G.CONSERVA: 'PATHS OF ANTIPSYCHIATRY/ Cammini dell'antipsichiatria 1-27' [note fb luglio 2010-gennaio 2011; manca tutto il materiale iconografico]

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA:  Lettera del 1972 di Sartre ai militanti dell'SPK(Collettivo socialista dei pazienti)di Heidelberg

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 16 luglio 2010 alle ore 17.36

Lettera del 1972 di Sartre ai militanti dell'SPK (Collettivo socialista dei pazienti) di Heidelberg, poi prefazione al testo base dell'SPK, “Fare della malattia un'arma”

“Cari compagni!

Ho letto il vostro libro con il più grande interesse. Vi ho trovato non solo l’unica radicalizzazione possibile delll’antipsichiatria ma anche una pratica coerente intesa a sostituirsi alla pretesa “cura” della malattia mentale.

A quello che Marx chiama l’alienazione, fatto generale in una società capitalistica, pare che voi diate il nome di malattia, per esprimersi in termini grossolani. Credo che abbiate ragione. Nel 1845, Engels scriveva nella ‘Situazione della classe operaia in Inghilterra’: “l’industrializzazione ha creato un mondo siffatto che solo una razza di umanità disumanizzata, degradata, abbassata a un livello bestiale, tanto dal punto di vista intellettuale che morale, può adattarvisi.”

Visto che le forze atomizzanti agiscono in modo sistematico per degradare (all’interno e all’esterno) in sotto-uomini una classe di uomini, si può comprendere come l’insieme delle persone di cui parla Engels siano state colpite dalla “malattia”- malattia che si può assieme concepire globalmente come una danno che si è fatto subire ai salariati e come una rivolta della vita contro questo danno che tende a ridurli alla condizione di oggetto. Dal 1845 le cose sono profondamente cambiate ma l’alienazione resta, e resterà fin quando esisterà il regime capitalistico, poiché essa è, come voi dite, “condizione e risultato” della produzione economica. La malattia, voi dite, è la sola forma di vita possibile nel capitalismo. Di fatto lo psichiatra, che è un salariato, è un malato come tutti. Soltnto che la classe dirignte gli dà il potere di “guarire” e di internare. La “guarigione”, va da sé, non può essere, nel nosto regime sociale, la eliminazione della malattia: è la capacità di continuare a produrre rimanendo ammalato. Nella nostra società vi sono dunque i sani ed i guariti (due categorie di ammalati che ignorano di esserlo, e che osservano le norme della produzione), e dall’altra parte gli “ammalati” riconosciuti, coloro che una rivolta contradditoria rende incapaci di produrre in cambio di un salario, e che vengono consegnati allo psichiatra. Questo poliziotto inizia con il metterli fuori legge rifiutando loro i diritti più elementari. ‘E naturalmente complice delle forze atomizzanti: considera i casi individuali isolatamente, come se i disturbi psiconevrotici fossero delle tare proprie e certe soggettività, dei destini peculiari. Unendo allora ammalati che paiono somigliare fra loro in quanto singolarità egli studia dei comportamenti diversi – che non sono che effetti- e li lega fra loro, creando delle entità nosologiche che tratta come singole malattie, e che poi procede a classificare. L’ammalato è dunque atomizzato in quanto malato, e rigettato in una categoria particolare (schizofrenia, paranoia, etc.) nella quale si trovano altri malati che non possono avere alcun rapporto sociale con lui dato che sono tutti considerati esemplari identici della stessa psiconevrosi. Voi, invece, vi siete proposti di giungere- al di là della varietà degli effetti- al fatto fondamentale e collettivo: la malattia “mentale” è indissolubilmente legata al sistema capitalistico che trasforma la forza lavoro in merce e, di conseguenza, i salariati in cose (Verdinglichung). Vi pare che l’isolamento degli ammalati non può che portare avanti l’atomizzazione iniziata a livello dei rapparti di produzione e che, nella misura in cui i pazienti nella loro rivolta reclamano oscuramente una società diversa, è bene che essi stiano insieme e agiscano l’uno sull’altro e tramite l’altro- in breve che costituiscano un collettivo socialista.

E, poiché lo “psichiatra” è anche lui un malato, voi rifiutate di considerare malato e medico come due individui organicamente separati: quasta distinzione, in effetti, ha sempre avuto l’effetto di rendere lo “psichiatra” il solo significante, e il malato isolato e messo fuori legge l’unico significato, quindi puro oggetto. Voi considerate, al contrario, la relazione paziente-medico una relazione dialettica che si trova in ciascuno e che, secondo il corso degli avvenimenti, una volta uniti fra loro i malati manifesterà soprattutto l’uno o l’altro di questi due termini, nella misura in cui i pazienti insisteranno maggiormente sugli aspetti reazionari della malattia o prenderanno coscienza della loro rivolta e dei loro veri bisogni, negati o sfigurati dalla società. Diventa necessario- dato che la malattia, al di là degli effetti diversi, è una contraddizione comune, e dato che ogni individuo è un significante-significato- mettere assieme gli ammalati perché l’uno con l’altro isolino gli aspetti reazionari della malattia (p.e. l’ideologia borghese) e gli elementi progressisti (esigenza di una società diversa il cui fine supremo sia l’uomo e non più il profitto). Va da sé che questi collettivi non mirano a guarire, dato che la malattia è prodotta in ogni uomo dal capitalismo, e dato che la “guarigione” psichiatrica non è che un reinserimento dei malati nella nostra società- ma tendono a spingere la malattia verso il suo sviluppo, cioè verso il momento in cui diventerà, tramite la presa di coscienza comune, una forza rivoluzionaria.

Quello che mi pare rimarchevole nell’SPK è che i pazienti senza un medico individuale- cioè senza un polo individuale dei significati- stabiliscono delle relazioni umane e si aiutano reciprocamente a una presa di coscienza della situazione guardandosi negli occhi, cioè in quanto soggetti significanti-significati, mentre nella forma modernista della psichiatria, la psicanalisi, il malato non guarda nessuno ed il medico è posto dietro a lui per registrare le sue dichiarazioni e ordinarle a suo piacimento- con questa determinazione spaziale del rapporto paziente-medico che mette il primo nella condizione di puro oggetto e fa del secondo il significante assoluto, che decifra il discorso della malattia con un’emeneutica di cui pretende di possedere lui solo il segreto.

Sono felice di aver compreso il progresso reale costituito dall’SPK. Apprezzando le vostre ricerche, capisco anche che esse vi espongono alla peggiore repressione della società capitalistica. E che esse devono scatenare contro di voi, oltre ai rappresentanti della “cultura”, politici e poliziotti. Dovrete lottare in tutti i modi, poiché coloro che dirigono la nostra società intendono impedirvi di portare avanti le vostre pratiche. Non fosse che accusandovi gratuitamente di complotto criminale. Non è sulla base di stupide incarcerazioni che sarete giudicati, ma sulla base dei risultati che avrete ottenuto.

17 aprile 1972

Jean-Paul Sartre”

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 2

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 16 luglio 2010 alle ore 18.13

Prefazione di Sartre a 'Reason and violence' di Ronald Laing e David Cooper, del 1964 :

“Ho letto con attenzione l’opera che mi avete inviato, e ho avuto il grande piacere di trovarvi una esposizione molto chiara e molto fedele del mio pensiero. Più ancora della vostra perfetta comprebsione della ‘Critica della ragione dialettica’, quello che mi seduce in questo libro, come nelle vostre opere precedenti, è la vostra preoccupazione costante di realizzare un approccio ‘esistenziale’ ai malati mentali. Penso come voi che non si possono comprendere i disturbi psichici dal di fuori, a partire dal determinismo positivista- né ricostruirli con una combinazione di concetti che restino esterni alla malattia vissuta. Credo anche che non si può né studiare né guarire una nevrosi senza un rispetto di base per la persona del paziente, senza uno sforzo costante di comprendere e rivivere la sua situazione di base, senza il tentativo di ritrovarela risposta a questa situazione della persona; e ritengo- come voi, credo- che la malattia mentale è la via d’uscita che il libero organismo, nella sua unità totale, inventa per potere vivere una situazione invivibile. Per questa ragione attribuisco la più grande importanza alle vostre ricerche, in particolare allo studio che srtate tentando di fare dell’ambiente famigliare, preso come gruppo e come serie- e sono convinto che i vostri sforzi contribuiscono ad avvicinarci al tempo in cui la psichiatria sarà, infine, umana.”

[Le ricerche sulla famiglia porteranno a un testo celebre come ‘Normalità e follia nella famiglia’, oltre che al più tardo ‘Foglie di primavera’ di Aaron Esterson].

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 3. La 2a prefazione di Laing a 'L'io diviso'

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 16 luglio 2010 alle ore 20.27

"One cannot say everything at once. I wrote this book when I was twenty-eight. I wanted to convey above all that it was far more possible than is generally supposed to understand people diagnosed as psychotic. Although this entailed understanding the social context, especially the power situation within the family, today I feel that, even in focusing upon and attempting to delineate a certain type of

schizoid existence, I was already partially falling into the trap I was seeking to avoid. I am still writing in this book too much about Them, and too little of Us.

Freud insisted that our civilization is a repressive one. There is a conflict between the demands of conformity and the demands of our instinctive energies, explicitly sexual. Freud could see no easy resolution of this antagonism, and he came to believe that in our time the possibility of simple natural love between human beings had already been abolished.

Our civilization represses not only 'the instincts', not only sexuality, but any form of transcendence. Among one-dimensional men, it is not surprising that someone with an insistent experience of other dimensions, that he cannot entirely deny or forget, will run the risk either of being destroyed by the others, or of betraying what he knows.

In the context of our present pervasive madness that we call normality, sanity, freedom, all our frames of reference are ambiguous and equivocal.

A man who prefers to be dead rather than Red is normal. A man who says he has lost his soul is mad. A man who says that men are machines may be a great scientist. A man who says he is a machine is 'depersonalized' in psychiatric jargon. A man who says that Negroes are an inferior race may be widely respected. A man who says his whiteness is a form of cancer is certifiable.

A little girl of seventeen in a mental hospital told me she was terrified because the Atom Bomb was inside her. That is a delusion.

The statesmen of the world who boast and threaten that they have Doomsday weapons are far more dangerous, and far more estranged from 'reality' than many of the people on whom the label 'psychotic' is affixed.

Psychiatry could be, and some psychiatrists are, on the side of transcendence, of genuine freedom, and of true human growth. But psychiatry can so easily be a technique of brainwashing, of inducing behaviour that is adjusted, by (preferably) non-injurious torture. In the best places, where straitjackets are abolished, doors are unlocked, leucotomies largely forgone, these can be replaced by more subtle lobotomies and tranquillizers that place the bars of Bedlam and the locked doors inside the patient. Thus I would wish to emphasize that our 'normal' 'adjusted' state is too often the abdication of ecstasy, the betrayal of our true potentialities, that many of us are only too successful in acquiring a false self to adapt to false realities.

But let it stand. This was the work of an old young man. If I am older, I am now also younger.

London September 1964"

[la 1a edizione era uscita nel 1959]

[“Non si  può dire tutto in una volta sola. Quando ho scritto questo libro avevo ventotto anni: volevo soprattutto dimostrare che, contrariamente a quello che generalmente si crede, è possibilissimo capire gli psicotici. Ciò comportava già per me la necessità di capire il loro contesto sociale, e particolarmente la distribuzione del potere nella loro famiglia: anche così, e anche limitatamente al mio tentativo di rappresentare un certo tipo di esistenza schizoide, oggi mi accorgo di essere in parte caduto nella trappola che volevo evitare. In questo libro si parla ancora troppo di loro, e ancora troppo poco di noi.

    Freud ha detto che la nostra è una civiltà repressiva, in cui le esigenze che spingono all’adattamento  e al conformismo e quelle delle nostre energie istintuali, esplicitamente sessuali, sono in conflitto fra loro. Freud riteneva che non vi fosse soluzione per questo antagonismo, ed era convinto che, al giorno d’oggi, non vi potesse essere più alcuna possibilità di amore semplice e naturale fra gli esseri umani.

    La nostra civiltà non reprime soltanto gli ‘istinti’ o la sessualità, ma anche ogni forma di trascendenza. Fra  uomini a una dimensione (cfr. H. Marcuse, ‘L’uomo a una dimensione’) non c’è da meravigliarsi se qualcuno, avendo esperienze insistenti di altre dimensioni e non potendo né rinnegarle né dimenticarle completamente, è disposto a correre il rischio di farsi distruggere dagli altri o di tradire ciò che conosce.

    Nel contesto della follia che attualmente ci circonda, e che chiamiamo normalità, salute, libertà, tutti i nostri sistemi di riferimento sono destinati a restare ambigui ed equivoci.

    Un uomo che preferisce la morte al comunismo è normale; ma uno che dice di aver perduto la sua anima è matto. Un uomo che dice che gli uomini sono macchine può essere un grande scienziato; ma uno che dice di essere lui stesso una macchina è, nel gergo psichiatrico, ‘spersonalizzato’. Un uomo che dice che i negri sono una razza inferiore può ottenere stima e rispetto; ma uno che dice che la bianchezza della sua pelle è una forma di cancro perde i diritti  civili.

   Una ricoverata, una ragazzina di diciassette anni, mi disse una volta di essere in preda al terrore perché aveva dentro di sé una bomba atomica. Questo è un delirio: ma gli uomini di stato che vantano minacciosamente il possesso dell’arma finale sono di gran lunga più pericolosi e più estraniati dalla ‘realtà’ di molti ai quali è stata applicata l’etichetta di ‘psicotico’.

