MCMLXXVIII

By JP Somersaulter

MCMLXXVIII is an abnormal book. PREFACE: "It's strongly recommended you don't read this. If you begin, don't read much. For sure don't read to the end. (And watch out for the blood stains.) If you read to the end, don't tell anyone. If you tell someone, you'll likely be restrained and locked away in solitary confinement. Better not to begin. Nobody likes solitary confinement."Fictional review: "?Could make you profoundly crazy. Beware!"Fictional review: "I laughed my butt off."

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736723227

Book preview

Left Inner Flap

MCMLXXVIII

MCMLXXVIII

JP Somersaulter

Dowers Grove

Illinois

THREE ARTS PRESS

1100 Maple Ave.

Downers Grove, IL 60515-4818

threeartspress.com

Text © JP Somersaulter, 2017

Cover art by JP Somersaulter, 1974 – 78

Published 2017 by Three Arts Press. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

Edited by Lillian Moats

Assistant Editor, Paula Moore

Prepress by John Lord at Graphics Plus, Inc.

Printed in USA on acid free archival quality paper by BookMobile

Limited First Edition distributed as personal gifts to unsuspecting recipients.

To purchase copies of this book contact

[e-mail]

From Johnny to his first family: Daddy, Mommy,

Mari, Stevie, Kathy, Friskie, Puff, … and Willy

(Wilhelmina) the hamster

INTRODUCTION, Part 1

I’m JP. You know me. When I turned fifty, I had fifty birthday parties—one-to-one with friends in many locales. Now I’m about to celebrate my seventy-second by completing this writing project which I began in 1978 (MCMLXXVIII). It’s a fictional distillation of what I’ve felt, observed and learned over the past forty years. After my creative partner Lillian publishes this carefully crafted chaos, I will seek out friends and—for my personal satisfaction—give them (you) this volume as a gift.

You may not know that I had seventeen years of psychological therapy. Overcoming rapid-cycling manic depression, killing my relentlessly accusatory inner voice, and learning to face death are I believe the most important achievements of my life, certainly the most liberating. This book celebrates those *triumphs, fictionally.

If you undertake to read it, keep in mind: before the cure comes the illness, before the courage the paranoia, before the liberation the enslavement. This book is selvagem, which is Portuguese for wild, fierce, savage. MCMLXXVIII wildly interprets my struggle against fierce feelings which began at age eight when I learned of the savage murder of my grandmother, years before my birth. By eleven I was firmly in the grip of guilt and fear. If you read ahead, ignoring the preface, you’ll be challenged by disorientation, dream illogic, and manic-depressive surreality. MCMLXXVIII’s uncertainty, contradiction, horror, joy, lies and truths do not at all tell the story of my life, but express, rather, the essence of my inner experience.

This book is also selvagem because it’s a lament. How absurd that in this infinite universe each of us is required to struggle torturously to construct an individuality, which is then demolished by death. Even if we mature enough to face this natural end, we remain defenseless against a more horrifying possibility. Now, even more so after the 2016 USA election, humanity is confronted with the possibility of annihilation—the end of our hopes for a just and creative society and vital earth. In a flash or filthy meltdown we may be forced to witness the destruction of harmonious nature and innumerable species, including our own. No wonder this book screams.

I’m JP. You know me. I hate the debilitating effects of guilt. Please don’t feel guilty if you don’t read all the way through or even a single page. I thoroughly endorse my book, but it may not be your cup of tea. As long as we know one another you need never refer to it again. Our friendship will remain true. What’s important is that we met one more time.

*Triumph from Latin triump(h)us, probably from Greek thriambos ‘hymn to Dionysus.’

PREFACE:

It’s strongly recommended you don’t read this.

If you begin, don’t read much.

For sure don’t read to the end. (And watch out for the blood stains.)

If you read to the end, don’t tell anyone.

If you tell someone, you’ll likely be restrained and locked away in solitary confinement.

