Unus_Mundus__I_Have_Returned_An_Ox_mute_b_nshea

Sunhill Asylum, the year of Our Lord 1957

E.C.T. # 1.
This is the first sentence. If you have forgotten the first sentence, it is time to kill yourself. Do not hesitate. Do it now…

Injection
Last night I dreamt of Liverpool. I was a child again, curled up by the fire with a book of fairy tales. But I did not read the stories. Instead, I made a new one. It was so strange and vivid, that even after all these years, it remains quite real. Do you believe in faeries? I would like to tell you all about them, but the nurse has prepped me with sedative. The mind grows cloudy. I must record everything lest I forget…

E.C.T. # 2.
They think me insane, and the astounding phenomena of which I speak they regard as the delusions of a madman. My belief in spectral appearances they denounce as disease of the brains; my second sight they consign to trickery; and the bilocation of my body they decry as an absurd contradiction to the laws of Nature. If these gifts elude you, it is time to kill yourself. Do not hesitate. Do it now…

Injection
A blackbird is singing in the yard. I was refused breakfast and given an enema instead. I’m about to undergo another “treatment” for my disorder. But any attempt to gain control of my mind, or influence my behaviour, is both pointless and ridiculous. The psychiatrist operates just like the Grand Inquisitor; indeed, the interrogation process is no different: purge, coercion, confession and conversion—all enforced with instruments of torture. They call it Empirical Church Therapy…

E.C.T. # 3.
In coming out of your anaesthetic exhilaration you want to relate something of vital importance, but the effort of remembering instantly proves impossible and mentally exhausting. That something crucial lurks in the back of your mind is a torment, for you cannot give it shape in your imagination, let alone express its true meaning; the result is ludicrous as it is astounding; for you are left with the terrible sense of your own destruction; the capital of your memory has been erased; your soul hollowed out. Your grief is manifold; you regret not only the loss of your identity, but also the conviction that you once knew true peace and happiness: these things you shall never know again. All that you ever perceived—your accrued knowledge, the algebraic formulas of logic and reason, the sum intelligence of your whole life’s experience—has been obliterated. All the beautiful mysteries that were once within your grasp, now elude you like wisps of smoke; the forgotten secret that once formed the very core of your being has been lost forever. If any of this rings true, it is time to kill yourself. Do not hesitate. Do it now. Yes, do it now…

Injection
If I could give you a magic mirror, wherein you could see the true image of your soul, what would you look like? Is there no ugliness in your mind and heart? Would you be beautiful, without a single stain or blemish. Are your actions sinless and without reproach? Would you gaze in pleasure at the inner beauty, depth and brilliance of your eyes? Would you muse with delight on your graceful form, like some seraph of the Third heaven? Or would you refuse to look, lest the horror and impediment of your sin conspired to create a gorgon of such vile monstrosity, that to behold its deficiency and deformity, would turn your very soul to stone?

Earthly mirrors lie; and despite the purity of our actions, some of us are only beautiful in dreams…

E.C.T. # 4.
Your name is Jacqueline or Jacques, or even Jack and Jill. If you have forgotten this, it is time to kill yourself. Do not hesitate. Do it now…

E.C.T. # 5.
I have returned an ox. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong body. It is in accord with the will of the Supreme Being, who possesses the power to perform anything, that I am forced to live in two worlds—the Old and the New. Each world runs parallel to the other, despite them being completely separate epochs in Time. The Old World is a spiritualist theocracy that looks to things heavenly and eternal. The New World is an atheist plutocracy that concerns itself only with the material and transient. The heretics of one are the saints of the other.

Yet the same insidious agenda is at work in both epochs. The Old World perverts religion for political ends, whilst the New World perverts science. The thought police of the Old World are Catholic priests; but in the New World it is Atheists who minister at the altars; the enfeebled minds of the masses are controlled via a comprehensive and insidious disinformation campaign called Evolution. For those who refuse the sacrament of the state, each World has devised its own special instruments of torture; any heretic who proclaims forbidden truths about the true nature of Man is swiftly exterminated. Thus the inviolate secret of the elect is preserved, sedition suppressed, and the tyranny of government sustained.

I appeal to all learned and unprejudiced souls who read this journal when I am gone. Why deny your faith before such ignorant inquisitors? Are not your instincts and intuitions more befitting to the pulpit? They call us mad because we refuse to submit our reason to an ill-founded allegory: The Descent of Man. Yet what ought these atheists be called, who deny all evidence of a spiritual realm, and mutilate our brains because we possess a sixth sense?

The New World withers and grows old, whilst the Old World blooms, resplendent with Gothic splendour. Many times I have sought to escape from one world to the other; but as a heretic of both, I have no place in either. How long ago it was, that moonlit witching time, when I was known as Jacques Vallin…

Copyright © Nicholas Shea 1992-2017.

Image: “I have Returned An Ox” original ink and watercolour on Fabriano+ Artistico 300 GSM paper. Copyright © Nicholas Shea.