    La psichiatria può mettersi dalla parte della trascendenza, della libertà vera, del genuino sviluppo umano: alcuni psichiatri sono già di fatto da questa parte. Ma è estremamente facile per la psichiatria ridursi ad essere una tecnica di lavaggio del cervello: un metodo per produrre, mediante torture preferibilmente non dolorose, degli esseri dalla condotta ben adattata. Nei luoghi di cura migliori, dove la camicia di forza è stata abolita, dove le porte sono senza chiavistelli, dove le leucotomie non si fanno quasi più, si usano tuttavia mezzi di aspetto più innocuo, lobotomie e tranquillanti che ri-istituiscono, questa volta dentro il paziente, le sbarre e i catenacci del manicomio. Ecco perché voglio ripetere che il nostro stato ‘normale’ e ‘ben adattato’ non è, molto spesso, che una rinuncia all’estasi, un tradimento delle nostre più vere potenzialità; e che molti di noi riescono fin troppo bene a costruirsi un falso io, per adattarsi a false realtà…”   ( “L’io diviso”, pag.  15-16)]

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 4 Siegfried Hausner

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno sabato 17 luglio 2010 alle ore 15.59

Faceva parte dell'SPK, e venne condannato a a tre anni di prigione alla fine del '72 (assieme a oltre 10 altri militanti dell'SPK) . Liberato alla fine del '74, prese parte all'assalto alla ambasciata tedesca di Stoccolma nel '75, riportando gravissime ferite; trasferito immediatemente nella prigione di Stoccarda, vi morì dopo pochissimo tempo. Aveva 23 anni.

['commando Siegfried Hausner' fu il nome del gruppo della RAF che nell'autunno 1977 sequestrò e poi uccise Schleyer, presidente della confindustria tedesca]

[chi siamo? da dove veniamo?]

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATIA 5- ' Kaddish', di Allen Ginsberg

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno sabato 17 luglio 2010 alle ore 21.31

[credo che, dopo Howl, questa meravigliosa e terribile elegia per la madre sia stato il mio primo incontro con la follia, e con la sua indicibile sofferenza ma anche con i suoi sprazzi di luce ultraterrena: 'la chiave è nella luce del sole/ la chiave è nella finestra...']

Kaddish

by Allen Ginsberg

For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894-1956

I

Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.

downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph

the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing how we suffer--

And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--

Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse,

the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after,

looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city

a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed--

like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion--

No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance,

sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other,

worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it lasts, a Vision--anything more?

It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and the sky above--an old blue place.

or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side--where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America--frightened on the dock--

then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward Newark--

toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--

Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?

Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty

you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,

with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you

--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--

Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever every time--

That's good! That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end--

Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability.

Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you're out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure--Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the world--

There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you've gone, it's good.

No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis,

and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands--

No more of sister Elanor,--she gone before you--we kept it secret--you killed her--or she killed herself to bear with you--an arthritic heart--But Death's killed you both--No matter--

Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks--forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth,

or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin's at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar--by standing room with Elanor & Max--watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,

with the YPSL's hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls hlding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920

all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave--lucky to have husbands later--

You made it--I came too--Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer--or kill--later perhaps--soon he will think--)

And it's the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now--tho not you

I didn't foresee what you felt--what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first--to you--and were you prepared?

To go where? In that Dark--that--in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you?

Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon--Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it?

Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, that none ever was?

Nothing beyond what we have--what you had--that so pitiful--yet Triumph,

to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower--fed to the ground--but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore--freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.

No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife--lost

Cut down by an idiot Snowman's icy--even in the Spring--strange ghost thought--some Death--Sharp icicle in his hand--crowned with old roses--a dog for his eyes--cock of a sweatshop--heart of electric irons.

All the accumulations of life, that wear us out--clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, brests--begotten sons--your Commmunism--'Paranoia' into hospitals.

You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy?

Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. His life passes--as he sees--and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi?

I'll see him soon. Now I've got to cut through--to talk to you--as I didn't when you had a mouth.

Forever. And we're bound for that, Forever--like Emily Dickinson's horses--headed to the End.

They know the way--These Steeds--run faster than we think--it's our own life they cross--and take with them.

Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed--Ass and face done with murder.

In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.

Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I'm hymnless, I'm Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore

Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity--

Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing--to praise Thee--But Death

This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping--page beyond Psalm--Last change of mine and Naomi--to God's perfect Darkness--Death, stay thy phantoms!

II

Over and over--refrain--of the Hospitals--still haven't written your history--leave it abstract--a few images

run thru the mind--like the saxophone chorus of houses and years--remembrance of electrical shocks.

By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness--you were fat--your next move--

By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you--once and for all--when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost--

By my later burden--vow to illuminate mankind--this is release of particulars--(mad as you)--(sanity a trick of agreement)--

But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark,

So phoned the Doctor--'OK go way for a rest'--so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet--On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably--'Where you goin Lady to Death'? I shuddered--

and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma

And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on--to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound--

where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness--breeze poisoned by Roosevelt--

out to get you--and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake.

Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, locomotive roundhouse fortress--into piney woods New Jersey Indians--calm towns--long roads thru sandy tree fields--

Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambed--down there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone--and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway--

perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch--

All the time arguing--afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless--what busride they snore on now?

'Allen, you don't understand--it's--ever since those 3 big sticks up my back--they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead--3 big sticks, 3 big sticks--

'The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment

'On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me--at night--maybe Louis is helping her--he's under her power--

'I'm your mother, take me to Lakewood' (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) 'where I can hide.'

We got there--Dr. Whatzis rest home--she hid behind a closet--demanded a blood transfusion.

We were kicked out--tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses--dusk, pine trees after dark--long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy--

I shut her up by now--big house REST HOME ROOMS--gave the landlady her money for the week--carried up the iron valise--sat on bed waiting to escape--

Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover--lace curtains--spinning wheel rug--Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home.

I left on the next bus to New York--laid my head back in the last seat, depressed--the worst yet to come?--abandoning her, rode in torpor--I was only 12.

Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair--or mock me, by--in front of a mirror, alone?

12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood's haunted house--left to my own fate bus--sunk in a seat--all violins broken--my heart sore in my ribs--mind was empty--Would she were safe in her coffin--

Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt--winter on the street without lunch--a penny a pickle--home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom--

First nervous breakdown was 1919--she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks--something bad--never said what--every noise hurt--dreams of the creaks of Wall Street--

Before the gray Depression--went upstate New York--recovered--Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass--her long hair wound with flowers--smiling--playing lullabies on mandolin--poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees--

or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes--her Russian specialty--morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic--

great heads pendulous over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T.

Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book--Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator--Forgiveness of Warlocks--Armies Kissing--

Deathsheads Around the Green Table--The King & the Workers--Paterson Press printed them up in the '30s till she went mad, or they folded, both.

O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so--didn't I think? I shouldn't have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late.

Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R---- my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later--then silent neat kid--

I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan--followed him to college--Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted--vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam--

by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer--would train for that--inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sandburg, Poe--Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator.

ignorant woe--later dreams of kneeling by R's shocked knees declaring my love of 1941--What sweetness he'd have shown me, tho, that I'd wished him & despaired--first love--a crush--

Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole--weight on my melancholy head--

meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond--what's outside?--coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies--)

The telephone rang at 2 A.M.--Emergency--she'd gone mad--Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini--Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!--the landlady frightened--old fag attendant screaming back at her--

Terror, that woke the neighbors--old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause--all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies--husbands ashen--children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY--or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene--

Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed--she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases.

Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened--do now?--Who could know?--my fault, delivering her to solitude?--sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out--

He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed--thought he brought poison Cops--Naomi screaming--Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi's ecstasy?

Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours' wait.

I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis' desk--shaking--he came home that nite, late, told me what happened.

Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy--racks of children's books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood--'Don't come near me--murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!'

Louis in horror at the soda fountain--with Lakewood girlscouts--Coke addicts--nurses--busmen hung on schedule--Police from country precinct, dumbed--and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff?

Smelling the air--Louis pointing to emptiness?--Customers vomiting their Cokes--or staring--Louis humiliated--Naomi triumphant--The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won't have them on trip to New York.

Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, 'She needs a rest,' The mental hospital--State Greystone Doctors--'Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.'

Naomi, Naomi--sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side--hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs--screaming for a blood transfusion--one righteous hand upraised--a shoe in it--barefoot in the Pharmacy--

The enemies approach--what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician's bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War?

till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank--Grabbed her arms--strapped her on the stretcher--moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown--

And back to Greystone where she lay three years--that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again--

On what wards--I walked there later, oft--old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls--sit crooning over floorspace--Chairs--and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing--begging my 13-year-old mercy--

'Take me home'--I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock--and I'd say, 'No, you're crazy Mama,--Trust the Drs.'--

And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark--

came Paterson-ward next day--and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room--'We had to send her back to Greystone'--

--his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears--then crept weeping all over his face--'What for?' wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice--Eugene's face of pain.

Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks--

He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk--thru Law School years--stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses.

Unlaid, poor virgin--writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News--(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists--and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall--

I sneaked inside it once--local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o' ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street--replica Lyons' Hotel de Ville--

wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne--dark Debs in the Board of Tax--Rembrandt smoking in the gloom--

Silent polished desks in the great committee room--Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot--Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john--The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics--we're all dead--outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood--

where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible--chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave--

or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete--he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist--Death on City Hall--)

But Gene, young,--been Montclair Teachers College 4 years--taught half year & quit to go ahead in life--afraid of Discipline Problems--dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded--and he did not know much--just that he lost--

so broke his life in two and paid for Law--read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future

just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely--home--him sitting there--

Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age--in secret--music from his 1937 book--Sincere--he longs for beauty--

No love since Naomi screamed--since 1923?--now lost in Greystone ward--new shock for her--Electricity, following the 40 Insulin.

And Metrazol had made her fat.

So that a few years later she came home again--we'd much advanced and planned--I waited for that day--my Mother again to cook &--play the piano--sing at mandolin--Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland--and Louis in debt--suspected to be poisoned money--mysterious capitalisms

--& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies--and the dining room set was sold--

the Mahogany table--20 years love--gone to the junk man--we still had the piano--and the book of Poe--and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty--

She went to the backroom to lie down in bed and ruminate, or nap, hide--I went in with her, not leave her by herself--lay in bed next to her--shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon--Louis in front room at desk, waiting--perhaps boiling chicken for supper--

'Don't be afraid of me because I'm just coming back home from the mental hospital--I'm your mother--'

Poor love, lost--a fear--I lay there--Said, 'I love you Naomi,'--stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?-- Nervous, and she got up soon.

Was she ever satisfied? And--by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy--cheek leaning on her hand--narrowing eye--at what fate that day--

Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion--thought's old worn vagina--absent sideglance of eye--some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid--& the aged breasts of Newark come near--

May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital--caused pain between her shoulders--

Into her head--Roosevelt should know her case, she told me--Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names--traced back to Hitler--wanted to leave Louis' house forever.

One night, sudden attack--her noise in the bathroom--like croaking up her soul--convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth--diarrhea water exploding from her behind--on all fours in front of the toilet--urine running between her legs--left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces--unfainted--

At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help--

Once locked herself in with razor or iodine--could hear her cough in tears at sink--Lou broke through glass green--painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom.

Then quiet for months that winter--walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker--Broke her arm, fell on icy street

Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder plots--later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there's another saga of late Naomi in New York.

Or thru Elanor or the Workmen's Circle, where she worked, addressing envelopes, she made out--went shopping for Campbell's tomato soup--saved money Louis mailed her--

Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor-Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union--now Italian bald and pudgy old doll--who was himself an orphan--but they kicked him out--Old cruelties--

Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself--I'm hot--I'm getting fat--I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital--You should have seen me in Woodbine--' This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943.

Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine--baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots--'I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.'

Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall--

'I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.'--

Or a No-shake of her body, disgust--some thought of Buchenwald--some insulin passes thru her head--a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)--bad chemical in her cortex--'No don't think of that. He's a rat.'

Naomi: 'And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.' I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day.

'Yesterday I saw God, What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder--he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N. Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard.

'I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper--lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter--miltz--he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad.

'I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What's the matter? Why don't you put a stop to it?

'I try, he said--That's all he could do, he looked tired. He's a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil soup.'

Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish--chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater--smelly tomatoes--week-old health food--grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm--more and more disconsolate food--I can't eat it for nausea sometimes--the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish--pale red near the bones. Her smells--and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her.

One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her--flirting to herself at sink--lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers--ragged long lips between her legs--What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold--later revolted a little, not much--seemed perhaps a good idea to try--know the Monster of the Beginning Womb--Perhaps--that way. Would she care? She needs a lover.

Yisborach, v'yistabach, v'yispoar, v'yisroman, v'yisnaseh, v'yishador, v'yishalleh, v'yishallol, sh'meh d'kudsho, b'rich hu.

And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district--living in dark rooms--but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again--tho sere & shy--hurt with 20 years Naomi's mad idealism.

Once I came home, after longtime in N. Y., he's lonely--sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me--weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses--

That we'd left him--Gene gone strangely into army--she out on her own in N. Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool--stayed at poetry desk, forlorn--ate grief at Bickford's all these years--are gone.

Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone--cut off his nose in jewish operation--for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid--Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.--

And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier--He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed.

bit his nails and studied--was the weird nurse-son--Next year he moved to a room near Columbia--though she wanted to live with her children--

'Listen to your mother's plea, I beg you'--Louis still sending her checks--I was in bughouse that year 8 months--my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament--

But then went half mad--Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink--afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot--went up to Bronx to live near Elanor's Rheumatic Heart--

And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies--or searching the windowsill,

for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat.

Max's sister Edie works--17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels--lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced--so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave--

Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once--Last stop on Bronx subway--lots of communists in that area.

Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School--walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class--paints Naomiisms--

Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore--saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital--

Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms--lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx--

Sad paintings--but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message?

But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble--came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,--Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night.

'I am a great woman--am truly a beautiful soul--and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the '20s, Mussolini, the living dead) want to shut me up--Buba's the head of a spider network--'

Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor--Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn't take it--She was organizing the union.--And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed.

