To the invisible audience:
Now that I got back to green (metaphor for I’m okay with you, not “in red,”) pretty fast, I still wonder simply why. With all the texts that were sent this morning to my team, and my condition with its usual discomforting reactions to confronting instances of sudden unexpected stress when I had (thought) to have said unlike the time with Caregiver #2 when I did accuse her—and was obviously wrong about it—I said that every other day, the pack of cigarettes I bring over (replacing) and never (or hardly ever) using on our main house patio, they are not there nor in my own pockets, by the end of many of such days. It would make perfect sense for me to accuse three smokers who work for me who often obviously don’t even like me. Also, given it’s a common symptom of schizophrenia to accuse theft (without any logical evidence). It took me so long to get to react as pleasantly as possible while feeling so angry while not accusing anybody but rather mentioning that packs of cigarettes happen to be missing—often—too often, perhaps—asking if someone would call Caregivers #1 and #3 as #2 was not present this time around, to ask if they had either taken (by error or not) this last missing pack of cigarettes, three cartons a week, when I’m a one carton every two weeks smoker. As for my lighters—I just went through 100 of them in the last year—disappearing (okay, it’s actually a common innocent error) I even do it without knowing, and while others here who know me well, and my already wreck of a state and stress with this stomach bug and likely other things (medicine, symptoms—schizophrenia never goes away for me)— Caregiver #1 just (in how I saw it) charged into my office, attacks me for calling her a liar and thief, then tells me I’m to restock my own fridge and clean my own place—my heart racing suddenly. An unfamiliar cannibalistic raging anger feeling nearly like slamming my fist through someone, anyone’s, face instantly, but coming to terms with it, then being accused and attacked again by my own employee, employed by my own family who controls it all—look them up, the lawsuits of similar ordeals—but never mind them. I had just been sitting there, taking it all in, praying that my semi heart attack was not going to literally cause me to keel over, and Ms. #1 is still “yelling,” and maybe it was my schizophrenia hearing it as a yell not a quiet soothing nurturing voice—(is Sz itself gaslighting me? I think). I have zero proof of any of this—from either side of the evidence spectrum to look back on. I just fell into submission, as usual, and did not rage or do anything “bad.” Go to your room. Okay. I love my room, everything I want and have and need is in my room (Jonathan at age 12). Now, at almost 37, all I kept “seeing” was my mother and my father yelling at me—a Frankenstein version of them combined—whipping my genitals with the belt, while my mother, she whips and screams quietly, he’s sodomizing me with his own, then the handle of the wooden spoon, I’m saying, I’m repeating in my own traumatic fantasy flashback, “I’m sorry Mommy Dearest, I’m sorry.” This now being just 15 or 20 minutes ago, I was able to dissociate so much that I became Ben, my own fictional character based on a fellow called Tom, who I thought I “was” in 2009-’10. And I got over it within about 15 minutes of complete dissociation as my safety mechanism. I just feel a sort of koan of a why with no question mark. There’s no reason to answer. It’s just my wonder. I love you and I forgive you, #’s 1, 2, 3, and 4. Transgression was going to be set for the new Makeshift Mag website but I believe as today’s party goes on in its own festive ways, and I’m simply unwilling to be present for it. Regardless of all the spam, here and there, the hatred and obsessions of some of my audience, while others come to Porcelain Utopia, find what they came for (or not) then leave, and others come routinely for the tagline aspect, to experience meaning and purpose with or without mental illness, and with pleasant letters no longer, only the threats and harassments, which to any actual celebrity, it does upset them. While I dig up my old notebooks about “Ben,” I can’t help but think of the one-time visitors in comparison to the regular ones and feed subscribers—that I haven’t a care to lose them if it may happen. I’m not into getting “hits.” I’m into honest feelings and metaphors, into Fight Club (while it never mentions the word schizophrenia itself) the book and movie was a spot on parallel to my own strange and mysterious schizophrenic experiences—a catalyst to my future writing, now my past writing, until my psychosis—my not knowing what’s real or not—whether due to poor doctoring, medication which nobody has a clue how or why they work (or don’t work). This all seems to becoming a gossip page—search terms, the top ones, being “Jonathan Harnisch hedge funds,” “Jonathan Harnisch gossip,” “Jonathan Harnisch celebrity,” and “Jonathan Harnisch abuse stories.” 85-90% on any given day somehow find Porcelain Utopia through those terms (and I don’t know why. I don’t tag a thing like that, so as our Thanksgiving party is underway and I’m locked up here in my office (otherwise shut down, and it’s by choice) currently hacked onto a neighbor’s Internet connection since I cannot afford my own, even as a former primary shareholder of Amazon and currently of Google, well, near the top. The Net, especially those searching from a PC on Firefox, via IE, I suppose—this will not only be a personal email to my team, hastily makeshifted together, but the start or rather a resurfacing of the angel, demon human dichotomy of who I am with as much transgressive gossip stories as so many actually crave. What can I lose—followers and fans? I signed up for all this didn’t I? The big rich film guy gone schizophrenic. Well, that will have to serve as my validation—my ‘paycheck.’ I’ll think more about it and though writing 800 pages (years back) about an obsessive foot fetish and a fictional woman in order to overcome my own sex drive—which I no longer even have—thanks to medication. Hey, I’m not complaining about that. No need. Just gone? Terrific! You kidding me? That part of my life is tremendously easier. Anyway, the gossip might or might not be on the Net—I have no clue nor interest, and my friends are here at home. The hate mail will remain or get worse—who cares? I just don’t have the time for that. My character—the little bit of good in me, just like the good in authors Henry Miller, Kathy Acker and Chuck Palahniuk—remains. Only a few might understand me, or this or the psychotic experience itself. But to those who crave this gossip stuff. Who knows, maybe it’ll come. Lots of it is already here and there. So hug me, embrace me, or kill me, hate me, call me and leave your comments both good and bad, tastefully or with ignorance. Hell, I’m human. I’m ignorant, too. Thank God I’m aware of that. So bring it on as I hope I’ll chose to do lay down some adult content and find the meaning in the madness. I hope to find the courage to post some of it before long. I’m the one in control of my life, my recovery and my website. If I’m to be hacked again, I can surely hack you back but only to see who and where you are, as you route through a series of Asian and other foreign IPs, etc. back to New York or Cleveland. But take me down or just give this kid a shot and get over it, as I’m doing. Thank you and may you all remain as centered as possible, just like I try to do. Then falling to pieces, coming back, and starting over again. So be it. No headers, no footers, no spell check, no SEO, just as-is. As it is… See? I already feel better now. Ah.