend most of my time sad, guilty, and awfully hopeless, guilt-tripping myself, and going over and over the cruelty and realistic pain of my situation. I’m a nervous wreck these days. I lose sleep on account of it or am otherwise awake for long hours of the day dwelling on this all, feeling wracked and exhausted. Besides, your chemical imbalance hypothesis remains a theory. Beyond your opinion, which is simply a linguistic assertion, and the opinion of your textbooks, what empirical proof do you have that such a thing as a chemical imbalance even exists, considering there are no neurological tests that can pinpoint this, or even what a standard normal brain balance would be, if any?”
His smile started to fade. “Oh, but there’s no test available in this country. There is one in America. Of course, yes, there’s the environment. My psychiatry is biopsychosocial after all. Bio…psycho…social.”
“That’s as may be, but it’s that in name alone. All in practice you’re offering me is a bio-psychiatric response, a steady emphasis on medications, with no real thought given to any other treatment, of the range available, simply making a cursory note of my circumstances for a minute or so in overview, but never delving into them beyond a one-line quip for your massive, expanding case-notes folder of superficial one-line quips, and then ignoring them altogether just to prescribe meds, or indeed ignoring anything that can’t be massaged to fit your sole untestable hypothesis. There’s no understanding here whatsoever of context or aetiology. Your ‘science’ is heavily debunked 19th century presumptions.”
“If you were taking medication for a while, after a week’s trial period we could discharge you, then we could consider a waiting list for therapy. Therapy won’t work without meds you see.”
“No thank you. As I say, I’ve yet to see any evidence that these drugs function much better than placebo sugar pills, or have any effect for longer than a few weeks, given the length of the drug trials their marketing studies are based off, and as far as I can ascertain they work more by altering normal brains to dull the senses than by actively correcting anything pathological, in the sedative manner of alcohol or the euphoric elements of psychoactive drugs. You’ve yet to present me any evidence of their efficacy, or their lack of these terrible side effects, as evidenced by my physical body aside from the long-term follow-up studies taken, and indeed any evidence from the results of these supposed American chemical imbalance tests, which I’m not actually sure you’re correct on. You’d have to ask, if there was even such a test, if it was conducted on those already in receipt of these mind-altering drugs, which would obviously affect the results if we’re considering dopamine. Beyond that, there is some evidence that long-term childhood psychological trauma can affect a developing brain, a permanent swelling of brain vesicles for example, much as the majority of replicable papers suggest this doesn’t really affect cognition and is present in the non-psychotic just as much, and that the long-term environmental distress remains the real factor that instigates profound sadness and ego broken psychosis.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid you too would have to show me evidence of what you’re saying. Can you name any studies I could refer to or any papers?”
“Not off the top of my head. I can give you book links to them if you like, and to authors who do mention this material, and indeed go over it with a fine-tooth comb providing psychopharmaceutical meta-analyses and substantial evidence as to the fundamental flaws in your textbooks’ theory. I have a large stack with me in my room.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time for that today. All I can say is, I’m not going to discharge you until you consider medication. You’re on a section after all and have another two weeks remaining. If you don’t accept medication by then, I can extend it for you to a Section 3, lasting six months. With Section 3 one has a treatment order and can be treated without consent.”
“That’s ridiculous! I’m not displaying any signs of ill-health, and you’ve acknowledged that yourself, in this very meeting, as have all your staff on the ward daily. You’re coercing me, effectively blackmailing me to take you up on this. What you’re doing is illegal.”
“I’m not coercing you, no.”
At which point the black nurse attendant in the meeting chimed in with “No, he’s not coercing you.”
I was very upset at this point, shocked and taken aback. It was humiliating to have him brazenly lie to my face in supportive company.
“Of course you’re coercing me,” I said, “I’m going to have to phone an advocate and arrange for a lawyer and a tribunal. I’m not happy with what you’re saying here. It makes no sense and it’s a poor decision.”
“Fine, you can do that if you want. Anyway, as soon as you agree to your treatment we can have another review, and make progress from there. As it stands, right now, I’m not going to consider you for discharge. See you later!”
I had no choice but to walk out dejectedly. I knew if I got too upset about his decision he’d consider my anxiety over the matter to be a symptom of ill health. I’m sure he already had me down for ‘lack of insight’ on these grounds, a sure-fire way to diagnose someone unwell, and to justify the continued sectioning. When I got back to my room from the garden, I found a promotional NHS leaflet on my bed describing aripiprazole in glowing tones. The only side effects it mentioned were being careful not to choke on the tablets, and that they might cause drowsiness, headache, restlessness, or mild nausea. The leaflet recommended continuing indefinitely.
The only advocate I could find available was on a leaflet they gave me advertising Rethink, a mental health charity. The number on the leaflet was wrong when I phoned it, and an electronic voice declared that the original service no longer applied to Essex, but eventually I got through a waiting machine to an alternative-number service offering advocacy. They took my number and said they’d get back to me within 5 days.
A day after Abby was driving me back home for a few hours leave. She was reluctant to pick me up. “What’s the point? It’s an hour’s drive there and back each day for me, and the petrol’s expensive. It’s not like you’re coming home to see me anyway, as you say you just need to water the garden and harvest your vegetables then get on with finishing your writing project. Can’t you just stay there? You’ll have to get your Dad to pay my petrol. I’m not your taxi service. A taxi driver wouldn’t do this you know!”
“I don’t see why me doing those things automatically excludes you. I come home to be in my own house in general, and very much to be with you also. I’m lonely there and it comforts me, and I also have the things around me that bring me hope and satisfaction. I’ll speak to Dad about it but blame the doctor for messing me about. He’s constrained my freedom on spurious punitive grounds based on a faulty and inconsistent paradigm with no attention whatsoever paid to the real reason for my compound failed health, which is a very negative and stressful environment conditioning a toxic long term trauma that leads to regular and exponential cumulative breakdown as I never have a chance to heal properly in a domestic environment of near daily emotional tension and distress. Also, taxi drivers are ferrying strangers. I didn’t think you’d resent my freedom given that I’m a family member, and that the situation at all has been thrust on me, when other, more positive decisions were easily available.”
She exploded angrily at this point, in sharp intakes of breath each reply sentence, a great, high-pitched irritation to her tone.
“Oh, is that it again, ‘blaming me time’ is it? I’m not going to take responsibility for your health!”
