Pale Horse No Rider

Dear friend, if you have by some ill choice chosen to read this wretched journal, be warned against the machinations of the so-called health care profession. But to be specific (as they used to say of the primitive mind, and mine is nothing if not primitive, it is capable only of specificities: needless to say this is a fallacy, concerning the primitive mind, but very true concerning my own)--avoid mirtazapine. AKA:
* Avanza, Axit and Mirtazon in Australia
* Mirtabene in Austria
* Mirtaz in India and Srilanka
* Mirtazapin in Finland
* Mirzaten , Mizapin Sol and Remeron in Hungary and Slovakia
* Norset in France
* Noxibel in Bolivia
* Promyrtil in Chile
* Psidep in Portugal
* Remergil in Germany
* Remergon in Belgium
* Remeron in Brazil, Canada, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Greece, Israel, Italy, Malaysia, Mexico, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Pakistan, Romania, Sweden, Switzerland, Turkey and the United States.
* Rexer in Spain
* Zispin in Ireland and the United Kingdom

--stolen from Wikipedia. The reason you should avoid it is the side effects. "Depersonalization, derealization"--what are these but euphemisms for madness? If stricken with these side effects, you will be, allow me the vulgarity, a shitbird. A loon. And let me ask you this: do you believe your doctor will inform you concerning these (and many other, some of them dangerous to health) "side effects". The scare quotes are appropriate: the term should be quite simply bad effects. No, he, or she, if you are fortunate, or perhaps if you are not, will not inform you of shit. Pardon the double negative. A useful and commonsensical rhetorical device allowed in most tongues and, if latest research is correct, a part of the human mind's universal grammar.

AVOID MIRTAZAPINE

Imagine, if you choose to, a world in which everything is somehow, in a way not definable but absolutely undeniable, wrong. Bad. Evil. False. As bad as a bad LSD trip, no serpentining hallways or pathways, no vines in the carpet rising up your legs, everything will be invisibly horrible. And as for your so-called "self"--again with the scare quotes, but if you suffer yourself to be given mirtazapine they will become all too appropriate for you too, as well as for me--as for your so-called "self", it will not be right either. It, or perhaps you, I don't know, will also be wrong. Bad. Evil. False. Recall how you felt after watching your first horror movie at the tender age of perhaps five. Or, if you were terrified, fondled even, by a clown at some equally tender age, recall your emotions at the approach, even now, of a clownlike figure. Then take said feelings, emotions, thoughts--I don't know what to call them--and multiply them by ten, or a hundred. Then you will have an inkling what those barbaric latinities depersonalization, derealization actually conceal.

A Parthian shot mirtazapine's way. Its side-effects are paradoxical, inasmuch as the less you take the worse they are. So, your first week on mirtazapine will be Night of the Living Dead as lived experience. And as your dosage increases you will be lulled into a constant sense of mere dis-ease. But if, for example, your cholesterol attains to astronomical levels, or your serum level of sodium to chthonic levels, and it becomes necessary to withdraw from this Lovecraftian deity of a drug, you will find yourself inhabiting not the collective hallucination we call life, but something more like the Ancient Mariner's Life-in-Death, something like an H. P. Lovecraft story, or worse, a Thomas Ligotti story. It seems impossible to me, now, to ever withdraw from this hellish bolus. But withdraw I must.

Merry Christmas. I for one will not be merry.

