Dogsville

BY PETER M. Dogsville means rock-bottom. When I’ve relapsed and had no sleep all night, the following day is usually Another Day In Dogsville. The voices, on these occasions, are usually constant. That means I can hardly get one of my own thoughts in edgeways. It’s around half a dozen voices nowadays, old friends and family members mostly, both living and deceased. They call me demented, puddled, thick and stupid about ten times a minute it feels like. Seriously, it’s like a running commentary of relentless insults. Then they say it’s time to go, game over has arrived, the end is nigh, I’m surrounded, there’s no way out, I knew it was coming, I’m about to be murdered and have my death covered-up as suicide—suddenly I’m as paranoid as a rat in a trap. I hear these voices through the walls both inside and outside my head. I swear, it’s scary as hell. They tell me I’m going to die in the next two minutes. They get me fidgety and all in a panic. I get myself on window patrol, pacing up and down, watching out for any home invaders. It’s like they supplant a negative series of brainwaves into my mind, setting me on a course of pessimistic nervousness. All I can do is sit on the edge of my bed and wait to die, it feels like. Being on the end of numerous threats makes one very alert and dubious. It’s no fun at all, believe you me. The voices feed on my fear. Often, I hear these final messages from friends, saying it was good to know me and things like that. I feel like I’m going to be murdered very soon because that’s what the voices are enchanting and who am I to stop their prophecies proving true. When outside, almost every stranger has hateful vocals directed my way. They say things like ‘he deserves it’ and ‘he’s got what is coming to him’ without any provocation from myself. They say profound things too, like linking me to sex crimes for instance; these are people who I have never met accusing me more or less to my face in passing. I believe I am the victim of multiple slander campaigns. I encounter quite an extreme hostile sentiment from complete strangers. I never respond angrily; to do so would be to gift them with a reaction. I feel ostracised and victimised on Dogsville days, because I can hear my close family suffering. I hear their screams and cries all day. They beg and plead with me to kill myself. I’m bombarded with suicide requests. I resist with walks outdoors and alcohol. And then I write this. Because, apart from being tormented, that’s about all I can do—document things.

Psychiatric Twist

This blog is taking a nutty twist. Because of various endeavours, I’ve come into a lot of contact with what society might describe as ‘nutty’ people. There’s nothing wrong with it; it’s very interesting as a matter of fact. As David Icke concludes himself, after many years of study, “The world is Mad.” You know, like the song by Gary Jules. I’d vouch for that summary personally. On the surface, civilisation ticks over smoothly, but deeper investigation between the creases reveals some very mysterious discoveries. There’s hardly any such thing as ‘normal’. Normal is an ideal seldom realised. Life is nuts and it’s as simple as that. There are only two options: sink or swim in its unfair, unequal, unrelenting flow. I remember my opinion regarding ‘nutters’ who hear voices. I used to think that they thought they heard them, but they really didn’t. How can you hear something that isn’t there? It’s impossible isn’t it; it’s fantasy, it’s a myth. I was wrong. They really do hear them. And what’s worse, it’s something done to them by other people. You CAN hear something what is not there. It’s caused by an electrical signal sent to the brain which is converted to sound in the head of the recipient. There’s a long, long history of science behind it. And there you have it – the blag that is auditory ‘hallucinations’ exposed right here on a public blog in a matter of seconds. You just learned something very, very important, if you didn’t know about psychotronic weapons already. But hey, why would you? I didn’t learn of their existence myself until the age of 34 years, yet I’ll tell you something for nothing – the more I learn about them, the less faith I have in the heart of humanity. Think about it. Somebody putting voices in another person’s head. Isn’t that disgusting on so many levels? Imagine having a walkie-talkie in your head and some very unsavoury enemies on the other side of it. That sums up the very worst kind of mental illness in a nutshell. An open walkie-talkie line in your skull. Through reading groups in hospitals, I’ve seen zombies holed up in their rooms all day, bewildered by their suffering which is caused by someone else. Why? Why oh why do we torture each other so cruelly? (I don’t buy that we possess an evil gene.) Nobody deserves this. Two wrongs don’t make a right. It’s kinder to shoot someone in the kneecaps or bash them about the fingers with a baseball bat than it is to deliver voices into their mind. It’s a laugh in the face of human rights. Take it from me, there is no such thing as human rights in this godforsaken sinking-ship material-matters-all world.

Rehashing Weirdness

So what’s new, as they say? Well, I wrote this book back in 2007, and have just decided to go back to it. Thing is, it’s basically a collection of dreams only very loosely strung together by a tenuous plot (no prizes for getting that it’s about a man getting up out of bed). It’s really out there, let me tell’ya. To begin with, coz it's a moderately heavy 51k words, I’ve chopped it bang in half. So far I've edited one fifth of it. The title has changed from THE VIOLENT ARSONIST (hence the flaming hair) to FRIEND OR FOE. It’s currently sitting there at about 22k words, but I’ve stumbled into a dead end already. It’s almost embarrassing, combing through it. It really is the weirdest thing. The subject matter is randomly rude and zany in its dreamlike logic. I'm almost ashamed, but am putting a brave face on. The plot did come together at the end, and in a way I like it a lot, but I’m not sure if I can bear all the cutting and chopping anymore, especially when blushing because it's so bad. What I’m potentially looking at, if my finger doesn't stop hovering about the DELETE key, is a 10k word short story! I’m not sure if I’m wasting my time, but I do class it as an important piece of work (aren’t they all?).  Be a shame for the best parts of it to go unread. The lead character is a guy with an implant in his head. Interesting, yes, but it’s simply too stark-raving mad for even me, it’s author, to re-read easily. Will try and reinvent it a little bit more before making a final decision. The model on the cover is Abbie Cornish, a hottie actor. You may have seen her in Robocop or/and Limitless.

Remakes

They’re remaking everything these days.

I have a few suggestions of my own.

As you can see, there are plentiful possibilities...

King Kong vs The Hulk

Gremlins vs Critters

Jeepers Creepers vs The Boogeyman

Rocky vs Wolfman

Freddy Kruegar vs Hulk Hogan

Daredevil vs The Flash

Clay Face and Leatherhead vs Captain America

Michael Myers vs The Terminator

The Hoff and Englebert Humperdinck vs Robocop, Loose women, and He-Man

The Green Hornet and Gandolph vs The Exorcist and Ken from Streetfighter

Commando and Shredder vs Phil and Grant from Eastenders

Formatting

 

I been readying the new (although it’s over four years old) novel for printing, and boy, what an ache it has been. How could I have gotten through it without a little drink (three pints of Carling Premier followed by four cups of coffee)!? I even had to have a meal in between (and a little singsong on the karaoke machine)! But, alas, it is almost done (all I need now are some covers). The thing is, you see, is that the book is a 91 page document at size 11 font. On-screen, that is. When it comes to printing, though, all that changes. I get my chap books done at 48 pages at 16 font. In this case, 15 font. That means three chapbooks of 48 pages. It’s hurting my brain even now, going back into it. My novel comprises of three 48 page chapbooks, to put it simply, but the novel, to begin with, was not 144 pages long (3 times 48). I had to stretch and compress it in places. I had to split it into three parts. The difficult bit was making them even and separate, with chapter endings at the end of each section, so that they didn't finish mid-sentence. Am still working on it, but reasonably confident that they will look okay when done. Only a measly ten copies to begin with, but ten is a lot compared to none. Surely, after all this hassle, it has to be worth it. It is a classic, after all. Maybe I might let you read it one day.