Onderdonk! Come back!

Onder, please come back and talk about gibberish please.

I need it.


what ever happened to mukky? onderdonkey?
here’s the responderdonk…

this website was a bad habit.
but i didn’t quit the activity,
just the venue.
i have a nephew and niece,
6 and 3,
so now i write psychotic childrens books for them,
cause my sister lets me,
she had me go in there and watch their dreams,
i saw they were body dreaming,
especially the three year old,
all about the growth of their body,
not about the mind,
and I tried to journey into the spirit world,
and the moon told me to ;put them down,
that journeying is for after 17 years old,
right now their dreams are for body growing,
not mind journeying,
so I stopped teaching the universe in the psychotic books,
I’;m sticking to first grade spelling words with all my nonsense now,
so it may not seem quite as sz as it used to.
I did just publish, today,
a book for adults, short essay
on what is consciousness,
what is dreaming,
and what is art,
cause, you know, I’m still an onderdonk maniac.
here’s the book - free ebook in all formats, released it today.

and today, today the first grade gibberish went…

The clown who went into the town,
with purple mask and silly frown,
lost his glasses falling down,
now everything looks upside-down.

The quarter moon was shining bright,
the circus lost track of time that night,
now the circus can’t find him 'cause he’s underground,
while everybody’s looking in the lost-and-found,
but the purple marching circus clown might rebound,
and find his old circus like an old bloodhound;

using his nose…
Oh the circus entertainer is a bounding clown,
he makes his entertainment go round and round
when the circus caravan comes to town
and the circus tent goes up…
and down!

And then it’s closed.

oh yeah the reason i am quitting this site,
after 10 years or more,
is cause i am not sz,
they all say i am,
but it’s more like autism,
and a gut issue,
got the whole ghost bug thing
figured out, not cured,
managed, i know how to fix it
and i know what breaks it,
it’s not insanity,
but i am not normal…

don’t know if i ever put this essay up here,
but this ought to be my final essay,
cause hey, i’m just not sz,
i mean thanks medical science,
it was a 20 year trip and i thank you for the free psych hospitalizations,
actually you guys aren’t as interesting as I used to think you were,
you know who’s better at it than schizophrenics?
6 year old philosophers, swimming in a lake of madness
all day every day.
and i’m dr seuss peter pan, i get to play too.

I knew that as schizotypal I could come up with cross linked ideas that are uncommon, creating what seemed like new insights or new ways of looking at things.

I also knew this compared to infants, who have brains that cross-connect everything, and that maturity involved the pruning away of most of these more “playful” connections, solidifying the brain structure into the more “important” connections only.

And I knew that the structure of the universe was a similar phenomenon, speculated to be 13 and a half billion years old, originally all interconnected as mist, and now focused in to masses of stars and galaxies, and wide swaths of darkness.

And one more thing I pretty much knew; as a schizotypal and not a schizophrenic, my abilities to cross connect ideas isn’t constant, but comes on mainly when I overfeed myself with caffeine and get the blood pumping, in a sauna or in a furious bike ride down bay area california bike lanes -

Now neuroscience surprises me with very reasonable, logical explanations of this cross connecting of ideas that define, for me, my schizotypality.

They figured out synesthesia: two parts of the brain - the part that sense numbers and the part that sense colors, are right next to eachother, and in synesthetes, there are fibers connecting them.

In more metaphorical artists, the cross connecting wires occur throughout the cortex, making the mind far more “childlike” than the typical adult human, and therefore more like Shakespeare or Einstein, making tons of metaphors to connect ideas whose connections were not well known before, like a child rebuilding its original brain of interconnecting mist after already growing up and pruning some of those playful connections.

(“Fry the frog slowly, and push the horse forward with the cross wired essence of the dream” -onderdonk on a rooster walk across the picnic table);

The sauna, the bike riding while listening to megadeth speed metal in the headphones, this gets the blood flowing, and gets the interconnecting ideas roaring.

We string the cabinet, & cut the cane, and the railroad roars to prove we’re sane!

A concatenated phrase I memorized from the OED to describe this very phenomenon goes “the veins of the leaves anastomosing in various ways so as to for a reticulated plexus of veins of unequal size”, that’s what is happening, apparently, in the sz brain, and it considered artistic, atleast in some people, depending on how you use it I guess.

This neurologist in this article is interesting, he’s like Dr House, gets people with weird conditions and first tries to prove they aren’t crazy, then tries to figure out how the syndrome works in the brain.

