Post by Jack of Blades on Apr 1, 2006 13:15:30 GMT -5
Everything remains the same as previous 'Origins'.
Jack of Blades: As I am sure you will have established from antecedent episodes, I have and have always held a high regard for irony. Not the type that is manufactured through clever manipulation but the opportunities of hilarity inherent within nature's whims. One such of these occasions was the marriage of the 17-year-old heir to his 17-year-old partner. Even though I was just a year older, I appreciated the comedy behind them making the ultimate commitment to one another and yet still being thought of as too immature to drink by the state.
Of course, that ruling had never stopped the heir. Ever since the engagement both him and my father had considerably sped up their efforts to make their blood 80% proof. The effects it had on my father were visible. A man who had repressed and contained his emotions for a decade was now crying and howling after a 'Budweiser' had hit his lips. As if he was attempting to literally drown a pressing issue. One that he knew he would eventually face but when he did he wanted to see it in double vision.
It would have not been so bad if he had not left his beer cans spread randomly across the house. Each morning I used to wake up and armed with a plastic black bag run around the house searching for the remnants of my father's one-man toga parties that took place each night. It reminded me of days gone by when the very same man used to hide my birthday presents around our house and draw me a map guiding me to each one.
The main issue with this practice was the fact he rarely left the cans face up. It just seemed to offend me. There was something about the placement that I just did not like. This seemed to be happening more and more. These arbitrary images and compulsions that drove me to like/hate/perform the weirdest of things. All in the phobia that something drastic would be the result out of my actions.
I used to make my mother aware of such things. "This does not go there, it goes there." I would move and rearrange the household nuances before returning to my slumber and then proceeding to wake up in melancholia. I did not care about my application to Oxbridge, any attempts at a social life nor my current career. I had landed a job at the local video rental store. The job itself was fine. We had an epic and private stock of video erotica. While a customer would bring 'Toy Story' to the desk, I would be fondling myself underneath the desk to 'Sex Toy Story.'
My mother and sister made attempts to make me more jovial reminding me of my stellar results grades that I had achieved a year previous. I must have forgotten to tell you about my final exams of mandatory schooling. If anything that proves my disdain to any sort of classification of intelligence made by the 'system.'
Eventually, both female members of my immediate family became bored with playing the agony aunt role and simply booked an appointment with the local doctor. The same man who had cleverly deduced that my breathing difficulties were imaginary was, in their minds, going to be the same hero that cured me of my erratic behaviour.
I was somewhat angry that they had compared my requests for order and my father's alcoholism and considered the former the worst affliction. However, the purpose and catalyst of the latter would soon be revealed.
I returned home from a night of watching my two 'bestest friends in the world. Ever,' describe how they would effectively throw their money into a giant fan when the heir inherited the full amount of currency left by his family when he turned 18. Jacuzzis, buying a football team, and having a personal jet were all on the card, well, all the cards except for the Jack and the King.
Upon my arrival to Casa Del Shithole (the Nolan abode) I found my mother screaming at my father over 'late nights and privy secrets.' Although it was obvious she was distressed I was somewhat happy. Somewhat invigorated. Somewhat ecstatic. Finally, this diseased corpse of a family was showing some sort of emotive life.
And yet, a vital organ of the corpse would soon be lost through it being transplanted into the heart of another. My mother's tirade was done against the news that 'Jill' (the forewoman) had been promoted to 'Co-Manager of Special Projects' and being moved to the company's headquarters in Spain. The other co-manager? My father. She had slept around enough to get her own personal eunuch the position. The next revelation of my fathers was obvious. The news itself didn't make me feel any anguish but the unsurprising nature of his revelation made me want to spit on him.
They had been having an affair and he wanted a divorce so that she could marry him and on their honeymoon, decapitate him and implant his lifeless body with their eggs. My father walked out that night and I never saw him again. What would I do if I saw him now? I'd shake his hand and congratulate him on keeping up the charade as long as he did.
After that I did not leave the house until the doctor's appointment. I went and like a good child described the symptoms of accursed imagery and uncontrollable desires within my cranium. His response was amazingly similar to my infamous 'psychosomatic' encounter.