An oddly comforting dream, until the very end at least. A shadowy friend and I were pilots in some futuristic war. We were invalided by psychic shocks, wounded as it were by our experiences. In our convalescence, during which the scene gradually shifted to the final days of WWII, we each drew independently, and unconsciously, pictures in which some pleasant scene was fighting to be seen from behind a scene more representative of our psychic wounds. This happened to both of us twice. Each time a pretty girl sitting nearby was somehow a necessary ingredient for this to happen. We were recovering, but I was recovering first, for the pleasant scene was more prominent in my pictures than my friend's. By now the setting was completely the end of WWII. In fact I was in a swimming pool and looked at my watch (presumably waterproof) and the date was September 3 -- the war was over. Somehow the setting shifted again to aboard the Pequod. But this was no doomed Pequod, but one that was returning home to Nantucket. Ahab looked benign and like a bearded Ernest Borgnine. I too had a beard now, a long one, which I kept cut straight across with a pair of scissors. A storm was coming. I went back up on deck after everone else was safely below decks. The Pequod collided with another ship and I was somehow gently transported to this other ship, the captain of which was a woman. Ahab came aboard this new ship and pretended not to know me, to facilitate my incorporation into the new ship. Again a pretty girl was there, the same one that served some function in the WWII part of the dream, with a baby now. I asked the baby who I was, to elicit my name, the way one talks to a baby. "Ishmael!" the baby said. This served as proof to the woman captain of the new ship that I was a proper passenger and that she had simply forgotten me. I told her: "Call me Ishmael."

Nantucket proved to be a cheerless, cloud-oppressed, treeless wasteland, with a small delapidated cabin that seemed to be mine and with nothing to eat but salty fish. After all these successes I still seemed not to be home.

Just killed an enormous wolf spider for the wife. Strangely lifted my spirits, a little. Would rather have left it, but such are the duties of a husband.

I have nothing to say but will write nevertheless. I was suffering migraines and muscle spasms before Don died. I haven't suffered much emotionally since he died but the muscle spasms have worsened tenfold. Today was the first day without muscle relaxant. I think I sleep poorly too, probably not reaching sleep deep enough for dreams for I've had none for several weeks that I remember. Checked out books on prayer yesterday but there is some cruel mockery somewhere, not in the books I hope but in my soul: at any rate it is a fact. As if some calamity had happened to me that I have forgotten but that manifests as pain and barrenness and nihilism.

For some reason have picked up Dracula to read... Just took two 1mg clonazepam. Two extra ones. As my throat is so tight I can barely swallow I don't feel guilty violating the prescription. Today has been a day of heavy rain and much thunder. Tornadoes in nearby counties. Dracula is better than I remembered it. I only wish there were some crumb of comfort somewhere, anywhere.

[I wrote this the Sunday before March 4th of this year. It is difficult to believe I wrote this. I want to put it in here for some reason. Maybe you know why.]

Mass. hadn't been to Mass in several weeks because i've been sick. what can i say about Mass today? tears welled twice and once i lost it completely -- the last two verses of Amazing Grace did it.

the Mass is the most important thing in all the universe of universes. Mass is the realest thing in my life and the most significant. it is the most beautiful thing in my life. i do not underestimate my wife and children when i say that. i am at Home during the Mass, i am visiting the life everylasting. these are all gut-felt things, not abstract beliefs. God is in me and i am in Him, i have felt it, i know it, i do not even need to believe it because i know it as surely as i know i breathe and exist my own self. all this thanks to the Mass. the Mass is God's final gift to mankind.

how can i say that without blasphemy? because during the Mass Jesus Himself, God's final gift to man, is present in 4 different ways, as real as can be. anybody interested can find out all about this on the internet. the most important way Jesus is present is the Eucharist (but not the only way). and Jesus is as present in the "bread" and "wine" as he was in swaddling clothes in Bethlehem. as He was on the Cross bleeding. as He is a-standing looking like a lamb who was slain in the heavenly temple now (read Revelation). and Jesus is present not just like that, not just like the altar which is also physically present. i am sorry. words fail me. the word "present" slips, slides and perishes. i guess i mean his presence merges, slides into eternal life. when i eat (literally, i believe, "gnaw" in the greek) his flesh and drink His blood, i have eternal life. ethernal life begins now, you can feel it in you. yes, i can later in life reject God until my final breath and miss out on being with him for eternity. i may not really know my heart because only God knows the heart. but unless i am making some kind of mistake inflicted on me by a sadistic calvinist God (blasphemy) i feel, i know, that i am going to see him face to face one day. not like now, through a glass (bad mirror) darkly. not even like in the Mass. but looking upon the unimaginable beauty now hidden in unapprochable light. the Mass is thus my true food and true drink because the Mass is in the way i mean it now identical to Jesus. as the priest says, God has given us infinitely more than we can ask for or even imagine.

