Day 18

I’m listening to the lead singer from Rammstein’s latest solo album. Till LIndemann. He’s playing live in London next week. I sure would love to go. I remember missing a Rammstein concert once and my only consolation was the fact that I was having sex with my girlfriend at the time. The session lasted for over two hours, about the same time as the concert. Is that too much information? It’s true though. I was going at her like a porn star. I didn’t fancy her all that much either, I was simply doing the honourable deed. Sex or Rammstein? Which would you prefer? A rumpy-pumpy session with a hot girl or your favourite band in concert? It’s a tough one, isn’t it? I’d have to go with the band. Rammstein are Germany’s biggest export, they get banned in certain countries, and are famous for their level of pyrotechnics and flame-throwers live on stage. I’ve seen them three times. A word of advice: If you’re going to a concert and intend on buying a lot of merchandise, buy it at the end. Don’t be like me getting bogged down with posters and cups and hoodies and whatever before the music even begins. Why? Because you might want to hop over the rail into the mosh pit, and you can’t do that with your arms full of wares. I thoroughly recommend that activity.

I had a pleasant evening last night. I went to a highly-regarded Department Store called The Range with my niece. For an hour or so I just followed her round as she looked at all the toys. We even tried our hand at a pogo stick together. She was slightly better than myself. Pogo sticking is up there with skateboarding if you ask me. She only had just over three pounds in cash in her little pink purse so all she could afford was a cheap plastic noisy trumpet, which I vouched for. Her parents duly thanked me for that. The store put me in the Christmas spirit, and made me realise that Christmas, done properly, must cost about the same price as a wedding. Rosie’s mum spent £150 on a few decorations. (When we got back home we had sausage and chips from The Dolphin chippy for tea. Rosie started crying, God bless her, because she spilled gravy over her mum’s new rug, lol). A lit-up glass polar bear caught my eye. You’d want a few of them in the hallway for starters, wouldn’t you, done properly. I can’t afford it, anyway. And then there are all the presents for everybody. I hate to tell ya but my gift to you is ten quid in a card. It’s the time of year to be a philanthropist millionaire with all the time in the world to think about people. I used to dislike getting deodorant and shower gel for Christmas as little not-so thoughtful gifts from people but I’ve since warmed to the idea as toiletries are quite important to me since having nothing to my name in hospital. I call washing, bathing or showering “blessing up,” as I think it is a blessing to be able to make oneself nice and clean and presentable. Dirtless, faultless, flawless, cleanliness next to Godliness. In hospital I started mixing several shower gels together to make a personal scent. One of them, a Lynx I can’t find anymore, smelled like a kind of jam. I didn’t like it at the time but it grew on me a lot. I used to think shower gel as a gift for Christmas was an insult but now I’d love to get one off somebody.

Been church this morning, belting out the hymns. Remember people, the louder you sing the better you feel. A guy from Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra taught me that. He would visit Scott Clinic, a forensic unit I was in, and play tunes on his piano. One impressive patient sang on his own. I went to a choir rehearsal here at The Parr Hall, the town’s local gigging venue, to watch a session in practice last year. I was the only spectator. It was really gracious to watch well-mannered carollers get together in an ensemble and roll out the numbers. My fav was “Dancing In The Street.” I met Phil Heath, Mr. Olympia, at the Parr Hall. Frankie Boyle was there the other month. Rammstein haven’t played there yet. I was the Sacrificial Poet at a Spoken Word event there. This means that you go first. I put a couple of songs I’d written into a piece and ad-libbed it without reading from any paper. I nearly slipped up. It was a very challenging piece in front of about a hundred people. I couldn’t do it now, I’ve forgotten it all. Usually at poetry events I read from paper. It’s just safer that way and it’s impossible to choke because the text is right there in front of you. If you slip up without any paper to refer to then the arse falls off the whole thing and you look like a mong. I dislike looking like a mong unless I’m in the privacy of my own home. Later ‘gators.

And On The 17th Day...