"Are you feeling stressed, Jackie?"
‘Jackie’ was his trademark name for me as a child frightened of injections. I thought one might be coming.
"No."
To some degree, it was true. Despite the engagement, the perverse pleasure I received in my vocation and the recent events with my father, I was not particularly feigned by any worry. They were present but I still maintained my inertia.
"Have any events happened recently that have caused you harm?"
"In what way?"
"Any."
I relayed the engagement, the career, the apathy, the irony in Jack screwing Jill's father. He gave his trademark sigh and removed his glasses.
"Jack, you are intelligent. Are you not?"
"To a degree."
He scribbled this down. Both he and I knew that the younger person in this room was also the smartest. Eliminate the degrees, the years of education and if it came down to natural ability, Jack would win each time.
"Another attack of your mind, I'm afraid, Mr. Nolan. It seems that your intellect is a dual-edged sword. Do you have any knowledge of what OCD is?"
"Yes." He did not let me finish. He assumed I had the pragmatics necessary for the conversation to continue.
"Your actions seem to derive from such an illness. The explicit and horrific imagery. The need to perform random acts. These things seem to be a manifestation of unused brain capacity. Most obsessive-compulsives suffer from a miscommunication of the receptors or a lack of serotonin. A predilection of development. It is possible to conclude that much like the way which it caused you to suffer attacks of breathlessness to avoid stress, it is creating obsessions and compulsive requests as a way of entertaining itself."
"Uh, Doctor. This seems a little farfetched. You have not even gone through any measure of testing."
"Your response to my queries was quite enough to recognise the symptoms. Admittedly I cannot make an honest diagnosis through such assumptions but it seems to be likely. I have heard about such cases before. The mind, or to be specific, your mind is moving on a greater perceptive scale than the environment allows. It has expressed this in your brain developing its own set of reflexes through reason. So your brain would recognise you were scared of your ‘encounter’ with Maria and thus created a physical loophole with which you were to escape. In recent events, it seems that your unused intellect has collected itself as images and impulses as a form of subconscious expression.”
“You said something about ‘most obsessive compulsives.’ Does that mean I’m not like most?”
“The explanation behind your illness is equivocal to all other instances but whereas most OCD sufferers tend to be extroverts you seem to be wholly shy. There is a forming belief that the reason behind near-hyperactivity in OCD patients is that it is a way of either distracting themselves from distressing compulsions or as a way of expending extra energy. In your case, you seem to be prefer remain static in mood and persona.”
“Couldn’t that just be my personality?”
“Ah, but is your personality selective? Do you really feel so little about the engagement of your best friend and the woman you are attracted with? Combined with the fact that they, and you, are so young. Is this not just a shell hiding the true feelings?”
I felt the need to change the subject. I did not want him to win the interrogation but knew that if we continued down this path he would be the victor.
“What causes these ‘heightened’ perceptions? You said obsessive compulsive disorder comes from it rather than creating it.”
“It seems to be a combination of a high intellect or at least mastery of three of the multiple intelligences, emotive control or ability to project false feelings as reality, a utilitarian or relativist set of morals, however it should be noted that conversions of the immoral to a belief system can also cause symptoms. Have you had a religious epiphany lately? No? Oh, and there seems to be a fourth ‘higher’ section which we are aware of in terms of presence, we are not sure why. It seems to be an engrained logical progression in reducing social predicates such as religions and governments. Similar to what Nietzsche said? Do you know of Friedrich Nietzsche?”
I replied that I had a basic knowledge of the philosophy and how he was often (mistakenly) attributed to the National Socialist party. He agreed and said that it was an annoying if popular caricature of the man. He said I should look at some of his work telling me it made for an interesting if distressing approach to existence. At this point, he left the room and returned with a worn copy of ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra.’
I left the surgery holding both a philosophical ‘self-help’ book along with some form of medication both of which I had been prescribed. The conversation had ended with the usual “You have a very interesting brain, Mr Nolan” that he had complimented me with before. The doctor was somewhat pessimistic about the pills working and told me, confidently, that if the symptoms still persisted after a month to return and think about weekly visits to a psychiatrist.