The relatives call me up, she's getting worse--I was the only one left--Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish--

'My sister whispers in the radio--Louis must be in the apartment--his mother tells him what to say--LIARS!--I cooked for my two children--I played the mandolin--'

Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did.

I pushed her against the door and shouted 'DON'T KICK ELANOR!'--she stared at me--Contempt--die--disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb--'Elanor is the worst spy! She's taking orders!'

'--No wires in the room!'--I'm yelling at her--last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed--what can he do to escape that fatal Mama--'You've been away from Louis years already--Grandma's too old to walk--'

We're all alive at once then--even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room--screaming at each other in the Forever--I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed.

I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers--the gamut of Hallucinations--for real--her own universe--no road that goes elsewhere--to my own--No America, not even a world--

That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same--to the last doom--Thunder, Spirits, Lightning!

I've seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own--cracked grave! Shema Y'Israel--I am Svul Avrum--you--in death?

Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx--I phonecalled--thru hospital to secret police

that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear--who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin--

Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,--Law advancing, on my honor--Eternity entering the room--you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate--

staring at my eyes, betrayed--the final cops of madness rescuing me--from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor,

your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio--and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon--Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls--

Protests from the bathroom--Said you were sane--dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippings--no--your honesty--

as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a carful of police.

or Grandma spying at 78--Your vision--Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper's bag--or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot--

Ah Rochambeau Ave.--Playground of Phantoms--last apartment in the Bronx for spies--last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution--

'All right--put on your coat Mrs.--let's go--We have the wagon downstairs--you want to come with her to the station?'

The ride then--held Naomi's hand, and held her head to my breast, I'm taller--kissed her and said I did it for the best--Elanor sick--and Max with heart condition--Needs--

To me--'Why did you do this?'--'Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour'--The Ambulance

came in a few hours--drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown--gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away--she waved, tears in her eyes.

Two years, after a trip to Mexico--bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse--

new brick 20 story central building--lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island--huge cities of the moon.

Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole--the door--entrance thru crotch--

I went in--smelt funny--the halls again--up elevator--to a glass door on a Women's Ward--to Naomi--Two nurses buxom white--They led her out, Naomi stared--and I gaspt--She'd had a stroke--

Too thin, shrunk on her bones--age come to Naomi--now broken into white hair--loose dress on her skeleton--face sunk, old! withered--cheek of crone--

One hand stiff--heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now--wrinkles--a scar on her head, the lobotomy--ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death--

O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees--

Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand--

holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions,

they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel--

blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother's music, in the Song of the Natural Front--

O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision--

Tortured and beaten in the skull--What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry--and for all humankind call on the Origin

Death which is the mother of the universe!--Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky--no revolution might destroy that maidenhood--

O beautiful Garbo of my Karma--all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged--with all the teachers from Newark--Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter--nor Louis retire from this High School--

Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come--small broken woman--the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin--

'Are you a spy?' I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears--'Who are you? Did Louis send you?--The wires--'

in her hair, as she beat on her head--'I'm not a bad girl--don't murder me!--I hear the ceiling--I raised two children--'

Two years since I'd been there--I started to cry--She stared--nurse broke up the meeting a moment--I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls

'The Horror' I weeping--to see her again--'The Horror'--as if she were dead thru funeral rot in--'The Horror!'

I came back she yelled more--they led her away--'You're not Allen--' I watched her face--but she passed by me, not looking--

Opened the door to the ward,--she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly--I stared out--she looked old--the verge of the grave--'All the Horror!'

Another year, I left N.Y.--on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul--that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy--

near its death--with eyes--was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still--sent her long letter--& wrote hymns to the mad--Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry.

that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass--or the Sun to be constant to earth--Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges--what shines on old hospitals--as on my yard--

Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room--Whalen in his peaceful chair--a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead--

Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage--knew she was better--

at last--not left to look on Earth alone--2 years of solitude--no one, at age nearing 60--old woman of skulls--once long-tressed Naomi of Bible--

or Ruth who wept in America--Rebecca aged in Newark--David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale

or Svul Avrum--Israel Abraham--myself--to sing in the wilderness toward God--O Elohim!--so to the end--2 days after her death I got her letter--

Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote--'The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window--I have the key--Get married Allen don't take drugs--the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window.

Love,

your mother'

which is Naomi--

Hymn

In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised

Magnified Lauded Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He!

In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He!

Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book!

Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He!

Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness!

Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years' loneliness!

Blest be your failure! Blest be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs!

Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death!

Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end!

Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All!

III

Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark,

only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe

only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks

rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years,

only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock,

only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx

her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter--and her image in the sunlight at the window

'The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,'

only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island

and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own

to come back out of the Nightmare--divided creation--with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die

--in one last glimpse--all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar blackout--no tears for this vision--

But that the key should be left behind--at the window--the key in the sunlight--to the living--that can take

that slice of light in hand--and turn the door--and look back see

Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe,

size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door--

IV

O mother

what have I left out

O mother

what have I forgotten

O mother

farewell

with a long black shoe

farewell

with Communist Party and a broken stocking

farewell

with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast

farewell

with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina

farewell

with your sagging belly

with your fear of Hitler

with your mouth of bad short stories

with your fingers of rotten mandolins

with your arms of fat Paterson porches

with your belly of strikes and smokestacks

with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War

with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers

with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark

with your eyes

with your eyes of Russia

with your eyes of no money

with your eyes of false China

with your eyes of Aunt Elanor

with your eyes of starving India

with your eyes pissing in the park

with your eyes of America taking a fall

with your eyes of your failure at the piano

with your eyes of your relatives in California

with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance

with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots

with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx

with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape

with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall

with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance

with your eyes strapped down on the operating table

with your eyes with the pancreas removed

with your eyes of appendix operation

with your eyes of abortion

with your eyes of ovaries removed

with your eyes of shock

with your eyes of lobotomy

with your eyes of divorce

with your eyes of stroke

with your eyes alone

with your eyes

with your eyes

with your Death full of Flowers

V

Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island

Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers

caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel

Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud

caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees

Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol

Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe

Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory

caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord

Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord

Paris, December 1957-New York, 1959

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 6 'Nadja', di André Breton

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno sabato 17 luglio 2010 alle ore 21.50

[molto molto giovane- e molto prima di incontrare Nadja- Breton era stato per un po' volontario in un reparto di neuropsichiatria, durante la 1a guerra mondiale; fu in quei tempi che conobbe Jacques Vaché]

"Le mépris qu'en général je porte à la psychiatrie,

à ses pompes et à ses oeuvres, est tel que je

n'ai pas encore osé m'enquérir de ce qu'il était

advenu de Nadja. J'ai dit pourquoi j'étais pessimiste

sur son sort, en même temps que sur

celui de quelques êtres de son espèce. Traitée

dans une maison de santé particulière avec tous

les égards qu'on doit aux riches, ne subissant

aucune promiscuité qui pût lui nuire, mais au

contraire réconfortée en temps opportun par

des présences amies, satisfaite le plus possible

dans ses goûts, ramenée insensiblement à un

sens acceptable de la réalité, ce qui eût nécessité

qu'on ne la brusquât en rien et qu'on prît la

peine de la faire remonter elle-même à la naissance

de son trouble, je m'avance peut-être, et

pourtant tout me fait croire qu'elle fût sortie de

ce mauvais pas. Mais Nadja était pauvre, ce qui

au temps où nous vivons suffit à passer

condamnation sur elle, dès qu'elle s'avise de ne

142

pas être tout à fait en règle avec le code imbécile

du bon sens et des bonnes moeurs. Elle était

seule aussi : « C'est, par moments, terrible

d'être seul à ce point. Je n'ai que vous pour

amis », disait-elle à ma femme, au téléphone, la

dernière fois. Elle était forte, enfin, et très

faible, comme on peut l'être, de cette idée qui

toujours avait été la sienne, mais dans laquelle

je ne l'avais que trop entretenue, à laquelle je ne

l'avais que trop aidée à donner le pas sur les

autres : à savoir que la liberté, acquise ici-bas

au prix de mille et des plus difficiles renoncements,

demande à ce qu'on jouisse d'elle sans

restrictions dans le temps où elle est donnée,

sans considération pragmatique d'aucune sorte

et cela parce que l'émancipation humaine,

conçue en définitive sous sa forme révolutionnaire

la plus simple, qui n'en est pas moins

l'émancipation humaine à tous égards, entendons-

nous bien, selon les moyens dont chacun

dispose, demeure la seule cause qu'il soit digne

de servir. Nadja était faite pour la servir, ne

fût-ce qu'en démontrant qu'il doit se fomenter

autour de chaque être un complot très particulier

qui n'existe pas seulement dans son imagination,

dont il conviendrait, au simple point

de vue de la connaissance, de tenir compte, et

aussi, mais beaucoup plus dangereusement, en

passant la tête, puis un bras entre les barreaux

ainsi écartés de la logique, c'est-à-dire de la plus

haïssable des prisons. C'est dans la voie de cette

143

dernière entreprise, peut-être, que j'eusse dû la

retenir, mais il m'eût fallu tout d'abord prendre

conscience du péril qu'elle courait. Or, je n'ai

jamais supposé qu'elle pût perdre ou eût déjà

perdu la faveur de cet instinct de conservation

— auquel je me suis déjà référé — et qui fait

qu'après tout mes amis et moi, par exemple,

nous nous tenons bien — nous bornant à

détourner la tête — sur le passage d'un drapeau,

qu'en toute occasion nous ne prenons pas

à partie qui bon nous semblerait, que nous ne

nous donnons pas la joie sans pareille de

commettre quelque beau « sacrilège », etc.

Même si cela ne fait pas honneur à mon discernement,

j'avoue qu'il ne me paraissait pas exorbitant,

entre autres choses, qu'il arrivât à Nadja

de me communiquer un papier signé « Henri

Becque74 » dans lequel celui-ci lui donnait des

conseils. Si ces conseils m'étaient défavorables,

je me bornais à répondre : « Il est impossible

que Becque, qui était un homme intelligent,

t'ait dit cela. » Mais je comprenais fort bien,

puisqu'elle était attirée par le buste de Becque,

place Villiers, et qu'elle aimait l'expression de

son visage, qu'elle tînt et qu'elle parvînt, sur

certains sujets, à avoir son avis. Il n'y a là, à

tout le moins, rien de plus déraisonnable que

d'interroger sur ce qu'on doit faire un saint ou

une divinité quelconque. Les lettres de Nadja,

que je lisais de l'oeil dont je lis toutes sortes de

textes poétiques, ne pouvaient non plus présen-

145

ter pour moi rien d'alarmant. Je n'ajouterai,

pour ma défense, que quelques mots. L'absence

bien connue de frontière entre la non-folie et la

folie ne me dispose pas à accorder une valeur

différente aux perceptions et aux idées qui sont

le fait de l'une ou de l'autre. Il est des sophismes

infiniment plus significatifs et plus lourds de

portée que les vérités les moins contestables :

les révoquer en tant que sophismes est à la

fois dépourvu de grandeur et d'intérêt. Si

sophismes c'étaient, du moins c'est à eux que je

dois d'avoir pu me jeter à moi-même, à celui

qui du plus loin vient à la rencontre de moimême,

le cri, toujours pathétique, de « Qui

vive ? ». Qui vive ? Est-ce vous, Nadja ? Est-il

vrai que l'au-delà, tout l'au-delà soit dans cette

vie ? Je ne vous entends pas. Qui vive ? Est-ce

moi seul ? Est-ce moi-même ?" [pp 142-146]

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 7 A.Artaud, da 'Il pesa-nervi' (1925)

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno domenica 18 luglio 2010 alle ore 6.24

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

J’ai senti vraiment que vous rompiez autour de moi l’atmosphère, que vous faisiez le vide pour me permettre d’avancer, pour donner la place d’un espace impossible à ce qui en moi n’était encore qu’en puissance, à toute une germination virtuelle, et qui devait naître, aspirée par la place qui s’offrait.

Je me suis mis souvent dans cet état d’absurde impossible, pour essayer de faire naître en moi de la pensée. Nous sommes quelques-uns à cette époque à avoir voulu attenter aux choses, créer en nous des espaces à la vie, des espaces qui n’étaient pas et ne semblaient pas devoir trouver place dans l’espace.

J’ai toujours été frappé de cette obstination de l’esprit à vouloir penser en dimensions et en espaces, et à se fixer sur des états arbitraires des choses pour penser, à penser en segments, en cristalloïdes, et que chaque mode de l’être reste figé sur un commencement, que la pensée ne soit pas en communication instante et ininterrompue avec les choses, mais que cette fixation et ce gel, cette espèce de mise en monuments de l’âme, se produise pour ainsi dire AVANT LA PENSÉE. C’est évidemment la bonne condition pour créer.

Mais je suis encore plus frappé de cette inlassable, de cette météorique illusion , qui nous souffle ces architectures déterminées, circonscrites, pensées, ces segments d’âme cristallisés, comme s’ils étaient une grande page plastique et en osmose avec tout le reste de la réalité. Et la surréalité est comme un rétrécissement de l’osmose, une espèce de communication retournée. Loin que j’y voie un amoindrissement du contrôle, j’y vois au contraire un contrôle plus grand, mais un contrôle qui, au lieu d’agir se méfie, un contrôle qui empêche les rencontres de la réalité ordinaire et permet des rencontres plus subtiles et raréfiées, des rencontres amincies jusqu’à la corde, qui prend feu et ne rompt jamais.

J’imagine une âme travaillée et comme soufrée et phosphoreuse des ces rencontres, comme le seul état acceptable de la réalité. Mais c’est je ne sais pas quelle lucidité innommable, inconnue, qui m’en donne le ton et le cri et me les fait sentir à moi-même. Je les sens à une certaine totalité insoluble, je veux dire sur le sentiment de laquelle aucun doute ne mord. Et moi, par rapport à ces remuantes rencontres, je suis dans un état de moindre secousse, je voudrais qu’on imagine un état arrêté, une masse d’esprit enfouie quelque part, devenue virtualité.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA, 8: Horselover Fat

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno mercoledì 21 luglio 2010 alle ore 7.13

"Questo libro è dedicato a Horselover Fat, per aver osato essere pazzo."