Better not to begin. Nobody likes solitary confinement.

Table of Contents: (Read as letters, not numerals)

First Chapter M

Chapter C

Second Chapter M

Chapter L

First Chapter X

Second Chapter X

Chapter V

First Chapter I

Second Chapter I

Third Chapter I

Appendixx

This Table of Contents is not remotely accurate.

The frequent misspellings found in this volume wish to be left in peace.

The blood stains couldn’t be helped.

MCMLXXVIII

Third Chapter I, Part 3

INFINITY

… Interrupted by your TIME, your LIFE, LOVE.

INFINITY

Again—so soon!? A TIME, LIFE, LOVE SANDWICH with way too much bread.

—–Cut here to throw away your appendixx—–

CHAPTER? THIS IS NO CHAPTER.

All truthful writing no matter what style or genre is a futile attempt to communicate contradiction and illogic. To write one’s emotions is a hazardous thing, all the more precarious if a clear, declarative prose is attempted. (Surrealists know never to try it.) I strive to write that which cannot be said. It is only through miscommunicating (a word not in any dictionary) that we can achieve authentic self-expression while, thank goodness, retaining some small degree of privacy.

Everything I’ve just said is a lie, just as everything I’m about to say is a lie.

MCMLXXVIII

First Chapter M, Part 1

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMillenniaMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMergedMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMuffledMurmurMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMamaMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM…

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter C, Part 1

Cold.

Confusion.

Conflict.

Chaos.

CONSCIOUSNESS.

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter L, Part 1

LOVE.

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter C, Part 2

Charlie’s my name. Good Morning … or Good Evening maybe. Does this JP understand anything about writing a book? In good conscience I must speak up—those first four chapters (and the No Chapter) are completely nonsensical. His preface and table of contents are crazy.

Meaningless artsy contortions make me want to scream. Who needs confusion, lies? What we crave is candid, coherent communication.

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter V, Part 1

VIOLENCE!

MCMLXXVIII

First Chapter I, Part 1

I?

I am.

My first memory: those terrifying squeals. Wrestling monkeys? I sat up and stared into darkness through vertical bars. No escape. I knew no words—not for speaking, not for thinking. All I could do was listen and see and smell and taste and feel … and cry. I didn’t know my name or that names exist or how I’d been imprisoned. Night and day—crib and playpen.

Multiple units of passing time haven’t helped me understand. I am … still beginning. What are my feelings? Words can’t express them, yet I’m made of words—for I’m nothing but a fiction. My name? I still don’t know it. For now just call me X.

I’m no longer trapped behind bars. I’m certainly not in prison. I’m innocent of the charges against me and therefore I have nothing to feel sorry for. In fact there’s no reason to keep me locked up and if I were released I wouldn’t kill the person or persons I’m not thinking of right now. I haven’t been given permission to use this ancient Underwood typewriter in the prison library. I haven’t decided to come here every day to write notes for myself, trying to untangle my confusion.

When you’re in prison you have to have something productive to do. I’m writing these notes. I think I feel—I believe I’ve always felt—insignificant. Smallness is nothing new to me. Being in prison can’t make me smaller than I already am.

I’m not important to the world. Everything I’ve ever said will be forgotten as soon as I’m dead. Only my despicable actions will be remembered—recorded in the permanent record of my GUILT.

MCMLXXVIII

First Chapter M, Part 2

And now I’m going to tell the truth by lying. I’m going to create another fictional character, M.

This M has been in prison for thirty-two years. When someone is permanently incarcerated, there’s every reason to expect he or she will be different from free people.

Imagine if you will being led into M’s prison cell, your new home. Already you’re feeling hateful, antagonistic toward everyone, not to mention extremely small.

