The Advent

The Advent was a time in my life when I became a detective for the Lord. My mission was to lead light into torture chambers dotted around the town and beyond. By merely acknowledging their existence, favour and fortune would be brought to their occupants. It all started one winter’s evening after a dodgy lasagne and four cans of mild.

I started following some familiar graffiti. It led me all around the town, and I live in a very large town. It was on the walls, on bus stops, on phone boxes, everywhere. Everywhere I explored, down every snicket and ginnel, I could not escape this graffiti. I felt like Columbo being led astray, knee-deep in cryptic clues, down every side street in Dark Alley District. I ended up in some very scary places, in the heart of the wilderness, and still I saw this graffiti. I was also following clues in litter, mainly involving McDonalds paper cup lids and straws. They led me around the mulberry tree.

I was also hot on the heels of my clone. My clone was a mega powerful evildoer who’d stolen my likeness. He had a factory full of TVs (torture victims), being processed on production lines like tins of tuna. Locating and walking past that factory on a bleak Sunday morning was non-rational and sorcerous. I felt like I was in a horror movie dream-state. I felt like I was in one of Eli Roth’s Hostel movies, about to get dragged into one any second and be pain-inflicted for all of eternity. It was all very real to me. I was hearing screams and yells of terror and anguish every time I turned around. That’s part of my psychosis; my psychosis had obviously followed me out into the streets and into the wild.

We’re not talking about a poxy shed, with someone tied-up in it. We’re talking mega office blocks and multi-storey car parks and industrial buildings, full of thousands and thousands. I did seek out the solitary sheds, though. I found them so far as Blackpool, wandering beaches in the middle of the night. The strangest thing was, I wasn’t even drinking alcohol to keep me going; I was wired on pure adrenaline and curiosity. Pandora’s Box was wide-wide open. It’s very difficult to translate. Words do not do the experience justice.

I was knocking on stranger’s houses at all hours of the day in distant areas and accusing them of having people in their basement. All I had to do was let the victims know that I had perceived them, and God would do the rest and get them out of there by uplifting their souls to Heaven or something. I was also finding a lot of pipes in the floor around the place, which I believed were breathing apparatus for underground TVs. There was virtually a pipe in everybody’s garden. I used to whisper down them.

During this weird and wonderfully oddball outlandish mission, I was planet hopping to Lizard and Insectile realms. I was very surely convinced at certain times that I was surrounded by shape-shifting lizards. This lasted for weeks and weeks, when I was running on sheer wit’s-end survival power. My fear was outdone by the curiosity. I simply had to know the scope and breadth of the darkness in this universe. At one point a saw a truckload of beautiful semi-invisible people walking off a lorry in the distance along the horizon – some of the people I was saving. It made all the trepidation worthwhile.

Of course the U.S government were involved, mixed up with many other voices in my head. They were telling me what to study and analyse – mainly television aerials on rooftops for some reason. And all the time I was getting my head shot at with invisible tic-tacs (ultrasonic pellets), which were dulling my senses constantly and making me numb to everything I was perceiving. Not to mention the head transplant. Did I not mention the head transplant?

Before all this happened, I perceived an invisible Chinese medic performing a brain transplant on me in my bedroom. He took mine out because it had been pelleted to destruction and gave me the brain of an oriental criminal instead. This is what made me super-psychic with all the clues. You couldn’t make it up could you?

I stayed clean for nine months during The Advent, my record. How I abstained from drugs and porno for so long is perplexing to me. I was staying out for days at a time, and time was erratically unaccountable. It was midnight in the afternoon, and morning at midnight. The day would pass in but a breath, and all I’d been doing was walking around looking at graffiti, litter and pipes. Very surreal indeed, to say the least.