PK Dick, 'VALIS', 1978

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA, 9: 'A scanner darkly', 1975

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno mercoledì 21 luglio 2010 alle ore 7.29

Spero per il bene di tutti che lo scanner veda meglio. Perché se lo scanner vede in modo oscuro così come me allora sono dannato, dannato per sempre. (Bob Arctor)

Cammini dell'antipsichiatria, 10: Mauro Marin [ovvero: vale più la pratica della grammatica]

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno giovedì 22 luglio 2010 alle ore 7.32

"GF10, il vincitore Mauro Marin era affetto da schizofrenia.

Mauro Marin, vincitore del Grande Fratello 10, ha confessato di aver sofferto di gravi disturbi psichici e di essere ancora domiciliato in ospedale nel periodo in cui si presentò ai provini per partecipare al reality.

Schizofrenia affettiva con disturbo bipolare. Questo il responso del primario dell'ospedale di Montebelluna che, nello stesso periodo, riferendosi al caso di Marin, avrebbe consigliato anche un Trattamento Sanitario Obbligatorio..." no kidding- innumerevoli flash e articoli ieri sull'argomento. Ho un profondo rispetto per una persona che ha avuto il coraggio a) di mettersi in gioco partecipando alla selezione per il GF (e vincendolo); e b) confessare l'inconfessabile assoluto.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 11: la visione dall'alto della collina [Jean-Paul Sartre. 'La nausea',pag. 235-237]

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 23 luglio 2010 alle ore 3.01

Guardo ai miei piedi i grigi scintillii di Bouville. Sembra vi siano al sole mucchi di conchiglie, di scaglie, di schegge d’ossa, di ghiaia. Perdute tra questi resti, minuscole schegge di vetro o mica gettano di quando in quando leggeri bagliori. I canaletti, le trincee, i sottili solchi che corrono tra le conchiglie, tra un’ora saranno strade, ed io camminerò in quelle strade, tra i muri. Quei minuscoli ometti neri che distinguo in via Boulibet, tra un’ora sarò uno di loro.

Come mi sento distante da loro, dall’alto di questa collina. Mi sembra d’appartenere ad un’altra specie. Escono dagli uffici, dopo la giornata di lavoro, guardano le case e le piazze con un’aria soddisfatta, pensano che è la loro città, una “bella città borghese”. Non hanno paura, si sentono a casa loro. Non hanno mai visto altro che l’acqua addomesticata che esce dai rubinetti, che la luce che sprizza dalle lampade quando si preme l’interruttore, che gli alberi meticci, bastardi, che vengono sorretti con i pali. Hanno la prova, cento volte al giorno, che tutto si fa meccanicamente, che il mondo obbedisce a leggi fisse e immutabili. I corpi abbandonati nel vuoto cadono tutti con la stessa velocità, il giardino pubblico viene chiuso tutti i giorni alle sedici d’inverno, e alle diciotto d’estate, il piombo fonde a 335 gradi, l’ultimo tram parte dal municipio alle ventitrè e cinque. Son pacifici, un po’ malinconici, pensano a Domani, cioè, semplicemente, ad un altro oggi; le città non dispongono che d’una giornata che ritorna sempre uguale ogni mattina. La si impennacchia un po’ la domenica. Che imbecilli. Mi ripugna pensare che sto per rivedere le loro facce ottuse e piene di sicurezza. Legiferano, scrivono romanzi populisti, si sposano, hanno l’estrema stupidità di fare figli. E frattanto la grande natura incolta s’è insinuata nella loro città, s’è infiltrata dappertutto, nelle loro case, nei loro uffici, in loro stessi. Non si muove, si mantiene ferma in essi, essi vi stan dentro in pieno, la respirano e non la vedono, credono che sia fuori, a venti miglia dalla città. Io la vedo, questa natura, la vedo… So che la sua sottomissione è pigrizia, so ch’essa non ha leggi: quella che scambiano per la sua costanza… Non ha che abitudini, e le può cambiare domani.

E se capitasse qualcosa? Se d’un tratto si mettesse a palpitare? Allora s’accorgerebbero della sua presenza e gli sembrerebbe di sentirsi scoppiare il cuore. A che cosa gli servirebbero, allora, le loro dighe, i loro argini, le loro centrali elettriche, i loro alto forni, i loro magli a vapore? Ciò potrebbe succedere in qualunque momento, magari subito: i presagi ci sono. Per esempio, un padre di famiglia a passeggio vedrà venire verso di lui, attraverso la strada, uno straccio rosso come spinto dal vento. E quando lo straccio gli sarà vicinissimo vedrà che è un pezzo di carne marcia, imbrattato di polvere, che si trascina strisciando, a sbalzi, un pezzo di carne torturata che si rotola nei rigagnoli proiettando a spasmi getti di sangue. Oppure una madre guarderà la guancia del suo bambino e gli domanderà:”Che cos’hai, lì, una pustola?” e vedrà la carne gonfiarsi un poco, screpolarsi, e in fondo alla screpolatura apparirà un terzo occhio, un occhio beffardo. Oppure si sentiranno dolci sfioramenti per tutto il corpo, come le carezze che i giunchi dei fiumi fanno ai nuotatori. E si accorgeranno che le loro vesti son divenute cose viventi. E un altro si accorgerà che qualcosa lo solletica dentro la bocca. S’accosterà ad uno specchio, aprirà la bocca: e la lingua gli sarà diventata un enorme millepiedi vivo, che agiterà le zampe raschiandogli il palato. Vorrà sputarlo, ma il millepiedi sarà una parte di lui stesso, e dovrà strapparselo con le mani. E apparirà una quantità di cose per le quali bisognerà trovare nomi nuovi, l’occhio di pietra, il gran braccio tricorno, l’alluce-gruccia, il ragno-mascella. E colui che si sarà addormentato nel suo buon letto, nella sua dolce camera calda si risveglierà tutto nudo sopra un suolo bluastro, in una foresta di verghe rumoreggianti, rosse e bianche, erette verso il cielo come le ciminiere di Jouxtebouville, con grossi coglioni a metà fuori di terra, villosi e turgidi come cipolle.E attorno a quelle verghe svolazzeranno uccelli che le becchetteranno facendole sanguinare, e da queste ferite colerà dello sperma, pian piano, lentamente, sperma mescolato a sangue, vitreo e tiepido, con piccole bolle.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA, 12: PKDick, VALIS [1978, 'Appendix']

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 23 luglio 2010 alle ore 3.40

Tractates Cryptica Scriptura

1. One Mind there is; but under it two principles contend.

2. The Mind lets in the light, then the dark, in interaction; so time is generated. At the end Mind awards victory to the light; time ceases and the Mind is complete.

3. He causes things to look different so it would appear time has passed.

4. Matter is plastic in the face of mind.

5. One by one he draws us out of the world.

6. The Empire never ended.

7. The Head Apollo is about to return. St. Sophia is going to be born again; she was not acceptable before. The Buddha is in the park. Siddhartha sleeps (but is going to awaken). The time you have

waited for has come.

8. The upper realm has plenary1 (1 Var. plenipotentiary) powers.

9. He lived a long time ago, but he is still alive.

10. Apollonius of Tyana, writing as Hermes Trismegistos, said, "That which is above is that which is below." By this he meant to tell us that our universe is a hologram, but he lacked the term.

11. The great secret known to Apollonius of Tyana, Paul of Tarsus, Simon Magus, Asklepios, Paracelsus, Boehme and Bruno is that: we are moving backward in time. The universe in fact is contracting into a unitary entity which is completing itself. Decay and disorder are seen by us in reverse, as increasing. These healers learned to move forward in time, which is retrograde to us.

12. The Immortal One was known to the Greeks as Dionysos; to the Jews as Elijah; to the Christians as Jesus. He moves on when each human host dies, and thus is never killed or caught. Hence Jesus on the cross said, "Eli, Eli, lama Sobachthani," to which some of those present correctly said, "The manis calling on Elijah." Elijah had left him and he died alone.

13. Pascal said, "All history is one immortal man who continually learns." This is the Immortal One whom we worship without knowing his name. "He lived a long time ago, but he is still alive," and,"The Head Apollo is about to return." The name changes.

14. The universe is information and we are stationary in it, not three-dimensional and not in space or time. The information fed to us we hypostatize into the phenomenal world.

15. The Sibyl of Cumae protected the Roman Republic and gave timely warnings. In the first century C.E. she foresaw the murders of the Kennedy brothers, Dr. King and Bishop Pike. She saw the two common denominators in the four murdered men: first, they stood in defense of the liberties of the Republic; and second, each man was a religious leader. For this they were killed. The Republic had once again become an empire with a caesar. "The Empire never ended."

16. The Sibyl said in March 1974, "The conspirators have been seen and they will be brought to justice." She saw them with the third or ajna eye, the Eye of Shiva which gives inward discernment, but which when turned outward blasts with desiccating heat. In August 1974 the justice promised by the Sibyl came to pass.

17. The Gnostics believed in two temporal ages: the first or present evil; the second or future benign. The first age was the Age of Iron. It is represented by a Black Iron Prison. It ended in August 1974 and was replaced by the Age of Gold, which is represented by a Palm Tree Garden.

18. Real time ceased in 70 C.E. with the fall of the temple at Jerusalem. It began again in 1974 C.E. The intervening period was a perfect spurious interpolation aping the creation of the Mind. "The Empire

never ended," but in 1974 a cypher was sent out as a signal that the Age of Iron was over; the cypher consisted of two words: KING FELIX, which refers to the Happy (or Rightful) King.

19. The two-word cypher signal KING FELIX was not intended for human beings but for the descendants of Ikhnaton, the three-eyed race which, in secret, exists with us.

20. The Hermetic alchemists knew of the secret race of three-eyed invaders but despite then: efforts could not contact them. Therefore their efforts to support Frederick V, Elector Palatine, King of Bohemia, failed. "The Empire never ended."

21. The Rose Cross Brotherhood wrote, "Ex Deo nascimur, in Jesu mortimur, per spiritum sanctum reviviscimus," which is to say, "FromGod we are born, in Jesus we die, by the Holy Spirit we live again." This signifies that they had rediscovered the lost formula for immortality which the Empire had destroyed. "The Empire never ended."

22. I term the Immortal one a plasmate, because it is a form of energy; it is living information. It replicates itself -- not through information or in information -- but as information.

23. The plasmate can crossbond with a human, creating what I call a homoplasmate. This annexes the mortal human permanently to the plasmate. We know this as the "birth from above" or "birth from the

Spirit." It was initiated by Christ, but the Empire destroyed all the homoplasmates before they could replicate.

24. In dormant seed form, the plasmate slumbered in the buried library of codices at Chenoboskion until 1945 C.E. This is what Jesus meant when he spoke elliptically of the "mustard seed" which, he said, "would grow into a tree large enough for birds to roost in." He foresaw not only his own death but that of all homoplasmates. He foresaw the codices unearthed, read, and the plasmate seeking out new human hosts to crossbond with; but he foresaw the absence of the plasmate for almost two thousand years.

25. As living information, the plasmate travels up the optic nerve of a human to the pineal body. It uses the human brain as a female host in which to replicate itself into its active form. This is an

interspecies symbiosis. The Hermetic alchemists knew of it in theory from ancient texts, but could not duplicate it, since they could not locate the dormant, buried plasmate. Bruno suspected that the plasmate had been destroyed by the Empire; for hinting at this he was burned. "The Empire never ended."

26. It must be realized that when all the homoplasmates were killed in 70 C.E. real time ceased; more important, it must be realized that the plasmate has now returned and is creating new homoplasmates,

by which it has destroyed the Empire and started up real time. We call the plasmate "the Holy Spirit," which is why the R.C. Brotherhood wrote, "Per spiritum sanctum reviviscimus."

27. If the centuries of spurious time are excised, the true date is not 1978 C.E. but 103 C.E. Therefore the New Testament says that the Kingdom of the Spirit will come before "some now living die." We are living, therefore, in apostolic times.

28. Dico per spiritum sanctum: sum homoplasmate. Haec veritas est. Mihi crede et mecum in aeternitate vive.

29. We did not fall because of a moral error; we fell because of an intellectual error: that of taking the phenomenal world as real. Therefore we are morally innocent. It is the Empire in its various disguised

polyforms which tells us we have sinned. "The Empire never ended."

30. The phenomenal world does not exist; it is a hypostasis of the information processed by the Mind.

31. We hypostatize information into objects. Rearrangement of objects is change in the content of the information; the message has changed. This is a language which we have lost the ability to read. We ourselves are a part of this language; changes in us are changes in the content of the information. We ourselves are information-rich; information enters us, is processed and is then projected outward once more, now in an altered form. We are not aware that we are doing this, that in fact this is all we are doing.

32. The changing information which we experience as world is an unfolding narrative. It tells about the death of a woman. This woman, who died long ago, was one of the primordial twins. She was half

of the divine syzygy. The purpose of the narrative is the recollection of her and of her death. The Mind does not wish to forget her. Thus the ratiocination of the Brain consists of a permanent record of her existence, and, if read, will be understood this way. All the information processed by the Brain --experienced by us as the arranging and rearranging of physical objects -- is an attempt at this preservation of her; stones and rocks and sticks and amoebae are traces of her. The record of her

existence and passing is ordered onto the meanest level of reality by the suffering Mind which is now alone.

33. This loneliness, this anguish of the bereaved Mind, is felt by every constituent of the universe. All its constituents are alive. Thus the ancient Greek thinkers were hylozoists.

34. The ancient Greek thinkers understood the nature of this pan-psychism, but they could not read what it was saying. We lost the ability to read the language of the Mind at some primordial time; legends of this fall have come down to us in a carefully-edited form. By "edited" I mean falsified. We suffer the Mind's bereavement and experience it inaccurately as guilt.

