TO SAIL THE DARKENING SEAS IN A GREAT BIG BOBO BOAT The cop car moved with incredible velocity. Containing me like the womb; a womb of metal. Fertile mind impregnated with qualms and hate. Hate of the Vadisystem who'd attempted to kill me, because I sent her letters I never should have. The Bozo King was after me, as fast as he could run. The evil hitman was out to shoot me with his Thompson gun. Probably sitting in Canton's right now, having a big dish of beef chow mein, and contemplating his target. Paranoia in the City of Night. Apprehension and fear by the Suf Sea. My mind moved along the Ouspenskian autobahn, vapor trails in the emptiness, flying to many strange places on the astral plane. Spirit-ships drifting by, plying very strange cargoes. The cop car moved past topless bars. Rushing downtown, red light playing. --love was the drug... ...if only I could've scored with Valerie Dee Fantasy. We got to the ER. A Jung American, a hippy psychiatrist, asked me to explain, clearly and simply, in five minutes or less, why I thought there was a hitman after me. I tried, but my thoughts were racing. Every instant brought zillions of new possible pathways (still trajectories, as though in a time-lapse photo), more and more agents of evil conspiring against me, as I babbled at random. Now, he said, "Count backwards from 100 in sevens--" "93--" I paused. I paused for a long time. "And--?" "93." "Well, that was kind of hard. Try it by twos." "98. 96. Uh--" He thrust a voluntary consent at me. Then, he said, "I want to get you to a safe place." Within the concrete womb, infinite peace. "You mean a place where the hitman can't get me?" "I want to get you to a safe place," he repeated. I signed. # ISOLATION IS A LONG TIME AND LONELY The first thing I saw was a drooling idiot. Now, it dawned on me: I was a sailor in the Bobo Boat, a Spiritual Seaman. Later, I found out that Bert, the 17-year old kid who'd been drooling while I walked in, had been in a hit-&-run bicycle accident. He was seriously brain-damaged. Yet, at one point, when his father was visiting, someone asked him, What do you want to be, when you grow up? He said, A lab technician, and his father said, He has the brain for it. It made me want to cry. I ran around the unit for several hours after I signed in, babbling incessantly about the hitman. At one point, I proclaim- ed to everyone, VD called Reality a nigger. At 10:00 in the evening, though I was a speeding Rocket-man, they told me to go to bed. "When was the last time you slept?" the young psychiatrist, Dr. Rabbit, had asked, while interviewing me. "Three, four days ago." So, now they were after me to sleep. I changed into my night gown. While I was lying in bed, I could hear the evening news: a riot had broken out at the Apocalypso concert. As I lay awake, I could hear Hitman S. Hunter at the loading docks. He was telling the Hospital Truckdrivin' Men, Didja hear that the kid who set up Fred Bigelli is in the loony bin? Awhile later, the clanking and banging I was hearing resol- ved into a tank, driven by the Panthers with Kool and Reality at the controls, running all over the plaisance outside, blowing up cars full of hitmen who were racing toward me. I didn't sleep at all that night. In the morning, I got up early, and Dr. Rabbit came into my room, saying, "I think you have something we call mania. You'll be taking lithium. And Valium, because you seem to have a lot of problems with anxiety." Dr. Rabbit continued expostulating on the benefits of lithium. One of the other doctors, who'd come in with Rabbit-man, said, "We're going to have to restrict your visitors, so no one can smuggle dope in to you. We need you to make up a list of three people who'll be allowed to visit you." There was a suitcase sitting at the foot of the bed. The suitcase I'd never thoroughly unpacked, since getting home from North Dakota. I'd looked through it, though, to see if my super-secret stash was still there: while packing my bags, paranoid that the Fucking Big Investigation was gonna search my bags, I'd slipped half a Z into my blue jean legs. It was still there. But something else wasn't: "Where's the box of books I asked Paul Tippytoes to bring?" I demanded. "What books? Paul Tippytoes says he looked around, and this was all he could find." I jumped up and down, screaming at the top of my lungs, "I'm gonna kill him! I'm gonna kill Paul Tippytoes!" In another couple of minutes, half a dozen Security copz rushed onto the ward, stood watching me carrying on. "I'm gonna kill Paul Tippytoes!" There was, among them, a black cop. I assumed--delusional- ly--that, since he was black, he was a Panther. So I yelled at him, "You! I am your vice-president! You must kill Paul Tippy- toes!" He looked at me with awesome