to settle

andy pink, coast off the coast —

save the clock tower!

dear friends and enemies, to make sure that we are all on board with the truth:

i am pro-meds

i am anti-psychiatry

i am scientology-neutral

i cannot honestly see how anyone could possibly conceive of psychiatry as a science or even a medical specialty, especially since there are no biological or chemical tests for the major diagnosed disorders in the dsm. even were they to confirm the glucose blood test for schizophrenia, i would modify my criticism — but only minorly. given that there are as yet no reliable biological tests for mental illness, it is not difficult to conclude that mental illness itself is not fundamentally or primarily a biological or chemical phenomenon (which does not mean that absorbed toxins do not have an effect on mental health). as for scientology: i have yet to read hubbard’s book, but i suspect that most of it is right-on.

a student asked me yesterday: “why are you anti-tea?” i told him, flippantly: “i do not have the patience.” i can see that this response actually makes no sense, and yet i also simultaneously feel that it accurately sums up my negative assessment of tea (especially boncha). i must say that even when depressed (as i am now) i mostly think that everything that i have to say is interesting. you don’t have to agree, but i assume that my students think as much.

james has since called twice, i have not picked up. i did not tell him that i am manic depressive nor did i tell him about herpes (i mean: i did not tell james what herpes actually is) i should like to feel close to james (as he is in his early 20s) but i feel in the end that i am overeducated, that he is undereducated, and that he is uncircumcised — such does not a healthy and vital relationship make for me given my various racial hang-ups in the sleeping bag. if james turns into a second trevor, so be it, but i will not grade his quizzes, model for him, reflect back his insecurity as charm — nor will i tolerate his boyfriend. if, as it seems to be, james is engaged, then none of our faulty love-making the other night will set right a suicide attempt lost to lies about insecurity — kept hidden from me, yes, yes — when in fact no one attempts to kill themselves over a diss defended not yet offended. if you’d like to make this the party line — feel free — but since i am not of that party but the right-hand man whose right-hand is preoccupied, well then: you have yet to symbolize the trauma for even yourselves. on that, i don’t pity her, but i do feel sorry for you.

i am the smartest person i know. i am also the best person i know. i know mostly other inpatients, so it’s an easily won comparison, no offense to some of you, i suppose. bjork plays from the imac. do you all remember the goose dress? was that the oscars? who was the host that year? was it amidst billy crystal’s irritating run? what was her nominated song? i wonder whether bette midler was bipolar for the middle period of her career. deep thoughts by jack dylan.

classes were a disappointment today, not of my misdoing, it was merely that i showed a film about andy warhol, and i didn’t have the chance, the spotlight, the costume, the lines, to further the plot with tall dark and cancerous. he was there, in full regalia, brood hot, brood cool, brood near my fridge and stove, brood high, brood low, brood around my lithium, brood black, brood white, brood adjacent to my voting rights, brood gay, brood straight, dance above my bisexuality, brood, brood — one thing trevor doesn’t do: brood. but i bet she does. and i bet she broods about me, i told her as much in an email three years ago.

the real question is: when mister trevor reads through this mess, will he have the cock to comment?

i do strongly believe what i said in my okcupid profile: to quote michael, “the divinity is that we don’t know why we like each other.” this could apply to latuda, if only tardive-said. if i develop said tardive i will swiftly blame this web site, i think the section about tardive and movement side effects is misleading, just a bit i like the rest of the discussions, for the most part, and i think the drug summaries are the best part of the added-value to the forums. i do not like the advertisements for various supplements and toothpastes, and i plan to give a donation to crazymeds over the holidays (by which i mean: valentine’s day). i think that everything i have to say is interesting. i think that people are sometimes intimidated by my prowess, and i think that many people try to put me in my place because of my exceptionalism (psychiatry included, especially, as an institution, but also specific doctors who are jealous that they are members of an inner circle of sleaze). i would also like to thank the academy.

i really am quite depressed and i cannot sleep. this is a draft version of a post and i may draft several posts for the days upcoming. i don’t suspect to be dead from scurvy — but should i be, my parting words will be, circa thursday of this week: “steve martin is probably the only hollywood actor who has never experienced same-sex body touch, with naked.” to which the horror of my grandmother’s deaf ears will shriek: “it is that time in the sketch when i pop off my high-heels and read faulkner?” to which my back-up parting words can only be: “are you depressed too, gram?” her response — “i am also blind!” — will be unheard, as i will pass into the nether world and the under ground of the future, of my time, the space of my redemption, the order of the strumpet, the call of wealth and marxism, of freedom — what do the parting words mean, say what? to part with words is simply to say: “the word has the final word.” as it should — in its power and authority, its will its arbitrariness its conventionality — such is: the word will always dictate the last breath, yet of course not the first. the first is dictated by the will to resist drowning in the seas, ebbs and flows, of maternal goo. why was that decision made? — and by whom?

everything that i say is interesting.

james was about 7″ but it is sometimes difficult to gauge with an unc penis. the translucence of an hispanic penis is quite different from a white man’s king. the question of the james affair is no doubt: an hispanic “james.” to which we can only refer to jamestown (1607/1620). he had beautiful ears, i licked them till they were sore, at least from his perspective, i felt quite right to have bitten the tips off, knowing that his whiteness would return with a vengeance, calling my attention, forcing further licking, requiring further endeavor, project, job, enterprise, effort, and so on. to make sex a labor — a job! — such is the will of dylan. i must work: this is the species-being of which i spoke to trevor about. none of you know this reference — none of you have bothered to read marx — but you will not be lost when: the last visa card is cut. to cut the card is to cut the middle — post-haste post-love — this will be our destiny. to which gram will rejoin: “jamestown was a mistake, as was all colonialism, the take-over of the indian, the tomahawk chop, the various minor league farm teams of the cleveland brand, and so on. this is what readers of faulkner pretend not to have already resigned to: incoherence.” this will not be my fate — pervert over schizoid, fetishist over madman — this will be our future, damn be the medications and their primitive pretensions. “you don’t know how diseases are structured either?” said the lovely beautiful boy in the front way, a white version of james, circle, ready to drool at my every reading of heidegger. this will be our future together, drool and tea, i will drool to your tea, fridge and brood and bisexuality and black — this will be our honcho, bro, our one world one love boncha, i will it again: the pain, the dress, the horror, the rouge, the spite, the might, the tights, the rights, the vote, the coat, to mill, reseal, this will be our future — the word will always win — in the beginning may be the deed, for freud, but for us, who have graduated to modern psychiatry — such is the ect of the word! you can jump cable my brain, you can portico my blinds, you can fix my noggin and wet my seed — but you will never take my word. i will fight the word, i will free the world, i will spit on the word — it will win agai(n). what is this (n)? this is the word, its fight, its core, its beauty, its mystery: brood with doves, love with gloves, such will be our fate, together, at the ends of the rouge, at the crossroads of the trolley, stuck with you me and the student who will remain tall remain middle remain short, remain dark remain light remain red remain: alone.

i will hope that none of this ever happened. i will sleep till 10:04 next saturday night — you will too — and i will wake up in the baths of st elizabeth’s hospital, to drown in semen — such will be an awfully big adventure, c’est sais no way vrai?

to each his own, but will it be the numerical codes on the back-front of the little gray latuda pill? i can’t help but wonder: why do they insist on making them round and curved, even the capsules! the word will only die the day the square pill wins. the trapezoid of the future.

to recap:

i am pro-meds

i am anti-psychiatry

i am a die-hard anti-fan of unitarian-universalism.

see you on the flip side, james.

andy k pink