Locating the location

I think when we’re talking emotional blackmail we’ve got to think about the situation and the set-up more. I think we’ve got to find that splace where we are going.
Obstacles make me think: I want to get around them. I have to get around them.
Although, I have been stopped in my path by people who like to say that what I’m doing is upsetting them.
Today, I told someone no way. That they were projecting their own sense of being onto me. This cleared stuff. People in authority can be very insistent about having power over the way we speak.
Next time I might say, “Oh dear, you can’t control your emotions very well can you? Like that psychiatrist that yelled at me for making a pun out of his title, then put me in the psychiatric slammer because he felt I diminished his power. How considerate of you.”
Would that work? I could also play the handyman: “Want to make an issue out of this love?” Perhaps that’s all I need to say. But some people freak out even more when I play funny hat says.
Obstacles just create a bumpy drive for my journey. I have things I need to do. Obstacles are the panic zones, where my mind starts going into which, which, which, trying out all kinds of experimental ways to get past, around, through. It can be be confusing and misleading. But I’m going to try and not ever let other people misdirect me again. Shouldn’t respect someone who treats me in a way I’d never want to treat another human being. Shouldn’t trust them. Just have to remove them from my path. No further questions about my tone, or manner then need be asked. You tropple dawl and I catch your maul and put it into a basketcase. I’m someone who loses time if I hesitate.

Advice and the flying dryad dragon

Technique? I move about and create a canvas. Splash some paint. It might turn out something like this:
A few people said I should keep the painting as it was and do no more. But when agreed to, then they changed their mind. Said they like my complicated stuff better. It was like they wanted to question me further.
For painting is like speaking. It’s just communication. About being part of nature, machines, humanity, all those things I’m contained by and want to expression my opinion on or discuss. It comes from the things I sense. Stuff I can never tell people in a “real” conversation, without working on the idea myself a fair bit. It's a dream. Mumbled recollections of dreams to other people often just do not equate to anything reasonable or meaningful.
So, I painted more and this was what came out:
Now I feel more satisfied. I needed to know about a few of the things going on here. It’s sorted stuff out for me, better than any sleeping dream can.
Think the more I use internet the more the square screen appears in the paint. So, I’ve been thinking about quitting blogging for a bit. Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I haven’t really quite made the year mark yet. Took me a while to actually work out that there was a difference between a page element and a blog post. But, I was using places like library internet. And cranky people would stand behind me wanting their ‘hour” to start before I finished mine. So I’d end up sending a blank email to someone in a moment of mundane panic. Hmm. Good to have a place to relax with it. It’s been interesting getting to know all this stuff that’s been around for years. I feel like Rip Van Winkle. Or some sort of sleeping printcess. There’s so much other stuff everyone does that I’ve never done. But then, they don’t get to visualise flying dryad dragons.

The punnet puzzel

What does your symbolic sorting system reside in? If it’s not an ecosystem, then it’d be a micro-chip. And if not that, what do you call it?

Playing

Mum says she likes this Symbiosis cartoon. Dad did too. Yep. Sometimes parents just want the playful fun things. They had to fight so much in their younger years trying to make change. Work went mysteriously missing, that supported dangers to the environment. Dad was also told to stop teaching the "hothouse effect". Proving existence of things denied can be tiring.

I want a funeral where people sing and dance on my grave. Crying just makes us lose the memories. I prefer it if people laugh, then they're remembering the happy. Although I couldn't do that for Dad, at least we got the only environmentally friendly recycled cardboard coffin from Sydney, that had state approval. Don't think Mum has put him in the compost yet though (although that's what he said we should do with him).

Love, happiness and skies that spoke to me the hour he passed.And by morning the heavens opened up and rained and his garden was wet where it had been dry from the heat of summer sunshine.

Pharm a shoot tackle

Dedicated testing for the defense of those who love arms races. Break it down to the minimal molecular. Shoot to kill the peculiar. Make it seem like it’s about altruism. Then call for funds to count the dead.

Rubbish filled croc

Using water from washing brushes, layering paper over packaging, I've given the croc some skin. It hides in the grass, hiding the rubbish within. And can be used for seating. Just don't put your arse too close to its mouth! Containers. Sometimes they're about what we don't immediately see. Or have no way of knowing without ripping the structure apart.

Stripped, penetrated, contaminated and shut-up

More funding for psychiatric hospitals? How about… perhaps we should charge the Alfred Hospital and various other government participating psyche hospitals with aggravated assault. People have been known to die from the chemicals they forcefully inject. Most slowly. Some however have died instantly.

Cogs in wheels getting money, made me into a freaking lab-rat. How about in the year of the rat we stop this practice of forced injections and incarceration. How about that? How about we actually charge people with a criminal offence before we inject them with shit. Better still, how about we stop the experiments going on in our country now. Are pharmaceutical companies running the government?

Leprosy injections trials on our Australian peoples too. It makes me mad. There is no denying that happened, even though they want to. Proof is, they're still trialing harmful drugs forcefully. Under the banner of "Duty of Care" and "Community Treatment Order". Double speak. Public knows nothing.

Gives us programs like Denton's "Angels and Demons". Cuts out the people's voice when they don't fit with the criteria of: oh the pills sort of do work.

Until forced encarceration, injections and ECT are stopped, no, things are not better now. Stop making the public think they are. Is that enough rope to get a grasp and grapple of the ugliness of this psychiatric grope?

Demons? They're the psyche system.

Angels? Well for me, they were a number of organisations in the community, including Prahran Mission. Poor angels though are powerless to stop the demonic injections though. They don't rank high enough. And they end up on the cutting room floor, while the chemical companies get promoted by the youth that are "cured" but still fumbling through school. Cured? What? Like a hide?

Voices are about translating what I sense about me into words and characteristics of sound through my automatic mind/hidden-calculator/collective-device. I would like to live in an environment that is not afraid of the feelings we recieve and knows how to guide people in a way that will help them better negotiate the obstacles and dreams found through feeling troubling EMFs and such. It is an art. And sometimes what is not allowed to exist, only really has a place in art. Art is a safe reality.