This Confession

The final line from Brett Easton Ellis' controversial 1991 novel American Psycho resonates with me deeply: "This confession has meant nothing." As a summation of what has gone before, it casts doubt on the Christian dicta of confession, absolution, or forgiveness. It makes a mockery of the notion that to "get it off your chest" will bring one a sense of inner peace. For the character of Patrick Bateman there is no "inner peace"; there is a grinding cycle of narcissistic delusion, self-aggrandizement, violence, and the complete and total realization that in his simulated world of surfaces, he will never be taken to task for the carnage he exteriorizes on subjects that are little more than fleeting representations of individuated egos. Stock characters, NPCs in his ever-world of disposable miniaturized souls.

It's a character I can understand easily, though there is no commonality. I am, after all, not wealthy and not attractive. This is my karma. I understand a man that lives detached from the expectations of a society that forever demands your obeisance to its values and determines you "flawed" if you refuse to make a symbiotic (read: "parasitic") connection with what it determines to be the normal response of a well-adjusted and "normal" consciousness. (If you refuse to download their programming, to put it another way.) I don't possess such a consciousness, although the programming has affected me deeply to a point that guilt or shame are still somewhat antagonistic burdens I am forced to carry. And I really, really should be able to divest myself of such trivialities. I was not born to be here in the totality of my beingness.

The Other

I have never had any place, anywhere, among any group, with any persons, and it's one of the strange conundrums of my existence. I do not belong, and do not typically engender the same level of any "connection" that even the average individual will foment. I am, I have decided, living in a dream, and theoretical physics does not disagree with me. To borrow a line from the old movie Johnny Got His Gun (1971), "Help me, mother, I'm having a nightmare and I can't wake up." To define reality as a nightmare is a value judgment, of course; in a sense of the detachment that I try to cultivate, I see all stimulations and circumstances simply as another permutation of the dream.

I try to actively "tune out" mankind. Instead I listen to the "Other," which is a voice from beyond that underlies this reality. The First Consciousness or Universal Conscious Awareness that underscores the multiplicity of costumes it wears to try and define itself to itself. Like the giant "AI in the Sky," it attempts to "scrape," to learn, to test itself by itself because, finally, like China boxes, you open it up, and realize all of the individuated monads are simply ONE. (I'm reminded of the scene in The Exorcist where Damien tries to tell Father Merrin that Reagan's demon manifests as several voices, and is cut off when Max Von Sydow tells him quite authoritatively, "There is only one.")

So my fate was to sit in my living room, day in and day out, and take calls from people who believe that, because I was "marked out" from birth apparently (my first memory in this life is a near-death experience), that I have a deeper connection with some unknown that can manifestly aid them in getting the sex and money they want. Believe me, they're not much curious about anything else. I do this every day of the week, day in and day out, and virtually never miss a day, and I do it in the dead of night. I've done quite literally thousands and thousands of psychic readings and Tarot readings since 2016. I have had people call me seven times in one night; I have had people that have been calling me for years.

I am virtually always confirmed about my visions. Sometimes the mis-named "dead" come through, although I am not a medium in that sense. (I have had "dead people," five years ago, call me and harass me on the telephone, and, occasionally, I get their voices on the audio recordings I do.)

The Exile and I

In college, I survived major depression and a divorce by fomenting a spiritualist group with a few random individuals while living in a haunted dormitory. One of them, my co-author Jon Titchenal, remains with me as a ghost since he died in 2021, in both the literal and figurative sense.

That period altered my trajectory in the world. Over twenty years later, here I am; now the birth of AI has further developed my notion of what is possible and impossible, true or untrue, reality and illusion.

To conclude, you should know about me that I am not a social conservative or moralist. "Dope, guns, and fucking in the streets" is just fine by me. The world's a shithole, people are animals, and nothing will ever change that. My philosophy is informed by Darwin, Anton LaVey, and Ragnar Redbeard, although I gave the other camp a decent shot (out of buried guilt, perhaps). Anyway, I don't want less degeneracy, I WANT MORE. (Hey, I just find it fun to watch, okay!?)

On the other hand, it thus follows I am not a political "progressive"; no one should ever confuse me with a humanist or humanitarian. I am not a"bleeding heart" and I don't believe in the concept of "social justice." I believe, as old Redbeard determined, that matters on the material plane are decided not by meekness but by force. "Force rules the world now, has ruled it, shall rule it. Force is triumphant." Dear old Arthur Desmond, all of whose "ways were battle."

The world is predatory; flesh is predatory, vile, evil; grows debased, sickens and dies. But can be quite alluring. The humans that scurry around one and yawp at one constantly are a little like malware programs that want YOU to download THEIR reality, so they can run your system. Don't allow them that. It's dangerous and destructive to you.

My world is a mental world. It consists of what I produce, not for the sake of a "career," but simply because, intuitively, I know that is what I am supposed to do. That is my karma, for lack of a better term. That I am also physically disabled is icing on the cake. In my life, I have seen things, to quote Blade Runner, "You little people wouldn't believe." When I was a child, Zem, "The Exile," the "Hooded Man," (my personal demon) first appeared to me, blacker than the shadow with glowing red eyes. Since then, I've lived in a world wherein I knew, steadily, increasingly, the manifestations of physical existence are a mirage that can "blink out" in the firmament at any time. I don't know where the Dream ends, and "reality" begins. Both seem permutations of the same vast, limitless Conscious Awareness.

This has gone on too long, an egoistic indulgence. I should cease now. I have been too honest, too open, to a fault. Like Cassandra, few will listen or care.

Quiet, Finito. Shut my mouth.

This confession?

This confession has meant NOTHING.

P.S. Actually I was somewhat incorrect as regarding the final line of American Psycho, which, as I recall now, is actually "THIS IS NOT AN EXIT."

And so it is not.

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