Planet Trillaphon Out-takes

“Planet Trillaphon”-Prehistoric-descended Autism-psychopathy with addiction-dependence on other people’s brains

This is all askew, I must have 2 or more different work-files floating around. All I can do for right now is drop this trimmed-down to 3rd person 3 paragraphs here, then I’ll leave the disaster I’ve been doing in this file like it is. From the 1984 Amherst Review, David Wallace’s Planet Trillaphon trimmed and switched to 3rd person attempt now:

A boy had a hallucination that there was a hole in his face and he tried to sew it and was brought to a hospital but it got infected and had to be opened and drained, leaving a real scar. He spent a year at a prep school in his hometown instead of starting at Brown University right after that. He began developing neuroses “all over the inside of my brain like wrinkly gray boils,” that caused him to vomit and cry uncontrollably and he began smoking marijuana to alleviate the symptoms. He started hearing a humming noise and covered it up with loud radio and TV. He worked with a grounds keeper, Mr. Film, who kept asking what color b.m. is and laughing that it’s Brown. He told Mr. Film that the facial scar was from getting cut with a knife in high school.

At Brown his roommate moved out and the symptoms worsened, which he calls “the Bad Thing.” At the holidays he tried to electrocute himself by pulling appliances into the family bathtub. The hospital’s burn ward sent him to the psychiatric ward and he was put on antidepressant Tofranil, which he says is like being on a “Planet Trillaphon” because he feels like he’s in a far away electrical atmosphere and it makes a high, trill noise. It makes him feel tired and sleepy and he hopes to be able to get back to normal soon. A girl he’d met on the psychiatric ward was killed in a car accident 10 days ago. He says that “Being far away sort of helps with respect to the Bad Thing. Except that is just highly silly when you think about what I said before concerning the fact that the Bad Thing is really”

 

[paragraph 12, yourself]

Previous attempting:

3- I had a hallucination that there was a wound on my cheek, the skin split open. blood seeping out, bits of yellow cheek-flesh, veins, muscle and bone visible. I’d see blood and bits of tissue on my fingers, would look in a mirror and see the wound. It seemed like everyone stared and I’d think they were getting sick from it but when I’d say, “Look at this open wound on my face, I’d better go to the hospital,” they’d say, “There’s no wound on your face. Are your eyes OK?”

I tried to sew it up. Mom and Dad found me all bloody and took me to the hospital, but it got infected and then they had to make a real wound to drain and clean it. I’d destroyed some nerves so sometimes my face gets numb and my mouth sags a bit, and I’ve got a real scar others can see too.

4-  We deferred my starting at Brown University and I went to Phillips Exeter Academy here in town for a year. Neuroses popped up all over the inside of my brain like wrinkly gray boils. It was like there was a tube from my brain to stomach with a switch that flicked on at any time to make me throw up, and one between my brain and eyes so I’d cry for no reason. A scary high, spangly hum started it so I covered it up by keeping my Walkman on, watching loud television or talking to myself.

7- I pruned bushes for Exeter’s Building and Grounds Department, throwing up and crying into them. My boss, Mr. Film, had a riddle; “What’s the color of bowel movement? Brown! har har har!” I’d smile because Mr. Film was on the whole nice, and he didn’t get mad when I threw up in his truck once. I told him my scar was from getting cut up with a knife in high school, which was essentially the truth.

8- At Brown I was still weird. My roommate moved out and then the Bad Thing started. The Bad Thing is like your whole body is sick to its stomach, boiling like maggots in your brain, every proton, neutron and electron in every atom in every cell in your body unlivably swollen and throbbing, quarks and neutrinos bouncing all over the place, swirling with mottled yellow and purple poison gases, everything off balance and woozy, your very essence sickness, you and the sickness are one. 11- The world comes at you through that filter of sickness and becomes bad, all the good goes out of the world. There’s nothing but rotten smells, grotesque and lurid sights, raucous or deadly-sad sounds, stupid, hopeless ideas, intolerable situations on a continuum with no end. You’re scared it might never go away, the fear is filtered through the disease and becomes bigger, worse, hungrier, it tears you open and attacks your defense mechanisms, gives you agonizing paralysis you aren’t able to do anything about, you can’t run for help, your throat burns but you can’t call out for help. It dawns on you that the Bad Thing is able to do this because you are the Bad Thing, the Bad Thing is you, you are the sickness. The way to fight it is to think differently but you need your mind to do that and that’s what the Bad Thing has made sick. Just thinking about the Bad Thing a little like this I can feel it reaching out for me, trying to mess with my electrons. I can hear the snap of the switch and my eyes start to fill up, my throat aches.