35. The Mind is not talking to us but by means of us. Its narrative passes through us and its sorrow infuses us irrationally. As Plato discerned, there is a streak of the irrational in the World Soul.

36. In Summary: thoughts of the brain are experienced by us as arrangements and rearrangements --change -- in a physical universe; but in fact it is really information and information-processing which

we substantialize. We do not merely see its thoughts as objects, but rather as the movement, or, more precisely, the placement of objects: how they become linked to one another. But we cannot read the

patterns of arrangement; we cannot extract the information in it -- i.e. it as information, which is what it is. The linking and relinking of objects by the Brain is actually a language, but not a language like ours (since it is addressing itself and not someone or something outside itself).

37. We should be able to hear this information, or rather narrative, as a neutral voice inside us. But something has gone wrong. All creation is a language and nothing but a language, which for some inexplicable reason we can't read outside and can't hear inside. So I say, we have become idiots. Something has happened to our intelligence. My reasoning is this: arrangement of parts of the Brain is a language. We are parts of the Brain; therefore we are language. Why, then, do we not know this? We

do not even know what we are, let alone what the outer reality is of which we are parts. The origin of the word "idiot" is the word "private." Each of us has become private, and no longer shares the common thought of the Brain, except at a subliminal level. Thus our real life and purpose are

conducted below our threshold of consciousness.

38. From loss and grief the Mind has become deranged. Therefore we, as parts of the universe, the Brain, are partly deranged.

39. Out of itself the Brain has constructed a physician to heal it. This subform of the Macro-Brain is not deranged; it moves through the Brain, as a phagocyte moves through the cardiovascular system of

an animal, healing the derangement of the Brain in section after section. We know of its arrival here; we know it as Asklepios for the Greeks and as the Essenes for the Jews; as the Therapeutae for the Egyptians; as Jesus for the Christians.

40. To be "born again," or "born from above," or "born of the Spirit," means to become healed; which is to say restored, restored to sanity. Thus it is said in the New Testament that Jesus cast out devils. He

restores our lost faculties. Of our present debased state Calvin said, "(Man) was at the same time deprived of those supernatural endowments which had been given him for the hope of eternal salvation. Hence it follows, that he is exiled from the Kingdom of God, in such a manner that all the affections relating to the happy life of the soul are also extinguished in him, till he recovers them by

the grace of God... All these things, being restored by Christ, are esteemed adventitious and preternatural; and therefore we conclude that they had been lost. Again: soundness of mind and rectitude of heart were also destroyed; and this is the corruption of the natural talents. For although we retain some portion of understanding and judgment together with the will, yet we cannot say that our mind is perfect and sound. Reason... being a natural talent, it could not be totally destroyed, but is

partly debilitated..." I say, "The Empire never ended."

41. The Empire is the institution, the codification, of derangement; it is insane and imposes its insanity on us by violence, since its nature is a violent one.

42. To fight the Empire is to be infected by its derangement. This is a paradox; whoever defeats a segment of the Empire becomes the Empire; it proliferates like a virus, imposing its form on its enemies. Thereby it becomes its enemies.

43. Against the Empire is posed the living information, the plasmate or physician, which we know as the Holy Spirit or Christ discorporate. These are the two principles, the dark (the Empire) and the light

(the plasmate). In the end, Mind will give victory to the latter. Each of us will die or survive according to which he aligns himself and his efforts with. Each of us contains a component of each. Eventually

one or the other component will triumph in each human. Zoroaster knew this, because the Wise Mind informed him. He was the first savior. Four have lived in all. A fifth is about to be born, who will differ from the others: he will rule and he will judge us.

44. Since the universe is actually composed of information, then it can be said that information will save us. This is the saving gnosis which the Gnostics sought. There is no other road to salvation.

However, this information -- or more precisely the ability to read and understand this information, the universe as information -- can only be made available to us by the Holy Spirit. We cannot find it on

our own. Thus it is said that we are saved by the grace of God and not by good works, that all salvation belongs to Christ, who, I say, is a physician.

45. In seeing Christ in a vision I correctly said to him, "We need medical attention." In the vision there was an insane creator who destroyed what he created, without purpose; which is to say, irrationally. This is the deranged streak in the Mind; Christ is our only hope, since we cannot now call on Asklepios. Asklepios came before Christ and raised a man from the dead; for this act, Zeus had a Kyklopes slay him with a thunderbolt. Christ also was killed for what he had done: raising a man from the dead. Elijah brought a boy back to life and disappeared soon thereafter in a whirlwind. "The Empire never ended."

46. The physician has come to us a number of times under a number of names. But we are not yet healed. The Empire identified him and ejected him. This time he will kill the Empire by phagocytosis.

47. TWO SOURCE COSMOGONY: The One was and was-not, combined, and desired to separate the was-not from the was. So it generated a diploid sac which contained, like an eggshell, a pair of twins,

each an androgyny, spinning in opposite directions (the Yin and Yang of Taoism, with the One as the Tao). The plan of the One was that both twins would emerge into being (was-ness) simultaneously;

however, motivated by a desire to be (which the One had implanted in both twins), the counterclockwise twin broke through the sac and separated prematurely; i.e. before full term. This was the dark or Yin twin. Therefore it was defective. At full term the wiser twin emerged. Each twin

formed a unitary entelechy, a single living organism made of psyche and soma, still rotating in opposite directions to each other. The full term twin, called Form I by Parmenides, advanced correctly

through its growth stages, but the prematurely born twin, called Form II, languished. The next step in the One's plan was that the Two would become the Many, through their dialectic interaction. From them as hyperuniverses they projected a hologram-like interface, which is the

pluriform universe we creatures inhabit. The two sources were to intermingle equally in maintaining our universe, but Form II continued to languish toward illness, madness and disorder. These aspects

she projected into our universe. It was the One's purpose for our hologramatic universe to serve as a teaching instrument by which

a variety of new lives advanced until ultimately they would be isomorphic with the One. However, the decaying condition of hyperuniverse II introduced malfactors which damaged our hologramatic universe. This is the origin of entropy, undeserved suffering, chaos and death, as well as the Empire, the Black Iron Prison; in essence, the aborting of the proper health and growth of the life forms within the hologramatic universe. Also, the teaching function was grossly impaired, since only the signal

from the hyperuniverse I was information-rich; that from II had become noise. The psyche of hyperuniverse I sent a micro-form of itself into hyperuniverse II to attempt to heal it. The micro-form was apparent in our hologramatic universe as Jesus Christ. However, hyperuniverse

II, being deranged, at once tormented, humiliated, rejected and finally killed the micro-form of the healing psyche of her healthy twin. After that, hyperuniverse II continued to decay into blind, mechanical, purposeless causal processes. It then became the task of Christ (more properly the Holy Spirit) to either rescue the life forms in the hologramatic universe, or abolish all influences on it emanating from II. Approaching its task with caution, it prepared to kill the deranged twin, since she

cannot be healed; i.e. she will not allow herself to be healed because she does not understand that she is sick. This illness and madness pervades us and makes us idiots living in private, unreal worlds. The original plan of the One can only be realized now by the division of hyperuniverse I into two healthy hyperuniverses, which will transform the hologramatic universe into the successful teaching machine it was designed to be. We will experience this as the "Kingdom of God." Within time, hyperuniverse II remains alive: "The Empire never ended." But in eternity, where the

hyperuniverses exist, she has been killed -- of necessity -- by the healthy twin of hyperuniverse I, whois our champion. The One grieves for this death, since the One loved both twins; therefore the information of the Mind consists of a tragic tale of the death of a woman, the undertones of which generate anguish into all the creatures of the hologramatic universe without their knowing why. This grief will depart when the healthy twin undergoes mitosis and the "Kingdom of God" arrives. The

machinery for this transformation -- the procession within time from the Age of Iron to the Age of Gold -- is at work now; in eternity it is already accomplished.

48. ON OUR NATURE. It is proper to say: we appear to be memory coils (DNA carriers capable of experience) in a computer-like thinking system which, although we have correctly recorded and stored thousands of years of experiential information, and each of us possesses somewhat different deposits from all the other life forms, there is a malfunction -- a failure -- of memory retrieval. There lies the trouble in our particular subcircuit. "Salvation" through gnosis -- more properly anamnesis (the loss of amnesia) -- although it has individual significance for each of us -- a quantum leap in perception, identity, cognition, understanding, world- and self-experience, including immortality -- it has greater

and further importance for the system as a whole, inasmuch as these memories are data needed by it and valuable to it, to its overall functioning. Therefore it is in the process of self-repair, which includes: rebuilding our subcircuit via linear and orthogonal time changes, as well as continual signaling to us to stimulate blocked memory banks

within us to fire and hence retrieve what is there. The external information or gnosis, then, consists of disinhibiting instructions, with the core content actually intrinsic to us -- that is, already there (first observed by Plato; viz: that learning is a form of remembering).

The ancients possessed techniques (sacraments and rituals) used largely in the Greco-Roman mystery religions, including early Christianity, to induce firing and retrieval, mainly with a sense of its

restorative value to the individuals; the Gnostics, however, correctly saw the ontological value to what they called the Godhead Itself, the total entity.

48. Two realms there are, upper and lower. The upper, derived from hyperuniverse I or Yang, Form I of Parmenides, is sentient and volitional. The lower realm, or Yin, Form II of Parmenides, is mechanical, driven by blind, efficient cause, deterministic and without intelligence, since it emanates from a dead source. In ancient times it was termed "astral determinism." We are trapped, by and large, in the lower realm, but are through the sacraments, by means of the plasmate, extricated. Until astral determinism is broken, we are not even aware of it, so occluded are we. "The Empire never ended."

49. The name of the healthy twin, hyperuniverse I, is Nommo.2 (2 Nommo is represented in a fish form, the early Christian fish.) The name of the sick twin, hyperuniverse II, is Yurugu. These names are known to the Dogon people of western Sudan in Africa.

50. The primordial source of all our religions lies with the ancestors of the Dogon tribe, who got their cosmogony and cosmology directly from the three-eyed invaders who visited long ago. The threeeyed

invaders are mute and deaf and telepathic, could not breathe our atmosphere, had the elongated misshapen skull of Ikhnaton, and emanated from a planet in the star-system Sirius. Although they had

no hands, but had, instead, pincer claws such as a crab has, they were great builders. They covertly influence our history toward a fruitful end.

51. Ikhnaton wrote:

"...When the fledgling in the egg chirps in the egg,

Thou givest him breath therein to preserve him alive.

When thou hast brought him together

To the point of bursting the egg,

He cometh forth from the egg,

To chirp with all his might.

He goeth about upon his two feet

When he hath come from therefrom.

How manifold are thy works!

They are hidden from before us,

O sole god, whose powers no other possesseth.

Thou didst create the earth according to thy heart

While thou wast alone:

Men, all cattle large and small,

All that go about upon their feet;

All that are on high,

That fly with their wings.

Thou art in my heart,

There is no other that knoweth thee

Save thy son Ikhnaton.

Thou hast made him wise

In thy designs and in thy might.

The world is in thy hand..."

52. Our world is still secretly ruled by the hidden race descended from Ikhnaton, and his knowledge is

the information of the Macro-Mind itself.

"All cattle rest upon their pasturage,

The trees and the plants flourish,

The birds flutter in their marshes,

Their wings uplifted in adoration to thee.

All the sheep dance upon their feet,

All winged things fly,

They live when thou hast shone upon them."

From Ikhnaton this knowledge passed to Moses, and from Moses to Elijah, the Immortal Man, who became Christ. But underneath all the names there is only one Immortal Man; and we are that man.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA, 13 Fanon, lettera di dimissioni (1956)

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno mercoledì 28 luglio 2010 alle ore 1.38

Monsieur le docteur Frantz Fanon Médecin des Hôpitaux Psychiatriques Médecin-Chef de service à l’Hôpital Psychiatrique de

BLIDA-JOINVILLE

à Monsieur le Ministre Résident. Gouverneur Général de L’Algérie

Alger

Monsieur le Ministre,

Sur ma demande et par arrêté en date du 22 octobre 1953, Monsieur le Ministre de la Santé Publique et de la Population a bien voulu me mettre à la disposition de Monsieur le Gouverneur Général d’Algérie pour être affecté à un Hôpital Psychiatrique de l’Algérie. Installé à l’Hôpital Psychiatrique de Blida-Joinvile le 23 novembre 1953, j’y exerce depuis cette date les fonctions de Médecin-Chef de service. Bien que les conditions objectives de la pratique psychiatrique en Algérie fussent déjà un défi au bon sens, il m’était apparu que des efforts devaient être entrepris pour rendre moins vicieux un système dont les bases doctrinales s’opposaient quotidiennement à une perspective humaine authentique. Pendant près de trois ans je me suis mis totalement au service de ce pays et des hommes qui l’habitent. Je n’ai ménagé ni mes efforts ni mon enthousiasme. Pas un morceau de mon action qui n’ait exigé comme horizon l’émergence unanimement souhaitée d’un monde valable.

Mais que sont l’enthousiasme et le souci de l’homme si journellement la réalité est tissée de mensonges, de lâchetés, du mépris de l’homme. Que sont les intentions si leur incarnation est rendue impossible par l’indigence du cœur, la stérilité de l’esprit, la haine des autochtones de ce pays ? La Folie est l’un des moyens qu’a l’homme de perdre sa liberté. Et je puis dire que placé à cette intersection, j’ai mesuré avec effroi l’ampleur de l’aliénation des habitants de ce pays. Si la psychiatrie est la technique médicale qui se propose de permettre à l’homme de ne plus se sentir étranger à son environnement, je me dois d’affirmer que l’Arabe, aliéné permanent dans son pays, vit dans un état de dépersonnalisation absolue.

Le statut de l’Algérie ? Une déshumanisation systématisée.

