Per whose request must I respond to the raw, brazen, honest and real-deal; unabashed, uncut process of my writing? Of course it’s the genius of a mentally ill mind. But one last erroneous encore for this Second Alibi (Erroneous, Ben?) (Absolutely, mates!) The genesis, rather the genius derives from the joking relationships I have with many voices in my head extending far downward inside my psyche. I can’t get them out of my mind no mater what I do. The repetitions are in fact due to their own independent and relentless repetition and with their otherwise severely appalling messages, requests, and demands. They urge my own suicide so I opt for an Alibi, over and over, confessing to all the cameras, on stage (“All the world's a stage,” to quot Shakespeare’s As You Like It.) As they like it, they go as far as telling me to murder but I give life instead, just as Georgie would himself. I give life to Georgie.
Help comes along in many fashions from first, the writing itself, then the implicit repetitions, which derive from within and finally the birth and rebirths of our hero to love, our dearly loved Georgie Gust, may he rest in peace? Never. There’s an electromagnetic device set up here in my quarters, here in this, my home, in the ward, in my head, in my heart perhaps that might be more appropriate, my heart, it doesn’t feel well, but the repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulations sometimes zap the voices out of my head without hurting my mind, my brain, my heart my core, mon coeur. I’m entangled in the wires of my transcranial magnetic stimulation device and feel the electromagnetic pulses deep inside, somehow seamlessly. TMS pulses, they’re called. It tingles, thus entered the Introductory Clause: Subject (Paresthesia and Parenthetical Pet Peeves) in the prequel to this second hand sequel. I get headaches, too but they get me through. As the minor muscle deflations of my face and scalp melt me. The clock on the wall here in my little home office melts, too. The clock ticks and the phone still rings nonstop so I can’t sleep and I can’t see because I’m legally blind. I embrace disease. I take what I am given, audiobooks, of course to read on occasion when engaged in more idled activity, which is rare. All of this happens in this place I call home. I have no idea where home actually is in this most unusual crack den, this pen, the ink itself as it bleeds? The story, the places, and the vaults? The recesses embedded within my mad mind ruthlessly intoxicated with madness. It all intoxicates me. As long as I remain symptomatic I will write, and continue to do so, dictating Alibi after Alibi until the voices of all these so called people, Claudia, Heidi, Kelly, Georgie, Dr C, and myself, and my self, the fantasies of everybody and every place, and everything, they continue on. They’ve become tragic obsessions in my last literary gig. The voices and hallucinations say a lot. And before I say good-bye at The End of this bit, once enlightened at last, there will be more to come, the full three-part trilogy and so forth. History repeats itself. So does the present. The night is quiet and still now, and at the end . . . . I begin again. I am Ben. I just am.
Purchase Jonathan Harnisch's "Second Alibi: The Banality of Life" on Amazon