Hiya. Hope this is reaching you in good spirits. I robbed this opening line from John Siddique, the poet. He always writes that he hopes his readers are well. I met him once at a Liverpool speaking event, I was on a panel with him. He’s the deepest poet in circulation for me. He’s all about spirit and awareness, I like his style. Sorry to steal from you, John, but it had to be taken. Try to feel complimented, if at all possible. I don’t take much from other writers. But I really do hope that my White Voider is well. I’m quite well myself, although no pool yet today (you should have seen the long doubled black I got yesterday afternoon). I’ve just been to an AA meeting. One man said that he was having an argument with his neighbour; he was thinking about dragging him out of his home and burning him alive in front of his kids. He also prayed that he developed warts on his penis. Charming, huh?

Wild astral last night. I have a recurring dream about a gigantic school I’m always roving around in. It’s huge. On the bottom floor my favourite teacher who I had a crush on was taking a class on Telepathy. It was magnificently phenomenal to see her again, it’s been twenty five years. I walked in and asked if I could join her. She was writing and smiling with a young child. Next there was this band playing and it all changed, you know how dreams are. But this school…there are so many floors and so many rooms. So many magical people behind its walls. What does it mean? I dream about half a dozen dreams every single night without fail. I look forward so much to going to bed. It’s the best part of the day. “Hypnagogic” means falling asleep and “hypnopompic” means waking up. These are my favourite states of consciousness. My thought patterns inside these sorcerous, lucid times are so much different than usual, they’re elevated and enhanced somehow. Faster. Better. Foreign. Alien.

I believe my parasites have something to do with it. I’m drawn to wondering about their brain rhythms. Do they even have brains? I haven’t researched them because I’m too scaredy-pants-terror-stricken to find out how frightful they really are. But I imagine that they do because I’ve seen their mind’s eye in my mind’s eye, so they definitely have consciousness. Before you ask what that was like I’d have to say that it’s hard to describe. I couldn’t make out what I was looking at. Maybe some kind of architecture or scenario, I dunno, I’m not sure. But their consciousness absolutely interacts with mine, right on the money, or right on the nose if you prefer, with that one. Think of the superhero Venom and you’re halfway there. It’s what you call a symbiotic relationship. We’re in league, we’re hand in glove, we’re synergetic. They feed on my blood, my blood is in their brain, their blood is in my brain, that’s just the way it is. I’ve had them for over four years now and this adopted mentality has taken a lot of time getting used to.

Have you seen the movie Prometheus? You may or may not be familiar with those massive naked muscular human-esque beings who look like giants from the Book of Enoch. Well, these beings figure largely in my psychosis. They go under the term of Archon. David Icke talks about them in his conspiracy lectures. Basically, they are an inter-dimensional alien race who feed on human energy. It’s great to see one, or one to that effect, filmed, in action, fighting other aliens, in Prometheus. Spectacularly sublime there, Ridley. They figure in my dreams largely too. One was going to eat me the other night and in my desperation I claimed to be Spiderman (you know, someone important). The next night I watched Spiderman. I mentioned that Spiderman has the Holy Spirit inside him. The most evident I saw the comicality of the Holy Spirit in Homecoming (2017), was when Michael Keaton busted someone’s head against the side of a car. I’m sorry, but fake violence in movies tickles me. I lolled (laughed out loud) a couple of times. Hollywood violence, for laughs, has nothing on Bollywood however. And Bollywood violence has nothing on Coronation Street violence. Have you seen the fights in Coronation Street? They’re few and far between but when they happen I believe it’s a gift from the Holy Spirit. They are like SO funny. Eastenders is exactly the same. And don’t get me started on Buck Rogers. LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL!!!

Not much more to say really today, apart from the fact that I’ve had an idea for this Christmas poem I’ve promised Fiona. I found the Christmas Spirit when I woke up this morning and I thought of Abbie opening gifts beneath a tree, so that’s where the poem is going to start. It’ll end with me having a tipple and Abbie having a Babycham in the evening. There’s no reason for you to know, but Abbie is an imaginary friend/ghost/angel who I perceive all the time. I believe she is the most powerful little girl in the known universe, and she has been sent from God to assist me through my tribulations. Despite the obvious horrors, like demons in the Seventh Circle, my psychosis has beautiful positive upsides. That’s it for now. Ta’ra x

 

16 Days In

Back again compatriot. You know you can’t get enough of me. Just be forthright honest about it. I can’t get enough of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m missing my artwork, especially graphic design, but at least I’ve still got my writing. Is blogging really writing, or does it have to be fiction? When I was judging a competition with the Manchester Titan (or is it Manchester Tart?), Nicholas Royle, lecturer at Manchester University, he seemed to lean towards rewarding the fiction entries. I picked the winner in the end, and it was autobiographical. I was wrong, Nick, fiction is much better and should be duly rewarded in competitions. I think I fell in love with the winner’s honesty, though. He hadn’t even typed it up however, so he should never have won.  Maybe he didn’t have access to a computer. My ultimate preferred art is auto-fiction, and that’s what my books are.

