What is "SCHIZOPUNK"?

A surprisingly tough question to answer, so I'll make a bit easier and say that the answer is 3-tiered. The first is the definition of what it means to be a schizopunk, the second will be the definition of the self-styled "genre" of schizopunk, and the third the personal answer. Let's begin.

1. A Schizopunk
What it means to be a schizopunk is kind of simple. If you hate corporate, government, and social censorship- if you'd rather die that languish at the creativity smothering hands of our modern political correctness shariah- if you distrust everything that comes out of the worthless holes of corporate mouthpieces, think tank thought-police, and government commisars and struggle to find the truth and nothing but the truth in our modern world that wants nothing to do with it; if you think being "punk" means a whole hell of a lot more than just wearing clothes from Hot Topic or that you ripped up from a thrift store while still holding onto and following the beliefs and edicts of megaconglomerates and government initiatives- if you want to create regardless of what the corpo NPCs will think of you and your work; if you get banned from just about every website you go on because of your scorching takes- if you get called crazy for just noticing and pointing out how insane the world is; if you want to FIGHT, in any way you can, for a better world where you can speak your mind, where you actually have rights, where you have a future- congratulations, you're a schizopunk.

Because in an insane world, being called a schizo means you've got a good head on your shoulders.

2. Schizopunk
Schizopunk works are anything made that takes the piss out of post-modernity, and all the shit-for-brains prime directives it's instilled in us since childhood- without a single fuck given as to what anyone will think about it. If anything, the more people who hate it, the more you piss of- the better! Everything being sanitized and made to coddle the sensitivities of self-centered wo/manchildren is what's practically killed every creative industry in the West and is the antithesis of schizopunk. Art made for everyone is ultimately not really for anyone, so make your art for someone, make it for nobody but yourself even. If it revolts against the modern world, it's schizopunk.

3. A Personal Story
When I was a little boy, things were tough. We were the exact opposite of rich and "we" constituted just me and my mom. In expensive ass California of all places too. She had to work all the time just so I could have a roof over my head and food on my plate. Up until just about 2 or 3 years before I moved out after high school I almost never saw her. Inbetween then though I got up to some shenanigans from time to time. There was a kindly homeless man living out of an old minibus just outside my childhood apartment complex. He didn't mean anyone any harm, ever, he was an old hippy type guy who was just living his life how he wanted to. He was actually pretty popular among the local kids, he was always sharing cool tips and tricks and random knowledge he'd accrued over the years. His "home" was parked in a parking spot right next to the community center in their parking lot they let him use that had some shade, so even though he wasn't that type of guy, the community center folks always kept an eye on us kids just in case.

Since I don't have a pop of my own I guess I kinda gravitated toward the guy, and he took a liking to me, and though I'll never know for sure I think he understood my situation on a personal level. He tought me how to do basic math, how to color inside the lines, a lot of basic stuff that school really ought to but just couldn't, school's never been for me. One thing I remember the most was his music. His most prized possession was this lovely old guitar, and oftentimes when nothing else was going on he'd just start playing, and singing. For the life of me I can't remember what all he played exactly, though I'm sure it was a lot of old hippie, boomer rock; maybe some folk songs or folk revival stuff. There's only one song of his I remember, or rather a single line from one song he always sang that's been etched into my brain since I first heard it. I've never been able to identify or find it anywhere so I'm guessing it was an original of his, something he must've cooked up back during protests in Berkley or something in the 60's.

None of it's yet to materialize, but for a long while now (and part of the reason I began SM) I've been cooking up a bunch of concepts and stories in my brain. For over a decade I've been crafting a multiverse of insanity and my friends really want me to tell those stories. It's not just for the same cashcow reasons every corpo and their mom are trying to make everything a multiverse. There's a reason, a purpose, something I want to say. But if I only had to describe what's at the core of every one of those stories I want to make into reality, what I want to reiterate again and again until I smack it into everyone's face with my "ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny", if I could only use one sentence to describe what I personally think any work that can be called schizopunk is trying to say is that one line.

I'd given the homeless dude a pink piece of chalk from a pack of them my aunt had gotten for me, as a gift. It was the only way I could think of to thank him for everything, for being my friend when no other kid would befriend my autistic ass, and also because it was the one color I didn't like haha. He was happy to recieve it though, and from then on he carried it in the pocket of his sleaveless jean jacket and drew flowers and weird, almost psychedelic designs on the parking lot floor with it. Long after that, just a few months before we'd end up moving because things had gotten so expensive, even before the '08 crash- I came home from school one day to find that the homeless man, and his van, were gone. According to the older kids, who either got out of school way earlier or had skipped school that day, he'd been taken away by police and his van towed. Apparently, some law or ordinance had been passed making it so he couldn't live there anymore, even though the center was perfectly okay with it and vouched for him. The cops came and told him to leave or they'd make him, and when he refused, they made him. I was very sad. To 5 year old me it felt like pop leaving all over again. I never saw the homeless man again after that.

I think he knew that'd be the case though, and maybe it wasn't left just for me; but I'm certain it was, at least, left for me. I don't know when he found the time to do it but drawn on that parking spot of his in that signature pink chalk was a message, a final message that has stuck with me all my life. A single line I've tried, though often failed, to live my life in accordance with; one final assurance from a parting friend. That line from his song that he knew I loved for reasons I've only just recently begun to be able to articulate. One last act of defiance: