Here I am again. On the edge. At the boundary between hypomania and mania. The other day, I heard the following rule enounced by someone in the hall: “being bipolar is like being a piece of money incapable of standing on its edge; you are either heads either tails, that’s all.” I am revisiting and analyzing my current mood surge. My brain is running so fast and the flood of ideas in my mind is so strong it is very hard to focus on something clear; it is both exciting and exhausting; physically, I am feeling like consuming myself. Earlier in the day, I got a very weird and anxiousness-generating interval of physical and emotional sensations reminiscent of my (extremely advanced) 2017 delusions characterised by déja vu sequences and thematically centred on fight against over-developed technology, conspiracy theories, replicants, human eyes connected to central power’s computers, infiltration of lethal algorithms in vaccines, and end-of-the-world- or third-millenium-revolution-related crypted or explicit messages in rock’n roll and sci-fi movies. I felt mania invade me during an hour, recounced to take any additional med, and just meditated, quite easily repelling hallucinations.
I don’t want to talk much about paranormal phenomenons but… Oh my God… Exactly three years have passed since I wrote and published on the internet under my former pseudonyme of David Anderson what I would consider in those times a masterpiece: a nicely-illustrated delirium-inspired and filled article with that impacting title: “I Had A Sci-Fi Lullaby Dream: I Was Meeting The Fishbach’s Other One In A Wormhole”, complexly (though insufficiently) analyzed in French here and downloadable in its original version there. I will never forget: during the two last weeks of 2018 (I was in total conflict with my family and friends and celebrated Christmas and New Year’s Day alone), every day at the same hour (around 9 PM, probable waking [falling asleep?] hour of a pop star on vacation), I was visited, inhabitated by Fishbach’s voice — a true androgynous but categorically feminine voice. In psychiatry, this is called ‘acoustic-verbal’ hallucinations. But do you really want to know? Today, on the hypomanic–manic state edge I am standing, I think I really entered in a wormhole. Why? I could write: because, additionally, I saw matter deforming and tunnels opening — any psychiatrist will immediately say ‘visual hallucinations’… Toc, toc, toc, that is not the point. Everything lies in the content and the moral of my half-dream, half-reality sequences. What did the so-called Fishbach’s Other One tell me during these two extremely strange weeks? She — a kind of Fishbach from another universe, if we refer to the theory of the bubble-universes in Quantum Mechanics — told me about an alternate reality, she told me about the 2017 year I could have lived if I had stayed hypomanic–manic and not run into extreme mania (and, thus, psychiatric hospitals instead of Fishbach’s concerts where I would have soon become a real groupie). Of course, by concentrating and listening to the Fishbach’s Other One, I saw both my life and Fishbach’s life in another universe and potentially, by derivation and thinking, our lives in the Future. Yes, I kind of experimented the ‘double causality’ of consciousness’ physicists. It was not funny, believe me, and, for that purpose, with the aim of balancing us, the Fishbach’s Other One and I rapidly implemented some games, like smoking small quantities of haschich and incredible quantities of cigarettes watching videoclips on YouTube (our favourite one being “Last Flight” by Taï Phong) or paying homages by dancing and singing to one of our common references in the so-called French variété, Mylène Farmer, whom we used to call “Tata Farmer” (honestly, I don’t remember any sexual experience for the following reasons: the Fishbach’s Other One rapidly confessed me she had already a lover; I was utterly focused on the messages I would received from the parallel universe/the Future). Well, let’s go to the matter: the Fishbach’s Other One told me I would become a crazy and uncontrollable groupie with two culminating periods in which, because of excesses in alcohol and drugs, I would ridiculize myself, especially by strip-teasing in public (one of my former habits in parties) and physically harass her before being done over by her relatives: first (I swear I am not inventing the dates), at the end of the month of April or at the beginning of the month of May (in 2022, the real Fishbach will produce herself in Rouen, Amiens, and Bruxelles on April 27, 28, and 29, respectively); then, in the second part of the month of July, in a Northern French Alps-settled, small and