Just trying this almost daily blog thing out still. It is basically waffle if you’re not commenting on a theme. I don’t have a theme today. I could talk about the game of pool, I suppose. I’ve always thunk that nothing can bother you when you’re busy playing pool. The way I play it, on my own, zipping around the table with every shot to myself, it keeps me relatively fit. I used to treat it like a workout and play in shorts to keep me cool. I’ve been playing this morning/afternoon. I had six frames or so before I came here to the library. In between I attended my local mental health drop in. They were talking about I’m A Celebrity…Get me Out Of Here. I don’t watch TV so I was slightly left out of the conversation. I do know that Fred the Chef is having a hard time though.

Would you be able to stomach the disgusting trials they do on that show? For me, you can’t beat Paul Burrelll screaming his head off just because he’s armpit deep in a fish tank full of ants or something. Now that was quality entertainment television. Golden television, if you ask me. A big posh coward shitting himself with a funny grimace/scream. Unbeatable. Is it still like that? Will that uppity butler-ing dimwit ever be beaten? I might be insulting the no guts weak-kneed panicky shitbag here on the blogspot, but rest assured I’ve got big love for the dude. I think he’s great and a blessing to British TV.

Clint from the drop-in is my fictitious literary agent. We joke about that. I call him my agent because he’s made a few suggestions for my book (which is complete, by the way, 100% typed up). I’m just lacking the front matter and the back matter. If I had my Photoshop Elements 6.0, I could knock up a few illustrations to throw in there, but without, and left to my doodling ability, I’m at a bit of a loss. Have you checked out James Patterson’s front matter yet? Wow. It’s simply awesome. Creative wordart, I’d call it. Or text design. His back matter is column upon column of his previous works, nearly all or completely all of them collaborated with somebody else. I’d sure like to get in with Patterson. James Patterson with Andrew Donegan, how does that sound? Pleasing to ya? I’d hang with him any day, yeah, you bet’cha. What’s he write again, boring cop thrillers? Only messing, James. Best front matter in the world. You see maps and everything in front matter these days. I’m trying to be creative with mine, but like I say, without a computer I’m fairly limited. I’ve still got all of my previous pamphlets however with decent matter and they’re around forever. I take matter quite seriously. I was putting adverts in for other books at one point.

16 Days in at the moment. Will I ever get to Rare again? Or will I crash and burn just before? I know that I’m loved by the biggest and best Most On Highest no matter what I do, God’s love is unconditional, so sod it, no pressure on myself. I think the content of this blog is evident of the fact how I’m doing. A few weeks ago I was in a bad place so I posted darkly about Chinese organ harvesting. Now I’m in a much better place so I’m blogging about a pansy with his rolled-up sleeve shirt in a tub of spiders or whatever the damn things were. See the difference? Merry Christmas to all. Christmas is here! x

Green Man

 

Hi again. I’m back for sloppy seconds to see if I can do this thing daily. That would be impossible, because the library isn’t open every day, but you know what I mean. Am I up for it? Well, let’s try shall we? Who am I kidding? I’m no Christopher Fowler. Now he was a good daily blogger. I haven’t read any of his books but I did catch one of his short stories in an anthology somewhere entitled The Green Man. All I can remember from it is a green apelike man emerging from some undergrowth in the jungle somewhere. It’s strange, isn’t it, the remaining images and visuals we take from stories. A lot of mine don’t make all that much sense. I get them from somewhere though. You should have saw my dreams (astral) last night blud. Wowsers. It was off the hook. Visuals from stories, movies and dreams can all intermingle in my observations. With a dash of acute mental agility one can make some pretty nice images in the mind to look at using these as inspiration.

