Tuesday, February 18, 2020



Sleep in Dorking comes late, with an early awakening, adding to homeostasis disruption.

Gatwick Airport is but twenty minutes from Dorking, so it is from here that Van Stein and I fly-–Disordered between us–to Nice-Cote-d’Azur, where Disordered forks off with a plan to rendezvous for dinner in Monaco. 

JL greets Van Stein and me in a large black Mercedes with personalized 007 tags, freshly polished for our foray to Switzerland the following morning. 

Its blackness reflects JL’s gloom. 

Monaco's assorted clans cannot easily find invisible me so they’re making a meal of him; veiled threats, malicious gossip and general conveyance of their specific point:  Don’t mess with our rice bowls. 

“Nice wheels,” says Van Stein.

“Thanks,” says JL.  “It’s the most important thing I don’t own.”  He turns to me.  “It’s been rough.”

“How we behave under pressure is the true test of character,” I say.

“That’s fine,” says JL, “but you don’t live here.”

“Okay,” I say, “then how about this, from Nietzsche:  We need formidable enemies to keep us sharp.”

“Enemies aren’t the problem,” says JL.  “It’s our boss.”

The Prince. 

Otherwise known as Tubby Tompkins.

I nod knowingly.  “You never should have gotten involved with me.”

“Him?” chirps Van Stein from the backseat.  I never should have gotten involved with you.”

As we approach the autoroute, I casually mention Disordered will join our imminent journey into creativity and madness. 


“No,” says JL.

I try to explain our Dynamic of Inclusion, but JL has none of it, finally offering his car to me devoid of his own good company.

The pragmatics for changing gears like this is not good.  

We must revert to the Dynamic of Exclusion. Or, more pointedly, the Dynamic of Reliance.

And although I am sorely tempted to accept JL’s offer, call his bluff, I cave, respecting that perhaps it is unfair of me, unilaterally, to invite another humanoid at the eleventh hour without concensus, our open gateway to madness be damned.

“What’s the deal with Disordered anyway?” asks JL.

“It’s purely plutonium.”

JL goes, leaving me and Van Stein to dis-invite Disordered over smoked salmon and good Chablis at Quai des Artistes. 

Disordered rapidly processes this insult, consulting each and every personality–and possibly creating a new one out of the trauma. 

One of Disordered’s less appealing personalities takes control and asks incisive questions designed to pinpoint blame.

I take the blame, but Disordered wishes to direct it elsewhere, astutely settling on JL. 

By now I’m at the low ebb of the lag, sleep deprivation, and now hurt feelings. 

This is good. 

Because it means I’m starting to feel as miserable and wretched as… Nietzsche.