“Well, it’s not just you, obviously. The threat of the trial and the imprisonment, and the shame, guilt, embarrassment and social ostracism all play a part, in a case where I was already very lonely, and used to that, and used also to friends, and indeed my own parents primarily, turning on me, scolding me, or otherwise presenting a hostile front, either aloof and unhelpful, emotionally unavailable, simply robotic and prescriptive at the expense of kindness or comforting words or actions, or directly antagonistic, sarcastic or humiliation-inducing, plus the build-up of every past forced hospitalization, or slander by the neighbours, or violence from them, or more of these things from the State services, or Andy, mixed with steady patronizing attitudes laced with buck-passing outright denial, much as regular arguments with you certainly don’t help, no. As I always say whether you agree with me on anything or not, the only thing that actually stresses me is you getting angry, snapping at me, or cutting me off when I’m speaking by shouting over me, and then leaving these immediate threats or ultimatums. I see me just disagreeing with you at all, seeing that I don’t shout myself, and tend to try and keep calm as long as possible, is enough to stress you to a rage though. If you weren’t shouting, I simply wouldn’t care. Of course you’re allowed to disagree with me, provided you don’t get angry.”
She began to shout properly, “just don’t annoy me then. It’s really very simple. Don’t annoy me and then I won’t shout!!!”
“But you’re doing it already. For the past ten or so arguments we’ve had they haven’t even been about a real topic in the present, in the home or the outside world, merely me pointing out quietly that you damage my health by shouting at me for extended stretches and making threats and “f**k you” ad hominems, and you responding to this by shouting at me more, calling me names, telling me I’m verbally abusing you, or threatening to end the relationship. Do you not see the tautology? All I’m doing is asking you not to shout at me and not to get angry and aggressive.”
“And all I’m doing is saying not to try and control me!” She was still shouting, and very, very angry. “Please! Please. Stop shouting. This is what gets my health down.”
Again, she ignored my statement, an obvious and reasonable plea for calm, falling impotent as always. “You’re impossible! You’re not living in reality. It’s you getting at me, by making these character assassinations that I make you go psychotic!”
“Please Abby, stop shouting. Just stop shouting.”
“Leave me alone! Just don’t speak to me again. We can just be in silence, and ignore each other.” “There’s no need for that. We can talk reasonably about other things. All I’m literally saying is don’t get angry so much at me for no reason or for very subjective poor reasons, as it sets my mood down and stresses me terribly, leaving all day and night lingering effects, all this friction.”
“You just want to get away with doing and saying whatever you want!!!”
“What’s wrong with asking you to be calm and reasonable?”
I wasn’t shouting back, but my throat was beginning to get dry, and my developing stutter was becoming more pronounced, along with the beginnings of a congestion-like headache and all the worrying mental tiredness that comes with direct toxic stress. I couldn’t understand why she was putting up so much resistance to an obvious point from objective human interpersonal health, a point she was reinforcing by her every incensed response, indignant to the point of fury, totally out of control. I wanted her to stop arguing about it altogether, and just let the matter be. I wondered what she was ‘really’ upset about. She’s been in a bad mood like this for weeks.
“Please! Please Abby! Just calm down.”
At this point she lapsed into silence, grabbing out for the car stereo wheel and yanking up the volume, drowning out all further communication under a wall of Industrial Rock noise. When we got home, she ignored me, and went straight to bed, staying asleep until it was time to go back. For the next 4 car journeys, this process repeated. She seemed in a mood to want to argue, and if any passing reference was made to the environment, even partial and offhand, as I mulled over hospital topics in general, or fretted over options and circumstances, even if not mentioning her directly, she could not let the matter go, exploding at me, and ruining the entire journey each time.
***
I’ve just been dropped back at the hospital by Abby. At least I got to type my previous notes onto my PC earlier. I was run-down at home though, rendered on edge, unable really to focus, or to relax. I have an MRI test this evening. The previous consultant, an African doctor whom I had been under when I first arrived at the ward (until her retired two days later) had put me in for an epilepsy scan, suggesting that the dissociation I experience when I become acutely distressed was a case of black outs due to potential epileptic seizures. He said this could also explain why I appear distant to them at times. I think it’s obvious that this is a ludicrous time-waster hypothesis, but I’ve agreed to the test on general health grounds, just out of curiosity as to what, if anything, they do find.
Abby turned to me slightly when driving me back and said, “It makes sense that you might have epilepsy, you know. I looked it up online and it says finger-tip rubbing is one of the symptoms, as is irritability.”
“No, I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t deny that those two phenomena of symptoms of epilepsy, but I rule out the latter diagnosis. I don’t display any of the primary symptoms, for example, and the tardive dyskinesia from long-term meds usage accounts for the hand mannerism, a neurological mutilation, as much as nervousness, vape smoking and e-liquid skin irritation, and the itchy psoriasis across my palms and hands that also prevents proper sweat functions in my surface dermal, and of course spending too much time gripping a computer mouse, or tapping on a keyboard.
We don’t have to pathologize irritability. It arises naturally enough through stress, disappointment, or tiredness, and besides, it’s only one loose way of categorizing a response, not being used here with any scientific precision, so it remains a subjective accusation word-choice.
It’s like when you describe me as “argumentative” or “abusive” when I ask you politely if I could have some quiet time without interruption so I can concentrate on the research for my writing, either comprehending difficult external paragraphs and research entries, making spelling and syntax edits, altering word choices or photo dimensions or layouts, any metadata and file formats, and of course re-reads, and that irregular steady habit of small-talk totally impedes my concentration, jeopardizing my writing standard as a result. I already write like a dense 19th Century analytic philosopher at the best of times. It’s hard to imagine that I’ve been able to write my book at all given the average noise level for months on end. Constantly being interrupted keeps me on edge and forces me to disengage, and causes terrible nerve-wracked stress, leaving me more worn-out and mentally drained than I should be. You tend these days to call me “offensive”, “argumentative”, or “a nightmare” simply if I ask you not to shout at me and to suggest a tangible link between you refusing to heed this and then shouting angrily on a regular basis, and my health collapses altogether periodically.
I wasn’t setting out to ignore you when I devoted time to book writing, it’s just that I was engaged in the writing process, a standard writing process for any writer, something intellectually taxing and difficult. Really, if allowed to concentrate, I could have successfully completed each writing period sooner, and would still be relaxed, and could thus relax with you until the next self-set daily writing period, able to spend a lot more time directly with you in the other hours, as opposed to getting lost, or stopped in my tracks in a daze, stunned and unproductive, or having to correct far too many avoidable errors. It could have been a much better book, but I don’t have time now.”
“You shouldn’t have written it at all then! You’ve got no respect for anything important!!!”
“When you’re driving you often ask me to stop talking or tell me to shut up if you need to concentrate on the road, which I always try to do promptly. Do you not understand that it’s the same idea in my case?”
“Well, in your case you’re not going to crash. You’re rude, and you’re just making excuses.”
“I could understand if it was something genuinely important. I just thought it was okay to politely ask you at times if I could have some quiet time to focus, seeing as all you wanted to present to me, every few minutes at times, was videos on Facebook of cats and dogs, and amateur comedy skit uploads, or a Facebook news link from your feed, or something minor that had happened, in politics, or in a foreign country, all of which I had to turn my head from my work to view. If I said “sorry, wait a minute, just wait a minute…” and put my hand up, and then turned to look when I had finished typing my line you said, “how rude”, and “doesn’t matter!” then insisted “it doesn’t matter now!”, and began to sulk anyway. This intrusive process repeated again and again, all day. It’s clear you don’t have any respect for my writing hobby, or for my purpose for writing this book, or consider it at all important.”
