The Psychotic Sea

When one leaves the Brooklyn neighborhood of Bedford Stuyvesant on his or her way to the supermarket in the district of Clinton Hill, he or she must walk past the campus of Pratt University.

The Bed-Stuy neighborhood of Blacks, Hasidic Jews and Middle Easterners suddenly changes when rounding DeKalb Avenue and entering the land of artistically gifted folks-- Clinton Hill.

Bed-Stuy people wear hip-hop clothing adorned by beautiful braided hair. Some have curls around their ears while others have Mecca on their mind.

In Clinton Hill, the culture changes and residents are dressed rather oddly. The art school lends itself to a community filled with artistically gifted college kids from every corner of the world and they wear just about everything imaginable. The West Village of Manhattan is nowhere near as chic or happening as Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

I no longer imagine that the fence that surrounds Pratt is electric. I once had a psychosis and held a delusional belief that the Pratt fence sent out microwaves that interfered with metal plates that aliens planted in my head.

I never thought I would feel normal again, nor did I believe that the extreme pain that raced through every inch of my body and soul would vanish. But it has. I dreaded walking past the fence of Pratt and other CIA infested grounds when I was sick. Life was pure hell, and something as simple as buying food was enough inspiration alone for suicide.



There is a beautiful Episcopal parish along the way to the grocery store, right past the fence that surrounds Pratt. When I was ill, I told myself that if I made it to the block of St. Mary’s, I would be alright. The place was a lighthouse in my stormy psychotic sea.

In my imagination, the radio transmissions subsided when I made it to the front of the beautiful historic worship hall. Thankfully, I was never crazy enough to walk in there and ask for an exorcism, but the thought had crossed my mind.


The normalness of feeling alright again has made walking to the supermarket nothing like a chore. I sometimes glide my hand along the square metal rods, and woven strands of steel that make up the fence along Pratt. My fingers bounce in rhythm from pole to pole and I don’t feel a thing, other than the tender touch of cold metal to a warm fingertips.

There was a time when I couldn’t stand within 20 feet of that fence.

When I walk past St. Mary’s I still feel a little crazy though.

Tears stream down my face on the sidewalk in front of St. Mary’s.

The place made me feel safe before, but the aura I feel there now is nothing less than miraculous.

I don’t know the people who founded that place, but I’m sure one or two of them were saints, for their spirits still inspire me when I walk blindly and write about my psychotic sea.