Denpa, Artaud, and Drugs—Narcotics for the Broken by Murasaki Hyakuro

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–Article by Murasaki Hyakuro. Originally published in Eureka December 1995 Issue, Special Feature: Psychedelica (1995) by Seido-sha

Denpa, Artaud, and Drugs—Narcotics for the Broken by Murasaki Hyakuro

Days when denpa waves are strong are difficult for me. Even though I’m a natural “denpa-kei”, this is the one thing I just can’t overcome. Explaining it is a hassle, and I hate being treated like a lunatic, so I’ve always tried my best to keep those around me from noticing when I’m receiving transmissions. But even so, sometimes I can’t help but answer their calls out loud. This is fine when I’m alone, but it’s quite inconvenient when people are around. A person that suddenly starts speaking gibberish out of nowhere would creep anybody out. As you might imagine, I have few friends (and my violent tendencies don’t help either).

While I try to maintain a calm composure, inside my head there’s what Nemoto Takashi calls the “Delusional Demon War”. It’s played out time and time again. Even when I’m awake and conscious, my mind is flooded near constantly with a relentless torrent of incomprehensible sounds, voices, accusations of conspiracy, mythical imagery, and the ramblings of self-proclaimed gods and demons. When I was younger, hallucinations joined the fray, making every day feel like a festival.

But it wasn’t nearly that enjoyable. Even now, at thirty-four, if I receive transmissions when I’m tired or feeling unwell, I’ll thrash around my apartment, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Shut up! Shut the hell up! I’ll kill you!!” This causes a disturbance in my apartment building. The denpa waves were particularly strong last year, and apparently I had garnered quite a few complaints from nearby residents. My landlord has already given me two “final warning” notices, and says he’ll call the cops on me if it happens again. Sigh.

Among the signals that come through, the worst are the religious ones. Despite having never asked for it, voices claiming to be “God” or “apostles” force themselves onto me, saying things like, “You’ve been chosen. You must spread the gospel.” They start endlessly lecturing me about the creation of the universe, humanity’s mission, and the origins of the world, sending bizarre cosmic images along with them. If I only received these revelations once, I might have thought “Oh, so I’m the Chosen One.” But when it gets bad, I receive ten to twenty of these a day. And they clash with each other, each one arrogantly asserting their truths. You can probably understand why I want to scream, “You bastards, cut it out already!”

I don’t believe in Buddha, gods, demons, or spirits. I just think denpa waves are fucking annoying.

And yes, I’m definitely a fucking lunatic. But I’ve been fully aware of that since childhood, so I no longer feel fear or anxiety about being one. I’ll keep living by deflecting, enduring, and ignoring the denpa waves that assault me each day.

That said (though it’s incredibly presumptuous to compare myself to him), the one thing I share in common with Antonin Artaud is that “we were born into this world already broken.”

While reading the special feature in Eureka (the August 1974 issue), I learned that Artaud suffered lifelong headaches due to the aftereffects of meningitis he contracted as a child, and I felt a sort of kinship towards him. Of course, compared to Artaud’s agony–where even normal thought was difficult without a constant dose of narcotics to ease the pain–my denpa wave reception is sweet as candy.

Unlike the average drug addict, Artaud wasn’t seeking pleasure, illusions or hallucinations. He used drugs to escape his endless physical torment, craving peace and stability. He wasn’t indulging in decadent pleasures. He simply wanted to be able to think normally, at least like other people.

Every time I see those anti-drug campaign posters saying, “Would you rather quit stimulants, or quit being human?” I think of Artaud and quietly fume, “But there were people who used drugs in search of humanity.”

Artaud often railed against society, repeatedly making statements about drug control issues, such as, “They say drugs are harmful to society, but drug addicts don’t give a damn about society, but drug addicts don’t give a damn about society in the first place.” In reality, however, it was probably the opposite. The peace of mind Artaud sought was surely also a means for him to quell his hatred of the world.

Humans are pathetic creatures; our capacity for compassion and considerate actions toward others is usually limited to times when we have mental and physical leeway. For example, could you even think about helping someone else when you’re carrying a heavy load in both hands, or suffering from a high-grade fever?