“Listen you yourself! It’s you who’s got no respect! You’re just hurtful!”
“Please don’t shout Abby! It really does affect my health.”
“F**k you! Stop trying to control me. I can shout at you if I want! Stop annoying me and then I won’t shout! Are you stupid?!”
“Do you not see that constant shouting is a negative thing? It’s a negative thing guaranteed to bring anyone down, and you’re aggressive in conversation at the drop of a hat. You never argue in good faith, or stay on topic, and you pepper it with direct insults and threats that directly affect a future date, decisions made final well in advance, lifted only when you cool down. There’s no excuse for it. Disagree all you like, and tell me you disagree, but stay calm. I get stressed out beyond belief otherwise. It’s beginning to get to me a little bit now even, given the past 4 days of it.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night worried about it, and alone, in a dark, stuffy room, and worrying about the doctor throwing his weight around, ruining what could be my last days of freedom, preventing me from meeting easily with my lawyer or my preferred-contact barrister or even emailing him easily, or arranging with my probation appointment planners, with an impact on the decisions of my sentencing, preventing me from achieving anything productive or getting anything finished bar rushing the last opportunity I have to finish my book, keeping me from my family with stupid know-it-all logic and cold, arrogant authoritarianism and standard “yes, but…” dismissiveness, unable even to prepare an evening meal and share it with my family, or to prevent my crops becoming tangled in unpruned weeds, the crops rotting, the plants wilting and dying, unable even to fall asleep cuddling my partner, or petting my animals, in my own bed, my only security.
I need to be in the best shape possible for my independent tribunal on Friday, to plead my case with a mental health lawyer. Any intermediate stress may bring relapse and put me in bad shape and poor presentation to argue my case, playing into the doctor’s hands, making it easier for him to justify his decision over all this.”
“Well, no doubt you’ll be unwell by the tribunal anyway. Remember, it’s every three weeks now this happens.”
“Please stop with that fatalistic magical thinking, making a big thing of your pet theory 3-weeks logic. It’s become a fixation of yours recently, and you make it seem like it just comes out of the blue like clockwork, every three weeks so far, for no reason.”
“What are you talking about? What’s magical about saying this? That’s what does happen!”
“It’s an expression from psychology. Yes, you’re right, but with me only healing up after a fourth week, and only partially recovering after coming home from a unit, all progress undone again fairly briskly, sometimes dented within 5 hours of returning or less, subjected to long-saved-up resentment complaints and arguments, anger, and ad hominems, shouting, and then every few days on from that, sometimes all day effectively. No wonder I swiftly crack again. I imagine 3 weeks is the rough bodily limit a mind can withstand before it breaks under hostility, given the person is already weakened and meant to be relaxing in recovery.”
“And you’re really trying to say this to me, this nonsense? It’s your hormones, it’s obvious. It’s a hormone cycle due to Klinefelter’s Syndrome!”
“Klinefelter’s is responsible for my lifelong infertility, a Syndrome perhaps encountered at all since my father, who has a low sperm count anyway, chose with my mother to have me when both were already over their 40th birthday. I’d imagine the hormone imbalance from it renders me less assertive, less aggressive, and thus less able to defend myself from a psychological standpoint, much as it puts fatty weight onto my hips and abdominal area, and breast tissue if I’m not careful with food and workouts, but it doesn’t go in cycles. I haven’t got a womb or as oestrus cycle for instance.
How do you know it’s not your own hormones making you moodier, considering you’re at an age where you’re liable to experience the first menopause symptoms, perhaps even early onset due to your own stress, and you do already have irregular periods, which tend to hit you harder psychologically? I notice that for the past 3 or 4 psychiatric admissions, and for most of the blip periods in-between where I have lesser psychotic episodes for 24-72 hours, and I haven’t paid attention before this, as least not comprehensively, there’s still an observation that my symptoms have onset proper within a day or so of an intense row on your part, each time in fact, and indeed these rows always come about recently within a day or so of you starting your period, itself irregular long-term from the start of our relationship, and on a three week cycle, taken from undressing and pad disposal observations, and from your own consistent historical reportage before that.”
“What??! Me?! Oh, don’t be so ridiculous! You f**king idiot! You’ve got something wrong with your head, you have!!”
“It doesn’t help that you’re barely eating, and tend to avoid food, and skip meals sometimes, or eat the minimum amount, even given that we get by on only a single daily meal these days anyway, in the evening. You’re increasingly not sleeping either, even with me compensating as a night-owl myself, and I call you to bed after midnight, only for you to insist on sitting up watching Netflix with your headphones on until 4am, small lights on, and the screen glare flashing off the bookcase as I’m turned away. Both these factors probably exacerbate your poor mood to some degree, and make you crankier, much as it’s also natural that there’ll be worry over my case and trial, and the outcome for you too, and you’re not expected to be over the loss of the children either, so there’s definite grief.”
“I do eat! I just don’t stuff my face all day like you do, wasting money on food! I’m not a child, I can go to bed when I want! It doesn’t affect you, and it’s none of your business when I go to bed!”
“Abby, you’re shouting again. Please stop. Just stop. It’s very draining on me when you shout.”
“And you’re being outrageously offensive! I swear I’m not taking you out again now, you’ve blown it! You can just stay there now. Why should I waste my time and money driving you home and back when this is all the thanks I get for it! You should be grateful! I swear there’s nothing left in our relationship, you ruined it all! All I am is someone who does good things for you and this is the thanks I get!!!”
“No, please don’t do that Abby. You’re hardly giving our relationship a chance at the moment. You just seem consumed by rage, resentment, and bitterness, and you snap at me over the slightest thing, pretty much over anything I say. If you just calmed down and shed your steady resentment, we could draw a line under this and cool off. I mean, it’s usually me trying to ameliorate, or at least to maintain calm and leave conversation escape options, as opposed to antagonism or negativity, constant on your part, maintaining the rage.
Accept what I think about it whether you disagree or not, and simply allow me us to hold our own views on the matter. If I bring it up in passing, just acknowledge it as my viewpoint, which doesn’t have to be yours, and don’t get hung up about it in exhausting half hour or more arguments, and then don’t render them consecutive, periodically, all day. Whether I’m right or not about your shouting being the prime factor in my regular psychoses these days, you still have no moral high ground to simultaneously be unpleasant by shouting at me. Don’t shout at me angrily irrespective of this discrete topic.”
“You call this shouting?!! Believe me mate, you’d know it if I shouted!!! Perhaps you just can’t work out the volume or have oversensitive ears. That’s another symptom of epilepsy, being oversensitive!”