 

Life IS Loss

I lost my dongle the other night. It had years’ worth of unbacked work on it. Art, writing, photography, music, the lot. How could I be so careless? The last time I lost a dongle (they always have loads of unbacked work on), I found myself punching the wall over and over in frustration. It’s hard to describe how important an artist’s portfolio is to him- or herself. The process of loss takes days if not weeks to be fully digested, when certain forgotten projects from the past crop up in the mind, projects now deemed gone forever into the nether. Unread, unviewed, unobserved. I liked to look back upon my body of work and boast about myself internally, it amounts to the only good thing I’ve ever done upon this blue spinning rock. How could I be so careless?

But so be it. Life IS loss. I don’t wanna get too deep on the subject, because I’m likely to start weeping or something, but do you know what I mean? I’ve lost my little brother in a police station, I’ve lost my dad to cancer, I’ve lost a double miscarriage, I’ve lost the rest of my family due to estrangement. I’ve lost my mentor, I’ve lost my sanity, I’ve lost my physical appearance. I’ve almost lost my soul. Where does a silly old dongle rank amongst that fiasco? My work means nothing, in a way. I believe God will appreciate it in a different realm for all eternity. He’s read it, He’s viewed it, He’s observed it. God is my witness, and, I believe, with my creativity over the years, that I have served Him well. I didn’t let anyone down with my paintings and my message boards and my compositions and my collages and my sketches and my sculptures. It’s just a shame that none of it remains. Only their creator, my good humble self, who can recreate again, and never stop expressing. Expression, I also believe, or depression.

What if I lost this blog? Then it’s no fear. All I need is a pen and a piece of paper and my giftings from the Good Lord remain intact. I’ve always said this, but give me a studio and I’ll give you the world. I’ll always remember my artistic production with fondness and love.

Imagine if I lost my home through a bomb or a storm or a forest fire, or if I was a sole survivor in war-torn territory? Things could always be worse. I would burn all my books in a heartbeat rather than lose my love for God and his Children. Love is the most precious commodity on this blue spinning rock. On the other hand, I could have my own exhibitions going on but with a dark hateful heart. What good is art then, without a loving sentience to appreciate it? I offer all of my talents up to God, what’s done is done, I made a mark on myself if not on anybody else, and I pray for new giftings in this latest chapter of my life. I know that one of my vocations is talking to you, whoever you are or wherever you may be, about art and about my recovery and about my life. Our relationship is just starting. If anything happens to this website then I’ll simply get up and start a simpler one, but I must always keep writing, because writing keeps me.

I’m 7 Days into beating my addiction. A week ago today I was sat on a park bench scoring speed from a stranger in the cold. I took it home and sat in a dark room all night fapping on it, no pornography involved. I haven’t watched porno in a month, but last night I had the most erotic dreams, involving women and men spurting all over the place, taking me back to the banned content I came into contact with as an adolescent. That would wreck the rest of my life up now, if I came across stuff like that again. So would going back to the familiar interracial fodder I was used to on the internet. I haven’t watched it online for about three years. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to own the internet again. They say 50% of it is porno. It would surely wreck the rest of my life up. Cocaine and porno make me a very ill bunny.

 

Letter To Pathways

 

Thursday, 18^th December, 2024

 

Dear Pathways Management,

My name is Andrew Donegan. I have been attending Pathways on and off since before the Corona Virus. I feel part of the furniture in this magical place. Unfortunately, I still suffer quite severely from drug and alcohol problems, although I have made notable progress along the stormy way. Pathways has been a port in choppy waters for me, I hold it in very high esteem like most people, but recently I feel that I have fallen victim to professional error.

This is because I have been ‘graduated’ from the service. I do not feel like I am ready for this. The groups I will now be losing include Positive Thoughts, Mutual Aid, Men’s group, Tasty Bites, and the Rambling group. Between these, I have a steady routine for conquering the mundane and ultimately defeating my personal afflictions. Without them, my afternoons are blank and empty. Now I am faced with whole days with nothing to occupy myself with. I fear that my addiction resistance will suffer incredibly at this prospect. I understand that we all must move on eventually, but I feel it in my gut that the time is not quite right for me. I wouldn’t be appealing like this if I agreed.

