dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession

dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Guest Blog - Help Donnie!

Hello everyone. This is not Donnie, your usual blogger, but his best mate, Sebastian. I am not hacking his account. He gave me his password in case I ever needed to continue taking over blogging for him. I feel that this is the right time to do so. I am sure he won’t mind what I have to say. The thing is, I am very worried about him. I found him unconscious at his home address last night, apparently from an overdose. He is not ashamed to say that he has a £500-a-week heroin addiction. He was naked and comatose. I rang an ambulance, obviously, but now he is out again after a night’s observation and back on the shit. He doesn’t care about his blog – or anything else, for that matter – anymore. I am all that he has left. I don’t know what else to do. I know that people who may once have cared for him read this blog, so that’s why I am asking for help here. Please, please, someone help him. I am crying out to anyone from Mental Health services here. I know he has mental health issues. In fact, just last week, he said that he could see and feel spiders crawling all over his skin. He said that an evil invisible man lives in his flat with him; he pushes him into the walls, poisons his food, and suffocates him in his sleep. He said that he sees shape-shifting creatures from the future, prowling the streets. They follow him back into his flat and gather together under his floorboards. This information is alarming, but I urge you not to section him again. He sincerely hates being sectioned. And don’t over-medicate him too – he hates medication almost as much as he hates having his freedom taken away. I don’t know what you can do for him…maybe some counselling or talking therapy, perhaps. The fact is, he is in a real pickle at the moment. I’m running out of options as to how to assist him. I thought posting on here would be a good idea. So, if you know Donnie personally, pleases drop round to his address and see how he is. A friendly face might help motivate him to get off that crap. It’s consuming him at the moment. We’re losing him. He had so much to offer, as well. He could have been anything. Instead he has ended up as a schizo smackhead. It’s so sad. I feel like crying for him. Thank you, anyway. Do whatever you can. At your service, Sebastian.

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Admiring Myself, by The Biggest and The Best

Okay, so I’m looking in the mirror now, ogling myself all over, and what an absolute pleasure it is too. I’ll start at the bottom and make it easier for you to take me in: First we start with the calves, and that’s what I call some prime British beef pork trotters right there. Look at ‘em! Like diamonds they are. Then we have my hams, ripped to death behind my quadriceps. Have you ever seen quads like these? Have you? Look at that teardrop, it looks like the teardrop of Zeus himself. Again, ripped to the core. No wonder they call me Quadzilla. Then we have my midsection, a spectacular six-pack if I do say so myself. It took me doing a thousand sit-ups a day to achieve that abdominal perfection. You must be jealous of me by now. Don’t worry, I don’t blame you at all. I’d be jealous myself, if I wasn’t already me. It’s wonderful being as big and as thick and as ripped as I am. I consult the mirror just to make sure at least five times a day. That’s when I’m not training or posing or eating chicken dinners, mind you! There’s hardly enough time in the day, I tell thee! It’s hard work being the biggest and the best. Everyone would be doing it if it was easy.

Ok, right, now, where were we? Shall we talk about my chest? Well, wow, what is there to say about my chest? Apart from the fact that it fills my entire breastbone like the fattest couple of sirloin steaks you have ever seen. Look at that split between my lower and upper pecs. Isn’t that really something? And what about those shoulders jutting out like mountain caps? How about them? Round and full and bulbous. Took me some hours of overhead pressing, I can tell you. Let me turn around for you… How’s that for a barndoor back, eh? Look at the detail between those muscles. You don’t have to mention my shredded glutes, coz no one gives a damn about a man’s arse. Admire those triceps as well, see how they flare away from the biceps? Finally, take in my haircut. Aren’t I fantastic? Aren't I supreme? Aren't I just the Biggest and The Best?