bucolic festival organised by a friend of mine (Laurent, who, mucking around, used to call me ‘sexopath’ during our late and wonderful students’ years) (festival where Fishbach actually produced herself on July 17, 2017) — regarding the latter show, nothing has been yet programmed but it may well occur. What is the probability for me to go there and there if I don’t fall again into depression (which should normally not happen if we refer to the logic of cycles in bipolar disorder: see that article written a few days ago)? Extremely high, of course… Could I really strip-tease in a party or in a public place in front of Fishbach? I am not 25 anymore but who knows? All along the last five years, my bipolar disorder evolution has shown how unpredictable I could be during my manic phases and how my subconscious could take the control and misrepresent my behaviour and attitude. In an hypomanic–manic condition assisted by psychotropics, could I — because I have been really vainly and desperately loving her for years and because she is absolutely and more and more femme fatal — totally lose control and physically harass her in any way at all? Oh! No, Flora, do not blacklist me, I could never do that; I am remembering now, the Fishbach Other One’s words were twisted by an external point of view (…). Let’s sum up: I know that I am presently located at +4/+5 on a mood scale running from –10 to +10. A sole joint of weed could put me directly in the stratosphere (+8/+10). ALL OF THIS MAY BE PARANOÏA OR TRUE MURPHY’S LAW NULL HYPOTHESIS; IN ANY MANNER WHATSOEVER, ALL OF THIS SHOULD MEDICALLY AND MORALLY GUIDE ME IN THE CURSE OF THE NEXT MONTHS. I have to inflect the lines of Time if I don’t want a bad end.
That being said, actually, my meeting with the so-called Fishbach’s Other One in a wormhole was not my first ‘wormhole experience’ — let me clarify things: I am perfectly aware these are acoustic–verbal and visual hallucinations; nevertheless, it is perfectly possible to extract moral and lessons and, until a certain point, metaphysical meanings from hallucinations; furthermore, ‘wormhole’ is so… Poetic. If I recall correctly, my first true wormhole experience was in October 2018, one month after the release of The Blue Hour by Suede. All that comes hereunder is less disturbing and striking than the abovementioned experience and interpretations but it has to be told. One sunny day, during a few hours, the so-called Brett Anderson’s Other One talked to me in my flat (we then went outside and shared a pint of beer) with a husky, tired voice (he had a cold). He told me what to do and not to do: “show me your books and records, I will guide you, boy” — did I really listen to him during the subsequent months?… The Brett Anderson’s Other One told me The Blue Hour was an opus about the end of the world (MY, OUR world and not THE world). De facto, The Blue Hour became, as I precised many times previously, the soundtrack of my numerous dementia and ordeal crises. But there is more: in February 2019, I prepared a thick printed package of odd articles entitled Letters To Fishbach — Progresses In Quantum Metaphysics And Degasified Psychiatry and sent it to Flora Fischbach at her music label (Entreprise, Paris) and to a certain ‘Miss Fischbach’ whose I had found the postal direction in Charleville-Mézières (the city where [Arthur Rimbaud and] Flora Fischbach grew up). There was a pretentious prelude: the whole “As One” song’s lyrics that contain the very explicit sentence: “Here I am / Here I am / Run to me / Come to me” — and from that point my Flora Fischbach’s remote harassment rose to an upper level. However, I had not deciphered the whole record’s meaning with, for instance, messages like the chorus of the second song of the album, “Wastelands” (“When it all is much too much / We’ll run to the wastelands / Where the snow is all there is / And words sound different”). I had not understood that The Blue Hour is a tremendous collection of pastoral and retreat-related rock’n roll odes— and the deep message I have to hear, the deep personal interpretation of both music and lyrics I have to make is that I am where I have to be — a psychiatric clinic in the countryside— and probably the Brett Anderson’s Other One’s voice, as well as the real Brett Anderson’s voice, is no more than an echo of my father’s voice: probably for my sake and many people’s sake I have to stay here, find the road of reason (treason?), try to forget Fishbach for a while (but HOW? Her new album will be released in one month!), even renounce her concerts… How long? Weeks? Months? Years? Forever? Who really cares? Brett? “Don’t be afraid nobody loves you / Don’t be afraid nobody sees…”