Tuesday, October 31, 2006


Is the silence from my readers from apathy or an uncertainty on how to respond? In the past month, I've gotten one comment from Ron; thank you, Ron. Anything is better for me than silence. When it's this quiet, the only voices I hear are the ones the rest of you can't.

My whole life, I've never connected well with other people. I don't fully, understand why, and never have. Every day for the past twelve years and six months, I've struggled with words for my experience. Until now, I've thought that the perfect words could free me from the shackles of my psychosis, and maybe loosen the flow of words headed towards me. For me, communication mostly goes one way, and alway has. Until tardive dyskinesia attacked my jaw, it was always oratory for me. Since then, I've developed my pen to the near exclusion of all else in what now seems senseless: the pursuit of understanding.

For now, I'll fight the Many Armed Knight for the slumber I crave. When I wake up, I'll fight him for comfort. I hope something comes back this way before I have to fight for slumber again after tonight's battle. Tell me anything


Thursday, October 26, 2006

Much To My Dismay

I woke up bright and early this morning. My claws are out, and I can't escape the Choir. The Many-Armed Knight's robes flow out of creases, the spaces in between books on shelves, and the eyes of people on television. I'm gonna take more tranquilizers shortly; perhaps they'll give me the numb slumber I desire. The long, slow grind is too much for me right now.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Too Much

Tonight, the Choir and The Many-Armed Knight are too much for me. I don't want to deal with them anymore. I'm taking my meds and tranqs, a lot of tranqs. I hope to sleep numbly: I don't particularly want to deal with anything but my soon to be forgotten nightmares for a long, long time.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Second Helping

I sit in my room, alone as always. I listen to needlessly silly music, trying to pretend that this doesn't hurt. Every day, a little bit dies, and I have to cover it up. At some point, exhaustion should set in; I've listened to too much Matthew Sweet, 4 Non Blondes, and The Cranberries for me to pretend I'm not down. My claws are out, and all I can hear right now is the music and Prester Bane's little voice telling me to make it all go away. They never like to share.

Everything on this page, and on this site is copyright Thomas Jackson 2006

More Philosophy of the Monster

I know what it's like to want, feel, and yearn. However, I also know that anything resembling love cannot behold me for long. It doesn't matter who is on the other side of my affections, no one can stare into the eyes of the Monster. The Monster isn't evil, or even particularly ugly; the monster is just different. He is too different to have friends, lovers, or any company for long. He lives in the deep water of solitude, so far down that only experts and fools will try to meet him. No one can stay for long. The Monster is used to the pressure, the darkness, and the cold. Anyone hanging on would just drown. If you take the monster out of the water, he will be out of his element: the Monster can only go so far from his watery lair. Every night, he returns to the depths to sleep. Who would follow? Who would love? Who would even care? The list is short. It resembles an empty chalkboard with years of hopeful names erased and written over. If you don't believe me, when was the last time you saw my face?

Friendship is ephemeral, especially for the Monster. His infamy looms large, but who travels to see him? He's in many stories, but is he ever close at hand? He's at the bottom of his watery lair, conversing with himself because he has no one to share a moment. He can write epistles such as these, but no matter how compelling his letters become, he knows that nothing changes Monstrosity.

From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!

My ghoulish white skin, and ghostly thinning hair hang off my long, injured legs to smash the walls of my watery lair nightly. You might hear me, but you might not. Just because you hear, doesn't mean you understand. Just because you understand, doesn't mean you witness.

Hope springs eternal for fools. Is honesty a virtue? I like to think so. Why ask a question when the answer is obvious? Sometimes, we thirst for understanding among witnesses so desperately that we create ideals and ideal situations to resemble our social needs. The Monster is one of these creations. He explains phenomena, and allows for a sense of self to me. No one else is around to help define me. I'd rather not think of myself as Prester Bane and the rest of my best friends describe me, but I'm left with little choice: The Monster puts me at the center of my universe. I must make the Choir, Prester Bane, the Many Armed Knight, The Scabbard Man, The Harvester and the rest revolve around me, not turn me into a planet orbiting them in madness. There are no witnesses to me but the people who read these words. How many of you would honestly call me "friend?" The answer is in the few that bother to reach me.

Monday, October 23, 2006

No Insight

Today, I felt tired and down all day for no good reason. The weekend was ok, but I remain a bit despaired right now. I'm thinking about things I shouldn't again, but I have no insight today. I'm writing a bit; it should be ready for tomorrow.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006


The only book I'm carrying to New York City is a Bible, and it's not even a King James Version. It's the fewest amount of books I've traveled with in a while. I will read the Gospel of Mark during the train ride, and hopefully post a blog entry from the hotel tonight or tomorrow.

Monday, October 16, 2006


I'm taking all photographs of me offline. Who wants to look at the monster, anyway? I'm sick and tired of it. Paul Gaugin will take my place here, and Francis Bacon will take my place over on myspace.

NYC for a few days

I'm going to New York City for a few days starting tomorrow.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006


Some people struggle for it. I struggle to get away without guilt or lies. My melancholy, and my sickness pile up around me. I don't want to wake up a few hours from now just to face another day in this Hell. Unfortunately, I'm given little option. I don't have anything left but pain. Pain is my life. I can't think or will my way out of it. My pain doesn't work that way. All the therapy and medication in the world can't change me. Every day is the same as the next, just add heartache and the blindingly obvious inevitabilities of living the way I do. So much of me just wants to take the bottle of tranquilizers in front of me. Truth keeps me from it: that's the only redemption I can claim. Truth is easily squandered. I cling to as much of it as I can handle. If I promise to not take that ship in the bottle through the night, I won't. Hope fights mercy, and mercy always wins. However, no matter how obvious the only solution to my problems remains, I can't seek mercy on a broken promise.