“I’d imagine that’s in scientific reference to headaches or photosensitive effects, or noise stimulation bringing on seizures. I take it you’re simultaneously applying the term in the general context you regularly use it in, another subjective pejorative, a derogatory defensive slang, as is actually pretty common, misunderstanding the concept and its usage. If I’m a nervous wreck, it’s easy to see, or at least increasingly should be, why that is, one would hope. In legitimate usage, sensitivity to environment is a positive thing though, correlated with creativity and general intelligence, including high emotional intelligence. Better than being both dulled and insensate, like a rock or an automaton, or indeed compulsively insensitive and dispassionate to a point bordering on psychopathy or sadism.”
“Look, just go on the medication the doctor wants you on. He’s right. You were a lot nicer when you were on them before. Back at the start of our relationship. You stopped them, and you changed. Now you’re unmanageable. Before, we never had any problems!”
“Well before November 2021 we never had the same degree of unavoidable situational stress, setting us against each other. I mean, I’ve had personal problems since at least my toddler years, and on-and-off medication usage since at least 16, with continuing personal problems throughout, and when you took the piss out of me for having been sexually abused a week after the move into the chalet, saying men can’t be raped, and I would have defended myself, when discussing a heavily set upon preadolescent boy. They were on and off since then, and I still had the deep sadness, loneliness, and all the suicide attempts I didn’t share with them because I knew already when they are like, and was indeed was on Abilify itself for a portion of this despair and terrible distress, and indeed there were the hospitalizations for psychosis at two point of that treatment model, but the difference was that I didn’t argue back or stand up for myself, and I let you walk all over me, much as Dad lived in this country at that point and was on the scene, so the majority of the argument stress came from him, something that you seem to have taken over from him on these days seeing that he is now in a different country, and far more aloof.
It was always me who was the one to capitulate or to apologise. Now, I don’t let you boss me about, mock me, or manipulate me to the same degree, and I don’t apologise as much, seeing that I am the only one who spontaneously choses to at all, and for all this you tell me my personality has changed. I’d say you’ve changed since November 2021. Now you’re 100% unforgiving, even over nothing, and for no deliberate, or even reasonably observable slight on my part, even inadvertent, and all this accusation of ‘offense causing’ is entirely subjective, and from a mono-perspective that cannot have otherwise. You attack me and harass me verbally all the time.”
“That’s because there’s nothing left. You’ve wasted it all. And then you try and put responsibility for your choices on to me! I swear, you make yourself ill!! If you don’t like me shouting at you constantly then get out! Go and move in with your parents instead of trying to tell me what to do!”
“You know as much as I do that that’s not a good option for me psychologically, yet alone financially or logistically. Any time I have lived with my parents I’ve found my Dad is equally condemnatory, dismissive, and disparaging to what you are, if not more so in a variant fashion, almost as if he gets a kick out of it. With you I hold you responsible, but I’m unable to blame you biologically, as your pathological rage doesn’t seem conscious, and you certainly can’t control it. With Dad, all my Mum did, and does, is observe this, then deny it publicly to protect his reputation, pretending nothing, or nothing much, has happened to me, or that she doesn’t know what I mean.
I’m not being forced out of my own house, and where neither me or my parents could afford transit for my belongings, which would then be lost or put in storage I could hardly afford either, and to effectively downgrade like this, or downgrade in any way simply because you can’t be pleasant currently and are reacting like a hysterical hypochondriac with an addiction to anxiety-bound worst case scenarios, minus all the calm planning for them, or because you can’t keep you own temper and no one else can find the balls to encourage you to. I don’t really understand why you always leap into the future and pick the worst, most extreme final option, as if there was genuine cause for that, as if it had to be done, and all of a sudden had to be done that very same minute.
Surely a simpler, less dramatic, less insane option, would be just to remain calm and work on your intolerance levels a little, with a bit of self-reflection, and a proper understand of the stress we face. It would save me experiencing these psychotic symptoms currently, even if it wouldn’t ‘cure’ the rest of the environment stress, and it would save our relationship in the long run. It's not a huge thing to ask, and it’s not a difficult technique to learn. The easiest change. You would not be losing out.”
“Why should I do that? What’s in it for me? There’s no point. All you’re going to do is abuse me, like you’ve done all down the road today. All you ever do is tell other people to change. It’s manipulative. Who do you think you are?! Just get out!”
The car had arrived back at the hospital at this point. I felt wretched, with slight brain fogginess, sweating, and a rising nausea, that disrupted heart rate you feel in your neck and throat that resembles congestion and doesn’t go away for days. As I opened the car door and struggled to get out carrying my books and my litre bottles of water, I turned to Abby and said:
“Look, please just try to not overreact. Don’t let anger cloud your judgement. I love you. I do love you…”
I went to give her a little kiss, just our customary peck on the mouth, her only sign of physical affection these days in a relationship where she no longer kisses me romantically, or offers a hug, or any touch at all of her own volition, and where sex, even if it came more readily to me physically, is now out of the question, down from 5 years’ worth of two or three times a week, occasionally in the daytime for a few hours, and she is concerned with her age and her looks, and it is now “a dirty practice” that, by her own words at 46, youthful in figure and by face, she is now “too old for”, and which is “just for making children, who leave or get taken anyway.”
She pulled backwards though and turned me away. Tears had formed in her eyes, and she was holding back sobs. “Yeah,” she said, followed by “OK. Bye.”
I closed the door sadly, and went to wave to her, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’, but she was already pulling away, and didn’t respond. I was crestfallen, and in a daze. A distracting worry had set over me, not lifted even now, over 6 hours later, wondering how long my health could hold out until it cracked, terrified it would crack. A hot flush like congestion, leaving it hard to focus, like having to pull myself on. Hard to be present, with outsiders’ voices muffled a little and harder to follow and pay attention to, deathly tired, and thoroughly run down, though I know that for every observed second, I will have to stay ‘in character’ in here, and put a brave face on, or it will justify the immediate use of their torture-model.
I hope she does not jeopardize my tribunal meeting (or has not already), and likewise that she does not spend the meeting tearfully offloading her own frustration and her indignancy on the psychiatrist (perhaps indignancy at the very idea that I would dare to presume she had cheated on me; untrue, but a paranoia not out of context, given my chronic stress), as she makes a brave show of supressing when she complains about me to the mental health care teams, and paramedics, the occasional young Policeman, and any of the female neighbours who will still chat to her. As with my parents, and the psychiatrist himself, and regardless of empiricism, she got in first sadly, and I, as just one person, under 1000 beady-eyed sceptics, can’t compete with that.
Naturally, without any further context or empirical confirmation, she will tell them that I am “offensive”, or “abusive”, or “making her life hell”, or “a handful”, or “a nightmare”, or “unmanageable” (I didn’t book a manager), or “torturing her”, or gross hyperbole and projected inversion, a mirror image in words alone, no physical truth present, and all defensive ideas synonymous to what is quite simply, an unrecognised anxiety gaslighting, by one who, in some subtle way, is equally psychotic, and full time. I use scientific lexicons and scientific logic. I don’t see anything in return but slander.