I decided to walk back to my father-less home rather than wait for my mother to pick me up. Besides it was her first day at work since my father had abandoned us. The heir had allowed her a few days (paid) holiday and even, in attempt to cheer her up, offered to hire assassins of sorts to track the happy couple.
On the two-hour journey, I started to relay the events of my appointment in my head. This was the same man who had deceived me using placebos as a treatment for my illnesses. What was stopping him doing it again? Was this why he was complimenting me as well as acknowledging me as a patient? Why did he say the same thing that he had said to me before when I had another one of these ‘psychological’ diagnoses? I eventually came to the conclusion that these ‘pills’ were also placebos devised to force me to get over my condition. Unfortunately this was one of those occasions when a person can be too smart for his or her own good.
On my return home, I entered the house to be met with sobs of a distressed mother. I confronted her and asked what was the problem. She replied that the heir had fired her because she caught him doing something (I knew what.) She promised that she wouldn’t say anything but he still went on to dismiss her. I promised I would discuss the matter with him immediately still carrying my placebos.
I was buzzed into the mansion straight away and given free reign to find the heir. The angels must have been flushing some celestial toilet because it was raining like I had never seen it do before. Although soaked, I managed to wade through the manor searching for my wealthy friend. I walked into the library to find the heir learning against the 20-foot window that looks onto the infinite vastness of his lawn. He was fondling a spirit of some kind. On the rocks.
He told me, without turning his head to address me, that he knew what I was there for but that he would not change his decision. She had caught him taking the drugs. I reaffirmed my point that she did not say anything. He countered by saying that she could. I told him he knew she wouldn’t. He did not answer; he just took another sip of his drink.
I recanted my doctor’s evaluation and became infuriated. I told him the usual tripe about having a problem and that he should try and find some help. He told me to leave. Which I did. On my way out of the gargantuan library, I noticed a waste paper bin. Now confident in the failure of my GP, I threw the tablets away.
A plethora of further epiphanies were to come. On my way home I came to two realisations: 1.) The reason behind my mother’s dismissal and 2) I was unnecessary to the family. My mother’s unemployment had not come through distrust but because the heir was angry at her calm response. She did not berate him nor did she try and help him. She left him to his own devices. He wanted a response. Someone to slap him. Embrace him. Communicate with him. Her ignorance or obedience depending on your view was her undoing. Not his greed.
Secondly, I came to the understanding that I was just adding more pressure to my broken family. My food consumption, clothing and luxuries still detracted from the parental wage packet as well my own. I decided that I was to leave my hollow existence and pursue the only constant in my life: wrestling.
Upon opening the house door for the second time, I almost tripped over. We had collectively forgot to open the mail since my father’s absence. I skimmed through them and came to one addressed to myself. Something quite unnatural as my presence was almost exclusive to people who can reach me over the telephone. I opened up to find a degree of solace worth ten grand.
Apparently there was a foundation known as the ‘Marrick Prodigy Fund’ which monitored progress in students. Those who achieved the top five exam results in each key subject (English, Maths and Science) were given a bursary of £10,000 to further aid in their studies. However, this was a huge assumption as there were no stipulations necessary so someone who had received the money could spend it anyway they desired.
I had apparently written the fourth most competent English test paper throughout England. Some comments which had been written on my work were included within the letter: “The candidate demonstrates an aptitude in every article inherent to the creative writing stage as well as any general factors of linguistics. His plot remains devoid of cliché as well as holistic. However, that is not to say it is a piece without flaws. The characters seem to be unrealistic in that although they purvey a sense of naturalism they are rarely ascribed any sort of emotional depth. It's as if he forces them to surpress something deeper but never lets on what it is. Whether this was due to the time and spatial limitations, it is unknown but if this difficulty had been covered then this piece would have been consummate at this stage of education.”
I took the cheque, gave it to my mother and told her to cash it. I then went upstairs packed my bags with only my favourite clothes (the rest were for my family to sell) my unspent wage packets, and some personal objects. During my packing, I noticed that ‘Zarathustra’ was still in my pocket so somewhat impulsively I included it in my makeshift suitcase (it was actually a rucksack.) I then walked out the door without a word. An ideal summary for my existence within that state of time.
