But you’ll have to forgive my giddy, grandiose formulations, Mr. X. They are an inevitable byproduct of my new, broadened state of mind. I realize that to you and others, my behavior may seem over the top, even slightly loopy. It’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose. You think I’m delusional, and I return the favor, thinking exactly the same of you. The difference between us now is that you would like to change my mind, to “correct” what you take to be my delusion, while I have absolutely no interest in wrestling you away from your incessantly compulsive control-freakiness, served as ever with a thin-lipped, deceitful smile and faux hearty backslapping salesman style of camaraderie. Just how do you expect to change what can’t be changed, mon ami? It’s axiomatically untenable to do so! I, the supposedly “crazy” one, can see that perfectly well, so why can’t you?
No, no, no. Not yet, and not ever! You “masters of the universe” types, you spooks, you liars, you manipulative how-do-ye-doers with your manly handshakes and your deceitful small talk and your searching glances and your understanding nods; you sorry lot, you brood of vipers will NOT reverse this! You WON’T shift the momentum back to where it was before. You WON’T manage to flip the hourglass, now that the sands have almost all trickled out…you can’t touch me!
Am I just being irresponsibly grandiose due to the chemical changes in my body? Am I saying what I’m saying and doing what I’m doing simply because of the thing you’ve smuggled into my bloodstream in your ill-conceived effort to increase your power and control? Me, grandiose? Well, maybe.
But maybe it’s also true that you’ve brought forth a beast you can’t tame, that you’ve loosed mere anarchy upon the world, that the ground is melting away under all of our feet, leaving only the truth of the blessed void. All things serve God’s purpose, after all!
Heavens, was I ranting again? Yes, indeed, I was. To proceed with my story…
***
One year ago, they sent me away, having deemed me psychologically unfit to be a man of the cloth. Can’t be too careful these days, I guess, in our post-Vatican II, post-Sexual Revolution nation of molestation, where buggery is now a sacred marital act in several states…
Of course, I never had the least inclination to make love to any altar boys, but even so…the Vat II Old Guard alte Kämpfer may be the very ones who invited all the chaos in the first place with their infernal “I’m okay/you’re okay” ’60’s-era hippie-dippie claptrap, but now they’re trying to reign things in again, and I’m one of the unfortunate but necessary casualties in their stepped-up war against pervs, sickos, and psychos.
This fact embittered me at first, Mr. X, but now, of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way…of course, a year ago, I hadn’t yet been enabled to put things into perspective, and felt that a double-dose of acid had been thrown into my eyes: I’d been robbed of my calling and rendered a defective freak, all in one fell swoop.
The chaos! “The horror, the horror.” The same conflagration of faith-eroding poison that had washed through society in the latter half of the 20th century, throwing all of our lives into the wretched mire of purposelessness, making us absurd, faceless, soulless mannequins tumbling through a terrifying abyss…this same poison now pumped through my veins, eating me away from the inside. What now? I wondered, rather pathetically. I decided to move away, and then I second-guessed myself: why bother moving away, who really cared? Any place was like any place else. I might as well stay put…so I rented my dump of an apartment, in the middle of a massive colony of roaches, rats, meth labs, and gangbangers: I set up shop and began my downwardly-mobile descent into conscious poverty, poverty not just of bank account, but of mind and soul as well. I decided I’d fall until I could fall no longer, and then I’d hit bottom, if there was a bottom; then, I’d either miraculously bounce back to an upright position (praise Jesus!), or my bones would crack and my skull would shatter on the hard rock floor of reality, and that would be that.
***
Of course, I wasn’t immune to all of the temptations that persist in our age, even among those who have supposedly thrown off the shackles of conformity and freely chosen to commit to the freefall…in fact, I wasn’t really free yet, because I did two stupid things, typical of a modern-day would-be badass nihilist poseur: one, I saw a therapist, and two, I kept a blog.
In fact, a large part of what I wrote about in my blog concerned my therapy, which shows you just how far away I truly was from salvation. I only had one foot in the swirling Void; the other foot, still hopeful, strode out of its own accord, seeking solid ground, while both of my arms stretched, or rather flailed, towards the heavens, apparently expecting some assistance to arrive from that region…yes, I was double-minded, inconstant, not yet set on my proper path. I still wanted to return to my thought-to-be vocation, rather than faithfully tread the course of my destiny. It’s a pitiful thing to recall, but I must do so, since my purpose here is not just to discuss what I have become (with your inestimable help, Mr. X), but also what I used to be, just a short time ago.
Here, then, are a few excerpts from my ridiculous blog, which I kept during the months of my self-imposed prison, prior to my glorious recent emergence into blissful sunlight…
***
This is an excerpt from Andy Nowicki’s novella, Under the Nihil. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.
Andy Nowicki is a writer, speaker, prophet, seer, revelator, gigolo, assassin, and empath. Former co-editor of Alternative Right, Nowicki has contributed to numerous dissident online journals and has published several works of both fiction and nonfiction, including Considering Suicide, Meta-#Pizzagate, and Ruminations of a Low-Status Male. Andy is also the author of The Columbine Pilgrim, Under the Nihil, Lost Violent Souls, and Heart Killer, available from Terror House Press. He lives (for now) in Savannah, Georgia.