You're my corner. Help me fight or save me from more damage. I can't see out of my amber eyes any more.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Not Alone Today

I spent today with my Mom. She works for the Federal Government, and today is Colombus Day, the most worthless of all federal holidays. Even though the event is spurious, it's nice to be around other people. Mostly, I spend these days at either the gaming store, church, or totally alone. I have some other friends, but they don't call, write, or come around much. I can't get to them because the People's Republic of Maryland decided to restrict my liscense to a five mile radius around my house because of my schizophrenia. The whole state government is an association of power-hungry thugs. Anyway, if I can't get to my friends, they sure as hell won't come to me. It's disappointing, but that's my life.

Saturday, October 07, 2006


He can fight. He can't punch, but he can fight. I don't think he's hurt easily. His style is to land clubbing punches, lean on his opponent, and outlast anyone who wastes loads of energy trying to knock him out. A good boxer with a little skill could box him for twelve rounds, and win on points. No 220 lb. fighter in the world can knock Valuev out. However, he's so slow that he won't counter a sharp punch. Valuev is a sloppy fighter, but he has great stamina; he won't slow down. He throws a lot of punches for being so incredibly huge. Paper tiger? No. Definitely not. He won't be a pound for pound champ, but he doesn't have to be. Valuev's style fits his frame and his disposition: lots of jabs, rock-hard chin, and he leans hard in the clinch. Tonight, Valuev just plugged away for eleven rounds, and waited for Monte Barrett to fall from the fatigue of his ridiculous quest to throw big punches, and knock out the big Russian. Barrett landed some huge, perfect punches that did absolutely nothing. The other heavyweights should take notice: Don't try to stop him, stick and move, pile up points, and stay away from his heavy, slow punches.

Thursday, October 05, 2006


From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!

I lurk in the water with the faceless man well acquainted with my hands. He tells me secrets, and lies, and all the things that make me. When the rest of you sleep, we're alive in the dark places, the strange places, the places where no one ventures and no one would want to. Days pass by, and still the evenings belong to us, not me.

A friendly face and a kind word help me while the Sun still shines, but when the darkness falls over me like a blanket covers a child afraid of the monsters beneath his bed, we still speak. Once, twice, or a hundred times, we have the same fears, and the same well placed barbs, deceptions, and traps for myself in my own company. Tell me why no one writes! Tell me how I can be so strong during the day, and so weak in the nocturne hours.

My best quality is genuine honesty. It's usually a virtue, but it always seems to leave me alone. I can populate the late hours with hundreds of thoughts, characters, stories and poems, but I stay trapped in a hazy solitude some would call profound. I call it water. Down here, what some call breathing, I call verse: poems and water make drowning. Drowning makes for a good witness, and a compelling trip into the depths of my lair. As I drown, I struggle. As I struggle, I watch your faces through the first few feet of water. You seem interested, and for a while, you'll help me. Then you see my long legs, ghostly eyes, ghoulish fingernails and hear the drums of my heart in the night. You let go, and look away as I sink.

Pray for a separate deliverance. I am already lost.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006


Right now, I'm sitting down and looking at a lethal dose. I think about it too much these days. I want a cure, and I'm prepared to take any measures necessary. Living every day with the knowledge that I will not be as much tomorrow as I was yesterday is a slow grind I'm not willing to take any more. So what should I do? Will I sleep and wake up unable to write as I do? When will I notice the end? How much more of this will you demand I endure?

On Monday night football, ESPN did PSA on a little hispanic kid who has sickle cell anemia. He endures pain and anguish that seems beyond my imagination, and he does it with a smile. I admire his toughness and his courage. My little mental boo-boo injures me constantly. I don't know if I have the right to suffer as much as I do from this struggle. If a little kid can take sickle cell, I should be able to adapt to my disease. However, I continue to think suicidally. Sometimes, I see it as the only sure cure for what ails me. Sometimes, I only halfway notice what I'm doing, and count out a lethal dose for reasons beyond me. Other times, it's pure premeditation, as it is tonight. I'd ask for help, but I know none is forthcoming. These frequent epistles frustrate me: I type more than I speak, and no amount of virtue on my part can change that. I write in near anonymity, and see only a very few options: continue in anonymity, and write until I have nothing left, or do what I wish, and leave a bit of potential over which the rest of you may speculate. With the second option, the pain ends here. With the first, I might live another fifty years in hell.

Monday, October 02, 2006

So I Saw "Dexter" on Showtime

It's a weird show. Don't let kids watch it. The story has potential, but there's not enough of it yet for me to definitively watch it or hate it. There's not much middle ground with me and art, especially TV. I liked "Six Feet Under;" it was the last TV drama I watched regularly. For comedies, I watched "The Venture Brothers," but I lost track of the second season, and I can't find it anymore. Right now, TV for me is boxing and football: football's in my blood, and good boxing is the most compelling drama around.

I think the Ice Truck Killer is Dexter's sister.