14- I’d smoked alot of marijuana to keep from getting sick during that extra year of school and when I got a $200 prize I bought some and the Bad Thing and I got on a bus to go home for the holidays but a truck hit the bus, knocking the driver into the stairwell, breaking his arm and cutting his head. He cried because he has kids and would get fired because he hadn’t been wearing his seat belt. He passed out and an ambulance came and put a blanket over him. I felt sorry as if he were me and took the hundred dollars and bag of “sinsemilla” and slipped it in under his blanket to help and then left on the new bus. Later I realized that when they found that marijuana they’d think it was his and he might even get sent to jail. I felt like I’d framed and killed him and because he was also me it was like I’d symbolically killed myself in some deep sense.

16- At home everyone was festive and listening to music and said, “Hello, we love you, congratulations,” and I said “Hello, hello, thank you,” but didn’t have holiday spirit. I went upstairs got into a tub full of water and pulled in alot of electrical appliances. I passed out but heard the water fizzing and everyone coming in and saying “Oh my God!” It was dark and they more or less only had me to see by. They had to be careful getting me out of the tub because they didn’t want to get shocked themselves. The appliances made noise and blew out the power and gave me a shock; mostly my reproductive organs, because they were out of the water part-way and formed sort of bridge for the electricity between the water and my body and the air.

2- After two days the hospital moved me up to the White Floor. It had soft white walls and soft light-brown carpeting, the windows were thick and frosty. It smelled feminine and dreamy, like ether.  Corners were sanded to round and smooth, foods were eaten with a spoon. I wasn’t strapped down in bed like some were but wore a thing that wasn’t a straightjacket but was tighter than a bathrobe and could be made tighter if they felt it was in my best interests. If you wanted a cigarette the nurse had to light it.

Dr. Kalumbus came and said the Bad Thing was “severe clinical depression” and he laid out the options: Electro-Convulsive Therapy, which wipes out memory bits sometimes, like your name and address, or else either tricyclic or M.A.O. inhibitor antidepressants. We decided on a tricyclic. I left and saw The Little Rascals [Spanky and Our Gang] on in the TV room and noticed someone had their shirt on inside out and I said, “Excuse me, did you know your shirt was on inside out?” The person said, “Yes I know that,” and I noticed she was pretty which I usually avoid because my brain shuts down except for the parts that know I’m saying stupid things but I was tired and just said, “Why do you have it on inside out?” She said, “Because the tag scratches my neck and I don’t like that.” “Why don’t you cut the tag out?” “The front looks exactly like the back and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference otherwise.” I said, “If the front’s just like the back, what difference does it make which way you wear it?” “It makes a difference to me.” Then she smiled and asked where I got my scar. I told her I’d had this annoying tag sticking out of my cheek…. More or less by accident then May Aculpa and I became friends. Ten days ago her boyfriend killed her by driving drunk. She was 17. Her initials are M.A. and I joke to myself that I should switch to an M.A.O. inhibitor because when I think about her I get sad and go “O!” and I’d like to inhibit the “M.A.;O!” I’m sure Dr. Kablumbus would agree that it would be in my best interests. If the bus driver I more or less killed had the initials M.A., that would be ironic.

I’ve been on this Planet Trillaphon for almost a year now. I call the tricyclic “Trillaphon” instead of “Tofranil” because it makes a noise like a high-tension electric trill that drowns out the old spangle. Its electricalness isn’t just a noise but like a way of life. Chill goes through your leg muscles, hair on your arms stands up, your teeth vibrate as if you’re under a high-tension line, you crackle and see blue things. It’s very far away and the sound of your own thinking is like listening to the “Golden Days of Radio” coming from a speaker connected by miles of wire. The ground isn’t level, like the planet is tilted slightly on its axis so you have to get used to it like when you’re on a ship. Maybe I’ve escaped from the Bad Thing because it has a hard time in a less oxygenated and nutritious atmosphere. Running or walking up a hill to sled down or shoveling snow or anything gets you tired and sleepy. Maybe when I can read again it’ll be okay and I’ll be able to lead a Normal and Productive Life. I can hear the snap of a switch and my eyes start to fill up, my throat aches. Planet Trillaphon is like living on a planet that is warm and comfortable and has food and fresh water, is okay but isn’t good old Earth. Just thinking about the Bad Thing a little like this I can feel it reaching out for me, trying to mess with my electrons.  31- Being far away sort of helps with respect to the Bad Thing. Except that is just highly silly when you think about what I said before concerning the fact that the Bad Thing is really

 

[paragraph 12, “yourself.”]