Saturday, 5 August 2017

Dreamworld 2

I was sat in the street with my cousin. It was a blessing, because I hadn’t seen her for over twenty years. She was so very small, so very young, so very nostalgic and spiritual and free. In fact, I had a photo of her on my person. I checked the photo, and continued to admire her perfect physical form. Her image and the photo were identical. The photo was over two decades old but she hadn’t changed a single molecule. Still a heavenly child, forever precious in my memory and even more precious in person. Only my late Dad could drag me away from her. He was struggling to control a beefy Rottweiler that kept jumping up at me. I was pleased to see that Dad had three copies of the first book I had ever wrote on him. He looked very proud. I wrote this fact down on my hand, so I wouldn’t forget it: Dad looks very proud of me. I then took off running along the dark suburbs of Manchester. Suddenly, up ahead, concerning several yobs, a fight broke out. It looked particularly violent, so I hid behind a bin. The only thing was, the light from my phone attracted them. They came over as one brawling gang and made me drink poison. I woke up from the poison on an oil rig with my mate. I asked him what time it was, because I knew he could not answer me. He could not answer me because he was a pigment of my imagination in my very own dream. Yet still he was a person stood before me and I was very curious as to his response. He stalled numerous times, but I kept pushing for an answer. Finally, he said it was 3pm. I then asked him what day it was. He answered quickly, but he got it wrong. I told him I was dreaming, told him he wasn’t real. He shrugged this off and got back to work. I found myself in a precarious position then. I was trying to walk along various door handles stuck into a high wall. Rock-climbing, in effect. Around me was a balcony chock-full with people. I fell towards water, but at the last minute decided I could fly. I flew across the surface of the water, up and down, along and back, gently skimming it, posing and showing off before the audience. I bombed into the depths, and then flew back up like Superman, laughing. I bounced off all the walls but felt no pain. It was bliss. Then security stopped me, and demanded to see the photo of my cousin, as if it was identification. She’s still the same, I told them, and my dad’s proud of me. They said the boss would have to see me, so I began to wake up, gently shaking myself. On second thought, I said no, I’m happy here, I think I’ll stay for a little while longer. But I wasn’t waiting for no boss, not in my own dream, where I was the boss, so I flew down into the water again and decided to go a level deeper, beyond the bottom. It was there where I found a chapel with Andy in. Andy had come back from the dead at his own funeral, but nobody was telling him, and he didn’t even know he was back, wasn’t aware he had even died. His memory must have been wiped, people were whispering behind his back. I sat and rejoiced with Andy. Then I awoke and wrote it all down. The dreamworld can be nice to me, sometimes. I’m not always afraid to close my eyes. In fact, there are rare occasions when I get excited.

Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Dreamworld 1

I’m lying in a trench. I am with many other people. It’s dark, so dark. Everyone seems to be in stasis, not quite asleep, but dormant. I peered up to see a balcony with a warden keeping watch on it. He peered out over the mass of bodies with indifference, as if he had been there a very long time. He didn’t look in my direction. I tried to get up, to free myself from the other slumped carcasses and face the truth of what the surface had to offer. But the person next to me held me back. The person next to me held me back with a hook. The person next to me didn’t have a hand, the person next to me had a hook for a hand. But its touch was warm, a tender touch, a kind hook, a loving hook. It didn’t want me to wake up yet, it felt it best that I reside in the quagmire of sleepy ignorant kinsmen. What was above the surface? I must have been sleepwalking because I found myself up and out of that desolate pit of which I never wanted to be reacquainted with again for the whole of my life. I didn’t know where home was but I followed my gut and headed for the brightest star. I followed it until it sank into the twilight, and ended up in a train station. A single carriage pulled up. The warden from the murky hollow cavity in the ground where I had escaped from was driving. He asked me would I like to go back to Sovereign Pit. He said my return was eventually inevitable. Eventually inevitable. I spun on my heels and calmly strolled away into the other direction, leaving the station and its single lonely carriage behind me. It remained there, waiting for me to change my mind. I then found myself in the countryside, lost and confused. I pushed on, no direction in mind, no hurry in my heart, just all of eternity, it felt like, to peruse where I was and how I had gotten there. I was not surprised when a black stallion crossed my path, twice as tall as a regular black stallion. Its underside was covered in nipple-teats, like a pregnant pig. I was also not surprised when it spoke to another horse, behind a bush. The horse it was speaking to spoke back. I couldn’t suppress the notion that they were both conspiring about me. In a brief show of bravado, I told them to fuck off. The wind told me to fuck off back, a disembodied voice across the ether. I glanced down at my feet then, and realised I had no shoes on. This was when I began to get very concerned about my situation. It only just occurred to me that I might be dreaming. Startled, I ducked my head into the nearest stream. To my dismay, this plan failed to work. I was still there in the Dreamworld. The warden from Sovereign Pit drove by in a limousine . He seemed to take pleasure in my aghast reaction to this forlorn wilderness. I could not understand why. I had to wake up though, so I shook my head violently from side to side, shaking in a state of distressed denial. It worked. I awoke in my bed. And that was the end of the Dreamworld. For now. Until I next closed my eyes. Sometimes, I’m afraid to close my eyes.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Suicide: The Sequel

I’d conquered a high drop from a bridge, but could I conquer hanging from a noose (obviously I did, or I wouldn’t be scribing this now would I?). I did, yes, just about. Hanging – piece of piss. My arse. It’s actually quite difficult. I was spluttering and gagging and coughing and choking and…Awful, just awful. I bailed out. Tilted my neck, took the pressure off, and bailed out. Then I passed out. I woke up later and realised I had a triple whiskey left in my glass on the table top. My first coherent thought was what a shame it would have been to have expired and wasted a perfect untouched triple whiskey. I got sectioned for my first suicide attempt. It was a public fiasco. Stopping traffic, police, mediators, paramedics…my second was the exact opposite. Nobody else knew. It was just me, in my flat. No witnesses. No authorities. No danger of getting locked up again. The song I decided to play on loop while I did this was Wrong, by Depeche Mode. I’m not a fan of Depeche Mode, but this one is a cracker. You could never remake it or do a cover of it; it’s complete in every way. I had to take the duvet cover off my bed and hang it over the top of the door, tied to the handle. Then I had to make a knot. Duvet covers aren’t perfect for hanging – had I used a slick rope, I probably would have succeeded. I may still be hanging there now, so many months later, a fest of maggots and flies. That’s a grisly sight to imagine, but I guess I wouldn’t be any the wiser, would I? I’d be brown bread.

