The gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ by Gregory-John McCormick, Ralf Dellhofen (books to read for beginners TXT) 📖

have my ability or vision. i´ll see this paiting for 300 dollars. and that will be more than vincent ever received, but i will never have vincent´s ability. there is some irony in all this somewhere, but for now, merry christmas to you all.

 

when i was 15 and still living with my parents in the usa, i was hired to play christmas music on the piano at my high-school friend paul´s house - his father, who was also my psychologist, one dr. cotter, was having a large party for his family on christmas eve. there was a close relationship between me and the cotters, i felt as though i were one of the four sons they had, i spent most of my time at their house - and dr. cotter was trying to help me deal with problems i had, and still have, trying to cope with a world that is largely less intelligent than i am - i have a really high IQ and some other physical abnormalities with my brain, namely a larger than normal "corpus callosum", the connection between my two brain lobes, and it predisposed me to having extremely abstract thoughts - in fact, i´m not even sure that i can even imagine how normal people think or perceive life. but i digress. on this one christmas eve in 1979, i was to plunk out some tunes for the cotter clan, and i was to be paid handsomely, paul and i ended up drinking a barrel-full of wine and beer and whiskey, whatever we could find. the doctor was irish, and his wife italian, and so there was quite a bit of alcohol being served, both genetic races being easily predisposed to alcohol consumption and not adverse to younger members of the family drinking the same. in fact, paul and i got knock-down shit-faced drunk - and we ate a ton of food, specifically heavy pasta dishes, my favorite being mrs. cotter´s special mostaciolli - i think i actually played the piano that night - i´m not entirely sure! and if so, that night was my first paying musical engagement! i remember paul getting sick in the upstair toilet, he was puking and shitting, and sitting naked on the toilet with the window open all the way, snow and cold air blowing in. then one of paul´s older brothers drove me home, it was very late and my parents were asleep. i crawled into the entry-way toilet and began puking myself - my head was swimming, and wine, beer, and whiskey were rocketing out of my mouth along with an inordinate amount of italian food. while i was puking i must have passed out and fell over on my back. i woke up in the morning to the knocking on the door of the toilet, it was my mother telling me to come open presents for christmas morning. as i came into consciousness, my mouth was completely filled with mostaciolli and alcohol and stomach acid. i moved my head aside and puked up more onto the floor. i realized in a clearer moment later that i could have died, choking on my own vomit like jimi hendrix did. but obviously i´m still alive, barely. the rest of that day was a blur, i know my parents knew i was hungover like a dog for christmas. they didn´t seem to care much. and that is my christmas story, 25 years later.

 

i must tell you, dear reader, that most of my childhood and ten years were spent with the belief of both my parents and myself that i was some kind of hopeless retard. not until the before-mentioned dr. cotter tested me thoroughly did it become apparent that i possessed some extraordinary intelligence. up ´til that point i was an extremely awkward child, often in trouble for terrible things and not a very popular child with other children or adults or my family. i was very weird. and the strange sense about me was interpreted as my being retarded. i was not especially good at schoolwork, i had serious issues with authority figures, i excelled in driving my mother crazy to the point of her resorting to beating me. my parents called me "monster-baby" when i was very young, and i grew to be "monster-adolescent" and "monster-teenager" as well, fulfilling their expectations of what i was deep inside. even now in my adult years, many people consider me a monster. the only thing i was any good at was playing the piano. i had an aptitude for drawing, but that was never explored to any great degree - i was not prompted to create artwork, after i drew a picture of my third-grade teacher, one mrs. mctaggert, naked and horribly shriveled with light-bulbs for breasts. i only started serious painting again around age eighteen - when i left the nest for good. the music obviously stayed with me. i also was interested in theatre, and apparently i mixed acting with music and became "itchy wiggle christ" - but most of all, what psychologically formed my present personality - the monster that is me - is believing and being treated as though i were retarded during my formulative years. dr. freud would have a fantasy-dream-patient in me. to think i am a retard and then be told i am more "intelligent" than 99.999% of the world is quite a shock. and my intelligence is not an "einstein" type, although i am good at math and physics - my forte is creative and abstract thought. it is hard to say if it is a gift or a curse. more times than not, i put things together in such a bizarre fashion in my head - i see connections in every event, synchronicity and serendipity everywhere. and this leads me to very much paranoid thoughts, delusions, interferences, innuendo. i´m a fucking mess, actually. but i can write and record some fairly strange and deliciously nasty songs, and i can paint disturbing pictures that make people for the most part very nervous and uneasy. ja, i´m a fockin´ genius! ha ha.