dread. Dr. Rabbit yelled, "Put him in the isolation room!" They jumped me. It was like being hit by the entire front end of the Montana Grizzles. They took me to a little padded cell, strapped me down in a bed at the center. A few way-cute nurses came in. I was babbling, "I didn't want to hurt anybody," meaning blowing up the Fireman's Friends. Pat the Nurse looked at me kindly, saying, "I know." I was convinced the beautiful black girly-girl was working for the Panthers. I said, "I need a blow job!" and she whispered under her breath, "You got it!" --and the swimming pool eyes of Pat the Nurse shuddered in my fantasies. Pat the Nurse, and I'd certainly like to--pat the nurse, that is. Then, they all left. A few minutes later, John Paul, one of the nurses, came in and put a spike into my butt. I was screaming frantically. I asked him to stop, he continued, anyway. Haldol--the strongest trank known to man. Cuz it makes me feel like I'm a man to put a trank into my brain-- Ah, when the haldol is in my blood, and the blood is in my head, then I'm better off than dead-- Haldol: it's my wife and it's my life-- I talked to the wind... --my thoughts were broadcast by sea-breezes coming in from the Suf Sea... It was like sliding through tunnels of blue ice, like being caught in the concentric circles within that a woman knows when she knows a man, like catapaulting out of the womb into a peace- ful world. # AFTERMATH (REPERCUSSIONS OF A THOUSAND SAVAGE PSYCHEDELIC WARS) I finally got out of the little joint, wishing I could smoke one. They'd brought breakfast, lunch and supper in to me, only checking on me occassionally. Now, I headed to bed to sleep off the tranks. The next morning, I awoke with a hangover. I managed to stumble out to the brecchie table, ate a general tray, then headed back to my room to sleep some more. A nurse came in, saying, "We want you to stay awake. Try and read something." Tippytoes had brought in a couple of my books from the Science Fiction Book Club. I picked one out, sat down and tried to read. The image fuzzed over, my eyes closed. The nurse came back. "Try and stay awake." I kept nodding off in my chair, finally, thankfully, it was bedtime. Beneath the starched white sheets, infinite peace. # THE PINK PANTHER Sunday was visitors day. I didn't get any, because of the list I'd made when I first checked in. Monday was the resumption of "Activities." Everything was therapy: art therapy, dance therapy, music therapy, exercise therapy, &c, &c. They restricted my writing to time outside of Activities, which mostly meant lunchtime and visitor's hours, and weekends. I got into Group Therapy, and began talking about my para- noid beliefs: "I thought Joe Kool was the new drummer for Apocalypso, but I've gotten conflicting information: when the concert-guy, called, he said, None of the other musicians said they knew this Joe Kool guy. Now, Abraham and Martin began saying, "Eagleton! Eagleton!" Eagleton--the Vice-presidential candidate who was thrown off McGovern's ticket because he'd had shock therapy. I remembered Joe Kool's promise to "make me something important:" it had been Vice-president he promised me. That night was my first experience with Family Therapy. On Monday nights, visiting hours were extended by an extra half hour on either side; tonight, they ran from 6:00 to 9:00. Fearless Taco and the Grim Reaper entered. After listening to them talk awhile, Rabbit-man said, "I'd like to get you guys into Family Therapy." Following that, Taco, Reaper and I met in a little office, together with Dr. Rabbit and Roberta, the Social Worker on my Treatment Team. --yeah and I was uncomfortable with her; she'd been in the dorms with me the year I was at the Scoreland, frequently we'd dance the cha-cha at House parties, where she would consume Descoobi-Dew while I floated around in a U-boat, submarines lurking in the foggy cieling. We continued in Family Therapy even after I was out, my Mother, whom I finally invited out--paranoid she'd find out about my drug use and "shacking up" (fornication, the Catholic mother's eternal dread), though she already knew from the Reaper's re- ports; Captain Strange also made it to a meeting, where he mostly just ran me down. This continued until summer vacation, when my brothers went home. # PAINLESS? YOU DECIDE! I'd been sailing in the Bobo Boat for a couple weeks now. My favorite patient was Jesus Martinez, this little Mexican dude who was the most utterly suicidal/self-destructive person I ever met. When I talked to him at supper one night, he explained that this was his fifth attempt: shooting up with Dran-o. He got the needle cuz he was diabetic, mixed up the Elixir of Death, and put the spike into his vein. Fortunately, at the last second, his hand jumped