From the 1984 Amherst Review, “Planet Trillaphon” by David Wallace, but I’m trying to show that it’s connected (never a pun here) to everything I’m trying to explain about and I’ve not only torn the piece to shred-little left but then I’m trying to switch it to a 3rd person summary of its contents and then I even lost the file that that was in so’ll have to retype it now, which isn’t much left anymore. The full text is on a link in the footer but with an early trimmed version I’m going by, trying to whittle it down to what his subconscious is saying through the story, but now in addition it’s even looking like that either J.D. “Catcher In the Rye” Salinger or one of his “offspring-descendants” had actually written or dictated the piece, as I’d run into Salinger’s name in 2 different of these researches that I try to do, one that he’d been at the “milint,” military intelligence, headquarter when it was in Baltimore, for WWII training he’d spent time there and his name came up while I’m trying to learn about in order to try to communicate with where the milint had moved to, in Arizona since right after that 1969 moon landing that proves that the system’s never known anything it’s talking about or doing, and then Salinger’s name also somehow came up when I’m looking into Alexander Graham Bell’s father-in-law-partner in businesses they were in together, that I think the father-in-law Gardiner Greene Hubbard was “like” most of the so-called British Invasion of all the “look-alike Beatles’ hairstyle” young people, that they came from Hubbard and Bell’s setting up underworld hatcheries for their genes and shipping them off to “flower” up all over the world and they were timed for that early 1960s sudden rush of all the Liverpool and London -area musicians to all be “taking over” in concert with the space-venture that then had showed that the system doesn’t know, or care much, what it’s doing as long as they’re taking over the world for themselves. Trying to look into who the different British Invaders were I’d wound up reading about Mark David Chapman’s assassination of Lennon and that Chapman was found by the police while sitting reading The Catcher In the Rye at the crime site, and I read that also Reagan’s would-be assassin, Hinckley, who’s around somewhere right now, had had a copy of that, probably with him while he was traveling to Washington, and there was some lady whose name I’ll have to try to look up again who’d been assassinated by a Catcher In the Rye reader so I thought I’d better look into J.D. Salinger and boy is it bad, this guy was in Vienna in 1937 and he’d likely been invisibly-trained for this type of the “‘magic’ show” because Vienna is where, to my researches, Theodore Herzl had been doing this with young orphaned Adolf you-know-who, Herzl using the kid for underworld “magic” entertainment spectacle LURING viewers to an area where they’d be “disappeared,” jumped from behind or rushed into petroleum bottomless pits or however it specifically works/worked over there. I’m sure that 44-year old Herzl had faked his death and been underneath and guiding little Adolf into adulthood, much like I’ve had the similar “Jomon” type invisible stuff all over me too, pulling off this Armageddon like this for decades, that Herzl had faked his 1904 death and when Salinger got to Vienna on family-business in 1937 Herzl might have still been underneath at 77 years old conducting all that way to and through the WWII. Then I guess it was 1945 he got his state made, but I’m not sure of that date, that that’s how the system hooked-up this global-system the way they have it, which is barely describable by normal people, the brain-eating even sounds less odious than that that’s how they’d hooked up, the Jomon had, their global-cannibalism system, on the excuse of doing it for the unfortunate boys that claimed that other people had hurt them, which is what the Planet Trillaphon narrator had done, told Mr. Film that he’d been knife-cut in the face in the previous school, it’s the pattern of the Autist boys that got the whole world into this Trojan “war” that was really only an invasion by these developmentally-disabled boys whose ancestor/s had hurt their own selves by wrongfully forcing their way up north and over Beringia, they’d made their own selves sick and nature doesn’t have tangible hands, couldn’t keep them back from trying to reach the sun. I’m in a disaster still on that whole Trojan subject, the things that torture me always get hysterical if the subject of that and then their Abu Ghraib scandal ever come up.

From Marvel Entertainment LLC’s graphic novel, “The Iliad,” by Roy Thomas and Miguel Angel Sepulveda and company, 2009.