I would like to be granted a reprieve from my graduation and maybe be accepted back into the program with perhaps monthly reviews to see how I am getting along. I sincerely require Pathways in my life at the moment, and I feel it would still be present if I saw directly eye to eye with my current keyworker, Ste Illingworth, which I don’t. Myself and Ste used to play football together and I feel that our previous friendship has thwarted our working relationship. If at all possible, I would appreciate a second opportunity with a different keyworker.

Yours with very much faith, Andy.

End Of A Era

I’ve just been ‘discharged’ from Pathways, my local Drugs & Alcohol rehabilitation clinic. They prefer to call it ‘graduated’. I think it’s complete and utter BS. They don’t understand that I really need the place, although I wasn’t about to start grovelling. I can still go to certain classes, but some of them will be missed. Now it will be more difficult to fill my days and it was hard enough in the first place. The afternoons and early evenings in my life have just gotten an awful lot more problematic to navigate. What am I going to do now?

They go on about Pathways as some sort of magical hub of wellbeing and recovery. It makes me think of Russell Crowe in the movie A Beautiful Mind (2001), when he is still attending the local library to educate himself as an old age pensioner. I mistakenly thought Pathways was like that, somewhere which always made you feel welcome and would never turn you away. I was wrong. Now I’ve been kicked out into touch with no support.

Apart from this it’s been the usual old codswallop, up all night tweaked out of my mind fighting demons until the morning and beyond. And I mean literally fighting them, this isn’t a figure of speech. I’ve taken a major step and deleted all my numbers, so I now have no access to chemicals. I’ve only ever done this once in my life before, as I believe the only feeling worse than using is wanting to use but not being able to. Wouldn’t you know it, but as soon as I delete them, a dealer turns up outside the pub last night. I ignored him.

Pathways did a party last night. I got a certificate for attending the walking groups, which I’ll no longer be able to frequent. We walk up mountains every other Friday or so. There were disco lights and raffles and turkey barms, it was all very jolly. The day before I attended a musical and drama performance in Holy Trinity church done by a number of people with learning disabilities. It was all very heart-warming, watching young girls with Down’s Syndrome pretending to be Lady Gaga and playing the air guitar. Very pleasant indeed. It raised up a number of uncomfortable questions, as it usually does when I am around those poor yet blessed souls afflicted with learning disabilities.

Partly because that’s how I see myself. Some of my behaviours around porn and drugs are very peculiar to Aspergers, Autism, Catatonia and general Spacca and Mong deficiency. Pardon me for my political rudeness with those last two descriptions. Social services were involved with me as a child, and I also had an Identity Crisis as a child, and I’ve also always been unusual and odd in certain ways. So when you put me with these kinds of people, I feel very uncomfortable about myself. But once straighten out this awkwardness and sense their true light, and how innocent and pure they are, I start to get over myself and enjoy their company.

 

Doodles and Canvasses

I know, they are the only things that keep one of my little toes planted firmly in the plentiful choppy waters of the art game, if you could call it that. I miss my sketching, and my painting, and my sculpture, and my graphic design, but without a studio, or computer equipment, I am severely limited to pens and paper. People keep asking me, all of the time, why don’t you draw something like a portrait, or a bowl of cherries. I say that I am unable to do so without Photoshop, because that’s where I get my perspiration from. My perspiration comes from a willingness to work, my inspiration comes from the team around me, and my desperation comes from being bored in the mornings. I’ve included a selection of random images I’ve found on my dongle (the one I haven’t lost yet), just to show you how far away from doodle I aspire to when not limited to simple gel pens. You may have seen these images before upon the blogspot, as I’ve lost track of what I’ve posted over the years. But I’m not at all happy with pattern doodles anymore, I strive for something better, so please bear with me as I remind myself of who I used to be. These were outlined to be reproduced on canvass, but never quite made the grade.