an inch, and he missed the vein. "They give me curare, so I won't jerk all over. Atropine, to dry my mouth. Then, they turn up the voltage gradually, and it's like I can see this great white light in my brain, and I have a headache for a week. I've had a headache since Monday." This was Friday. WHAT KIND OF KAOS? R. KAOS One morning at brecchie, there was a new patient. He'd been bounced in and out of mental hospitals so much, his first ques- tion was, "What's the routine here?" "Activities Therapy. It's mostly just doing shit to keep you busy--though at least there's art therapy; that's the only thing about this whole BS I actually like." He extended his hand. "I'm Kaos. R. Kaos." He seemed contented as he continued to eat, isolated himself once more inside his steeply-sided unreality. After I ate brecchie, one of the nurses came up to me, saying, "We'd like you to spend some time talking to the new patient--he suffers from conspiracy-theories, too." I found him in the conference room. Thus spake Kaos: "There're seven escaped Nazi agents, who are secretly controlling things in this country; controlling them and making them happen--and the CIA's planting bugs on my body, so they can read my thoughts from space by satellite." "Well, Nazis, maybe--but being bugged from outer space? There's no way that's possible." "There are ways, my friend. There are ways." "Oh come on, I mean, oh sure, humph now." "What do you do for a job?" He was suddenly concerned with practical issues, a great irony from the fantasies he'd just expostulated. "I wanna be the world's greatest living science fiction author, and better than the dead ones." "Do you realize how realistic that is?" I left that place laughing as a Jung boy laughs. The nurse who'd sent me following the footsteps of Koas asked, "What do you think of his conspiracies, now? And your own?" I'd confronted the same thing I was doing, and could see how unrealistic it all sounded, but I was not yet ready to admit my delusions were delusions, so I said, "He might actually know some Nazis, but being bugged from outer space? I dunno." # MORNING, MELANCHOLY, AND MANIA It wasn't until I saw an article in a med journal about manic-depression, that I finally accepted my diagnosis: though many of the patients were in the Black Panthers, and knew about the conspiracy. Or at least, so I thought. Including the some of the nurses and one of the secretaries. Like my precious Pat. One evening, after hours, I ran out into the hall for a drink of water from the cooler. I sucked the cool liquid down, then walked back towards my room. As she passed, Pat whispered, "Panther," in a come-hither tone. I wanted to ask what she knew about the Panthers, but savage dread kept me from speaking, the same as when Reality had asked about the book. Then one day, one of the med students on my Treatment Team asked, "Would you believe you were manic-depressive, if he showed you a list of the symptoms in a med journal?" I said, "OK." --he believes he is responsible for a horrible murder... --yeah, but I am. --he believes he holds a very important position... --yeah, but I do. And besides, if I was making this up-- wouldn't I have made myself President, and not vice-president? --writing letters and making phone calls. --Oh-oh, I'm screwed. Damn paranoid Valerie, anyway, going around to all her drugster buddies, telling them I'm queer, just cuz I'm obsessed with her knockers--the more I think about it, that was all the girl had to offer. That, and her androgyny--a need which was never filled again, until I met Jungle Jill--ideal love fades away into a starless and Bible black void. I handed the journal back, saying, "Yeah, I guess I am a manic-depressive." But I was still resolute about my delusions: there really was a hitman, it's merely that, following my advice to "blow a big hole in the ground where his house used to be," I believed the Panthers had burned Fred Biggeli's house down. # I TALKED TO THE WIND-- My words were all blown away-- So, after being tied to a bed all day long, and getting a second ejection, I was released from isolation. I slept for a day. They told me to try to keep awake, so I read a book, but kept nodding off in my chair. I just wanted to get in bed, sleep off the potent neuroleptic. Come Monday morning, I was chased into group therapy by the nurses, and began talking about my uncertainties and doubts I was now having: "I thought Joe Kool was the new drummer Apocalypso, but when the concert-guy called, he said, None of the other musicians have heard of him." Two of the other patients began saying, Eagleton! Eagleton! I was reminded of my conversation with Mr D: "When me and Joe Kool was still in the Invisible High, he promised he'd make me something important, when he took over. Secretary of State. Secretary of the Interior." "Tha's right." "Does that mean I'm an even bigger Panther than you are?" "Tha's right." As they said Eagleton, I finally remembered what Joe Kool had promised me in school: vice-president. # A SECRET HISTORY OF TIME TO COME Awhile later, I sent them out to replace a book I'd given away, given to Reality for Christmas. The name of the book was, A Secret History of Time to Come, by Robie MacCauley, a book I'd picked up from the Science Fiction Book Club. It was about the Black Panthers fighting the Revolution in the near future. I'd written a message in the inside, gift-wrapped it, and laid it on Reality's porch. When they got back to the ward, they were saying, This is the book he gave Reality. So I asked, Can you ask Reality what he thinks about the book? "No. Unkool." "What d'ya mean?" I asked. I naively assumed that all Panthers were Kool enough to deal with Reality. They were reminding me that Reality was a source of awesome dread. "I'm Kool, but I ain't that Kool." The other guy said, "There's Kool and there's Superkool. You're as Kool as Reality." And so it goes. # A SUBMARINE CAPTAIN IN A BOBO BOAT When I first got in, finding out I was a Drugster, they decided to limit my visitors, so none of them would smuggle me any contraband. I had to list three people who'd be able to visit me. Later, they dropped this requirement. The ironic thing is, I had a suitcase full of dope. Back in ND, when I'd packed my suitcase, I'd been paranoid that the Fucking Big Investigation (FBI) was gonna search my bags on the train. So I stuck the baggie of gnome-grown Fearless Taco had given me for Christmas up a pants leg. They missed it when they searched my suitcase. Mostly, because it was effectively hidden. I was right, my bags were to be searched. But the Fucking Big Investigation, if they wanna bust you for dope, have more direct ways of going about it. Instead, my paranoia kept me from smoking dope while I was in the hospital. You're already paranoid, and you're already confined. And if you get caught with dope in there, it's straig- ht to jail. I got Taco to smuggle it back out, and didn't smoke again until after my three month stay there. # THE DREAD REVENGE OF THE HEIGHT PARK HITMAN Three months later, I was released. All this while, they gave no credence to my ideas. They didn't even try to find out. And they refused to speak to Bubba Reality, just because he was famous. I tried explaining that I'd been over to his mansion. And had talked to the people there, and they'd go, Street people. When I was first admitted, I steadfastly believed there was an actual hitman. Later, I came to the belief that the Panthers had blowed him up real good. But even that didn't upturn the root of the conspiracy: though I now believed the hitman was dead, I nonetheless resolutely insisted that the entire fabrica- tion was real. --IN THE EVER-POPULAR TIMMY'S --I was drinking descoobi-juice; found myself sitting next to my old roommate from the mansion; the landlord had evicted me because he didn't like "ultra-violent" people. Which just confirmed my paranoid belief that I was responsible for the murder of VD's father. He started plying me with boozy comestibles. Beer after beer. A nice sloe screw. Sex-on-a-beach. "So--what do you know about the lights on Reality's mansion, going on and off?" I said nothing. He seemed intent to get me to talk by buying another round; continued: "It started with a bunch of little kids marching down the street, shouting, There really is a hitman! Then this man stood in the window, shouting out your name at the top of his lungs. Then you went over there--I saw you talking to them, and this funny bald-headed man drove up and stood at the fence, stared for awhile, then walked off." I still said nothing. "There's more--there were voices." And yet, I still said nothing. I'd been locked up for "hearing voices." "And--what's all this about Joe Mama Jogupsa?" I excused myself, left that place full of dread fear and loathing. # RAP-TURE --AND NOW HE ONLY EATS GUITARS Several months after that, I was walking the South-nite streets, back to my apartment over the Sarject Schultz Cleaners, just across the street from Mickey-D's and Harold's Chicken Shack (the best chicken in the City of Night). I passed a couple of little kids holding a boom box. The machine said: Now that man was a Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan He should've let be the boy who lived next to Bubba Reality. I wanted to ask the kids what the name of the song was, run into the record store and buy it, take it to my psychiatrist. But I knew savage dread, and withdrew. Who shot the Sheriff? Was it I who shot the Sheriff? And if I did--? --I swear it was in self-defense.