Over time, and in conjunction with her then-softness, and quietness, and polite shyness, and all the tears and fluster and “thank you so much for being supportive to me!”, a great deal of understanding sympathy is thus conferred her, and me never present to defend myself either, absent in units, or having just been carted out in a comatose state delirious to the world, or even literally out cold, or just too broken to acknowledge it, or too exhausted to even try and get a word in edgewise anymore.
They all hated me already, weary at watching my mind implode into madness and my actions become non-sensical and ridiculous. This just gives them more cause for concern, and her more glowing character references “in comparison”, and more defenders long-term, and a great deal of pity all round (as if my private pity for her was not quite enough and the world wanted to chip in), and more pity from the State too at decision-making level, and more confirmations that I am suffering from a mental illness disorder of the brain, brought about by shoddy genetics, imprinting an incurable neurotransmitter imbalance manifesting as theoretically excessive dopamine, much as not a soul has checked, and nor could they scientifically, and then the commendations all round, for “you’ve very brave” and “see how brave she is” and “look how strong she is”, and how patient she is, how loving she is to “put up with me” during “my difficult points.”
Recently, a few days after I had arrived at Peter Bruff, she’d remarked to me that, following the apprehending of me for my latest self-harm collapse, my own care coordinator Theresa said to her, shortly after the ambulance pulled away with me strapped sadly and lifelessly to the gurney inside it (with my eyes closed, murmuring, but trying to just sleep): “Don’t you think it’s about time to call it a day?” he said. “The longer you stay in the house the more risk of homicide you’re under. He can’t control himself and it’s a violent brain abnormality. These cases are all over the news.”
She didn’t tell me that to hurt me. She was just idly narrating a remark, without much thought. I assume it’s most likely a true narration. She doesn’t lie about what outsiders say. It hurt me very much though. I felt one more tiny piece of hope cracking off and dropping away. I hardly have anything left these days, all the losses.
For months, for days and days, any recent energy in me left that isn’t forced into a lock of despair and thus distracted by it, is suicidal. My mind is imploded by others, but it is never far from it. I hang on though. I tell myself there’s not much left. It simply can’t get any worse. I’d just like a decision, and to know my legal outcome. I’d like my day in court.
I wish there was somehow they could just know, or care to know, or care to ask. But then I know she would deny it all immediately, and be aghast, and they would believe her, as it seems preternatural and by unanimous assumption – a natural conviction that remains on a knee-jerk assumption that sustains itself. They have always, all of them, pan spectrum, been inclined to do this, to assume she is telling the truth, and the whole truth, and to assume I am somehow consistently lying (even with this precision?!!!), or simply cannot witness my own life at all, even as she can be expected to explain me to them for me (and for them), and fill in all the gaps, my contribution unnecessary to that.
I just want this stress with the criminal justice system to be over. Abby knows nothing of mental health, her own psychological idiosyncrasies included, and approaches problems without a shred of historical self-reflection or precision, the emotional maturity of a small child in tantrum, flabbergasted, confused out of all comprehension as she is caught red handed.
Any time I lose health to my lowest point, my last defence mechanism, one beyond my full control, to know that, if anything, the most context she will add is “when psychotic he did ‘xyz’” or “he said ‘xyz’ when psychotic” or, “just before you came he was being irritable”, and “arguing with me” or “deliberately stressing himself out” or “getting worked up over nothing”, and to know so well that she will leave it at that, a heap of amateur journalistic slang, and to know that they will join in with more of this level precision and armchair hypothesis on ‘what it said…’, and to console her, and to pass me more and more disparaging remarks of common knowledge and heightened consensus and sure common sense, and to sigh at my case long term, and talk about me at work, gossiping, a weary jab in private, and a “guess what he’s done now…”, or mocking laughter at what the world is coming to, a nuisance and a nightmare to them, a trouble-maker, something pathetic too, one of the bad guys.
That poor woman. Her poor family. What they must suffer. He’s a monster.
I’m in the unit until at least Friday afternoon, provided my tribunal goes ahead that day. Of course, if the tribunal fails, I am, quite frankly, f**ked, as no more appeal for discharge is available by mental health law for that section. A situation I will no longer be able to address or adjust, however impotently, and non-negotiable to the utmost, with me totally, irrevocably powerless, beyond even Human Rights laws, which do not apply to “those of unsound mind.”
And what now? What if, in a miracle, they ever did read this book, not put off at the first mention of a name, “Hitler”, or even an opening challenge to a powerful pharmaceutic company decision, or upset at a heavy-handed characterization of the Police, something ‘a bit much’. Or of my presentation of the Second World War, or animal cruelty, or punitive superstitions, or the ramifications of anti-European society and predominantly a belief of Europeans themselves within it, with the focus and the blame placed squarely on our own people more than Semitic intrusions, or the very word “immigrant”, or bad words on psychiatry, or my inability to honour my father and mother, or my 1700 year history-based critique of Christianity, or my dissection of Western schooling, or my reflections on racialism and true human diversity, or my disdain for the mob, and the intelligent mob, and for all the found shibboleths of the establishment. What then?
Even with transcripts, or with occasional audio or video evidence (one finds one must address more than theirs’, their cameras turned off far quicker at times, or not examined at all, or just pointing away, and hardly there anyway) they would treat it as a one-off, and rummage in the scrapheap of rationalizations, saying “you have to remember, she’s very tired at the moment and has been through a lot”, and “that’s not like Abby, she must be under pressure” and “are you sure you’re not exaggerating a bit here and overthinking, you look nervous, why is that?” or “just try to be patient with her, it’s a difficult situation”, or to go further and start to quiz me over my “agitation” or “when we imagine persecution, sometimes it’s a sign that we’re could be getting ill, and it can feel really real at times…”, and her next to me, nodding, open-eyed and attentive to them, listening to whatever care worker’s explanation damage control method, replying “yeah, you’re right, oh, I hadn’t considered that, yeah, that makes a lot of sense” and turning to me and softly saying “see?” as if – and this sentiment is given genuinely on her part – in encouragement.
After all, she is a victim to them, and to herself (‘and how could she not be?’), and they have that great sympathy for her and that great suspicion of me already, mixed with the wearying forced politeness, and low expectations, what they had then and have more of now, from their very training days, or from before that, years before ever meeting me. And, at times, an un-shieldable unspoken dislike.
We live in a feminised society in the UK, in a matriarchal society, femicentric, weighted very much against the direct interest, protection, and support of heterosexual white men. This feminist pandering, even to non-academic ‘feminists’, or strictly speaking non-feminist women, confers an automatic drive to belief and pandering, an instinctive prediction to believe, validate, and defend woman against perceived slights (not just paedophilic rape, and violent rape, and being genuinely battered or stabbed to death, which is clearly a legitimate concern to address), all dangers to men relegated to a secondary concern, and attitudes critical and distrusting of men in the general public are a simple domestic response behaviour inherent to the modern Police, more so if these men are not non-European, just in case either get in more trouble.
This practice extends to all healthcare, and all social work, and I would never have been believed on the spot even if I had spoken out a few years ago, and in stronger fashion than a discreet and lengthy self-published book with a complicated narrative and an extensive interweaved subject selection.
It’s far too late now (just as it is too late to talk about lifelong abuse off my Dad, me having learnt so soon that it was not made worth my while if I mentioned it to psychiatrists or nurses, so giving up after a while to mitigate further damage, no longer even trying to make new psychiatrists aware, for they are all the same). My reputation has been in tatters with these people for years, and they would never accept that there’s another world, all behind closed doors, that they cannot sum up in 5 minutes, or 20 seconds, or a few typed pages of quick notes once a month, a world that they have never been privy to, as if they resented to know of it, and needed instead a mythology more suitable to their tastes, and intellects.
For one, they would have to review all their notes, editing rather than reading, and right back to square one. I was not believed. I could not have been believed. They could not encourage themselves to do this. In a word, they are incompetent at believing me. Could it be imagined, in another 100 years, or in a million years (to be conventional), that they would ever have had the humility to delete their own words, or cross them out, or swallow their pride and edit with humility, to take account of nine years of missed context, to throw the rubbish into the bin, to even wonder what they’re doing at their office desk at all? Of course not. That would be too much, and they are not that type of people. To say sorry, of one’s own choice, on a serious matter, and to have the understanding and discern objective seriousness, to perceive why, and to decide on it, and to do it, is an ability that is, among the mass of us all, as much as extinct. We are as a different species these days, that global 8% that is Europeans, down with all the rest, if the rest ever really could, a clear advantage we once held alone.
I can see readers now (and have always noticed) potentially moving to query me or to doubt or to nitpick, as if, somehow, the idea that both parents and one long-term romantic partner in addition to them were abusive emotionally was too unlikely for the realms of possibility, too improbable an occurrence, and thus not true, something fishy going on, and definitely too much, even in a science-conscious society that tolerates a pessimist’s universe being determined start to finish on mechanical grounds of deceptive “ha ha, you’d think that but no, look…” obvious pointlessness, the probability for order arising from random ‘shuffled’ chaos by mathematical logic alone giving a chance likelihood against life forming of 10 to the power of 2,000,000, but this latter decision accepted fair enough as a “probable” potential, and almost taken as read these days with most molecular biologists, some physicists all across the mainstream, and nearly all computer scientists bar the most open minded of the complexity researchers (much as full emphasis on considering biotonic laws seem beyond them).
Caught in the darkest hours of my most hopeless situation so far - and that in a long life of near-steady hopelessness and familiar despair - I see clearly that I am trapped in what Gregory Bateson once defined in Steps to an Ecology of Mind as a "double bind", a distressing, madness-inducing catch-22 situation (sans humorous satire), where I am manipulated and controlled from all sides, with some correlates and yet some parallel enemies, a lawfare war of most against one, where both they and I are f**ked, and a situation profoundly unwinnable, damned no matter what option I pick.
Abby's fierce, impatient, (though irresponsibly accidental - so I don't wholeheartedly blame her) words only encourage the psyche teams, and facilitate the psychiatrists in carrying out the effective drugs-salesperson careers their authoritarian profession has trained them to perform, both parties influencing the Police who routinely brutalize and disparage me (to keep their jobs/freedom/necks), all three bodies in turn stimulated and sustained by a hostile media of sensationalist Eton attendees and bald-faced white admirers of (African-) skin-tones, these petty, vindictive fearmongers, and primary schoolteacher pedagogic enforcers, the deeply patronizing clean-cut Arctic politeness partisans with a political axe to grind, all in united front, separated to ostensibly independent hyper-individuals in individual groups, but thoroughly alike, differentiated only by their resolutely powerful power level and the resources they can employ. All at once, doubled down, as resolute in their infallibility convictions, outnumbering me many times over, their 'enemy no. 1' (or a facsimile of such), a scapegoat to be burnt in effigy, them better dead than admitting (or emitting) that they're sorry, or absorbing such internally – realizing.
Just as when I am accused by the UK mental health service of intellectualizing my responses simultaneous to them also scowling if I raise my voice, or grow angry, or weep, or waver, or become enthused or excited by something in the world, or something I have read, or if I "pace" too quickly, or if I talk to small animals in the garden as I track them about. In other words, if I display any overt emotion or soulfulness or naturalist curiosity, although meds will no doubt cause akathisia once they inevitably pin me to the bed and inject them in (for they will have to). It is like a trial with a packed prosecution and no defence team utilized by default, and always knowing that the officials will brand my past silences, and withdrawals, and tears (and occasional spills of personal blood - these days mainly from accidental grazes due to my untreated psoriasis, or the odd shaving nick by shaking, nerve-damaged hands, though a non-wobbly tooth has fallen out in here, for no apparent reason bar their neglect, much as they didn't do anything to examine me or express concern, beyond registering it for a split second, annoyed to be distracted from their observations ‘paperwork’ on portable tablets) as unstable disorders and madness, and simply send in armed thugs when the real madness metastasizes periodically, the mental perception perhaps not quite as bad for me at the time as others sometimes assume, until they make it so, naturally.
I will inform them then in a plea of impassioned lament (when they merely demand of me why I'm crying), "Because my life is torment and agony!", and so they can scowl more, and withdraw themselves, and write down that I have "grandiose thoughts" again, and "word salad" and "flowery language", the latter not entirely out of bounds to an ambitious and prolific poet with a futuristic technology awareness and a conqueror lineage (much as on one count of those disparate three I can be over-optimistic).
The same, familiar anger for them, at times, unable to recognize an intelligent poet-naturalist with an anachronistic writing style. I wish they could tell the difference. Their phobia of my poetic science-tones extends too far over the sensible. I wither having to apply my own NAXALT rule, time and again to myself; to 'explain' to them, back into an interrogation room then perceptively, knowing that I'm usually qualitatively peri-opaque, but at least meaningful, and can be interpreted i.e. my words are not usually written in a state of madness as much as one of weary experimentalism, at times clutching to define at length difficult concepts, for which the English language falls short, my cosmic ecological-evolutionary panentheism, a theoretical biophysical forms 'biology of physics', unashamedly vitalist, albeit modern (1980s onwards). Then there is the theoretical future-tech. Perhaps they are too stupid somehow. Too unimaginative; too atheist.
I cannot share this tolerance of Abby with the rest, this horrid world of banal demagogues, this Christianized Neo-Bolshevik idiocracy. Where is our Gemeinshaft? What of Ehrfurcht vor dem Leben? Wherever is a worldview if I too, in sanity, cannot state this?!!