Jack of Blades: As I am sure you will have established from antecedent episodes, I have and have always held a high regard for irony. Not the type that is manufactured through clever manipulation but the opportunities of hilarity inherent within nature's whims. One such of these occasions was the marriage of the 17-year-old heir to his 17-year-old partner. Even though I was just a year older, I appreciated the comedy behind them making the ultimate commitment to one another and yet still being thought of as too immature to drink by the state.
Of course, that ruling had never stopped the heir. Ever since the engagement both him and my father had considerably sped up their efforts to make their blood 80% proof. The effects it had on my father were visible. A man who had repressed and contained his emotions for a decade was now crying and howling after a 'Budweiser' had hit his lips. As if he was attempting to literally drown a pressing issue. One that he knew he would eventually face but when he did he wanted to see it in double vision.
It would have not been so bad if he had not left his beer cans spread randomly across the house. Each morning I used to wake up and armed with a plastic black bag run around the house searching for the remnants of my father's one-man toga parties that took place each night. It reminded me of days gone by when the very same man used to hide my birthday presents around our house and draw me a map guiding me to each one.
The main issue with this practice was the fact he rarely left the cans face up. It just seemed to offend me. There was something about the placement that I just did not like. This seemed to be happening more and more. These arbitrary images and compulsions that drove me to like/hate/perform the weirdest of things. All in the phobia that something drastic would be the result out of my actions.
I used to make my mother aware of such things. "This does not go there, it goes there." I would move and rearrange the household nuances before returning to my slumber and then proceeding to wake up in melancholia. I did not care about my application to Oxbridge, any attempts at a social life nor my current career. I had landed a job at the local video rental store. The job itself was fine. We had an epic and private stock of video erotica. While a customer would bring 'Toy Story' to the desk, I would be fondling myself underneath the desk to 'Sex Toy Story.'
My mother and sister made attempts to make me more jovial reminding me of my stellar results grades that I had achieved a year previous. I must have forgotten to tell you about my final exams of mandatory schooling. If anything that proves my disdain to any sort of classification of intelligence made by the 'system.'
Eventually, both female members of my immediate family became bored with playing the agony aunt role and simply booked an appointment with the local doctor. The same man who had cleverly deduced that my breathing difficulties were imaginary was, in their minds, going to be the same hero that cured me of my erratic behaviour.
I was somewhat angry that they had compared my requests for order and my father's alcoholism and considered the former the worst affliction. However, the purpose and catalyst of the latter would soon be revealed.
I returned home from a night of watching my two 'bestest friends in the world. Ever,' describe how they would effectively throw their money into a giant fan when the heir inherited the full amount of currency left by his family when he turned 18. Jacuzzis, buying a football team, and having a personal jet were all on the card, well, all the cards except for the Jack and the King.
Upon my arrival to Casa Del Shithole (the Nolan abode) I found my mother screaming at my father over 'late nights and privy secrets.' Although it was obvious she was distressed I was somewhat happy. Somewhat invigorated. Somewhat ecstatic. Finally, this diseased corpse of a family was showing some sort of emotive life.
And yet, a vital organ of the corpse would soon be lost through it being transplanted into the heart of another. My mother's tirade was done against the news that 'Jill' (the forewoman) had been promoted to 'Co-Manager of Special Projects' and being moved to the company's headquarters in Spain. The other co-manager? My father. She had slept around enough to get her own personal eunuch the position. The next revelation of my fathers was obvious. The news itself didn't make me feel any anguish but the unsurprising nature of his revelation made me want to spit on him.
They had been having an affair and he wanted a divorce so that she could marry him and on their honeymoon, decapitate him and implant his lifeless body with their eggs. My father walked out that night and I never saw him again. What would I do if I saw him now? I'd shake his hand and congratulate him on keeping up the charade as long as he did.
After that I did not leave the house until the doctor's appointment. I went and like a good child described the symptoms of accursed imagery and uncontrollable desires within my cranium. His response was amazingly similar to my infamous 'psychosomatic' encounter.
"Are you feeling stressed, Jackie?"
