Sometimes one has to reflect on the personal injustices that one has had to bear quietly...

Are you not aware that's his pennypinching and total disregard for my welfare helped cause me to end up in rack and ruin? I don't know if you understand but his callous treatment of me was a factor in me being is such desperate straits that I could not help but lose my way. One can say all one likes about my own failings or 'mental states' but surely allowing your own cousin to starve on the streets of London and to complain that even a tenner was too much when they are saving for their 33rd European vacation is justifiably damnable. But of course, as the mental deficient I have been labelled I cannot claim to be in the right. Yes I admit that while I was there in his flat I used a few pounds of internet, took some coins from his raincoat and left the toilet seat up once but on the other hand I did shower that woman with expensive gifts to thank her for her hospitality (while selling my remaining belongings for food unbeknownst to her highness) and suffered the ignominy of sharing their miserable existence as he bent backwards to prevent her constant frown from becoming a scowl. Remember however even if I was the cause of her chagrin, I was only lucky enough to be in her presence for perhaps a total of an hour in my four day stay at his hovel as she would not deign to speak with me after the first dinner though I made every effort in that first meeting to get to know her in the most polite fashion I was able after a year in the topsy turvy world of Russian brusque. In fact for the two or three mornings we were in the house together as they slumped off to work and made every effort to socialise afterwards without me, I endeavoured to remain silent and only rarely dared to say anything of a cheerful or carefree manner as it was met with cold looks and  the obvious groans of those who prostitute themselves for the English pound in that miserable place. 

The manic cult

The manic ones are the shamanic ones and they are awareness is at it’s peak. What are they aware of? It’s difficult to explain to a normal as it is something so outside their own feeble imagining. The normals call it delusional but what they don’t realise is that their own petty concerns are delusional. Their grown up fairy tales about religion and social order, about equality and morality are only artificial constructs without the simple truisms that the manic are subject to.
The first truism is the monarchic aspect. To the manic there are individuals who are part of a bloodless line stretching back and forward through time. Everyone else exists to serve that line, to provide it with the fodder with which to experience the myriad of mortal experiences.
The second truism is that of the power of synchronicity. A manic worships synchronicity as it is to them a sign that they are experiencing the physical world at an optimum level. There are so many synchronicities surrounding us that the more we recognise the more aware we must be.
The third truism is the influence of destiny. A manic knows that the highest experience of life is to see that everything is preordained. This is simply because time is an illusion and every action is also the case and effect of itself.
It is a common emotion for the hypermanic to want to protect and serve certain individuals they meet. At the time they have no idea why. On reflection it is that they have encountered an individual who is also manic, or more often, they have met someone who will be of use to them in their experience of the world. For the experiencing of the world is the manic’s first priority and their heightened instinct and senses help them tremendously in this. As a part of the godhead, a bastion of physicality on this world for the grand creative energy, they must experience life to the full.

luck of the manic

Crazier things have happened. You might say it was free-spirited or fancy-free. A one way to ticket to Russia with only a few bucks in your pocket to work for a company you know next to nothing about in a country you have never been to. It’s a free-spirited action that might not belong just to the manic person buts it’s a sign you’re heading that way.
The manic snowball slowly rolls on. After a few months I’m surviving on next to no sleep and less food than a well-fed bird.
The first time I notice that my mind is changing is a flash of insanity while I’m riding in a cab. I look out at the buildings and the construction and think with pride, “ Look what my people have done, My empire is making progress towards its ascendancy.” The thought passes and I dismiss it as some flashback to earlier episodes.
I spend two hours on New Year’s Day making patterns in the snow with my foot, thinking that these symbols I have drawn somehow hold the secret to the meaning of life.
But these flashes remain just blips on the radar and I’m hardly alarmed.
By the time summer comes I’m still there in mind but the rash decisions are coming thick and fast. I give all my savings to a friend who’s starting a business and when the time comes to go to England to work for the summer I’m broke. Weeks later I’m berated by my landlord , “What kind of person comes to a foreign country with no money?” An insane sort of person, that’s who. On the day I fly out I lock myself out of my apartment and arrive at the airport late. Luckily the flight is overbooked and I’m put I’m in hotel for the night to fly the next day.
There’s a saying – the luck of the Irish. There should be another- the luck of the manic.
My room adjoins the room of a beautiful girl from St Petersburg and after a stroll in Moscow in the evening we retire to the hotel and share each other’s rooms.
Though nothing significant happens, I’m still left with that guilty dirty feeling in the morning when we have breakfast.
Things suddenly start to accelerate and the first outward signs start to show. I chew the ear off my neighbour on the plane and I don’t think they have a minute’s peace on the long flight from Moscow to London.

Like an Indian brave

I'm setting out again like a young tribal offspring questing. Not lost in the wilderness, but gathering the space within me by running through the night where my dreaming self has cried before. Now my tears of euphoric desperation mingle the worlds of my dutiful self and my seeking self.
As I run through the night my long hair gives me a horse like quality. In my running sound-the dark enhanced slap of my barefeet against the footpath, I find a spur. I can't stop running.
I've fashioned a note for my girlfriend. There's a simple red outlined heart there somewhere. In this state I'm a sucker for potent symbols. All their synedochal power, harnessed from the memory's lapping force against the plane of consciousness, collects and transmits to me the same way that... There is no same way. It is the most powerful concoction we take. The combination of mind and reality, the fuel that fires art.

Manic is a feverish activity. A malaise of the mind where the gaurdian of behaviour who stands watch in our brain has left for a cigarette. Normally he uses a sieve to catch our fantasies and sloughs them off into a dish that will later be shaken and tossed to use for dreams.
As he drags on his cigarette the manic mind is overtaken by the fantasy. That's why periods of lucidity can occur while manic. The guardian returns to do his job, but not for long and as things progress the breaks get longer. That's why later that day I can give a coherent explanation of my actions to the police when i am found outside my friends house with an axe ( I was just going to chop the wood which of course had to be done right there and then)

I stop outside her house and deposit the letter. I arrive but feel no sense of destination reached. There is always another mission to be done. The thoughts race from idea to idea and before i am finished on thing i am already thinking about the next.
It's three am in the morning. The streets, a backdrop for cast of one, are mine. Its too late for the returning late shift and too early for the departing early.
With the thrill of the night in me I set off again. A man in a security van picks me up on the main road. He sees me dishevelled and barefoot and takes pity on me. For me, it is a adventure with a denizwn of the night Perhaps he will teach me his crafty ways. When I am hiring guards for my personal royal guard I shall appoint him chief of transport. In awe of his grasp on life, his dominion over the seedy side, I sit beside him and bask in his glory.
He's just driving home.

A journey through the manic minefield

Some recountings of times when i was manic. new Zealand might be a small country but there's plenty of room for manic misadventures. My favourite scene is the result of a cross country ride on a farm-bike to the coast where the promised maiden rode past me on her white stallion and i took advantage of her generosity by stealing down to the seaside bordering her property and took some mussels from the rock pools.