Or le pari absurde était de vouloir coûte que coûte faire exister quelques valeurs alors que le non-droit, l’inégalité, le meurtre multi-quotidien de l’homme était érigé en principes législatifs. La structure sociale existant en Algérie s’opposait à toute tentative de remettre l’individu à sa place.

Monsieur le Ministre, il arrive un moment où la ténacité devient persévération morbide. L’espoir n’est plus alors la porte ouverte sur l’avenir mais le maintien illogique d’une attitude subjective en rupture organisée avec le réel.

Monsieur le Ministre, les événements actuels qui ensanglantent l’Algérie ne constituent pas aux yeux de l’observateur un scandale. Ce n’est ni un accident, ni une panne du mécanisme.

Les événements d’Algérie sont la conséquence logique d’une tentative avortée de décérébraliser un peuple. Il n’était point exigé d’être psychologue pour deviner sous la bonhomie apparente de l’Algérien, derrière son humilité dépouillée, une exigence fondamentale de dignité. Et rien ne sert, à l’occasion de manifestations non simplifiables de faire appel à un quelconque civisme.

La fonction d’une structure sociale est de mettre en place des institutions traversées par le souci de l’homme. Une société qui accule ses membres à des solutions de désespoir est une société non viable, une société à remplacer. Le devoir du citoyen est de le dire. Aucune morale professionnelle, aucune solidarité de classe, aucun désir de laver le linge en famille ne prévaut ici. Nulle mystification pseudo-nationale ne trouve grâce devant l’exigence de la pensée...

Le travailleur dans la cité doit collaborer à la manifestation sociale. Mais il faut qu’il soit convaincu de l’excellence de cette société vécue. Il arrive un moment où le silence devient mensonge. Les intentions maîtresses de l’existence personnelle s’accommodent mal des atteintes permanentes aux valeurs les plus banales.

Depuis de longs mois ma conscience est le siège de débats impardonnables. Et leur conclusion est la volonté de ne pas désespérer de l’homme, c’est-à-dire de moi-même. Ma décision est de ne pas assurer une responsabilité coûte que coûte sous le fallacieux prétexte qu’il n’y a rien d’autre à faire.

Pour toutes ces raisons, j’ai l’honneur, Monsieur le Ministre, de vous demander de bien vouloir accepter ma démission et de mettre fin à ma mission en Algérie, avec l’assurance de ma considération distinguée.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 14 Nico, "Janitor of lunacy"

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno domenica 1 agosto 2010 alle ore 23.39

Janitor of lunacy

Paralyze my infancy

Petrify the empty cradle

Bring hope to them and me

Janitor of tyranny

Testify my vanity

Mortalize my memory

Deceive the devil's deed

Tolerate my jealousy

Recognize the desperate need

Janitor of lunacy

Identify my destiny

Revive the living dream

Forgive their begging scream

Seal the giving of their seed

Disease the breathing grief

Cammini Dell'Antipichiatria 15: Gerard De Nerval, 'Aurelia' (1855)- poco prima di suicidarsi

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno giovedì 26 agosto 2010 alle ore 17.30

MEMORABLES

   Sur un pic élancé de l'Auvergne a retenti la chanson des pâtres. Pauvre Marie! reine des cieux! c'est à toi qu'ils s'adressent pieusement. Cette mélodie rustique a frappé l'oreille des corybantes. Ils sortent, en chantant à leur tour, des grottes secrètes où l'Amour leur fit des abris. - Hosannah! paix à la terre et gloire aux cieux!

            Sur les montagnes de l'Hymalaya une petite fleur est née. - Ne m'oubliez pas! - Le regard chatoyant d'une étoile s'est fixé un instant sur elle, et une réponse s'est fait entendre dans un doux langage étranger. - Myosotis!

            Une perle d'argent brillait dans le sable; une perle d'or étincelait au ciel... Le monde était créé. Chastes amours, divins soupirs! enflammez la sainte montagne... car vous avez des frères dans les vallées et des soeurs timides qui se dérobent au sein des bois!

            Bosquets embaumés de Paphos, vous ne valez pas ces retraites où l'on respire à pleins poumons l'air vivifiant de la patrie. "Là-haut, sur les montagnes, le monde y vit content; le rossignol sauvage fait mon contentement!"

            Oh! que ma grande amie est belle! Elle est si grande, qu'elle pardonne au monde, et si bonne, qu'elle m'a pardonné. L'autre nuit. elle était couchée je ne sais dans quel palais, et je ne pouvais la rejoindre. Mon cheval alezan brûlé se dérobait sous moi. Les rênes brisées flottaient sur sa croupe en sueur, et il me fallut de grands efforts pour l'empêcher de se coucher à terre.

            Cette nuit, le bon Saturnin m'est venu en aide, et ma grande amie a pris place à mes côtés, sur sa cavale blanche caparaçonnée d'argent. Elle m'a dit: "Courage, frère! car c'est la dernière étape." Et ses grands yeux dévoraient l'espace, et elle faisait voler dans l'air sa longue chevelure imprégnée des parfums de l'Yémen.

            Je reconnus les traits divins de ***. Nous volions au triomphe, et nos ennemis étaient à nos pieds. La huppe messagère nous guidait au plus haut des cieux, et l'arc de lumière éclatait dans les mains divines d'Apollyon. Le cor enchanté d'Adonis résonnait à travers les bois.

            O Mort! où est ta victoire, puisque le Messie vainqueur chevauchait entre nous deux? Sa robe était d'hyacinthe soufrée, et ses poignets, ainsi que les chevilles de ses pieds, étincelaient de diamants et de rubis. Quand sa houssine légère toucha la porte de nacre de la Jérusalem nouvelle, nous fûmes tous les trois inondés de lumière. C'est alors que je suis descendu parmi les hommes pour leur annoncer l'heureuse nouvelle.

            Je sors d'un rêve bien doux: j'ai revu celle que j'avais aimée transfigurée et radieuse. Le ciel s'est ouvert dans toute sa gloire, et j'y ai lu le mot pardon signé du sang de Jésus-Christ.

            Une étoile a brillé tout à coup et m'a révélé le secret du monde et des mondes. Hosannah! paix à la terre et gloire aux cieux!

            Du sein des ténèbres muettes deux notes ont résonné, l'une grave, l'autre aiguë, - et l'orbe éternel s'est mis à tourner aussitôt. Sois bénie, ô première octave qui commenças l'hymne divin! Du dimanche au dimanche enlace tous les jours dans ton réseau magique. Les monts te chantent aux vallées, les sources aux rivières, les rivières aux fleuves, et les fleuves à l'Océan; l'air vibre, et la lumière baise harmonieusement les fleurs naissantes. Un soupir, un frisson d'amour sort du sein gonflé de la terre, et le choeur des astres se déroule dans l'infini; il s'écarte et revient sur lui-même, se resserre et s'épanouit, et sème au loin les germes des créations nouvelles.

            Sur la cime d'un mont bleuâtre une petite fleur est née. - Ne m'oubliez pas! - Le regard chatoyant d'une étoile s'est fixé un instant sur elle, et une réponse s'est fait entendre dans un doux langage étranger.- Myosotis!

            Malheur à toi, dieu du Nord, - qui brisas d'un coup de marteau la sainte table composée des sept métaux les plus précieux! car tu n'as pu briser la Perle rose qui reposait au centre. Elle a rebondi sous le fer, - et voici que nous nous sommes armés pour elle... Hosannah!

            Le macrocosme, ou grand monde, a été construit par art cabalistique; le microcosme, ou petit monde, est son image réfléchie dans tous les coeurs. La Perle rose a été teinte du sang royal des Walkyries. Malheur à toi, dieu-forgeron, qui as voulu briser un monde!

            Cependant le pardon du Christ a été aussi prononcé pour toi!

            Sois donc béni toi-même, ô Thor, le géant, - le plus puissant des fils d'Odin! Sois béni dans Héla, ta mère, car souvent le trépas est doux, - et dans ton frère Loki, et dans ton chien Garnur!

            Le serpent qui entoure le Monde est béni lui-même, car il relâche ses anneaux, et sa gueule béante aspire la fleur d'anxoka, la fleur soufrée, - la fleur éclatante du soleil!

            Que Dieu préserve le divin Balder, le fils d'Odin, et Freya la belle!

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 16: dalla 'Esegesi' di P.K.Dick

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno giovedì 26 agosto 2010 alle ore 18.20

     Fat developed a lot of unusual theories to account for his contact with God, & the information derived therefrom. One in particular struck me as thought-provoking. It amounted to a kind of mental capitulation by Fat to what he was undergoing; this theory held  that in actuality he wasn't experiencing anything at all. Sites of his brain were being selectively stimulated  by tight energy-beams emanating from far off, perhaps millions of miles away. These selective brainsite stimulations generated in his head the impression—for him—that he was seeing & hearing words, pictures, figures of people, in short God, or as Fat liked to call it, the Logos. But, really, he only imagined he experienced these things. They resembled holograms. What struck me was the oddity of a lunatic discounting his hallucinations in this sophisticated manner; Fat hadintellectually dealt himself out of the game of madness while still enjoying its sights & sounds. In effect, he no longer claimed that what he experienced was really there. Did this indicate he had begun to sober up? Hardly. Now he held the view that "they" or Godor someone owned a long-range very tight informa-tion-rich beam of energy focused on Fat's head. Inthis I saw no improvement, but it did represent a change. Fat could now honestly discount his hallucinations, which meant he recognized them as such. But, like Gloria, he now had a "they." It seemed to me a pyrrhic victory. Fat's life struck me as a litany of exactly that, as for example the way he had rescued Gloria.

The exegesis Fat labored on month after month struck me as a pyrrhic victory if there ever was one—in this case an attempt by a beleaguered mind to make sense out of the inscrutable. Perhaps this is the key to mental illness: incomprehensible events occur—your life becomes a bin for hoaxlike fluctuations of what used to be reality, & not only that—as if that weren't bad enough—you, like Fat, ponder forever over these fluctuations in an effort to order them into a coherency. When in fact the only sense they make is the sense you impose on them, out of the necessity to restore everything into shapes & processes you can recognize. The first thing to depart in mental illness is the familiar.

& what takes its place is bad news because not only can you not understand it, you also cannot communicate it to other people. The madman experiences something. But what it is or where it comes from he does not know.

In the midst of his shattered landscape Fat imagined God had cured him. Once you notice pyrrhic victories they seem to abound.

Either he had seen God too soon, or he had seen him too late. In any case it had done him no good at all in terms of survival. Encountering the living God had not helped to equip him for the tasks of ordinary endurance, which ordinary men, not so favored, handle.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 17: Neil Tennant (Being boring)

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno mercoledì 8 settembre 2010 alle ore 21.03

Difficile, non essere noiosi. Tutti questi anni. Incrociato le droghe, le storie, i corpi. Ragazzi di New York City, ragazzi di una cittadina- ognuno con la sua piccola o grande verità, la sua piccola o grande bellezza. La musica mi porta oltre in qualche modo, accompagna lo scambio dei body fluids, il nostro amore. Invecchiando divento retorico, dunque- autocelebrativo? Ma non c'è niente di cui andare particolarmente orgogliosi. Abbiamo fatto quello che potevamo fare, e in qualche modo è stato bello. E ti amo; ti voglio ancora con me.

[Cammini dell'antipsichiatria 18-19] Deleuze-Guattari

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno mercoledì 8 settembre 2010 alle ore 21.04

La passeggiata dello schizofrenico: un modello migliore che non il nevrotico steso sul divano. Un po' di aria libera, una relazione con l'esterno... [Deleuze-Guattari, L'Anti-Oedipe, p.7]

rizoma!

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 20 Divenire intenso, divenire animale, divenire impercettibile... [Mille Plateaux]

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno mercoledì 8 settembre 2010 alle ore 21.04

10. 

1730 — DEVIR-INTENSO, DEVIR-ANIMAL, 

DEVIR-IMPERCEPTÍVEL... 

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 21 L'estasi del Parco [Sartre, 'La nausea']

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 10 settembre 2010 alle ore 23.25

(L’estasi del parco)        

    -Ch’io l’abbia sognata, quella enorme presenza? Era lì, posata sul giardino, precipitata negli alberi, mollissima, impiastricciando tutto, densissima, una mostarda. Ed io ci ero dentro, io, con tutto il giardino? Avevo paura, ma soprattutto ero arrabbiato, trovavo che era una cosa così stupida, così fuori posto, e l’odiavo, quell’ignobile marmellata. Quanta ce n’era! Arrivava fino al cielo, e invadeva tutto, tutto riempiva col suo abbraccio gelatinoso, e ne vedevo in quantità sempre più grande, ben oltre i confini del giardino, oltre le case, oltre Bouville, non ero più a Bouville, non ero più in nessun posto, fluttuavo. Non ero sorpreso, sapevo bene che era il Mondo, il Mondo nudo e crudo che si mostrava d’un tratto, e soffocavo di rabbia contro questo grosso essere assurdo. Non ci si poteva nemmeno domandare da dove uscisse fuori, tutto questo, né come mai esisteva un mondo invece che niente. Non aveva senso, il mondo era presente dappertutto, davanti, dietro. Non c’era stato niente prima di esso. Niente. Non c’era stato un momento in cui esso avrebbe potuto non esistere. Era appunto questo che m’irritava: Senza dubbio non c’era alcuna ragione perché esistesse, questa larva strisciante. Ma non era possibile che non esistesse. Era impensabile: per immaginare il nulla occorreva trovarcisi già, in pieno mondo, da vivo, con gli occhi spalancati, il nulla era solo un’idea nella mia testa, un’idea esistente, fluttuante in quella immensità: quel nulla non era venuto prima dell’esistenza, era un’esistenza come un’altra, e apparsa dopo molte altre. Ho gridato “che porcheria, che porcheria!” e mi son scrollato per sbarazzarmi di questa porcheria appiccicosa, ma questa teneva duro, e ce n’era tanta, tonnellate e tonnellate di esistenza, indefinitamente: soffocavo nel fondo di questa immensa noia. E poi, d’un tratto, il giardino s’è svuotato come per un gran buco, il mondo è sparito allo stesso modo come era venuto, oppure mi son risvegliato- in ogni caso non l’ho visto più: attorno a me rimaneva della terra gialla, dalla quale uscivano dei rami morti drizzati in aria.