The monstrous saying someone once uttered to widespread outrage–”I hate how the disabled think because it’s unhealthy”–might be utterly despicable to the average person. But considering my own symptoms, I kinda get it. They’ve got a point. Back when I was an elementary school kid with little resistance to denpa waves, intense signals would make my head feel like it was splitting open. I’d writhe in agony alone in mountain valleys or sandy beaches, cursing the world. I couldn’t stand the sight of people living peacefully while I suffered. “Why am I the only one suffering like this?!” I thought countless times about dumping pesticides into water supplies, setting my house on fire, and destroying my whole village. What stopped me from succumbing to my hatred was ambition, a hatred greater than the one for my home: “This suffering doesn’t amount to just one poor village. I’ll survive until I grow up, then go to the city and one day spread hatred, pain, and terror across all of Japan!”

Such prolonged physical suffering (read: torture) devastates the human mind and body. Therefore, precisely because one no longer wishes to hate the world, it seems acceptable to seek mental peace through drugs. Indeed, if one must choose between hating the world and becoming a demonic criminal, becoming an apathetic, opiate-addled wreck is better in the long run for society. Whether you see this as weakness or pity me is entirely up to you, dear readers. Undoubtedly, many strong-willed individuals in this world overcome suffering through sheer mental fortitude. However, a former acquaintance of mine (once a follower of Japan’s largest religious organization renowned for its goodness) said to me during an effort to convert me: “Disabled people and the terminally ill? Ah, no need to feel sorry for them. They were born that way because they committed evil deeds in their past lives. So instead of making temporary donations to their cause, contribute to our group instead to help spread the gospel. In the end, everyone is blessed and achieves salvation.” To this compassionate fundraising theory, I intend to respond sincerely with violence from now on. Someone once claimed that religion is opium, but in this case, religion is far more poisonous than opium. I couldn’t care less about justice or ethics, but I’m no pussy. I’m not gonna just stand there and take it when someone comes at me sideways.

I digress a bit, but the point is: besides using drugs for pleasure, some people use them to drown out hatred or curses. Whether that’s good or bad, I don’t know. But one thing is certain: for people who are already broken, there’s not much salvation either way.

I, too, was once obsessed with the idea that hallucinogens might counteract auditory and visual hallucinations. Over fifteen years ago now, I experimented with various substances. Unfortunately, denpa waves proved impervious to mere drugs. If anything, the voices I heard grew ever-so-slightly louder. Since then, I expect nothing of drugs in my battle against the denpa waves. I endure it, play dead, and if I feel truly threatened, I’ll even bind my own hands and feet. Whether it’s drugs or religion, those whose souls are saved are the lucky ones. I muddle through my daily life, enduring the torrent of destructive, violent impulses and homicidal thoughts.

Given this state, I’ve never deliberately wanted to use drugs to see things, nor do I have any particular thoughts about junkies. It feels like watching complete strangers fishing on the opposite side of the river. In reality, it’s just one of the many scenes I encounter during my walks.

And honestly, it doesn’t have to be drugs. If we consider things that corrode the human heart, there’s plenty of sin to be found beyond alcohol and tobacco. Namely: state-sanctioned gambling (like horse racing, pachinko, pachislot), the endless flood of mainstream media (manga magazines, newspapers, mindless TV talk shows), Famicon and PC games, karaoke, payday loans, credit cards, adult videos, soaplands, health clubs, image clubs, various religions… there are countless things that captivate people, are highly addictive, and lead the lives of those involved into ruin. We modern people can sink into utter depravity and become human trash with just a little effort, without the need of narcotics or hallucinogens. It’s not like cracking down on drugs will change anything.

And in November 1995, back to the real world—to escape my monotonous, boring life, I remain a coward who reads the newspaper, tunes into TV talk shows, gives the old man at the local convenience store a meaningless smile, and ignores incoming denpa transmissions while leafing through popular manga and magazines. I have no idea how far I’ll break down. Just as I don’t know how far my reality will distort.