You know you’re going to be meeting the person you’ll be forced to live with in spite of your feelings for him or her. That person smells. So do you. You hope he/she will be an even-tempered, quiet, intelligent type, or an easily dominated fool. You find instead a large muscular human brooding in the corner. M has muscles as big compared to yours as mountains compared to goose bumps. M doesn’t acknowledge your presence, not during the first minute or second or third. It frightens you to see that M’s facial expression changes constantly in odd ways. M looks serene, then angry. Suddenly M begins to guffaw, all the time staring straight ahead. For M, you don’t exist, not for your first emotional millennium, or second, or third.

M becomes interested in those strange extenders of hands—the fingers. Each one (pinkie, 4th, fuck you, pointer, thumbkin—left and right) takes a turn as the object of M’s interest. Each finger bows before the other nine. The fingers find their partners, and M forces fingers and hands into a smashed-together state, palm to palm. M grunts with the effort. M holds them there— tensed—for half an hour. The hands now part, the extenders trembling and vibrating, each finger dancing separately, wildly, for two more hours. What does it mean? This is insane. And yet you have to live with this person.

Each day you call the guard and whisper, This M’s crazy. Get me out of here! On certain days, sensing some subtle shift, you whisper, Is this insane prisoner a man … or a woman? How could a woman be in here? (I’m thinking of this from my male point of view. Maybe you’re female—how do I know?) But the guard doesn’t respond.

I’m living with a mad person. It’ll be only a matter of time before M notices me encroaching on his/her territory. Then M will apply the power of those monster muscles and squash me like a water bug.

After weeks or years or infinity perhaps, M begins to mumble certain syllables that may or may not be words.

Muummpomamm. Ssshuunamm. Messassalar. Mumushem. Mem. Mammm Pahmm. Macahownablogamushama.

Keep imagining. You’re startled. You thought M was mute and deaf as well as insane. The mumbling gets louder, turns into recognizable words, even sentences. But to describe the content of these sentences is ridiculous. They’re gibberish. Here are some I think I heard, though I can’t be sure:

Sensitive scores is mind stating they will energy said. Not if creaming brought us born keep it above your key sub via. As can see bark appeal of membrane a victim his Olympian has solemnly mice despite china a knee in highlands.

MCMLXXVIII

First Chapter X, Part 1

X and X. Twins.

Everyone confuses twins.

MCMLXXVIII

Second Chapter X, Part 1

X and X. Twins.

Twins confuse everyone.

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter C, Part 3

Crap!

So much confusing crap—who can follow it? I can’t. It’s Charlie again. I prefer nonfiction to fiction. If I were you, I’d sprint for the exit. Unfortunately I can’t, being one of the characters confined here between the covers of this book. I’m in prison too, but I have a different perspective, being a correctional officer in charge of the incarcerated. That includes those two crazy characters—mysterious Mister X, the nut who’s been writing to you, and that big, mumbling, finger-obsessed M, sharing the nut’s cell.

Somebody should shut this book down. On the other hand, shutting it down would end my existence. To tell the truth I hope you won’t leave—I’d miss your sane presence.

MCMLXXVIII

First Chapter M, Part 3

M is MASSIVE. I am tiny. Where am I? I can’t find myself.

It wasn’t a lie. I was just wrong when I said, Being in prison can’t make me smaller. I do feel smaller, tinier by the minute, by the second, by the microsecond, shrinking to nothing. Like a flimsy fragment of an autumn oak leaf hit by a winter raindrop, I disintegrate!

And the worst part of prison? There’s no mirror in my cell. Without a mirror I can’t confirm I exist. That’s what another person could do for me, were it anyone but M. But it’s M, a presence who’s an absence … and ever increasing! M is ubiquitous, filling the hundred corners of my cell, crowding me to a single atom. M’s non-sentences echo louder and louder. M’s muscles swell and flex against my tiny body. M’s fat is a roasted pig forced through my glottis. M’s breathing is a hurricane in my face—M’s rancid breath fouls the precious oxygen molecules necessary to live. M is a malicious god. I throw up but M’s girth, pressed hard against my mouth, forces the vomit back into my soul.

