Unacknowledged and Ignored
The Genius’s Handbook
Owen Wolfgang Johnson is that guy in town that everybody knows of, but nobody really knows. He’s a brilliant writer, a resilient worker, and the smartest human being to ever be born, among other things. As far as the consciousness spectrum goes, he’s about as far up as anyone can imagine; farther, even, for his imagination is superior to that of all the other humans in his backwoods little village; that’s why the others never make any attempt to get to know him. They all suffer from the mental plague of culty groupthink, and like cultists, they’ll never know how backwards they have it; not until someone like Owen wakes them up – not Owen himself, because he prefers not to waste his time on the lesser beings, but someone like Owen. Someone superior compared to the sheep, someone who gets it.
Owen’s days are spent slinging carcinogenic chemicals into pails and moving metal barrels around a concrete warehouse, and when he’s not working ten hours of overtime per week, he busies himself coming up with ideas for nonfiction books to write. He’s published one so far, a self-help book titled Writing: Formulating Your Genius for the Rest of the Idiots to Understand in which the longest chapter – the longest chapter by far – is his life’s story. However, nobody bought any copies of Owen’s book, because the others don’t understand him, because they don’t want to understand him, and that’s just fine. Let his talent go unacknowledged and ignored, it’s just as well. It’s not like the others would be capable of leveling with Owen anyway. Not even if they tried.
The idea of writing a book about writing originally came from Owen’s journal, or rather his ongoing series of journals. They’re titled The Genius’s Handbook, and each fresh notebook he fills up becomes a new volume. He started this grand project when he was only ten years old, specifically on the day he got beat up for calling the school’s top jock (an overall friendly guy named Bradly “Big B” Bertowitz), and I quote,“a rat-faced hooligan whose mother has a big butt.” That first entry was no less than eighteen full pages long, and they’ve only gotten longer since then. Owen fills at least nine pages every single day of his life, so it’s safe to say he’s qualified to teach the others how to write. When his nonfiction books take off – which they surely will, just as soon as he writes them, because why would God inspire Owen to write if nobody’s going to read his incredible nonfiction? – Owen plans to publish his private journals in their raw, uncensored form, so anybody else who wants to be a genius can read his work and learn the ropes. Not the literal ropes, as in the noose Owen tried to hang himself by – that experience got a whole page in the writing book, the header of which was Why I Deserve Greatness, and rightly so – but the figurative ropes. Owen Wolfgang Johnson has a kind, loving heart; he’s a good human being on the inside, and all he really wants to do is teach the world how to be like him. The world doesn’t want Owen because it doesn’t understand him, but I’ll make it understand me. Even if I have to burn it to the ground in the process.
These thoughts, especially those of world domination at the cost of scorched Earth, are nothing new, Genius’s Handbook; I’ve had them for a long many years now. It’s all I think about these days, when I allow myself to think at all. In addition to being a brilliant writer, a resilient worker, and the smartest being to ever be born – not just on Earth, but across the entire Milky Way Galaxy – I am a meditation master. I sit and shut my brain off for ten minutes each day (five in the mornings and five in the evenings, as I’ve told you before), and I have to imagine I’m getting close to opening my third eye. I’ve been practicing for almost two full weeks now, after all; for the lesser beings it takes years, even full lifetimes to awaken the pineal gland, but I’m not like them. I’m better than them, so much so that, for me, opening the third eye is more of a formality than anything else. A due which must be paid in full, in other words. I’m expecting it to happen any day now.
Neither new is my writing about myself as though I was someone else. Some may call it pretentious, but I am a subject of great wonder and intellectual fascination; and yet, for some awful reason, nobody else writes about me. If not I scribe these beautiful symbols dedicated to Owen Wolfgang Johnson, then who will? Bradley Bertowitz? Please, he’s wasting his life playing pathetic football in college. He wasn’t even smart enough to get an academic scholarship, he had to rely on his physical abilities like some ape, like a literal metaphorical baboon with a fat blue ass, just like his mother. I was joking when I called him an overall friendly guy earlier in this entry, if you could not tell, Genius’s Handbook, but how could you? I may carve words into you like I do slits on my upper thighs, but you are not as smart as me. You are not even conscious. You are a notebook, the 42nd volume of my journal, a never-ending log of the thoughts which cruise through my brain like a snail from a dimension in which snails crawl faster than cheetahs can sprint. Do not worry, my unconscious journal, I forgive you for not being conscious. Even if you were perceptive, you wouldn’t understand me. Nobody does. Nobody can. It’s lonely to be sat at the top, Genius’s Handbook Volume 42, but somebody’s got to be here.
I believe that’s enough for now. A short entry, I know, but I really must get going – I’m expecting a package in the mail today, and I must get home from work to receive it. During the day I shall speed up the flow of time simply by thinking about it as I work, because I dare to believe my mind is powerful enough to do so, and so it shall be. Now, I never took any French classes in high school, but I’m smart, nay, enlightened enough to not only be able to write in italics, but also to intuitively know how to speak French, and so I say, adew~
Owen sets his mechanical pencil down in the long groove he carved into his desktop with a rusty old hatchet on the day Bradley Bertowitz kicked the crap out of him for reasons that needn’t be stated again. He bends low to his notebook so his eyes can focus on what he’s written, then takes a long inhale, the fumes from the freshly laid ink bringing an uncontrollable and pleasant twitch to his left eyelid. With a slight buzz on – the only buzz Owen allows himself, for what better drug is there than the work of The Genius? – Owen puts on his glasses and rises from his desk to fetch some clothes to wear. Journaling naked is how Owen Wolfgang Johnson always starts his day; after, that is, he stares at his nude form in the mirror for no less than twenty-two full minutes following his five-minute meditation session.
Draped in blue jeans splattered with globs of white paint and a blue tee-shirt flecked with bleach stains from all the times his boss had him clean and paint the warehouse walls, Owen doubles back to his desk with wildfire in his eyes. He grabs his journal and passionately kisses it in the style of the French, tongue and all, and then throws it to the carpeted floor of his bedroom, the floor which he refuses to vacuum because such remedial chores are not worthy of his higher, godly energy. The dust settles long after Owen has shut and locked his bedroom door, which, similarly to the surface of his desk, is gouged with hatchet marks.
Hello Commons, this has been the first subchapter of the first story from Convenient Incidents, an anthology of fifteen interconnected short stories which revolve around a man by the name of Hilter Odolf Williamson.
Convenient Incidents is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Convenient Incidents is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
If you like Convenient Incidents and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~