I am still alive after eight weeks of being away from livejournal. I've written nothing in these eight weeks, I have plumbed depths unrecorded in the annals of ten thousand civilizations, I have lost a thousand psychic wars. I want (or want to want) to cry out to God and my consciousness is choked with a density of deep Jovian atmosphere, where hydrogen takes on metallic properties and the temperature is beyond all thermometers.

But my friend Don is dead. He died three days ago of a heart infection and today I will attend his funeral. Death is a refutation of life, isn't it? It seems to me death is a refutation of life or at the least it is the conclusive proof of the guilt of us all. There is no such thing as mourning or grief. These are comforting myths, piae fraudes. There is death and the torture of the survivors, which does not end. All my dead may as well have died three days ago, or perhaps a week ago at most, so close are their deaths to me.

Don was a good man. He was my best friend. His widow told me that Don would talk to her of our lunches together for days after and that, as he was an only child, he considered me more a brother than a friend. Don did not judge me despite my myriad flaws and failures. I will miss him hard. He was also a master schoolteacher and a brilliant Esperantist and linguist in general. He had many friends.

One friend died to me last year through betrayal. And now my other friend has died in earnest. I have not utterly lost Don however: I pray to him, while I cannot pray to God. He will pray to God for me, until I can pray to God again myself.

As Samuel Beckett wrote, I can't go on, I'll go on. As Cormac McCarthy wrote, I will be hard and hard.

I've just deleted some journal entries that seemed overly personal to me, embarassing in fact. I'm leaving for the meantime some that seem borderline to me.

Ĉi-matene mi ekvekiĝis plejparte sendeprima. Amen, mi diras, dankojn al Dio pro ĉi tio. Juĝante pri la estinteco, mi opinias tion, ke tiu pli bona stato de mensa-aferoj apenaŭ daŭros longe, sed dum ĝi daŭros mi ŝatos ĝin. Efektive, iu ajn trankvileco estas dankindaĵo de Dio al mi.

English, this time... I'm having unpleasant thoughts about Esperanto. The participial system is wonderful, as are the correlatives. But there is a terrible flaw in the language, an elephant in the room, that no one but anti-Esperantists seem to acknowledge. It's the fact that in order to have "plena posedo" (full possession) of the language you must have a great deal of knowledge concerning every individual word. That is to say that any word (save for the "little words" that every language has, of course) may belong to any of four root classes: transitive verb, intransitive verb, noun and adjective. And that to perform competently with the language you must possess all this information. Maybe having to memorize only verbal roots, nominal roots and adjectival roots would be tolerable, but the necessity of memorizing the transitivity of every single verbal root is not. In other words a person must cram their internal lexicon with too much information concerning every single word for Esperanto to be very much fun to learn, which is a terrible shame, seeing that Esperanto's only real purpose is for having fun.

Which leads me to a second point: I hate the elitism and the overprotectiveness and the inflation (in the psychological sense) that Esperantists feel toward their language, the scorn with which they treat folks not yet competent. This is not how to draw in new enthusiasts. That's what many Esperantists are: enthusiasts, in the old-fashioned pejorative sense of the word. Many are not fans of the language, but fanatics. This strikes me as entirely risible, as if the devotees of the Flying Spaghetti Monster took their anti-religion seriously and tried to proselytize.

Which leads me to a third point: I am not a "samideano" and never will be. I do not believe that any artificial language will ever be adopted by any part of the world at large. Or at least that the chances of this are very slim. So Esperanto ought to be merely pursued for fun, like any other hobby. Chess or philately have as good a chance of being adopted by, say, the European Union as an IAL as does Esperanto.

I still mean to gain some real competence in the language, but just to be sure that my doubts about it are valid and to gain a sense of accomplishment. Also, negative criticism of Esperanto can only come plausibly from a competent Esperantist. I think that being a vocal negative critic -- in Esperanto -- would be fun. I have doubts about my doubts because of the many virtues and clevernesses of the language, but I think that for the most part it was probably just effed-up from the beginning.