Wait. I’m out of touch with myself.

Once again I must emphasize that M and I are fiction. In reality, I’m not in jail. Everything I’ve written is subterfuge. I’m writing only because my soul is crying out to confess. (Sometimes I think I’m Dostoevsky.) When very soon I reveal my true self to you, you’ll see I’m willing to forget about lying.

There’s one thing I must say about exposing myself, however. I’ll be doing it because I believe you want me to. For my part I’d be willing to concentrate only on M. I’m happy enough to write a far-fetched yarn about a sometimes male, sometimes female prisoner who’s frightening and takes up every bit of imaginable space. But if you crave the truth, I’ll never again mention M, and M’s frightening, vibrating, dancing extenders, the fingers.

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter C, Part 4

This is your friend Charlie, at least I hope we’re friends. I wish I could be your guide, but I don’t understand either. Can I tell you a little about myself?

I C for a living; I’m a great seer. That’s my little correctional officer joke. I work here at the Jolie State Correctional Facility, which is similar to, although completely different from the Joliet Prison near Chicago, Illinois. Joliet’s situated in a reality more commonly understood than the one between the covers of this book. Can I C the future? Well, for sure I keep my eagle eyes open. If I don’t, I got no future.

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter V, Part 2

VIOLENCE! The VOICE.

Do you hear it too? The inner accusatory voice. Not psychotic voices, but your obsessive thoughts organized against you, telling you how vile you are. It’s GUILT and it won’t leave you alone. That’s where your depression comes from.

You’re stupid. / You’re cruel./ You’re lazy. You’ve done nothing worthwhile. / You have no talent. / You’re selfish. / You’re sinful. / Just look in the mirror, you ugly clown. / You’re creepy, petty, egotistical. / You’ll never succeed. / You don’t deserve him, her, that. / You lie, even to yourself.

THE VOICE, telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and telling you and…

MCMLXXVIII

First Chapter M, Part 4

You may not perceive them but smears, possibly blood stains befoul this page.

Did I say I wouldn’t mention M again? That’s impossible; M won’t leave me in peace. As I told you I invented M. But my creation’s revolted, crowding me, swatting me down, landing on my head. How I hope this typewriter ribbon is now but a ghost, leaving not a footprint for you to follow.

I have to go lie down now.

Now it’s tomorrow. Things are better. The VOICE in my head is quiet. I want to forget all about confessions and creations and making up bizarre characters and being in jail and writing to pass the time. I want to take a walk, pick up a tennis racket, eat a cheeseburger. Maybe I could go out in the woods … listen to two hundred cheeping birds, two thousand chirping crickets. But of course a prisoner can’t just go for a walk, can I? I want to ignore M, but M is everywhere.

My cell has concrete walls with, as I mentioned, one hundred corners. Shall I describe everything in my cell?

I won’t.

And anyway as I told you, there’s more M in this cell than actual space. The pressure against the walls is explosive. I’m sandwiched between M and concrete—flattened like a piece of aluminum foil … no, more like a tiny postage stamp. It reminds me of the cartoon about the portable holes. They were foil thin too. If only I were made of portable hole material. I’d pop my way out of here and leave M behind forever. But that’s a big if, or I guess I should say a very tiny, completely flattened, foil-thin iiiiiiiiiiiiifffffffffff. Are you following me?

Are you even still here?

I’m going to listen for your breathing. It won’t do you any good to hold your breath. I can listen longer than you can suck it in.

Sorry. Forget I said that. I don’t want you tiptoeing away in your stocking feet.

But now again M rears its ugly head, hippopotamus-like, and does something besides merely occupying every available volume, capacity, area, expanse, extent, cranny, crack, fissure. M thins me more, hugging and kissing me, putting those massive arms around my little postage stamped self. When it was 1978 (MCMLXXVIII) in the USA, a postage stamp cost fifteen cents. But it’s most certainly a different year or even a different place, and I have no idea if the post office still exists.