The only positive factor from my time in the unit is that I've got some reading done these past two weeks, reading a book daily, and sometimes starting a fresh one the same day. As the nursing staff sometimes remark (and it is no more than that; they dislike me - one sees it in their eyes) "look, he's doing reading!", or "he's busy at his reading!" That same buoyant tone primary school educators use, or special needs tutors, having discovered a fascinated 6-year-old deep in his first illustrated book of dinosaurs (a tone he hears that discourages him), always a condescending air to them, infantile old me, a quiet one; a dangerous heterosexual man of the fresh air with wrong-toned European skin, an anomaly to them, and a long popularized bogey creature at that.
I was glad to finally read Order Out of Chaos by Ilya Prigogine, on my 5th day inside, when I could finally be content that I was sane again, and thankfully no meds yet, as with now. Then I read The Recursive Universe by William Poundstone, lingering with the ideas covered in "The Cosmological Future" segment of his Chapter 9 on The Big Bang and Heat Death, tentatively brainstorming solutions in very rough speculation after considering cosmic scale stellar burning and how to mitigate or avoid the widespread death of stars 100 trillion years from now (and indeed our own in 6 billion years), detouring into An Introduction to the Study of Stellar Structure by S. Chandrasekhar (though I have more to read of that one still), and then how to avoid the stellar motion energy gains that shake off orbiting planets, and the energy losses that send stars spiralling into the supermassive black hole proposed to lie at the centre of our galaxy (and some others, with a lot to choose from) as it grows steadily larger over the aeons.
I wondered if neutrino fibre gravitational lattices could somehow be theoretically partitioned and technology designed so as to tether them via field manipulation, the stars within the grid 'operated on' with an extra terrestrial surgical precision, either surrounded, as by Dyson sphere conjectures, and then harvested as a stored 'resource', or just artificially influenced in their motions, and indeed whether they could be generated afresh, or from scratch by human effort, not simply by current day experiments to re-create nuclear fusion, and with my mind moving to the idea of shifting the orbits of small rocky planets by pre-calculated (remembering the universal effort of gravity and the positioning of stars relative to each other due to Bode’s Law, a many-body problem) gravitational manipulation, creating binary worlds in orbit around a larger rocky home-world, investigating carbon nano-fibre elevators or connective transit structures, or as a vast primary resource back-up for later-date mining (one thinks of the external placenta egg-sack of sharks), and subsequent decoupling for manoeuvring by local propulsion, or indeed interstellar transit. More than to re-shape solar systems, at best, and to lessen galactic collisions, but to effectively hasten the development of white holes. Eventually to address thermodynamics altogether, in tandem with contemporary positron research, some way to discharge large quantities of compacted protons from hydrogen nuclei and, additionally, free up quarks held by the color force, and perhaps designed to restimulate the matter antimatter annihilation that created the growth of the universe at all during the electroweak baryogenesis phase, looking for sustainable preservation techniques aligned with orchestrated objective reduction addended by Theory of Organization ideas (more than simply a Theory of Everything, of which all current examples are limited by fundamental paradigmatic flaws) into the very long-term (and why not forever?).
I'll return to a few of these vague stub ideas properly at a later date (one hopes), and try to approach them sensibly, and see how they could be experimentally theorized and maybe put into practice. It's more of a problem still than any genuine solution. I followed with the Julian Jaynes classic The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind as a mild diversion, which I agreed with the conclusions of, and then into some explanations of Mach's Principle and the theoretical basis for absurdly benign wormholes and exotic propulsion, building up to finishing Making Starships and Stargates by James F. Woodward, and the experimental technology in early pre-development, probably a little stripped for budget requirements.
I've got a copy of Francisco S. N. Lobo's Wormholes, Warp Drives, and Energy Conditions in the background, surprisingly not all that difficult theory-wise (if I have it correct). Basing his work on Einstein’s General Relativity field equations plus the Schwarzschild exterior static and spherically symmetric vacuum solution, and the interior solution of a general relativistic incompressible fluid, where, as with the matter content affecting the curvature of the spacetime, the meridional curve is a parabola with the surface revolution joining two asymptotically flat sheets, forming a ‘tunnel’, this research developed further into the Einstein-Rosen Bridge and the analysis work of John Wheeler, investigating multiply-connected spacetime topology and hypothesising gravitational-electromagnetic ‘geon’ solutions. Lobo considers the energy conditions needed to construct thin-shell traversable Lorentzian wormholes, artificial rotating ‘gravitational lenses’ utilizing quantum field theory, with an exotic matter field coupled to gravity (or modified gravity as with the Horndeski model), and the geometry of two asymptotically flat sheets placed in a pseudo-Euclidean isometric embedding where the ‘throat’ of the wormhole deforms under centrifugal force (as with Kerr black holes at a much smaller critical value, and with wormholes acting as a far more efficient engine for converting mass into radiation), marking the onset of a negative Gaussian curvature at each pole, with an increase of electromagnetic energy. Increasing the rotational velocity of the wormhole in four dimensions potentially creates bound orbits for particles and light.
I was particularly interested in the nonlinear flux and trace-of-square constraints on the stress-energy tensors satisfying these conditions, noting that although the flux energy condition (a weakening of the dominant energy condition) can be violated by Casimir effect vacuum fluctuations, it exists independent of the null energy condition (which, if violated, means that the dominant energy condition, the weak energy condition and the strong energy condition cannot be satisfied), and its semi-classical quantum counterpart the QFEC is satisfied by the Boulware vacuum and the Fulling Davies-Unruh thermal energy reservoir (vacuum) effect even if the quantum weak energy condition (QWEC) is violated. Alternatively, one could formulate curvature conditions directly from the Einstein and Ricci tensors then perform global analysis utilizing the Raychaudhuri equation and the Weyl tensor.
I enjoyed The Nature of Time by Michael Lockwood and Raymond Flood, and moved on to a short presentation by Paul Frampton on his alternative cyclical cosmology theory, titled Did Time Begin? Will Time End?, but I was put off a little quite early on by his extensive reference to 'Dark Energy' and his spooky reliance on multiple universes, a quick-fix error also common to one theory of mind fallacy that has always bugged me when I see it in others. There are other ways around dualism, and anything incorporeal is missing the point as much as primitive animism did. We are here. No need for that Eastern Buddhist nihilism and what is more commonly found in science tomes as an endless panpsychism pretension, an interpretation of consciousness that quite simply cannot do, as I wrote in my book. Time makes no sense at all to that non-geometric interpretation. His quantum mechanics is off. I much prefer Roger Penrose's Weyl Curvature model, expressed in Minkowski spacetime.
I moved on to a separate brainstorming on William Poundstone's later chapter "Self-Reproducing Life Patterns", but was less convinced by the ideas in this, especially John Horton Conway's detailed proof based upon the linear computational reasoning in John Von Neumann's Information Theory conclusions, themselves involved in solving Fermat's Last Theorem in a parallel processing, as applied in Conway's logical complexity simulator "Life".
