About a month or so ago I was walking along K Road when I encountered, coming along in the other direction, a somewhat disreputable looking middle-aged gent with a pigeon perched on his right shoulder. The pigeon was neither dead, nor attached – in fact, it kept fluttering its wings to keep its balance. I said, as you do, "Is that your pet pigeon?" The gent said that he had found it injured and had nursed back to health at his home. "Then I accidentally gave it some crack and now it won't go away!"
I try to look at the world from other people's perspectives and so I have tried to imagine what it was like to be that pigeon. While in the company of this human, it had enjoyed some kind of euphoria. Presumably it could only attribute its extraordinary feelings of happiness to the human who was around when they happened. Perhaps it was sticking with him in the hopes that he would once again provide similar such feelings of ecstatic joy. Or perhaps it was sticking with him out of gratitude. Either hypothesis is conceivable. When you think about it, the idea of a crack-addicted pigeon is less odd than the idea that someone could "accidentally" give a pigeon crack cocaine.
Recently I have started to feel that there is little point keeping this blog. I have been distracted over the last couple of months by a long essay I needed to write to finish my degree, and it may well be that I will wind this blog up sometime soon. However I am still committed to trying to tell the truth and so, in this post, I will slightly amend something I have said in another post and will reiterate a strong suspicion that I have voiced before. In the post "Comedy and Political Correctness" I said that I heard Jess perform the senryu which I quoted in that post in 2014. I'm pretty sure I actually heard her perform it in 2015. For years I have been a little bit of an online stalker when it comes to the girl I call Jess. Reasonably regularly she publishes poetry under her real name on the internet, but I have only seen her a handful of times since 2013. I did see her perform in 2014. I knew she was due to give a performance and trailed up to the venue. Before the poetry readings had begun, I had a couple of moments conversation with her. She didn't seem altogether well. She shared with me, with the utter honesty she has, "I have a girlfriend." I asked her the obvious question. "Have you come out?" She said, "Sort of. I think I go both ways." The girlfriend she mentioned was in fact only eighteen at the time. The girlfriend appeared on the scene and they kissed – I had to go out back of the pub and throw up. That night I met for the first time a man a little younger than me – a heterosexual Borderline who had escaped the Mental Health System through the simple expedient of no longer showing up to appointments. My interest in Jess made him unsure of my sexuality and so he asked me, "Do you have a girlfriend?", an effective, indirect way of determining whether a man is gay or not. I said, understanding the intent behind his question, and with a certain self-hatred, "No, but I want one." He had found out at the same time as I did about Jess's girlfriend and said to me something like, "Why are you chasing that girl? She's a Lesbian!" I was already upset and this made it worse. A little later in the evening, unable to help myself, I asked him, "Would you give a man a blowjob?" This is of course an alternative but equally effective way of determining a male's sexuality. He found the question hard to bear of course, but he had brought it on himself.
The evening was profoundly distressing because I couldn't tell this chap, or the friend I was with, that Jess hadn't been a lesbian when I was hanging out with her in 2011, that her treatment by the Mental Health System had made deranged her, had driven to sexual confusion, in the period since 2011. As I have said before, the girl had spent eight whole months in hospital in 2012.
Readers of my blog may remember that when I was hearing voices over the New Zealand summer of 2009 and 2010, for a period in early 2010 I would talk, in my head, with Barack Obama. The real Obama was in Auckland last week. I was walking down Khyber Pass to visit my mother when a police motorcyclist pulled into at the intersection and bade the oncoming traffic hold still. A police car followed, then a motorcade, then another police car. Now, New Zealand politicians don't get motorcades or police escorts, so I feel fairly confident that behind one of those tinted windows was Obama himself, travelling to Government House near Mt Eden to meet with Jacinda Ardern. I had been within a dozen feet of the former President, someone I had imagined I was communicating with telepathically eight years previously.
This post is a little all over the place but I want finally to bring up something I have alluded to in earlier posts. Simply for the sake of completeness. In early 2014, just after being put under the Mental Heath Act, I wrote a long essay, around twenty-five pages long, describing my entire life, one copy of which I gave to my lawyer and another which I brought into the Taylor Centre, asking for it to be given to my psychiatrist Jen Murphy. I just assumed they would read it but I can remember alluding to it later in the year when talking with my Key Worker Josh Brazil and him having no idea what I was talking about. The reason my sessions with the retarded psychologist Simon Judkins in 2014 failed so spectacularly was perhaps that he, too, hadn't read this particular essay. I think now that the psychiatrist Tony Fernando, the arsehole who had 'treated' me from 2007 until the beginning of 2012, had removed this essay from Murphy's cubbyhole before it had reached her, that it never found its way to either Jen Murphy or Simon Judkins. I remember one time later that year or the next bringing in a blog post to be given to her– Fernando emerged from his office briefly, without looking at me or talking to me, evidently simply to make sure it was me in the reception, and then returned immediately, head-down, to his office. I believe, incredible as it is to say, that he was intercepting my communications with Jen Murphy. I have said before that Fernando is a sociopath but, even if he isn't a total sociopath, the man is undoubtedly a quack and a fraud, a man who shouldn't be practicing medicine let alone psychiatry. The world would be a better place if he slit his wrists. You might wonder why it has taken me four years to voice this suspicion, that Fernando had been intercepting my communications – but it has been hard for me to accept that the Mental Health System could be so corrupt, so mendacious, so morally bankrupt. It beggars belief. I simply couldn't believe it. But I now know it to be true.
Like I say, I don't know if I will continue to write future posts. My writing skills seem to have deteriorated. However, even if this post is badly written, it still contains things that needed to be said.
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