‘Jackie’ was his trademark name for me as a child frightened of injections. I thought one might be coming.
"No."
To some degree, it was true. Despite the engagement, the perverse pleasure I received in my vocation and the recent events with my father, I was not particularly feigned by any worry. They were present but I still maintained my inertia.
"Have any events happened recently that have caused you harm?"
"In what way?"
"Any."
I relayed the engagement, the career, the apathy, the irony in Jack screwing Jill's father. He gave his trademark sigh and removed his glasses.
"Jack, you are intelligent. Are you not?"
"To a degree."
He scribbled this down. Both he and I knew that the younger person in this room was also the smartest. Eliminate the degrees, the years of education and if it came down to natural ability, Jack would win each time.
"Another attack of your mind, I'm afraid, Mr. Nolan. It seems that your intellect is a dual-edged sword. Do you have any knowledge of what OCD is?"
"Yes." He did not let me finish. He assumed I had the pragmatics necessary for the conversation to continue.
"Your actions seem to derive from such an illness. The explicit and horrific imagery. The need to perform random acts. These things seem to be a manifestation of unused brain capacity. Most obsessive-compulsives suffer from a miscommunication of the receptors or a lack of serotonin. A predilection of development. It is possible to conclude that much like the way which it caused you to suffer attacks of breathlessness to avoid stress, it is creating obsessions and compulsive requests as a way of entertaining itself."
"Uh, Doctor. This seems a little farfetched. You have not even gone through any measure of testing."
"Your response to my queries was quite enough to recognise the symptoms. Admittedly I cannot make an honest diagnosis through such assumptions but it seems to be likely. I have heard about such cases before. The mind, or to be specific, your mind is moving on a greater perceptive scale than the environment allows. It has expressed this in your brain developing its own set of reflexes through reason. So your brain would recognise you were scared of your ‘encounter’ with Maria and thus created a physical loophole with which you were to escape. In recent events, it seems that your unused intellect has collected itself as images and impulses as a form of subconscious expression.”
“You said something about ‘most obsessive compulsives.’ Does that mean I’m not like most?”
“The explanation behind your illness is equivocal to all other instances but whereas most OCD sufferers tend to be extroverts you seem to be wholly shy. There is a forming belief that the reason behind near-hyperactivity in OCD patients is that it is a way of either distracting themselves from distressing compulsions or as a way of expending extra energy. In your case, you seem to be prefer remain static in mood and persona.”
“Couldn’t that just be my personality?”
“Ah, but is your personality selective? Do you really feel so little about the engagement of your best friend and the woman you are attracted with? Combined with the fact that they, and you, are so young. Is this not just a shell hiding the true feelings?”
I felt the need to change the subject. I did not want him to win the interrogation but knew that if we continued down this path he would be the victor.
“What causes these ‘heightened’ perceptions? You said obsessive compulsive disorder comes from it rather than creating it.”
“It seems to be a combination of a high intellect or at least mastery of three of the multiple intelligences, emotive control or ability to project false feelings as reality, a utilitarian or relativist set of morals, however it should be noted that conversions of the immoral to a belief system can also cause symptoms. Have you had a religious epiphany lately? No? Oh, and there seems to be a fourth ‘higher’ section which we are aware of in terms of presence, we are not sure why. It seems to be an engrained logical progression in reducing social predicates such as religions and governments. Similar to what Nietzsche said? Do you know of Friedrich Nietzsche?”
I replied that I had a basic knowledge of the philosophy and how he was often (mistakenly) attributed to the National Socialist party. He agreed and said that it was an annoying if popular caricature of the man. He said I should look at some of his work telling me it made for an interesting if distressing approach to existence. At this point, he left the room and returned with a worn copy of ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra.’
I left the surgery holding both a philosophical ‘self-help’ book along with some form of medication both of which I had been prescribed. The conversation had ended with the usual “You have a very interesting brain, Mr Nolan” that he had complimented me with before. The doctor was somewhat pessimistic about the pills working and told me, confidently, that if the symptoms still persisted after a month to return and think about weekly visits to a psychiatrist.