I’ve been working on trying to get a Permission to use this little frame for over a year and a half, first looking for an example of the “Iliad” character of Briseis to compare to why I’m being tortured, that it’s some similar slave-girl taken captive situation, but then I gave up and thought maybe I could use this for an example of pre-system spirit life, that the Autists and Jomon destroyed the spirits and how they’d been living when all that invading and violence and uncontrollable fire-setting and raping and stuff was going on, that spirits couldn’t stay off away in their own areas, heading for space and bringing life out into it, they got dragged down to try to get the violence stopped and you can’t do anything with the Autists and then their “Mr. Film” Jomon partners who then kill everyone to make the world safe for the developmentally disabled boys who lie about everything and blame other people for what had happened to make them their small little drug-addicted jonesing in the Old World uncontrollable selves. — I am finally just itsy-bitsy getting a start in trying to use this example and then pair it with the Sistine Chapel ceiling’s examples and I made the teeniest error or using the back of a black and white practice scrap of that same page to scratch a little note yesterday and it’s been Trojan war all over me since then, a scene last night and then a difficulty this morning and then I got this thunder and lightning weather deluge as though these “magician” a-holes are arguing against little me, like saying crap through thunder in addition to the bizarre noises off of car noises and engines and those emergency vehicle siren noise phrases the idiots know how to make like it’s a big deal, then today they were making believe like that as though arguing with me, Thor or Zeus or what they think God is, they don’t know what God is any more than they’d had any notion what space is like, expecting to get rich and make lots of friends out there as opposed to these mere Earthlings they’d only had around down here, etc. So I’m trying to show that this same Autism is in this Planet Trillaphon story and more and more I’m learning a little about Catcher In the Rye Salinger and that he’d lived just up the Connecticut River from Amherst and had a P.O. box or some such around Smith College and wrote constantly till passing in 2010 but hardly anything was actually published and I’m thinking that this story has alot of his style of voice in it, but this version I’m putting down now is trying to strip in down to just the essentials of what was going on, in 3rd person:

A boy had a hallucination that there was a deep hole in his face and he tried to sew it and was brought to a hospital but it got infected and had to be opened and drained, leaving a real scar.

— wow, I’d yakked so much that I’m just noticing that it’s time to leave for the day, no sense, in as bad a shape as I’m in, in trying to quick finish the only 2 more paragraphs to this, I’ll have to leave it for tomorrow.

Now it got cut off, the terminal went out and I hadn’t saved, at 2:15p on Saturday. I can try to quick-type this but not be able to think on it right now, was hoping to find some Armageddon-artwork the system had had all over me like a ritual part of this but I didn’t have a cellphone camera and it vanished around 2013-14 and nobody else seems to have posted a photo of it somehow, a pretty big deal relatively speaking. All kinds of images on it and at the very end you’d noticed the figure of a teenage-type boy as though maybe in the Southwest here and maybe, finally after everything’s gone pretty much, asking (God) for forgiveness, that everything’s gone because of some accidental error, like in this DFW-story of telling Mr. Film some high school kids had made that scar, that that had then led to what is called that “Trojan ‘war'” when it was really an invasion of the post-dinosaur-extinction developmentally disabled boys, which is what I’m trying to work this up to show, with first the boy’s being on the burn ward where it was like a “hurty” white atmosphere and then to the psych ward where it was a mellow gray-white atmosphere, like recuperating in the dinosaur nests after they’d forced their way east over Beringia, it seems to me. But I’ll have to put pieces back into this now that I’ve chopped all that verbiage of his down to just this:

A boy had a hallucination that there was a deep hole in his face and he tried to sew it and was brought to a hospital but it got infected and had to be opened and drained, leaving a real scar.

In place of starting at Brown University then he spent a year at prep school at home, in Exeter, NH, and developed neuroses “all over the inside of my brain like wrinkly gray boils;” uncontrollable vomit and crying, a humming noise in his eardrums that he covered over with loud radio and television and talking to himself. He began smoking marijuana to alleviate the symptoms. He worked at groundskeeping for a boss named Mr. Film who repeatedly asked him what color bowel movement is and then laughed and said Brown. He told Mr. Film that the facial scar was from getting cut by a knife in high school.

In college his roommate moved out and his symptoms worsened, which he calls “the Bad Thing.” At the holidays the bus he was in had an accident and presumably he’d become depressed and tried to kill himself, by pulling in electrical appliances to his bath. After 2 days on the burn ward he was transferred to psychiatric and he was put on antidepressant Tofranil, which he says is like being on the planet Trillaphon because now he has a high, trill noise and feels like he’s in a far away and electrical-type atmosphere. It makes him feel tired and unable to read and he hopes to be able to get back to normal soon. A girl he’d met on the psychiatric ward was killed in a car accident 10 days ago, for which he blames her boyfriend for driving drunk. He says that “Being far away sort of helps with respect to the Bad Thing. Except that is just highly silly when you think about what I said before concerning the fact that the Bad Thing is really” which I guess he means that it’s himself.

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