The Bohemian Network

People always ask me, “Where did your fiction begin?” The answer is quite alarming, as some rumours abound that I written my first book while locked in a pitch black cubby hole. This miraculous feat attracted the attention of the authorities, and almost got me into a special academy for gifted children, which stern opposition halted. I can barely remember the event myself. I’m sure there was a thin slant of light coming through from the living room. But my single parent maintains that I not only written a complete book, but coloured in some pictures while I was there, all in utter darkness. Apparently she stared into a candle that night and declared me as an Angel of God, because she had never seen anything like it. And before you know it I’m in programs like MK Ultra and suchlike for my trouble, with a line through my name rather than under it.

I thought my family were making up these outright porky pies, until one evening three years ago, on a nutty wing of a mental hospital, when I started drawing in the dark for no other reason than I was bored. There wasn’t a scrap of light, not even from the window, and to make matters even worse I was using my weak left hand. I just started scribbling and fell asleep whilst doing it. I’d had a stressful hour or two of harassment from electronic voices (microwave hearing, Jesuit wavelengths, schizo tracks, demonic chatter, spooky vibes, perpetrator radio), or call them whatever you will. See if I care about their labels, as it’s all sheer satanic madness to me. I wasn’t in the mood for any more of their hateful regurgitation. Accompanying the verbal recording from Hell was an hallucination of some ugly villain next to me on my bed who apart from very much not belonging there also desperately wished to stab me up with some special tactile-based futuristic weaponry. How someone who wasn’t there could physically assault me was ranking as an almost supernatural occurrence. I have never been able to tell the difference between the ghostly realm and technology. In the past I had let sprites like this one hurt me and simply gritted my teeth through it. During this time I developed some kraft from somewhere and started talking him out of it. When he realised I wasn’t going to roll over and let him inflict pain into my pores by chatting bubbles over his makeshift plan, he started crying. Crying, because he couldn’t hurt me! All a lot of the menticidal affliction takes is a strong enough voice to talk back over it but that is hard to do when weakened and afraid. Their atrocious parlour tricks work best when logic is absent due to fear.

I was angry, cogent and eloquent upon this occasion, so I outdone my hallucination and its pain game. Anyway, I woke up in the morning with a picture of a werewolf in my left hand. I had sketched it in the dark shortly before drifting off to sleep. This led me back to that book as a child. I had to destroy the picture because it was very valuable in the wrong hands in case the hospital authorities got hold of it. They were always transporting me to different institutions just to get a peeps into my belongings, as I regularly hid my creative endeavours from the prying nurses. I was always writing and drawing a bunch in hospital. I even made an album in their make-do music studio. It was uplifting/progressive electronica. I’ve since moved onto dark synthwave.

And like I was saying, I’m always seeing my ideas and thought patterns in the movies and other people’s books. I believe my creative process is hooked up into a collective consciousness around the bohemian network of the globe. I pride myself on being a worthy contributor. There’s no shame in it whatsoever, apart from the fact that criminals are making an attractive living from my creations. I once met a man at a book signing who said he visualizes a Hollywood script in his mind in three minutes and the powers that be go off and rip thirty minutes of real movie time from it. I’m not sure how it works to be exact.

It doesn’t end there. I see popular products like soft drinks and alcohol brands named after characters from my stories and suchlike. They name chocolate bars after random words in my daily diaries. My local supermarket is like one giant homage to me. You should see it. My head is nearly exploding. The numbers of the sprees which define my relapses are very sentimental to some people.

It’s just the way I like it. Talk more tomorrow hopefully.