 

there are not enough colors for me to use - i sense that there are more colors that cannot be perceived by anyone, but i know the colors exist. i´ve seen them before, especially in my dreams and when i have ingested hallucinogenic substances. another answer to those who have asked me that question - yes, i´ve taken a lot of hallucinogens, especially LSD and magic-mushrooms. a conservative guess would be that i´ve been on over thousand trips. and i see the colors that cannot be seen when i trip. i am becomming more and more aware that the colors that cannot be seen actually want me to use them in my paintings, but it is impossible at this point of my life as a prisoner in the michigan nazi death-camp. but let this writing be my witness, i want to use the colors that cannot be seen! it makes me quite sad that i want to use them, they want me to use them. but it is not possible. c´est la vie, non? the nazis win this battle - but they will never win their war against me - i will be free one day soon, one way or another. shit, ian curtis did it, kurt cobain did it, sid vicious and jim morrison and darby crash possibly did it. so can i do it, if it becomes clear that my physical body will not be released from the evil clutches of the michigan prison system. and i know that for what may come and for what the nazis have done to me already for these four long years - the karma that will go against these evil bastards in the end will send their filthy souls to icy freezing hell for eternities on end. their souls will suffer, and i will piss on them from my celtic heaven, and lugh and brighid and dagda will laugh with me. and ian, kurt, sid, jim, and darby will be with me, we´ll all drink ambrosia, which of course is guinness stout in celtic heaven, or murphy´s stout if we are in the cork area of celtic heaven! ha ha. a good irishman drinks only murphy´s stout when in the cork area, it´s better than guinness. and me and jim will take heavenly magic mushrooms, jim will fuck pam and i will fuck anais nin, life will be grand, to be certain. but for the moment, i hope to live and to be free physically from this rotten existence in prison-hell, or schwarze-schwull-heaven. i still have things to do before i die and party with jim morrison. i have many more pictures to paint, and for this, i know vincent smiles down on me - he knows what i must do, and he applauds my tenacity to keep on living. vincent is in celtic heaven, too - painting off in a bright yellow field of beautiful sunflowers. vincent shares an absinth with kurt sometimes, they are kindred spirits. and i will be with you. soon enough, vincent, when all my pictures are painted. peace be with me on this cold winter night. brighid, hear my prayers to you, goddess. save me.

 

so here we are, getting ready for new year´s eve. well, you are, whoever you are - i am sitting in the dark at eight in the morning, waiting for the nazi cops to turn on the light, but i only can hope - they do not turn on the light for some bizarre reason. the pervert perform their unnatural acts in the dark, and the unnatural acts are supposedly against the law in this hell-hole, but the nazi cops do not care. the sick perversion goes on in plain sight, and the cops turn their heads - if they don´t see it, it does not exist. but i must see it, smell it, the stench of schwarze homosexuality, rape, diseased minds. this is my hell, this is the worst place on earth that i could ever be forced to exist in. very often i wish i could die, just to escape this horror. my friends beg me to not snuff myself, but i think none of them realize how bad my life really is in here. otherwise if they really cared they would understand. i think only captain ralf is the only one who cares, he does not wish for me to snuff it, but he is working very hard to try and get me out of here - so he has the "hope fever" - hope that i may be free someday. sometimes i have the hope fever also, but more often, especially around holidays i enjoy, like new year´s eve, silvester, i am cast deep into the bowels of my old friend depression - mister depression swallows me whole and slowly digest away my hope fever. mr. depression reaches out and makes sure nobody writes me letters, mr. depression reaches out and hardens the hearts of the pharaoh nazis who decide to let me rot in this hell of sin and homosexuality, mr. depression is my torturer, my friend, my nemesis, my life. sometimes i really feel like giving up. to let mr. depression win, to drag the razor hard across the throat of the intelligent-retard-boy who is crying in the dark, wishing that all of this were only a bad dream.

 

there was a big underwater earthquake near thailand a few days ago. i am very sad for the deaths and destruction, at this point 40.000 people are dead and many still missing, washed out to sea by the giant tsunami tidal waves. the strange thing is that i felt the earthquake happen, i was standing outside and i commented to cheney that it felt to me like the ground was shaking. i thought it was some kind of acid