Esperanto jam tedas min. Mi havas tre multajn -- tro multajn -- interesojn kaj tial iu ajn de ili baldaŭ tedas min. Poste mi revenos al la unua intereso aŭ hobio, tiam al la dua, kaj tiel plu. La tuta afero tediĝas. Hodiaŭ mi legis multe da la latina kaj neniom da Esperanto. Estas bedaŭrinde ĉar mi ĵus ricevis "Sagao de Njal" kaj se ĝi sidas sur mia librobreto tro longe, tiam mi eble neniam legos ĝin. Mi ne povas regi mian propran menson. Ĝi moviĝas tro rapide. Ho ve. Sed ĉiam Dio tenas min en liaj manoj kaj tio sufiĉas al mi.

Ĉi-tage mi devas skribi simple. Mia menso ne estas ĝusta aŭ korekta, kiu ajn la ĝusta vorto estus. Mi eblas forlasi la h-metodon, ĉar mi instalis la programon Yudit, kiu povigas min skribi Unikodon.

Hodiaŭ mi tagmanĝis kun mia bona amiko Don, kaj plejparte ni parolis pri lingvoj. Mi eĉ penis paroli Esperanton kun li. Li estas vera lingvistikisto, kaj mi dankemas pro tio ke mi havas lin kiel amiko.

Grave, mi eblas ĉeesti la Meson ĉi-tage. Dankojn al Dio. Mi fuŝpensas tiom ĉi-momente ke mi ne povas skribi plu ĉi-teme.

Mi aĉetis libron de ELNA antaŭ kelkaj tagoj kaj ĝi hodiaŭ alvenis. Ĝi estas "La Sagao de Njal", kiun mi antaŭ multaj jaroj povas legi en la originala islanda, sed mi forgesis preskaŭ tute la islandan. Ĝi estas mira verko. Sed ĝi tradukiĝis en tiel malfacilan Esperanton ke ĝi necesos verajn klopodojn far mi por ke mi legu ĝin. Mi tamen lernos multe da Esperanto kaj ankaŭ amuziĝos.

Mi forgesis ion, kion mi skribos tokipone:

jan sewi mi o pali e ni tawa mi: tenpo suno ni la mi tawa tomo sina. mi toki pona tawa sina lon tomo sina. mi wile e ni. mi tawa.

tenpo suno sin li kama. ken la jan sewi mi li pona e mi. jan sewi mi li jan pona tawa ali. ona li olin e mi. mi pona pilin la ona olin e mi. mi pimeja pilin la ona olin e mi. mi wile e ni: mi olin kin e ona. jan sewi mi o pona mute e mi. o pona lili e mi. mi olin e sina. tenpo suno pini la mi toki lili tawa sina. tenpo suno ni la mi toki mute tawa sina. sina jan pona mi. mi wile e ni: mi jan pona sina. mi wile e ijo ni ali. mi tawa.

Dum mi estas skribanta multe, mi aldonos unu poshton pluan. Krom legi "Che la Koro de la Tero," mi ankaw legas duan libron, "Philip K. Disk Is Dead, Alas", ankaw titolitan "The Secret Ascension," far Michael K. Bishop. Ghi estas sciencfikcia romano plena je multe da intereso, ne nur pasticho de la verkoj far Philip K. Dick, sed verko de Bishop tute lia propra. La intrigo estas tro kompleksa por esti klarigita far mi, sed ghi temas pri religio, filosofio, psikologio, nia prezidantacho Richard Nixon, Gnostikismo, kaj tiel plu. Tiaj temoj tre interesas min. Tre rekomendebla verko. Ghi inspiros min legi kaj relegi la mirajn verkojn far Dick mem, kion mi ne faris dum tro longa tempo.

tenpo suno ni la mi sitelen e nimi mute. taso mi pimeja pilin. mi pilin ike. ni li pali e ni: mi sitelen e nimi mute pi pilin mi. jan li lukin lon ni la mi pilin e sama ni: mi pana e telo oko tawa ona. taso mi sitelen e nimi mute tan ni: mi pona e toki pona mi e Epelanto mi. mi wile e ni: tenpo kama la mi sitelen e nimi pi ijo pona. mi tawa.