I was crying the whole time during the setup. It was the whiskey that made me wishy-washy. Without the whiskey, I wouldn’t have done it. But the drink opened an emotional doorway, and I capsized through it in a weeping mess. It was the voices responsible for my drinking. I’d had ‘em all night and day. It wasn’t my oppressors evil taunts, but my loved ones suffering that I wanted to escape. I was in a kind of virtual reality, listening to my family being tortured. They were begging and pleading with me to end it. So, because I was pissed, I took their advice on board for a change. Fuck this, I thought. I’m gone. I feel like I’m advocating suicide here because I am writing about it. I know there are suicide sites out there full of self-harming gothic teens. It can become quite an ideation, I guess. It is interesting, despite all the sadness connected to it. You’re effectively murdering yourself. I used to think it was a cowardly sin, but my feelings have changed on the subject. You’ve gotta be brave…that’s the first requisite. Bravery. Courage. Fearlessness. You actually need qualities to get this most unnatural act done. Cowardice and uncertainty ain’t gunna help ya.

Or course, nobody should ever feel this way, but there are dark powers in the world today that can quite easily seduce a person into this self-destructive mindset. My suicide wouldn’t have been a real suicide, it was imposed upon me by others, leaving me with very little alternative but to just keep on taking crap. I only describe this stuff here because it means nothing to me now, it’s in the past. I’m neither ashamed nor proud of it; it’s just one of them things. Hopefully, this might help someone out there who is feeling the same way. Time is the greatest healer. I have equal respect for those that succeed in the act of suicide and those that persevere through the misery of living. There is something attractive about taking the matter of your death into your own hands – rather than leaving it to the fates, you decide where, when, and how. But, on the other hand, we are only here once and we should endeavour to make the most of every single day. Why should we have to cut it short against our will? My concluding advice to any young wannabe-suicidees out there who are determined to seriously injure themselves is this: Relax, stay calm and...take up skateboarding. Joking aside, there is very little we can do to help. It’s like terrorism. We are virtually powerless to stop it. I phoned The Samaritans on one occasion and it was like speaking to a robot, which is not to underestimate the important jobs that they do. It’s just that the world is so mad at the moment that explaining the stuff that goes on ‘inside one’s head’ to another person who has not been through the same shit can seem to be impossible – but at least some people out there are at least trying to help curb this harrowing and sorrowful epidemic. What about the recent news of the lead singer from Linkin Park? Another one bites his own dust.

Suicide 1 Here

Friday, 14 July 2017

The Difference Between Prison and Mental Hospital

In prison, for starters, they hand you a job. If you are sensible and wise, as I was (humble brag), you can get yourself a job on the wing. This means you don’t have to spend the whole day too far away from your cell. I myself was given a role doing the laundry. It was one day on, one day off. All it meant was using the washing machine every 45 minutes or so. The laundry room was on the 1st floor, so I was happy to be up and down every other day, keeping fit. I would prioritise my boys and other people I liked, and maybe even fold their clothes all nicely as a warm gesture. The position commanded a certain amount of respect itself, as clothes are a prisoner’s most valued possessions. Aside from work, there were plenty of things to be occupied with on the wing. The job also got me off the wing and over to the industrial laundry unit on the other side of the jail. This involved a peaceful stroll around the whole prison grounds. Ping pong, pool and snooker were standard procedure on each and every single wing. There was an education suite available, with plenty of computers for writing letters on or whatnot, plus there was a library too, with warm-hearted welcoming staff who enjoyed a game of scrabble. A full-size artificial field, with nets, was there for highly competitive inter-wing matches. If you didn’t fancy a game, and you had a pitch-side window in your cell, you could watch the action. There was a chapel, where prisoners from all over met for courses and prayer. Basically, jail was a huge complex with several acres to explore. And let’s not forget a fully-equipped gymnasium and sports hall, where weightlifting, badminton and even yoga classes were on offer. All of these activities can be engaged with on a daily basis. Sometimes I would get to the gym twice a day. There was also the social aspect as well. With hundreds of people on a single wing, you were always meeting new people. Some of them were friendly faces. There was no shortage of laughs or gossip or incidents. And, finally, you had a release date. Something to look forward to.

In hospital, you are cocooned with a dozen other drug-pumped zombies on a claustrophobic ward, and that’s it. Where would you rather be?