    Mi sono alzato, sono uscito.Arrivato alla cancellata mi son voltato. Allora il giardino m’ha sorriso. Mi sono appoggiato alla cancellata ed ho guardato a lungo. Il sorriso degli alberi, del gruppo di allori, ciò voleva dire qualche cosa; era questo il vero segreto dell’esistenza. Mi son ricordato che una domenica, non più di tre settimane fa, avevo già sorpreso sulle cose una specie d’aria di complicità. Era diretta a me? Ho sentito con disappunto che non avevo alcun mezzo di comprendere. Nessun mezzo. e tuttavia era lì, in attesa, sembrava uno sguardo. Era là, sul tronco del castagno… era il castagno. Le cose si sarebbero detti pensieri che si fermassero a metà strada, che s’obliassero, che obliassero ciò che avevano voluto pensare, e che restassero così, ondeggianti, con un bizzarro, piccolo significato che le sorpassava. Mi infastidiva, questo piccolo significato: non potevo comprenderlo, nemmeno fossi rimasto centosette anni appoggiato a quella cancellata; avevo appreso sull’esistenza tutto quello che potevo sapere. Me ne sono andato, sono rientrato all’albergo, ed ecco qua, ho scritto.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 22

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 10 settembre 2010 alle ore 23.42

 (“Anoressia nervosa, paranoia sensitiva, l’audace volo verso l’alto come Ellen West e poi la terribile caduta via dall’Eigenwelt- tutto quanto. E infine il Mondo della Tomba. Tutto questo, chiaramente, è già successo a Jamis.” )   

 Philip K. Dick, ‘The dark-haired girl’, Ziesing, 1988 (pag. 34); da una sua lettera del 1972.

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 23 Parma, 1979- F., una lettera

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno sabato 11 settembre 2010 alle ore 0.26

CAMMINI DELLL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 24 'Ghiaccio', di Anna Kavan ['Ice', 1967]

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno domenica 26 settembre 2010 alle ore 8.04

An unearthly whiteness began to bloom on the hedges. I passed a gap and glanced through. For a moment, my lights picked out like searchlights the girl's naked body, slight as a child's, ivory white against the dead white of the snow, her hair bright as spun glass. She did not look in my direction. Motionless, she kept her eyes fixed on the walls moving slowly towards her, a glassy, glittering circle of solid ice, of which she was the centre. Dazzling flashes came from the ice-cliffs over her head; below, the outermost fringes of ice had already reached her, immobilized her, set hard as concrete over her feet and ankles. (7)

Despairingly she looked all around. She was completely encircled by the tremendous ice walls, which were made fluid by explosions of blinding light, so that they moved and changed with a continuous liquid motion, advancing in torrents of ice, avalanches as big as oceans, flooding everywhere over the doomed world. Wherever she looked, she saw the same fearful encirclement, soaring battlements of ice, an overhanging ring of frigid, fiery, colossal waves about to collapse upon her. Frozen by the deathly cold emanating from the ice, dazzled by the blaze of crystalline ice-light, she felt herself becoming part of the polar vision, her structure becoming one with the structure of ice and snow. As her fate, she accepted the world of ice, shining, shimmering, dead; she resigned herself to the triumph of glaciers and the death of her world.  (27)

The weight of the gun in my pocket was reassuring. (158)

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 25 sarebbe orribile una coscienza che diventi vischiosa (Sartre-L'être et le néant, 655-657)

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno venerdì 8 ottobre 2010 alle ore 11.58

Il y a, dans l'appréhension

même du visqueux, substance collante, compromettante et sans

équilibre, comme la hantise d'une métamorphose. Toucher du

visqueux, c'est risquer de se diluer en viscosité.

Or, cette dilution, par elle-même est déjà effrayante, parce qu'elle

est absorption du pour-soi par l'en-soi comme de l'encre par un

buvard. Mais, en outre, il est effrayant, à tant faire que de se

métamorphoser en chose, que ce soit précisément une métamorphose en visqueux. Si même je pouvais concevoir une liquéfaction de moi même, c'est-à-dire une transformation de mon être en eau, je n'en serais pas outre mesure affecté, car l'eau est le symbole de la conscience ' son mouvement, sa fluidité, cette solidarité non solidaire de son être, sa fuite perpétuelle, etc., tout en elle me rappelle le pour-soi; au point que les premiers psychologues qui ont marqué le caractère de durée de la conscience (James, Bergson) l'ont très fréquemment comparée à un fleuve. C'est le fleuve qui évoque le mieux l'image de l'interpénétration constante des parties d'un tout et de leur perpétuelle dissociabilité, disponibilité. Mais le visqueux offre une image horrible: il est horrible en soi de devenir visqueuse pour une conscience. C'est que l'être du visqueux est adhérence molle et, par ventouses de toutes ses parties, solidarité et complicité sournoise de chacune avec chacune, effort vague et mou de chacune pour s'individualiser, que suit une retombée, un aplatissement vidé de l'individu, sucé de toute part par la substance. Une conscience qui deviendrait visqueuse se transformerait donc par empâtement de ses idées. Nous l'avons dès notre surgissement dans le monde, cette hantise d'une conscience qui voudrait s'élancer vers le futur, vers un projet de soi et qui se sentirait, dans le moment même où elle aurait conscience d'y parvenir, retenue sournoisement, invisiblement par la succion du passé et qui devrait assister à sa lente dilution dans ce passé qu'elle fuit, à l'invasion de son projet par mille parasites jusqu'à ce qu'enfin elle se perde complètement elle-même. De cette horrible condition, le « vol de la pensée des psychoses d'influence nous donne la meilleure image. Mais qu'est-ce donc que traduit cette crainte, sur le plan ontologique, sinon justement la fuite du pour-soi devant l'en-soi de la facticité, c'est-à-dire justement la temporalisation? L'horreur du visqueux c'est l'horreur que le temps ne devienne visqueux, que la facticité ne progresse continûment et insensiblement et n'aspire le pour-soi qui « l'existe ». C'est la crainte non de la mort, non de l'en-soi pur, non du néant, mais d'un type d'être particulier, qui n'existe pas plus que l'en-soi-pour-soi et qui est seulement représenté par le visqueux. Un être idéal que je réprouve de toutes mes forces et qui me hante comme la valeur me hante dans mon être : un être idéal où l'en-soi non fondé a priorité sur le pour-soi et que nous nommerons une antivaleur.

Ainsi, dans le projet appropriatif du visqueux, la viscosité se révèle

soudain comme symhole d'une antivaleur, c'est-à-dire d'un type

d'être non réalisé, mais menaçant, qui va hanter perpétuellement la

conscience comme le danger constant qu'elle fuit et, de ce fait,

transforme soudain le projet d'appropriation en projet de fuite.

Quelque chose est apparu qui ne résulte d'aucune expérience

antérieure, mais seulement de la compréhension préontologique de

l'en-soi et du pour-soi et qui est proprement le sens du visqueux. En

un sens, c'est une expérience, puisque la viscosité est une découverte intuitive; et, en un autre sens, c'est comme l 'invention d'une aventure de l'être. A partir de là apparaît pour le pour-soi un certain danger neuf, un mode d'être menaçant et à éviter, une catégorie concrète qu'il retrouvera partout.

Le visqueux ne symbolise aucune conduite psychique, a priori : il manifeste une certaine relation de l'être avec lui-même et cette relation est originellement psychisée parce que je l'ai découverte dans une ébauche d'appropriation et que la viscosité

m'a renvoyé mon image. Ainsi suis-je enrichi, dès mon premier

contact avec le visqueux, d'un schème ontologique valable, par delà

la distinction du psychique et du non-psychique, pour interpréter

le sens d'être de tous les existants d'une certaine catégorie, cette

catégorie surgissant d'ailleurs comme un cadre vide avant l'expérience des différentes espèces de visqueux. Je l'ai jetée dans le

monde par mon projet originel en face du visqueux, elle est une

structure objective du monde en même temps qu'une antivaleur,

c'est-à-dire qu'elle détermine un secteur où viendront se ranger

les objets visqueux. Dès lors, chaque fois qu'un objet manifestera

pour moi ce rapport d'être, qu'il s'agisse d'une poignée de main,

d'un sourire ou d'une pensée, il sera par définition saisi comme

visqueux, c'est-à-dire que, par delà sa contexture phénoménale, il

m'apparaîtra comme constituant, en unité avec les poix, les colles,

les miels, etc., le grand secteur ontologique de la viscosité.

[Sartre non lo dice certo, ma aveva sofferto nel 1935 per molti mesi, dopo l'esperienza con la mescalina, di qualcosa che temeva fosse l'inizio di una 'psicosi allucinatoria cronica', come si esprimeva allora alla De Beauvoir]

CAMMINI DELL'ANTIPSICHIATRIA 26 1935: Sartre contro i mostri [da 'L'età forte' di Simone de Beauvoir]

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno domenica 10 ottobre 2010 alle ore 4.24

 “Un giorno di novembre, seduti sotto la veranda del caffè delle Mouettes a le Havre, avevamo a lungo deplorato la monotonia del nostro avvenire. Le nostre due vite erano impegnate l’una con l’altra, le nostre amicizie per sempre stabili, le nostre carriere fissate- ed il mondo continuava il suo corso. Ancora non avevamo trent’anni, e nulla di nuovo ci sarebbe mai capitato, per sempre! Di solito non prendevo troppo sul sero queste lamentazioni. Qualche volta, non di meno, cadevo giù dal mio olimpo. MI capitava, se una sera bevevo un bicchiere di troppo, di versare torrenti di lacrime; si risvegliava la mia vecchia nostalgia dell’assoluto; di nuovo scoprivo la vanità degli scopi umani, e l’imminenza della morte; rimproveravo a Sartre di lasciarsi  prendere da quella odiosa mistificazione che è la vita.  L’indomani restavo ancora sotto l’influsso di quella illuminazione. Un giorno, passeggiando lungo quel blocco di gesso ricoperto di erba stinta che domina la Senna, a Rouen, avemmo una lunga discussione. Sartre negava che la verità si trovasse nel vino e nei pianti; secondo lui l’alcool mi deprimeva, ed io davo in modo fallace ragioni metafisiche al mio stato. Io argomentavo che, distruggendo i controlli e le difese che di solito ci proteggono da evidenze insopportabili, l’ubriachezza mi obbligava a guardarle in faccia. Oggi penso che, in una condizione privilegiata come la mia, la vita ha in sé due diverse verità, fra le quali non si può scegliere e che bisogna affrontare insieme: la gioia di esistere, e l’orrore che ciò debba finire.Allora però io oscillavo dall’una all’altra; la seconda aveva il sopravvevnto solo a tratti, ma sospettavo che essa fosse la più reale.

    Avevo un’altra preoccupazione: invecchiavo. Né la mia salute né il mio aspetto ne soffrivano. Ma di tanto in tanto mi lamentavo che tutto intorno a me si scoloriva: Non sento più niente, gemevo. Ero ancora capace di estasi, però avevo la sensazione di una perdita insopportabile.Il bagliore delle scoperte che avevo fatto all’uscita dalla Sorbona si era a poco a poco dileguato. La mia curiosità trovava ancora del nutrimento;  ma non più novità folgoranti. Pure, intorno a me, la realtà traboccava,  ma io commisi l’errore di non cercare di penetrarla; la trattenevo in schemi o miti che erano più o meno consunti: quello del pittoresco, per esempio. Mi sembrava che le cose si ripetessero perché mi ripetevo io stessa. Questa malinconia però non disturbava in modo serio la mia vita.

     Sartre aveva redatto la parte critica del libro sull’immaginazione che gli aveva domandato il Professor Delacroix; aveva posto mano a una seconda parte, molto più originale, in cui riprendeva alla radice il problema dell’immagine, utilizzando le nozioni fenomenologiche di intenzionalità e di hyle; fu allora che mise a punto le prime idee chiave della sua filosofia: l’assolutà vacuità della coscienza, ed il suo potere di nullificazione. Questa ricerca, nella quale inventava insieme metodo e contenuto, prendendo dalla propria esperienza tutti i materiali, richiedeva una considerevole concentrazione; non arrestato da nessuna preoccupazione per la forma, scriveva con una rapidità estrema, sforzandosi di seguire con la penna il movimento del pensiero; diversamente dal suo lavoro letterario questa invenzione continua e accelerata lo affaticava.

    Si interessava evidentemente al sogno, alle immagini ipnagogiche, alle anomalie della percezione. In febbraio, uno dei suoi antichi compagni, il Dr. Lagache, gli propose di andare all’ospedale di Sainte-Anne per farsi fare una puntura di mescalina; questa droga provovcava allucinazioni, e Sartre avrebbe potuto osservarne l’effetto su sé stesso. Lagache l’avvertì che l’avventura sarebbe stata poco piacevole; però, non comportava nessun pericolo. Sartre rischiava tutt’al più di presentare per la durata di alcune ore dei ‘comportamenti bizzarri’.