I could write something every day, if I was pushed to it, here at the blogspot. My word count goal on a blog post is 500 words. If I feel like treating White Voider to a long one, usually because I’ve been away for a while, I’ll shoot for 750. I’m not really writing any interesting articles lately, my posts seem to be recovery based. How am I doing? Nobody tells me anything around here anymore. I think I’m being quite honest with myself and everybody else. There’s always room for improvement however. My friend Fiona has charged me with the responsibility of coming up with a festive poem, so that not-so insignificant task has wormed its way onto my agenda. A Christmas poem, from old misery guts Scrooge here, yeah sure, I’d like to see that. I told her I’d give it a go though and generally you can hold me to my word, apart from that is complete bollocks. You can never trust an addict, okay? Never. All the addict cares about is his next fix.

Do you believe that the addict is always an addict, or that, after so much clean time, the addict is cured and free to live a drug free life? Can a leopard change its spots, in effect? I am still on the fence regarding this. I simply don’t know whether it can be done or not. I haven’t done it myself yet. Well, Andrew, you recently did nine months straight without any substances. Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me. I did. Half of it was default because I was banged up in hospital but it still counts as clean. You’re either clean or you’re not. For me, at the moment (atm), I’m 15 Days halfway clean. I’d say that all drugs are out of the bodily system by a month, wouldn’t you? That’s how I define clean. For others it’s much longer, and to be an elder within the fellowships you have to be two years clean minimum. The fellowships are Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), and Narcotics Anonymous (NA). I occasionally attend both. Danny Torrence from The Shining in Doctor Sleep used to attend AA (a quick note to Stephen King there). His latest book is called Holly and you know how I feel about movies and books being named after female Christian names – they are usually off on a winner. Anyway, that’s nearly 600 words, so I’ll end it here. This was just a practice to see if I could do it on a daily basis, like Fowler did so brilliantly, and I’m not 100% sure, but I think I may have passed.

Resistance

Yo there compatriot. How are things? I’m still stubbornly resisting the lure of interracial pornography and Class A substances binding together to land me in hot water. I’m getting tempted all the time over the last few days. I just wanna go the sex shop and buy some merchandise then pay a visit to my dealer for some phet. I call the sex shop the loop shop because I’m always in there throughout different phases of my life. I wouldn’t wish it for my son. Just a thought: Can you still have kids and be badass? I saw a gangster in a blacked-out Merc yesterday but his tone was lowered by the crying baby on the back seat. All my kids are spiritual. Ghosts. At least five of them. I don’t count.

Any old way, what shall we talk about today? I’ve more or less explained my sexual desire. Porn and nicotine are the most addictive things in the world by my estimation. Drugs are merely an aphrodisiac to sustain the fun. I shouldn’t be so rude. But it’s not as if I’m talking about blue-veined nipples and throbbing penises is it? Don’t forget that ever-so-tight arse. And the big long legs that never end. And the vulnerable shoulders. And the sharp black nails. And the vampiric lipstick. Plus the piercings. And all the rest of whatever floats your boat. With Class As.

Enough already. I’ve been ‘connecting’ relatively well. I’ve been sharing in groups about my mouse mainly, that magical creature I told you stood on its hind legs and threw a crumb at me. It squeaks in the mornings sometimes but unless I’m strung out on a comedown I don’t perceive it. When I’m on a "psychotic" comedown I see a lot more than mice, let me assure you. On one occasion I was surrounded by giant slugs and snails. Their smell was atrocious. That’s just one example. On another I was surrounded by bad spirits (they were in the curtains because they express themselves through fabric), and a good one called Bennie came in and battered them all for me. That was aboveboard beautiful in all sincerity. The way she strode into battle with her weapon…

I’m 50% Rare. That’s halfway towards 28 Days. After 28 Days I become Rarefied, entering a different mental state from the ordinary. I can’t wait for it this time, if I do it. I’ll be hanging around there for much longer than only three days like I did last time. It’s hard getting there in the first place, but even harder staying there. The longer it goes on, the stronger the compulsion to use gets. That damn loop shop…at least it’s not internet porn though. I’ve been away from that for two years now. Shop bought porn is basically get what you’re given. There’s extremely limited choice. With the web you can have exactly what you want, more or less. Or at least that’s my experience. I’d be there all day and night online, fapping away like a naughty little boy. The fact is though that I’m ashamed of it and I want it out of my life. All of it, even the lame tame shop-bought. So good riddance, at least for now x