I decided to walk back to my father-less home rather than wait for my mother to pick me up. Besides it was her first day at work since my father had abandoned us. The heir had allowed her a few days (paid) holiday and even, in attempt to cheer her up, offered to hire assassins of sorts to track the happy couple.
On the two-hour journey, I started to relay the events of my appointment in my head. This was the same man who had deceived me using placebos as a treatment for my illnesses. What was stopping him doing it again? Was this why he was complimenting me as well as acknowledging me as a patient? Why did he say the same thing that he had said to me before when I had another one of these ‘psychological’ diagnoses? I eventually came to the conclusion that these ‘pills’ were also placebos devised to force me to get over my condition. Unfortunately this was one of those occasions when a person can be too smart for his or her own good.
On my return home, I entered the house to be met with sobs of a distressed mother. I confronted her and asked what was the problem. She replied that the heir had fired her because she caught him doing something (I knew what.) She promised that she wouldn’t say anything but he still went on to dismiss her. I promised I would discuss the matter with him immediately still carrying my placebos.
I was buzzed into the mansion straight away and given free reign to find the heir. The angels must have been flushing some celestial toilet because it was raining like I had never seen it do before. Although soaked, I managed to wade through the manor searching for my wealthy friend. I walked into the library to find the heir learning against the 20-foot window that looks onto the infinite vastness of his lawn. He was fondling a spirit of some kind. On the rocks.
He told me, without turning his head to address me, that he knew what I was there for but that he would not change his decision. She had caught him taking the drugs. I reaffirmed my point that she did not say anything. He countered by saying that she could. I told him he knew she wouldn’t. He did not answer; he just took another sip of his drink.
I recanted my doctor’s evaluation and became infuriated. I told him the usual tripe about having a problem and that he should try and find some help. He told me to leave. Which I did. On my way out of the gargantuan library, I noticed a waste paper bin. Now confident in the failure of my GP, I threw the tablets away.
A plethora of further epiphanies were to come. On my way home I came to two realisations: 1.) The reason behind my mother’s dismissal and 2) I was unnecessary to the family. My mother’s unemployment had not come through distrust but because the heir was angry at her calm response. She did not berate him nor did she try and help him. She left him to his own devices. He wanted a response. Someone to slap him. Embrace him. Communicate with him. Her ignorance or obedience depending on your view was her undoing. Not his greed.
Secondly, I came to the understanding that I was just adding more pressure to my broken family. My food consumption, clothing and luxuries still detracted from the parental wage packet as well my own. I decided that I was to leave my hollow existence and pursue the only constant in my life: wrestling.
Upon opening the house door for the second time, I almost tripped over. We had collectively forgot to open the mail since my father’s absence. I skimmed through them and came to one addressed to myself. Something quite unnatural as my presence was almost exclusive to people who can reach me over the telephone. I opened up to find a degree of solace worth ten grand.
Apparently there was a foundation known as the ‘Marrick Prodigy Fund’ which monitored progress in students. Those who achieved the top five exam results in each key subject (English, Maths and Science) were given a bursary of £10,000 to further aid in their studies. However, this was a huge assumption as there were no stipulations necessary so someone who had received the money could spend it anyway they desired.
I had apparently written the fourth most competent English test paper throughout England. Some comments which had been written on my work were included within the letter: “The candidate demonstrates an aptitude in every article inherent to the creative writing stage as well as any general factors of linguistics. His plot remains devoid of cliché as well as holistic. However, that is not to say it is a piece without flaws. The characters seem to be unrealistic in that although they purvey a sense of naturalism they are rarely ascribed any sort of emotional depth. It's as if he forces them to surpress something deeper but never lets on what it is. Whether this was due to the time and spatial limitations, it is unknown but if this difficulty had been covered then this piece would have been consummate at this stage of education.”
I took the cheque, gave it to my mother and told her to cash it. I then went upstairs packed my bags with only my favourite clothes (the rest were for my family to sell) my unspent wage packets, and some personal objects. During my packing, I noticed that ‘Zarathustra’ was still in my pocket so somewhat impulsively I included it in my makeshift suitcase (it was actually a rucksack.) I then walked out the door without a word. An ideal summary for my existence within that state of time.