Do I like these kisses? These hugs? I can’t deny I do. Being isolated I appreciate the contact, though I don’t understand the kisses very well. You’ve experienced confusing kisses, haven’t you? Most people have. And you don’t know whether to enthusiastically kiss back or be repulsed or …

These kisses have, at least, refreshed my life’s palate. I hate myself less, hear The VOICE less, or … another way of putting it is that I’m feeling manic now instead of depressed. Wait! Please don’t go distancing yourself just because you’re not manic-depressive and think I may be contagious. Please. Isn’t it better you put yourself in my place for a minute? EMPATHY. Isn’t that what the world needs? Imagine you’re a rapid-cycling manic depressive like me. It’s so weird. In your depressed phase, a two thousand pound weight drops on your head, knocking you down, crushing your spirit, forcing you under the covers. Your hands hide your clenched drenched eyelids, but your eyes swivel inward espying guilty darkness. You—

No. Let me tell you about something else—trying to sleep. I lie in my crib—I mean on my prison cot—which is anyway a lot like a crib. In every direction I see prison bars. Forget what’s been said about concrete walls. Bars to the left, to the right, in front and behind. Am I totally alone? Those kisses were geological ages ago, and I’ve told you how vast is M’s emotional absence. I’m isolated and depressed again.

What’s that noise? Monkeys? Agony? I wake up and stare. Violence? What’s M doing? Suddenly, here is M, so close, appearing twice as large as usual, churning, grunting, sweating, swearing, some kind of piston engine or wrestling match. You probably understand what’s going on, but I don’t. Is it biology, generation? These are things I’m too green to grasp or get to the bottom of.

I can’t run—bars! I need a defense. I finger some newly developing empty space. I too have hand-extenders. Be assured I’m reaching southeast. It’s there—no, in fact it’s south, due south—where I find the responsiveness, the give-and-take, the super-stimulating corporeal elasticity I need to calm my fears.

And what a bonus. Forms expanding, stretching out the sides and all angles of my vision. How to explain the enormous enlargement, the swelling dilation lengthening elongation stretching thickening? We’ve all heard the universe is expanding. It’s like that, but it’s my own body-universe. It’s the Body Big Bang of overcoming smallness. Being small no longer exists. BIG, BIGGER, BIGGEST. All dimensions filling spaces M never filled. M’s a tittle of lard in a thimble compared to the new ME, the Big Bang inflation universe, amassing wider higher deeper, filling what? Who can say what space was filled by the beginning of vast exploding space? But I’ve done it! I see it, feel it, know it’s real. Maybe it’s only mania … but it happened.

MCMLXXVIII

Chapter C, Part 5

Charlie here.

CONTROL is the most important thing. Criminals must be controlled. They need routine and predictability; children too, don’t you think? Consider the alternative—chaos, which is unacceptable, dangerous. When I’m at the grocery store and see mothers coddling and cooing over their kids, I clearly see what a confused future lies ahead. I sometimes wonder if my wife’s affection for my son isn’t like flirting. It’s very frustrating to be a father. Mothers have all the control.

My kid? Charlie III, Charger. We say he’s Charles III; but, technically, he’s Charles IV. This is complicated … and I want to be completely clear. Let me start at the beginning of the line. My granddad was the first Charlie—Charles the Not-so-Great, a violent alcoholic. Whenever he came home drunk, he’d take after my grandma and his young son (my dad), and beat ‘em mercilessly. But Grandma had good relations with her neighbors, who organized to help her out. After that when Granddad arrived drunk, my father—only eleven at the time—would run to get the neighbor men. They’d hog-tie Grandad, but as a punishment they’d leave a length of rope free for the eleven year old to hold; and when Granddad got to his feet, raging, my father yanked, and his dad hit the floor. Over and over, was how my dad described it.