Another One

 I have a reliance upon your castles been up in the air today. Mine are too, and towering. One of the things I want to discuss now is my aversion to meth amphetamine. I’ve totally gone off the boil with it. Given, it’s only been ten days (10 DAYS!), but I’ve never been so distant from the urge of using as I am as and of the moment. I don’t know how that sits with you. I don’t know if you don’t give a flying one whether or not I ever use again, or whether part of you thinks maybe yeah go on mano, make it clean. I hope you have my best interests at heart. After all, you are my inestimable White Voider. Hey, I have a new name for you: Blank Documenter. What’s your real name? Would a comment hurt all that much? I live for comments and likes. Only joshing there, don’t worry about it, I’m not that sure how to look at them when they appear, I’ve only ever had two, and I found those pair months after they were posted. They were from a dude called Stephen Heslin, a mate back from the Bongs in school. Stephen now writes erotica for Amazon, and the Bongs was a chemical wilderness not far from where we lived. I say chemical because of the local gas plant. It was hilly and woody and got changed into a primary sewer before being converted into a motorway. My friend Patrick Bennet died in school sniffing gas on its shores. Rest in Peace, Patrick. And all the best to his brother, Glynn. Glynn, who was much welcomed at my younger brother’s funeral, knows a guy called Kev Drugan, who calls his one-hit-knockout punches “pearlers.” Imagine having a name for your punches? Yeah, he’s just a bit tough like. Offered me out in jail once over a pair of hair clippers. I politely didn’t open the door to him.

Kevin was imprisoned for battering a local can-collector. You know those guys who recycle aluminium cans? I don’t mean to condemn publicly, nothing of it whatsoever, nobody is reading anyway, and I’m free to write whatever the holy mackerel I like. I’m just saying. I’ve been done for worse. Shame on me but I ask the Lord for forgiveness and I believe he grants it me. Hopefully the same to Kevin.

There was a really long metal slide on the Bongs. We used to dash-sail down it on a ragged sheet of metal. It was so dangerous, but we were only kids; we had the hearts of lions. This was when we weren’t experimenting with the concept of masturbation together in the one lad’s home who had Sky Tv and RTL, a channel which played late night porn completely for free. I recall one geezer blasting his load and shouting “Moma Mia!” What do you blare out during orgasm, eh? Don’t say you remain tight-lipped. Personally, I shout, “Hello Montana!” If you comment that then I’ll write a piece of flash fiction about The White House –– and get it published. 

Watched Venom last night, for the parasitical curveball contained within. Totally unfactual, hardly anything to do with a parasite in my opinion. The only part I could identify with was the inkblot bloodwork animation sequence at the end. Spiderman was the Holy Spirit in it by the way, at the death, in that little teaser. It’s hard to explain why Spiderman is the Holy Spirit by the way, he just f**King is so shut up and listen. Just kidding with my aggressiveness there. We’ll end on the Holy Spirit shall we? Ta’ra for now peeps!x

Female Company

 Hello there my White Voiding companion. I sincerely pray that you are allright. I’ve had a hard night on the booze. Vodka, if you must know, shared with a lady friend back at my flat. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her about the mice, and none showed up in her presence. Her name is Vicky, we’ve been meeting in the pub for a week or two, last night she asked me if she could come round. I had to clean the toilet and the sink quick-time as she was on her way in a taxi. When she arrived I handed over my last can of beer and gave her a fag she flicked into an empty can of cola because I haven’t got an ashtray. Things to do on today’s schedule: Buy an ashtray.

She wears nice eye makeup, is quite slim, and burps a lot. I say, “Bless you,” every time she does so. It was fabulous to have some female company back at my place. When we got bored of my music (Royal Blood), she played some Pixie Lott on her phone. When I stare at the screens on phones when music videos are playing, my imagination does strange interesting out-of-the-way oddball things. Anyway, I paid for the vodka (twice as much as the variety I’d have bought), and, I must say this, the quality was evident in the taste. I’ve learned that life is too short for cheap vodka. I’m not too sure if you agree?

