Technomancers unite, and rise with me. Not to sound too Borgish, but seriously, technology helped me fly, again.

It was clipped, actually, torn off in a storm. I fell. Half my face smashed in from the impact. I wasn’t too high to heal from the fall. I healed. But like a chopped down tree, all that was left of my wing was the stump.

I still had the other one, albeit pretty fucked up. I know, my language is harsh, and articulate. Thanks to the fall, and not being able to fly as much, I’ve learned a lot of things…

“…For, let us join hands on this mountain as we may, the battle is elsewhere. It proceeds far from us in the heat and horror and pain of life itself where all men are betrayed by greed and guilt and blood-lust and where no one’s hands are clean…” — James Baldwin

I’ve got some things to decide, like how to tell this story. It is one of mischief and matter and more than you can imagine. Because imagination is scarce. When you are out on the town and you see the man, vomit spattered in his beard, asking for money…

Fight. So violent. But fight we must, or struggle. The only two options. But, wait.

Roll, tuck, grab backwards, suplex. Grapple with it.

Hold. Take a second to breathe. Strategize while you have the moment. Move.

Listening to a friends amplified story riffing through my mind, I climb the crescendo of the rolling knolls that are these sounds. Safe. Sound. Home.

“Live Healthy, live Happy.” I read the bottle and tipped it back remembering why I did what I did. Fiction or fact. One knows its own bullshit. The other, is one of two: Disguising, or, elucidating. …

What if, every dollar, was a soul. Captured and certified in ink, on paper. A birth certificate we never received, welcoming us to reality.

What if I knew that only god could judge me. Not even myself could judge me.

When you compartmentalize it, like gravity on my different joints, a barometer, I pop, releasing fluid as oil to my bones.

Pushed some way by the invisible force subjecting me, making me its student, I learn about it. Gravity affects me differently over periods of time, and things on my mind.

Shh. It’s time to be quiet, and synthesize my…

A diagnosis saved my life. It wasn’t the right diagnosis, but hey, it set me on a path that led me to stability and dare I say it, happiness. There wasn’t much to it. I was in the midst of a psychosis episode when I ended up in the emergency room where they gave me papers on schizophrenia. I was coming off a marijuana high and I thought some less than conventional things, but schizophrenia? Not exactly.

Timelines since then have been difficult for me to remember. But by the end of this memoir, I think there might be one…

Adam Warren George

I like to write, because I enjoy communicating what I experience. And I like to do it in creative ways, lyrical and poetic prose, not sticking to the path.

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