Kiel mi skribis malsupre, tokipone, mi estas Katolika Kristano. Lasta-semajne, me cheestis la tagan Meson chiu-tage. Hodiaw mi ne povas cheesti. Nek hieraw. Nun mi sopiras la Meson. Mi sentis min kvazaw malghusta sen la Meso. Mi ankaw pekas kiel ofte kaj kiel malbone, ke miaj pekoj shajnas al mi kiel granda amaso, granda pezo interne de mi. Mi devas preghi, ne, mi devegas preghi. Sed havante kazon de granda deprimo aw, kiel mi shatas nomi ghin, melankolio, preghado estas tre malfacila por mi. La Meso tre helpas al mi chi-teme. Chi tie preghado venas facile al mi. Do mi sopiras la Meson. Sed hodiaw mi estas sola kun miaj tri pli junaj filinoj. Mi multe amas ilin; spite de tio, mi sentas min pli-malpli sola. Tro ofte mi sentas tiel. Ech meze de grupoj de homoj mi ofte sentas same. Kompreneble, tuta tio estas malgranda-spirita mem-kompato. Tiel tamen estas kiel aferoj estas, aw almenaw shajnas. Mi preghas, ke Dio baldaw levos mian deprimon. Mi devas iri.

Ankaw mi nuntempe lernadas Esperanton. Fakte, mi relernadas Esperanton, char antaw kelkaj jaroj mi komencis lerni ghin. Kelkaj lingvoj donas al mi ghojon: la angla, Tokipono, Esperanto kompreneble, la latina, kaj ech la gotika, kiun mi ankaw lernadas. Antaw multaj jaroj, mi studis la anglan malnovan kaj la anglan mezan, ankaw la grekan kaj la islandan malnovan. Estas bedawrinde, ke mi forgesis preskaw tote chi tiujn lingvojn.

Chi-momente, mi legas "Che la Koro de la Tero", verkon far Edgar Rice Burroughs tradukitan Esperanten. Mi ne legas Edgar Rice Burroughs depost tiam, kiam mi estis junulo. Eble, la traduko estas pli bonstila ol la orginala verko. Ghi haveblas che http://www.gutenberg.org, kune kun multaj aliaj el la verkoj far Burroughs: sed "Che la Koro de la Tero" estas la sola Esperanta traduko tiu-loke de verko far Burroughs. Mi devas diri, ke chi tiu libro estas bona elektajho por la lernanto: ghi movas rapide kaj oni ne necesas gigantan vortstokon por legi ghin kun ghuo. Sed, samtempe, mi estas lernanta kaj multajn novajn vortojn kaj bonan Esperantan stilon. Do mi rekomendas ghin.

Finfine, ghis la tempo kiam mi denove skribos, mi pardonpetas pro iaj fushadoj de nia lingvo far mi chi tie. Ghis!

tenpo suno ni la mi kama sona e toki pona. taso mi sona ala e nimi ali. toki pona li pona tawa mi. toki Epelanto kin en toki Latina kin li pona tawa mi. mi lukin e lipu sona la mi jo e pilin pona. tenpo mute la taso mi pimeja pilin. tan ni en tan ante mute la nasin sewi Kolisu li pona mute mute tawa mi. nasin sewi Kolisu mi li wan pi ma tomo Loma. kepeken toki Epelanto: Katolikismo. taso nasin sewi ali li pona mute tawa mi. nasin sewi ala li pona lili tawa mi. mi ala ike pilin tawa nasin sewi ali. ala! kin mi jo ala e pilin ike tawa wan pi nasin sewi. taso jan mute li pilin e ni: jan pi nasin sewi Kolisu li ike pilin tawa nasin sewi ante. o pilin ala e ni! mi wile e ni: jan ali li olin e jan ali!

ni li pona tawa mi: toki pona mi li kama pona mute.