When she left in a cab, I was buzzing to Royal Blood again. Several outros to certain tracks really fire up my inventive mental agility. I imagine one of my female characters scoring a goal at Anfield and screaming into the face of a masked Spanish Inquisitor as she leaps over the barrier and confronts him in the first row of the crowd. I have different scenarios to different songs. To Fang Mich Auf by Unheilig, for example, I imagine a heroine woman fighting lions on the beach with a shotgun. Certain evocative themes bring certain images into the brain. I’m listening to that one now by the way.

I visited my nephew afterward and gave him a copy of my best novel to read when he is older. It cost me £40 in a taxi to get there and back and I wasn’t even allowed in. But the book was dropped off and that was the main thing. I’m kinda regretting it because I was thinking pissed but that’s the vodka for you we act outta character don’t we when we’re on it? Yeah we do. Any old how I’ll wrap things up here and just wish you all the very best until we talk again, which will be very soon. Thanks.

Still Here

Hello White Voider, it’s really special to be back with you on this delightful day that God has rewarded us with. It feels like we’ve been apart for a lifetime. I hereby do solemnly swear that I’m taking precautions as to not let this distance ever be so great again. I’m in love with you, that much needs saying straight off the bat. I love the fact that I can drop you a line anytime and hopefully inspire you to continue battering your struggles, as I am battering my tribulations on a daily basis. I’ve just destroyed my pornography, which always gives me a boost and a sense of instant relief. I feel the grace of God preserving me through these quite simply horrendous, hideous and harrowing times. I’m having none of it for very long quite soon. I plan to stop smoking and drinking and get back in the gym. There’s no mad rush to do so though. At the moment I’m quite content with a fag and a can in my hand. It’s sad but true. The pressing issue is talking to you, my ever oh so precious important mighty White Voider.

 I’ve still got rodents in my flat. My enemies call me Black Vermin. That might sound like a hurtful cheap insult but I’ve been called worse and I am a writer (master wordsmith), so it bounces off my rhino hide like water off a duck’s back. They can call me anything, I don’t care, they are just trying to strip my humanity away to treat me as sub-human. That’s their method. I feel sorry for the trans people who are getting tortured, as I can only imagine the names they will be getting called by the hate mobbers. As for the mice (no rats visible presently but I’ve had them), well, one of them stood up on its hind legs and threw a crumb at me. Have you ever heard anything like that in your entire life? I sure ain’t and it happened to me. I see it as a magical creature in a way. Several weeks ago one of my major parasites gave birth by laying an egg inside me. It hatched and I imagine it to be a giant claw with an eye on it or something. Parasites are very strange to look at, on a par with the stuff that lurks deep under the heart of the bottom of the ocean. They are very frightening and that is why I have never googled them in my life. I have only ever saw one single photographic evidence of one and that was on Jerry Springer The Opera Movie. Why don’t you do me a favour and google human parasites for me? Maybe collate some pictures. I’d love you to have an opinion on the subject. Perhaps we can prattle on about it one time in the near future. After teatime, maybe.

What else? My faith is strong, I’m just fighting depression day in and day out. It’s hard staying active, connected and busy. I’m currently in the library as usual, as I have no computer at home. I can’t afford to have one with my online sex addiction, the temptation would be overwhelming. I don’t mind blogging in public as long as the building is open and the network is online, as it hasn’t been for the majority of the morning. I had to go to a mental health drop-in to kill some time. A 6”2 tall woman runs that group. She’s a large lady and I like her a lot, she’s very friendly and is joined by a volunteer named Clint who you can talk about anything with. They seem to be genuinely interested in my affairs which feels nice.

 I met a lady schizo in the pub the other day (and even went back to hers wink-wink); she said that she gets called a Bastian by her voices, which apparently means a cross between a bastard and a lesbian haha. What will the hate campaigners think of next eh? Why do they have to be so cruel to people? Why can’t they be like yours truly and just wish for the greatest goodwill to all mankind? I’m sure you’re the same. Never give up on reading this blog and discovering more about my own personal journey and truth. I promise I won’t let you down. Over ‘n’ out for now comrades x