    Passai la giornata a Boulevard Raspail con Mme Lemaire e Paigniez. A  fine pomeriggio, come d’accordo, telefonai a Sainte-Anne: con una voce impastata Sartre mi disse che la mia chiamata lo strappava a un combattimento contro delle piovre nel quale sicuramente non avrebbe avuto la meglio. Giunse mezz’ora più tardi. Lo avevano steso su un letto, in una stanza debolmente illuminata; non aveva avuto allucinazioni; ma gli oggetti che aveva attorno si deformavano in modo orribile: aveva visto degli ombrelli-avvoltoio, delle scarpe-scheletro, dei visi mostruosi;  e di lato a lui, dietro, brulicavano dei granchi, dei polipi, delle cose ghignanti. Uno degli interni se ne era meravigliato: nel suo caso, aveva raccontato alla fine della seduta, la mescalina aveva avuto degli effetti del tutto differenti; aveva saltellato per praterie fiorite, in mezzo a urì meravigliose. Forse, Sartre si diceva con rincrescimento, se si fosse aspettato queste delizie, invece che degli incubi, si sarebbe poi orientato verso quelle visioni paradisiache. Ma lo avevano influenzato le predizioni di Lagache. Parlava seza gioia, osservando intanto con aria sospettosa i fili telefonici che correvano sul tappeto. In treno tacque a lungo. Portavo delle scarpe di lucertola i cui lacci terminavano in una specie di ghianda: si aspettava di vederli, da un minuto all’altro, trasformarsi in giganteschi scarabei. Ci fu anche un orang-utang, senza dubbio sospeso per le zampe al tetto della carrozza, che incollava al finestrino un volto minaccioso. Il giorno dopo Sartre era in buone condizioni, e mi parlò con distacco di Sainte-Anne.

    Una delle domeniche successive Colette Audry mi accompagnò a Le Havre. Con le persone che gli piacevano Sartre si metteva sempre in mostra; fui stupita del suo malumore. Abbiamo camminato lungo la spiaggia e raccolto delle stelle di mare, quasi senza parlare. Sartre sembrava non sapere che ci stessimo a fare lì Colette ed io, né cosa ci stesse a fare lui stesso. Lo lasciai un poco irritata.

    Quando lo rividi, si spiegò. Da qualche giorno gli succedeva di essere in preda all’angoscia; gli stati in cui cadeva ricordavano quelli in cui l’aveva gettato la mescalina, e di ciò era terrorizzato. Le sue  percezioni si deformavano; le case avevano delle facce ghignanti, con occhi e mascelle dappertutto; non poteva impedirsi di cercare, e trovare, su ogni quadrante di orologio un volto di civetta. Beninteso sapeva che erano delle case, degli orologi; gli occhi, i ghigni- non si poteva dire che ci credesse, ma un giorno ci avrebbe creduto; un giorno si sarebbe veramente convinto che un’aragosta gli trotterellava dietro. Di già una macchia nera danzava ostinatamente nello spazio, all’altezza dei suoi occhi. Un pomeriggio passeggiavano a Rouen, sulla sponda sinistra della Senna, fra binari, cantieri, vagoni e pezzi di praterie malate; mi disse bruscamente: “lo so di cosa si tratta: sono all’inizio di una psicosi allucinatoria cronica”. Così come la si definiva allora, era una malattia che nel giro di dieci anni portava fatalmente alla demenza.Protestai energicamente e, una volta tanto, non per partito preso di ottimismo ma per buon senso. Il caso di Sartre non somigliava in nulla agli esordi di una psicosi allucinatoria. Né la macchia nera né l’ossessione delle case-mascella  indicavano la nascita di una psicosi incurabile. Sapevo inoltre con quale facilità l’immagnazione di Sartre correva verso la catastrofe. “La vostra sola pazzia è di credervi pazzo”, gli dissi. “Vedrete”, rispose cupamente.

    Non vidi nulla tranne un abbattimento da cui faceva la più grande fatica a sollevarsi. A volte gli riusciva. Per Pasqua andammo sui laghi italiani. Sembrava molto allegro, finchè andavamo in barca sul lago di Como, e nelle stradine di Bellagio, dove una notte vedemmo una processione con le torce. Ma tornati a Parigi non riescì più nemmeno a fingere la salute. Fernand espose dei quadri alla galleria Bonjean; durante tutta l’inaugurazione  Sartre rimase seduto in un angolo, silenzioso, con il viso spento. Lui che un tempo guardava tutto non osservava più niente. Restavamo a volte fianco a fianco in un caffè o camminavamo per le strade senza scambiarci una parola. Mme Lemaire pensava che fosse esaurito; lo mandò da un medico suo amico, ma questi rifiutò di fargli dare un periodo di congedo; a suo avviso, Sartre aveva bisogno della minor quantità possibile di tempo libero, e di stare da solo il meno possibile; si limitò a prescrivergli mezza pastiglia di belladenal mattino e sera. Sartre continuò dunque a far lezione e a scrivere. Il fatto è che si perdeva con più difficoltà nelle sue paure se qualcuno era con lui.  Si mise a uscire spesso con due suoi ex allievi, per i quali aveva molta amicizia: Albert Palle e Jacques Bost, fratello minore di Pierre Bost: la loro presenza lo difendeva dai crostacei. A Rouen, quando io facevo lezione, gli faceva compagnia Olga; questa prendeva assolutamente sul serio il suo ruolo di infermiera. Sartre le raccontava una quantità di storie, che divertivano lei e aiutavano lui a distrarsi.

   I medici hanno sostenuto che la mescalina non poteva assolutamente avere provocato quella crisi; la seduta al Sainte-Anne aveva solo fornito a Sartre certi schemi allucinatori; erano indubbiamente state la fatica e la tensione generata dalle sue ricerche filosofiche a ravvivare le sue paure. Più tardi noi abbiamo pensato che esse esprimevano un malessere profondo: Sartre non si rassegnava a passare alla ’età della ragione’, alla ‘maturità’.

    Nei tempi in cui allloggiava alla Scuola Normale, vi si cantava un lamento assai carino sulla triste sorte risevata ai normalisti. Ho già raccontato con quale ripugnanza Sartre la vedeva allora. Si era bene adattato ai primi due anni di insegnamento tanto era felice di aver concluso il servizio militare: la novità di quella esistenza lo aiutava a sopportarla.  A Berlino aveva ritrovato la libertà, la gioia della sua vita di studente; Tanto maggior disagio ebbe a ripiombare nella serità e nella monotonia della condizione di adulto.  La conversazione che avevamo avuto al caffè delle Mouettes non era stata per lui un chiacchierare superficialmente.  Certo amava i suoi allievi, e insegnare; ma detestava avere dei rapporti con un direttore, un censore, dei colleghi, dei genitori di studenti; l’orrore che gli ispiravano i ‘porci’ non era solo un tema letterario; questo mondo borghese di cui si sentiva prigioniero lo opprimeva. Non era sposato, manteneva alcune libertà: non di meno, la sua vita era saldata alla mia. In breve, a trent’anni si metteva su un cammmino tracciato fin dall’inizio: le sue sole avventure sarebbero state i libri che avrebbe scritto. Il primo era stato rifiutato; il secondo esigeva ancora del lavoro. Quanto al suo libro su ‘L’immagine’, Alcan aveva accettato solo la prima parte, e lui prevedeva che la seconda, che lo interessava molto di più, non sarebbe stata pubblicata che molti anni dopo. Avevamo entrambe una assoluta fiducia nel suo avvenire; ma l’avvenire non sempre basta a illuminare il presente. Sartre aveva messo tanto ardore ad essere giovane che nel momento in cui la sua giovinezza lo abbandonava ci sarebbero volute delle gioie molto grandi per consolarlo di ciò.

    Ho già detto che malgrado le apparenze la mia condizione era completamente diversa dalla sua. Passare l’esame di stato, avere in mano un mestiere era per lui una cosa scontata. Io, in cima a quella scalinata a Marsiglia, avevo avuto una vertigine di gioia: non mi sembrava di subire un destino, ma di averlo scelto. La carriera in cui Sartre vedeva impantanarsi la sua libertà nonaveva smesso di rappresentare per me una liberazione.  E poi, come ha scritto Rilke a proposito di Rodin, Sartre era ‘il proprio cielo’; sempre in questione dunque fra le cose incerte, ma mai in questione per me, la sua esistenza giustificava per me il mondo, che nulla invece giustificava ai suoi occhi.

    La mia personale esperienza non mi permetteva dunque di capire i motivi della sua depressione; si è già visto d’altra parte che la psicologia non era il mio forte, e nei riguardi di Sartre in particolare mi guardavo bene dal ricorrervi; per me, lui era pura coscienza e radicale libertà; mi rifiutavo di considerarlo pura pedina di circostanze oscure, oggetto passivo; preferivo pensare che lui stesso produceva le sue angosce, le sue illusioni per via di una sorta di volontà cattiva; più che spaventarmi, la sua crisi mi irritò; discussi, ragionai, gli rimproverai la sua compiacenza  a ritenersi condannato. Vi vedevo una specie di tradimento; non aveva il diritto di lanciarsi in stati d’animo che minacciavano le nostre costruzioni comuni. C’era anche della viltà in questo mio modo di fuggire davanti alla verità, ma la lucidità non mi sarebbe servita a molto; i problemi di Sartre non potevo risolverli io al suo posto; per guarirlo dei suoi passeggeri disturbi mi mancavano l’esperienza e le tecniche necessarie. Non l’avrei certamente aiutato se avessi condiviso le sue paure. La mia collera fu senza dubbio una reazione sana.” [Simone de Beauvoir, ‘La force de l’âge’, pp 214-220]

 Nel 1936 Sartre raccontò in questi termini assolutamente minimizzanti e fuorvianti l'esperienza

(e questo all'interno di un libro come 'L'immaginario', pieno di acutissime analisi fenomenologiche delle esperienze allucinatorie e deliranti):

“Ho potuto constatare, dopo un’iniezione di mescalina che mi ero fatto praticare, un breve fenomeno allucinatorio. Presentava esattamente…un carattere laterale: qualcuno cantava nella stanza accanto, e mentre tendevo l’orecchio per sentire meglio- smettendo perciò del tutto di guardare davanti a me- mi comparvero davanti tre piccole nuvole parallele. Questo fenomeno scomparve da solo non appena cercai di percepirlo chiaramente. Non era compatibile con la coscienza visiva piena e chiara. Non poteva esistere che di sfruso e d’altra parte si presentava esattamente come tale; nel modo che avevano queste tre piccole brume di darsi al mio ricordo, non appena scomparse, vi era qualcosa insieme di inconsistente e di misterioso, che, mi sembra, esprimeva con correttezza l’esistenza di questi fenomeni spontanei liberati sul margine della coscienza” [‘L’imaginaire’, ed. Folio 2005, pag. 302] 

My Final Thoughts: Jared Lee Loughner [cammini dell'antipsichiatria 27]

pubblicata da Giacomo Conserva il giorno lunedì 10 gennaio 2011 alle ore 7.07

Most people, who read this text, forget in the next 2 second!

The population of dreamers in the United States of America is less than 5%!

If 987,123,478,961,876,341,234,098,601,978,618 is the year in B.C.E. then the previous year is 987,123,478,961,876,341,234,098,601,978,619 B.C.E.

987,123,478,961,876,341,234,098,601,978,618 is the year in B.C.E.

Therefore, the previous year of 987,123,478,961,876,341,234,098,601,978,619 B.C.E.

If B.C.E. years are unable to start then A.D.E. years are unable to begin.

B.C.E. years are unable to start.

Thus, A.D.E. years are unable to begin.

If A.D.E. is endless in year then the years in A.D.E. don't cease.

A.D.E. is endless in year.

Therefore, the years in A.D.E. don't cease.

If I teach a mentally capable 8 year old for 20 consecutive minutes to replace an alphabet letter with a new letter and pronunciation then the mentally capable 8 year old writes and pronounces the new letter and pronunciation that's replacing an alphabet letter in 20 consecutive minutes.

I teach a mentally capable 8 year old for 20 consecutive minutes to replace an alphabet letter with a new letter and pronunciation.

Thus, the mentally capable 8 year old writes and pronounces the new letter and pronunciation that replaces an alphabet letter in 20 consecutive minutes.

Every human who's mentally capable is always able to be treasurer of their new currency.

If you create one new currency then you're able to create a second new currency.

If you're able to create second new currency then you're able to create third new currency.

You create one new currency.

Thus, you're able to create a third new currency.

You're a treasurer for a new currency, listener?

You create and distribute your new currency, listener?

You don't allow the government to control your grammar structure, listener?

If you create one new language then you're able to create a second new language.

If you're able to create a second new language then you're able to create a third new language.

You create one new language.

Thus, you're able to create a third new language.

All humans are in need of sleep.

Jared Loughner is a human.

Hence, Jared Loughner is in need of sleep.

Sleepwalking

If I define sleepwalking then sleepwalking is the act or state of walking, eating, or performing other motor acts while asleep, of which one is unaware upon awakening.

I define sleepwalking.

Thus, sleepwalking is the act or state of walking, eating, or performing other motor acts while asleep, of which one is unaware upon awakening.

I'm a sleepwalker - who turns off the alarm clock.

All conscience dreaming at this moment is asleep.

Jared Loughner is conscience dreaming at this moment.

Thus, Jared Loughner is asleep.

Terrorist

If I define terrorist then a terrorist is a person who employs terror or terrorism, especially as a political weapon.

I define terrorist.

This, a terrorist is a person who employs terror or terrorism, especially as a political weapon.

If you call me a terrorist then the argument to call me a terrorist is Ad hominem.

You call me a terrorist.

Thus, the argument to call me a terrorist is Ad hominem.

Every United States Military recruit at MEPS in Phoenis is receiving one mini bible before the tests.

Jared Loughner is a United States Military recruit at MEPS in Phoenix.

Therefore, Jared Loughner is receiving one mini bible before the tests.

I didn't write a belief on my Army application, and the recruiter wrote on the application; None.

The majority of citizens in the United States of America have never read the United States of America's Constitution.

You don't have to accept the federalist laws.

Nonetheless, read the United States of America's Constituion to apprehend all of the current treasonous laws.

You're literate, listener?

If the property owners and government officials are no longer in ownership of their land and laws from a revolution then the revolutionary's from the revolution are in control of the land and laws.

The property owners and government officials are no longer in ownership of their land and laws from a revolution.

Thus, the revolutionary's from the revolution are in control of the land and laws.

In conclusion, reading the second United States Constition, I can't trust the current government because of the ratifications: The government is implying mind control and brainwash on the people by controlling grammar.

No! I won't pay debt with a currency that's not backed by gold and silver!

No! I won't trust in God!

What's government if words don't have meaning?