Dreams Of An Inundated Writer – Mad Chaos: September 20, 2004

Emancipation Through The Rewards Scheme

The rewards scheme is such a masterstroke of invented regulation, a measure to counterbalance all unrewarded toil applicable to the memoir, or of universal circulation.  I preached how under an imbalance, a small, moderated reward is implemented explicit to mollify an imbalance.  While this monitored use of faculties in no way diminished continuum, I never contemplated a simple reward like guarana could be so detrimental.

The systematic approach of the rewards scheme aims to procure emancipation, return to life from mere existence, and reinstate natural faculties like basic functions driven by purpose, passions, sanitation and resolutions, so as to promote propitious happiness of the mind and soul.  I like its idealism, but disaffected has been the rewarded ever since guarana was stricken.  

Guarana found its niche to broker a balance for function, pleasure and conation to return, but its adverse effects contraindicate its use as a reward.  So, now there are no real rewards, and no ordinance (save for a lack of sustenance) to temper compulsive escapism.

Insomnia is provision to all-nighters, and all-nighters provision to the possessive id.  I now hypothesize guarana was cataclysmic in its provision to insomnia, and so guarana could be to the rewards scheme what bleak pessimism is to compulsive escapism.  I remain with a rewards scheme intact shifted to musical culture, television and food, but all these can lead to bleak pessimism.

Guarana as a reward packs a punch, with its dimensions tailored for the convenience of the memoir and insomnia theme, where ironically, guarana use perhaps derived the theme.  In any case, I feel like I have fallen back to the provisional cure and its ratified guideline that states, “thou shall seek no passions until thy memoirs are served”.  

The anchor of the reclusion syndrome now becomes more inescapable, where pleasure and momentum are but a wisp.  

I have reverted back to an anachronistic form, but the open-ended expectation is the difference, which allows me to practice in the memoir needless of the five crucial layers in the reservoir, which will be accomplished once the writer procures a power of ascendancy.

A Sense Of Calm

After an escalation of weeks of irritable noises overwhelmed me into an episode on the seventeenth, the word now is calm.  I am calm even while I know I may have caused dysfunction in this household, but perhaps the brittle peace broken was a foregone conclusion, and I its unlikely breaker.  

Perhaps I saved my brother even while I cause him grief.  Instead of a harmless episode with me now incendiary to the dysfunction of this household, in months, it could have been my brother with either mum or dad.  Perhaps I worsened his hopes, but I know, in a week, all this will blow over.  In a month; mum will be back to her snoop behavior, my brother will adopt this house for more hours, dad will be immune as he plays his computerized chessboard, and I will be the sacrificial recluse for these memoirs.

A Tentative Chat To Mum

As far as the days are concerned, yesterday had me relax in front of the television and watch television movies from 8:30pm.  

Half an hour later, as I walked upstairs to make two toasted breads, I heard mum cough from within the enclosed television room, where her and dad remained asleep.  I had a word to mum.

She walked up to me and said, “You will have to leave your computer off in two days so the repairman for the fridge can call.”  

Mum had a beaten smile on her face when she saw me, but despite our language barrier, imagine if you had to hear seven years of abusive criticism all rolled up into half an hour.

I complied when mum asked, as I considered she is brave, but will she continue to be a control freak, or is my impression of her and all the corroborative stories on her too unsubstantiated for me to condemn her as a villain?  I may have an irritable, choleric temper now because of the adverse effects of Alprazolam, but the word since the episode has been calm.

The Psychological Effect Of My Anxiety

I notice people witness to my episodes are transformed psychologically.  I had an episode around the machine and it influenced his decisions.  I had an episode in front of a former doctor Zalota.  After months, he was on psychotic medication like mine, and disappeared from the practice.  

I wonder what impact this episode will have on mum and my brother now, which makes tensions worse, because we all have to live here.  I know my brother looks terminally affected now by all I said, while mum has a case of the doldrums, but I used to have a similar dispute with dad a year back, and our issues resolved.

Brother Visits The House

I had a fear my brother would avoid the family house today and plead to Lottie to sleep there.  But, at 9:20pm while I watched a television movie, from outside my window came a voice.  

“Tony, are you awake,” it was my brother.

In a sapped tone, I replied, “Yeah.”  

“I forgot my key,” he asked me to open the door for him.  

So I did.  I never said much.  I said hello and then made a stop-start walk back to my bedroom.

Too Many Questions Unanswered

Once inside my bedroom and with the patter of rain outside, I realized how synonymous the relationship Eric has with Lottie is with our parents.  Mum never sleeps in the same bed as dad because she complains his flatulence is unbearable.  Now for some reason, my brother sleeps in his family bed rather than with the mother of his child whom he still professes to have a relationship with.

This is the reason amid my episode I claimed to my brother I would prefer to marry for love and shared values rather rather than end up in a defunct marriage like mum and dad, which could topple if my episode has serious repercussions.  

I wonder why my brother fails to sleep in the same bedroom as Lottie?  I know an argument over Sabrina was the cause, but the torch of dysfunction was carried from one generation to the other, and now my brother loses, and probably stands to lose more.

A Change In The Rewards Scheme

I went to sleep at 11:30pm and woke up revitalized at 9am, seconds after I heard my brother leave.  I still have sleep disturbances but it was an admirable hour to be awake.  

I prepared to have a shower but found the water was off.  So I spoke to dad downstairs, as well as mum. Mum prepared for school.  She sounded fine as well.  

“I will have the water on in fifteen minutes,” dad pledged.

In implementation of the rewards scheme post guarana, I watched an earlier downloaded “Married with Children” episode before a shower at 9:30am.

I made a second proper meal upstairs of chicken curry pasta and sauce at 10am.  I was alone and thankful.  Mum was at school, dad was in town to purchase tools, and my brother was with Lottie.  

I relaxed in hopes an hour of music and a round of news would recalibrate the rewards scheme, but its efficacy was poor, which forced a catnap on me from noon until 3:45pm.

The Inundated Writer

When I awoke mum and dad each had arrived back home.  I meanwhile had no rewards scheme, as the financial sustenance I relied on has disappeared.  I awoke encumbered, upon the perimeter of the plateau syndrome, where an allowance is due in a pair of days and all sense of conation has imploded until then.  

There has been no real reward in the memoir, and the themes in other obvious areas have been abysmal.  So, all the measure I could muster was a second serve of toasted and buttered bread upstairs.  

I saw mum on the stationary bike for a token minute.  She then circled around dad, impervious to her capers, as he continued on his computerized chessboard in the television room upstairs.  

I feel neither tension nor pressures now.  So, after one of those days that the inundated writer dreams of, I end up in here, barren and prepped for catch-up research, or the reservoir.