The Georgie Gust Exhibit

In a public restroom, the camera pans the closed doors of 4 stalls; the first has an "out of order" sign on it. We hear a gaseous noise, and one by one, three musicians (a guitar player, a bass player, and a trumpet player all wearing tuxedos) flush the toilets and come out of the stalls revealing their musical instruments. Finally, the last to be disclosed is an old lady, Pat (from the "out of order" stall). She goes to wash her hands and is shocked to find in the mirror that behind her, the three musicians, wondering where all the noise came from-- herself or the musicians.

What lengths will a couple go to just for a night out?

After ten years of separation, former prep school sweethearts meet coincidentally and discuss their hopes and dreams together in Long Island, New York. They spend the night together but move in their separate ways by the morning as they struggle with inner conflicts.

George wanders into a wax museum on the exhibit's last day. The museum comes alive. The mood turns steamy as different fantasies come into play. A sobering sense of the inevitable begins to emerge. He's getting married, but to whom?

Larry, alone and disheveled, walks the streets then boards a city bus, where he proceeds to disturb the passengers with his erratic behavior and verbal outbursts. Disturbing the passengers doesn’t really concern Larry, as one-by-one they each disappear, and Larry finds himself off the bus and in the office of a psychologist, who pushes for information, asking again and again if anything “out of the ordinary” happened on the bus. But for Larry, everything -- on the bus and off -- is completely “out of the ordinary,” and he can’t answer. He can only remember. What he had. What he lost. What he'll never have again. And so he will walk the streets, ride the bus, bother the passengers. Grieving for eternity.

No other symptoms of schizophrenia are present. In paranoid personality disorder, the person is distrustful and suspicious of others. No actual delusions or other symptoms of schizophrenia are present. In rare cases, brain tumors may be confused with a psychotic illness.

Jonathan Harnisch draws on his personal struggle with schizophrenia to demystify mental illness.

Jonathan Harnisch draws on his personal struggle with schizophrenia to demystify mental illness.

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for thirty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes, or it seems to, but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so sad, and the truth is I've felt so hurt for so long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Noted severely self-loathing and seriously mentally ill author Jonathan Harnisch loses his mind once again through the written word offering his fifteenth literary disaster. The experience of reading this novel, The Dreamer Sleeps Without Dreaming, is similar in its nature to an eerie sensation of savoir-faire as one observes a dog having a bowel movement. For those who've adored Harnisch's epic novels, from Pastiche to his other fourteen literary works, this example of anti-art deserves nothing short of scathing criticism.

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for thirty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes, or it seems to, but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so sad, and the truth is I've felt so hurt for so long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Noted severely self-loathing and seriously mentally ill author Jonathan Harnisch loses his mind once again through the written word offering his fifteenth literary disaster. The experience of reading this novel, The Dreamer Sleeps Without Dreaming, is similar in its nature to an eerie sensation of savoir-faire as one observes a dog having a bowel movement. For those who've adored Harnisch's epic novels, from Pastiche to his other fourteen literary works, this example of anti-art deserves nothing short of scathing criticism.