“What has this got to do with synesthesia? What’s going on in a metaphor? You’re linking seemingly unrelated concepts and ideas, right? If the same synesthesia gene, instead of being expressed selectively in the fusiform gyrus and producing this quirky phenomenon of number/color synesthesia, if it were to be expressed throughout the cortex, throughout the brain, it’s going to create a higher propensity, higher opportunity to link seemingly unrelated ideas and concepts in far flung brain regions. If we think of ideas and concepts as also located in specific brain regions, occupying specific brain regions, and if you have these long-range connections then it permits greater opportunity for linking seemingly unrelated concepts. Hence, the basis of creativity and metaphors. Hence, the eight times higher incidence of synesthesia among artists, poets, and novelists.”

So I’ve showed up from time to time at the pdoc’s office, or the emergency room of the psych hospital, trying to tell them I’m just creative (and please just get the ghost bugs off of me, but let me keep my delusions and fantasies); They tell me, of course, to stop interconnecting the ideas and grow up like everybody else. I often counter that the mutation of maturity makes sense for a small portion of the population dedicated to guarding us from danger, but whey must everyone do it? It’s cause in america they want everybody to buy a car and burn fossil fuels, and you gotta be a sober minded engineer for that, not a dreamy poet, otherwise classified as sz.

Several novels have suggested that the human race could use atleast a small population of this type of thinker, cross connecting ideas, to be used to improve society the way some would say ben franklin did.

Here, the neurologist agrees:

“Why is this gene still around if it’s completely useless? Well, one possibility is it confers some outliers in the population with the ability to link seemingly unrelated ideas making them artistic, more creative. But when I give these talks people often ask me why, if it’s that good that that gene makes you artistic, creative, and metaphorical, why doesn’t everybody have it? Well, it’s a silly question because evolution takes time and given another 20,000, 100,000, 50,000 years everybody will have this gene and we’ll all be creative. But that’s not the right answer. It may be a partial answer, but the real answer, I think, is that you don’t want everyone being creative; we need engineers!"

And we need cab drivers. But I don’t see why we all gotta be cab drivers. Some, like me, should be able to sit in the back and turn the headphones on, and dream. Dream inside my “whistle code beep candy” (also known to adults as Duke Ellington music)

Some of those pdocs lock me up, with the “ghost bugs” issue I’ve had for 26 years now, tell me one day I’m gonna get locked up for good!

“There are all kinds of silly theories floating around. In fact, some synesthetes were diagnosed as psychotic and diagnosed as having schizophrenia. They were told they were hallucinating colors. They were prescribed psychotropic drugs for the schizophrenia. Then they came to realize that they had this perfectly normal phenomenon, not normal, but not pathological either, phenomenon called synesthesia.”


canyon-clean body, stone-buckled mind, each move saucer smooth, lucky on the sea, instant-order-absent-ether, stoneless seed fatefull, with alliance wealth and rested health, hearing tones miraculously high, river of origins seeping into view,
day foliates with questions; march in time, mystic on the vine, golden corn the right hint, the river smiles again. mind of crystal coming into view, all lines perfect, nothing to do.


I can follow your children’s writing.

“The wonderdonkey has returned…turned… turned… turned…!”

You can go away for awhile, but you’ll be back, where else would you go when you have eternity?

Missiles grow the purpose row

ringing candles feel the glow,
little engine doesn’t know,
only let the pattern show,

hold the sunshine quarter low,
watch the happy horses grow;

Throwing starshine on the load, they started on the road,

to the tinsel-tangled tavern
in the farmer’s covered wagon
that they had the horses draggin’.
In the garden is the target of the super-powered song,

to get the heroes going in the channels driven long

by the forest growing frequency, hopping right along,

in the middle of the city with the bells that bing and bong -

they cap the golden frequency and put it in a song

for the fortunate-courageous living ever-lasting long,

going forward like a sparrow to the wonder, drifting strong…

heaven’s light will charge it, bring it’s blessings into form,
and the flow to the garden is original and warm…

Warmth leads the slide of the destiny drive,

growing longer by the hour in the garden of the hive;
on a wall of heaving clay
single bursting cloud relay,

burn the paper

seize the day,
put the looking glass away,

take a perfect holiday,

water whispers by the bay,

pour the water, light the way,

rolling table snowing fable,
roses bursting, blessing able,

sunshine travels with the flowers,
dumps the roses on the table…

spinning castles out of fables,
by the backyard picnic tables;
they saw a different model than the elementary,

they saw a new tomorrow feeling solar-bursting free,
and left an alphabet arrangement monument for centuries…

Heaven’s Dream
Frog’s on the throne, misty gets the phone:

Sharp sunlight tunes the signs of the day in the air, motes on the world wide windowsill falling onto miracle cabins on a frosty lake;
I see those signs ….

  • hope staggers in the breeze…

…the traffic sings a song about the weather…

… the forest’s strong sense of smell sweetens the universe…
… trees born of contentment shake in the breeze…

… and sun, stapled to the trees and holding on like a feather -

  • the sun brings the drive against fantastic iciclistic defense, turning to the stars for evidence;

No trial worth catching no glow worth knowing,

…but from the tower a sign, a song, a rhyme; the whistling glow of kindness separates distance, connects islands across space and time, a subtle subtraction from the rest of the outward flow;

Rock and roll bands sing goodbye to us as we head into the skies.

So we go to the lumbering pines in the altitude divine:

and we string our cabinets, & cut the cane …

… and the railroad roars to prove we’re sane;

Heaven won and earth just found out:
lighthouse amazed…

…duck glorified…

… sea turtle warmed up…

… dreams captured…

… icicles tamed…

… wandering cloned …

… ending threatened…
… truce overturned…

… talisman delivered…

… and golden consciousness of forever-tune and mind-song arrayed in a rabbit-hop…

…as the mystical inflation of heaven undergoes time-scented maturity;

The flow from the grove is heavy with the trove,

… walking beam of silence …
… in a crowd of disarray …

…on a golden island flowing…
… cross the river “Holiday”,
rocket ships of blueberry pie on a rosemary sky,

the jury’s lost and the cabin’s free,

echoes coming from home, breeze forever like a November throne,
call the distance, answer the phone, it’s heaven’s dream, all alone.

Heaven lofty mission sign,
send the message song divine,

purple mountain temple rhyme,

chi in the garden in the heartbeat of the leaves,

Streamin’ through the learnin’ for the fossils in the freeze,
waves of time chi

communicate across the universe instantly,
(that’s how astrologers can calculate the mystery),

GRB-ticking-tuner, purple berry frequency,

springtime black hole shower brings the inner feeling instantly;

ringing in the tower,

rhythmic breathing power,

counting through the hour,
hear the click and feel the drive,
it’s captain of the candy hive,
takes the passengers on a truth tale,
starts the engines, sets the sail,
ticking summer candle of the dipper and the handle,

candle simplicity, the empty temple key.
Wonder chamber dark drive,
through the fibers of the skies
the chi bloodstream highway flies.

castle of floating chi,
brewing dark enigma tea,

for the people on the planet, waiting,

for the wonder tone harmony:

Radiation stand, bubble-fiber-toast the land !!!

I rested in the trees, let the cycles of time do as they pleased,
with the fast moving chi tick-talking inside of me,

modified by course after course and steady as a horse.
Technically as far as science is concerned light is the fastest thing in the universe.
But the universe is too big for light to move across it. It takes 13.7 billion years for light from the other side of the universe to arrive here.
GRB’s, located throughout the universe, go off on a once a day cycle,
but there is nothing in science to hold these GRB’s together or synchronize them.

The universe sacrifices itself into time,
the purple berry pinball,
fortune-headed time.
The pulsing wave of this sacrifice unites the universe in a way that would be impossible for light to do.

The pulse of time happens all across the universe instantly.
Chi moves at the speed of love, the speed of the blood of the universe.

there - now that’s some way-too-mystical childrens’ book writing.
i kinda fixed it lately by sticking closer to the first grade spelling words…

Thanks. I do like the first two the best. There are streaks of wonder in it all. Currently I read at about third grade level. Anything abstract escapes me.

Aw â– â– â– â–  he wrote like a dissertation

1 Like

Great writing, when im given my new mind ill do a bit of it myself probably.

Seems this didn’t get through. You have talent as a children’s writer. Reminds me of Carl Sandburg’s Rootabaga Stories.

Hi Wonderdonkey. My last name is Onderdonk too and I am 59 years old. (Not that many Onderdonks in the USA) I’m trying to figure out where my disability came from so I googled Onderdonk and schizophrenia. Up popped this forum just now. Are you any relationship to the Texas painters (Robert and Julian) of the early 1900s? Robert Onderdonk was my grandfather’s half brother and they were from Hagerstown, Maryland. I don’t know any other Onderdonks in the USA or if their genes are even the source of my severe paranoia. My doctor told me that schizophrenia and paranoid personality disorder are on the same spectrum. If you have schizophrenia and a geneology partly related to mine maybe we got the genes from the same source.Do you know if we share any common ancestors? …After rereading my post I know that I’m crazy.