I don't think transferring these kinematic ideas alone is enough, and my intuition suggests to me that true life-like qualities are impossible in the reproductions of his universe game, no matter the dimensions of the "Life" space, though two dimensional 'drifts' don't help us in an accurate understanding.
Also, I know evolution at our planetary experience level is wasteful, but it does not strike me from observations that it is so wasteful as to be inherently meaningless, or why this process at all, in biophysical terms? Why this expenditure? Why would this single cell (and then multicellular) near-fundamental matter exist (and come to exist), that could, in rudimentary terms, bother? This mechanism of complexity upon complexity, structures and supports, this momentum, these scaffolds in natural frameworks and platforms, out and out, and up, refining itself, this gathering energy, bursting through, and the heat and light of breakthrough... I am seeking a teleological understanding here, not simply a review of Wolfram's cellular automata (or even Zelany's autopoiesis, and Prigogine's dissipative structures). Perhaps the ideas in The Cosmic Blueprint by Paul Davies are closest to my position, with elements of Walter M. Elsasser, Philip Goff/Thomas Nagel, and Ludwig Klages.
And is this really a process we require our minds and our self-awareness and our egos and pride and indulgence for lauded human reason (and reason is made by words, all of which we have made up by invention, our linear mouths spilling down our humble Palaeolithic time!) and fabled rationality, and all of our (gestalt – that available to our umwelt) consciousness to tackle, and to pin in place, conveniently? Is this really wise? Given what we know. Given what we are, and should know we are, given our own degree of sapience, (quite hard to place as a definitive absolute)?
Why not instead our forms, our structures, the elements of our biological matter, and of the biological matter of all other life? The chains and lattices and arrangements, the microscopic and atomic and sub-atomic geometry of our ornate, uglified, carbon copy cases, within the fractal geometry of the natural world and the planets (one thinks of the rings of Saturn too, and their very existence in universal time).
The Mandelbrot sets and Cantor sets and Fibonacci geometry patterns, a potential inorganic 'organization' more than simply order, like living suitcases on a far-flung transit over the horizon, like spores, or tree-seeds, or fungi, awaiting germination somehow, and for now in symbiotic stasis, dormant until the historical complexity alignments of a cosmic evolution's yet unrealized universal conditions, a grander synthesis, and all this so far irrespective of our gift of consciousness, as if, for the moment, that phenomena were only a bonus point and a second thought, a little jolt of surplus to requirement optimism, for an inept animal so useless to Nature and its new findings of its own that it must constantly vocalize, and recall the gist of those vocalisations without external sound, and invent and employ more by ‘generative’ cognitive mechanism (and to a frankly fiddly degree, given, at a very conservative estimate, 48,000 years or so, let alone the printing press – a book is a masturbatory yell, sometimes a horizontal timewaster, this fresh pile of the same words) if it means to approach what is co-operation, for hunting, or for planting, or for surviving the wild at all, even with fire. Could it not just shut up with this wretched formal linguistics, these febrile words, as all other animals are, and do this anyway, communicating without such gross verbal lexicon?!
In expectation of our full humility given this potential, as moving blocks of life, a statistical whole per discrete body, we wrestle against the petty, human purpose we also exert, in free, inferior will, made more inferior – as the Romans could phrase better with a single Latin word – by our own logic and dogmatic pessimism, as, objectively recorded, in ignorance, we jeopardize our own untitled purpose, no matter how many new words we can invent (or how many older words we can forget, although "sorry" also seems to slip the mind, irritatingly). Words invented in linked patterns and by baser instincts, to make us feel better, or bigger, and of some sole self interest, all of one's 'own', a zero-sum pseudo-pragmatic will to greed. Where is our life principle optimistic realism now (or "offensive realism," if one reads John Mearsheimer)?
Perhaps a genuine - sincere - soulful understanding of this potential, with all the loss of our human, anthropocentric (as if we were all that was here, and the only measure!) individualistic 'discrete' pride that it entails will be enough to raise our understanding as a race - and a much smaller one; whittled like luckier sperm - to a psychogenic level appropriate to responsibly understand our own forms, and what they are not, and what they may be encouraged, in longing, to do, what bright destiny to be awoken to, what mastery of a widened environment, all across time. We are more than the sum of our parts, including that part that recognizes us as "we" or as "I"; as “conscious decision-makers.”
Is it ever considered that the other lifeforms on this planet, past a long established stable boundary in their differentiated bodily systems and life systems (at a period not too far beyond the metazoan, perhaps, if not earlier down to morphogenesis and near-foundation, and certainly before the sauropsid/synapsid split) already manifest their function to their appropriate limit, much as we make this more difficult yearly, and it is only us, with our 'gift' of humanized consciousness and language, that lag behind? Our history is one made of sounds, and, increasing piles of swiftly-second hand words, replacing all of our tools and vital movements, reshaping our mouths and jaws, altering our teeth, invading our skull's encapsulated work. So much of us is in brain-words.
We need that set of biotonic laws; some new third law of thermodynamics (or fourth law, given that a third law already exists dealing with absolute zero, before we deal with Onsager theorem) for eco-biological integration into non-random quantum complex systems in time invariant nonlinear indeterminacy. A full understanding for dealing with dissipative structures and processes at a point far from equilibrium (but not yet chaos).
I then reread a technical guide on audio steganography, yet another direct background reference interest for me, and a couple of other books
I've been out on the move a lot today and have had to handwrite today's entry onto 40 sheets of A4 printer paper (hurriedly requested in three piecemeal stacks from the staff office) with a black biro in my rushed, messy, heavily annotated 'double-lines-and-upside-down' calligraphic handwriting, a spidery gothic style bordering on stylized shorthand. I shall just hope my mind holds together in all this and I can look after the pages safely and keep this together until the next time I can get home to type this up into my book. That’s not a given. I don't imagine I'll have the time to add any more entries after that, if indeed it would even be prudent to.
Unfortunately, when psychotic, I've been known to destroy my written work, ripping up hand entries, deleting or vandalizing half-typed journals or irreplaceable full articles of 100,000 words or more, with a lot of work in them, or indeed tearing or defacing my canvasses, and destroying my DIY. This all sets me back months, if I can recover the works at all. I shall just hope I can be strong. It's a terrible pain when it happens, a raw, non-conscious abstract example of grotesque, psychologically self-defeating self-harm.
Poor psychiatric patients: I feel for them. I am one. They might as well be lab rats, as well as national targets. Look at all (92%+) of the daily staff, and then look at all the patients. You'll notice something – the staff are non-European, but, in Essex at least, and for most instances, 100% of the patients are native whites. We are now prisoners, or close to them. We need not be their slaves as well. The poor treatment continues hourly. Soon, and always wishing for more yet knowing there will be few to none, we must fight for our lives on this, our own ancestral soil.
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