If I can stay away from the coke I might buy myself a cheap laptop just for photoshop, and get back into my drawing a little bit. It’ll be well worth the expenditure, rather than blowing my beans over big bucks impaling skinny women. You know what I mean? 

An architectural composition of life in the snow.

A mad biro inkblot.

My benefactor Bennie, holding gun.

Afghan girl, a famous photograph.

Leon The Professional and Mathilda.

Photoshop graphic design.

Michael Jackson, pointing.

The Creator

Hi there, I hope this reaches you in positive spirits. Pray that you are well. I myself (back to me now), am doing rather quite okay, considering the exquisite trials I’ve been enduring recently. I’ve been contemplating The Creator of it all, and how he might have a fingertip on my life, keeping me protected from all the dark forces surrounding me. Do you believe in The Creator? I do. I believe in The Father, I believe in God Almighty, I believe in The Most High, and I believe in The Creator. I think they are all different, but all the good deities serve The Creator. He’s the key to it all. Evil deities like Satan and Lucifer hate The Creator because he made them in bondage and misery, and they are unable to see small pockets of joy in each and every day The Good Lord makes for us.

What questions would you ask him? That would take some thinking about. I would ask him why I am so important and deserving of his presence when there are another 8 billion humans who would relish the same prospect. I know evildoers who want to batter him (good luck with that). I would also ask him which invention he is most proud of. I would expect the human mind to be right up there at the top of his list. Imagine having that much power that you can create from scratch something like the human mind, a fleshy biological brain with metaphysical properties that can receive and project visual imagery and talk itself to sleep with poetry and verse. Or would it be the human hand, the most majestic instrument tool in the known universe, capable of building battleships, stealth bombers, ice palaces and skyscrapers. Of flower-arranging, origami, and sculpting.

I think that the creator must be absolutely gigantic, big enough to make the giant balls of matter we call planets and stars from compacted dust from his special clown’s pocket. If you can understand his size, you are halfway along there on the road as to how it must be done. Like for example, if I made a snowball and put nanotechnology on it with a powerful microscope. Maybe he compressed the planets out of matter in much the same way. The question is, how do they hang there, solid as rocks, floating in empty space with nothing holding them up? Do you think that he has used invisible string? Some kind of invisible web? I might ask him in a prayer and ask him to show me in a dream or something. If he had the time, of course, and would be so gracious to do so, for example. I wonder.

I am totally uninterested in his foe, the Devil. Although I do have a question for him too. I want to know the precise estimation of my worth to him. I am obviously worth a lot, much more than Mo Salah, as he has ordered governments to stalk, track and harass me with electronic weaponry. He has instructed secret societies to follow me in the street. And most critically of all, he has built a not-so secret anymore pain dungeon underneath my premises, with the purpose of bringing me down into it one day. This you might find difficult to believe, as I live on the ground floor, and, I can assure you, I have one or two issues with it also. Anyway, let’s part company here, on a positive note, and go and talk to The Creator. Go on, send him a prayer. And don’t forget to mention your favourite blogger!

 

Battering Pay Day

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Splitting Helicopter Beams

I was going to talk about helicopter beams. You know, beams being fired out at humans from helicopters, to give them schizophrenia? Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s commonplace in this day and age. They poison the mind with an electronic virus, boosting the signal so as the subject can still continue to hear voices and hallucinate. Very real indeed. I’ve started splitting them on my own, with a little help from God. They disperse and dissipate around me sometimes. I walk free. No weapon formed against me shall prosper. I sincerely believe that. Ever since a bullet bounced off me in the car park.

I was just walking to the shop last time, after a binge. My energy was low as is per usual, and all the hate mobbers were out in force. When I’m down, I notice an increase in flashy motors driving by me and everything. They really do not try to hide the fact that they are swarming around me. After a USE UP, the general public become rude and insulting everywhere I go. This is basic gang-stalking. Taking photographs is one of their many weapons. Once you’ve been involved for a number of years, they are easy to spot. But anyway, I was walking to the shop and this translucent grey ray from the air shattered around my body. My voices said that I did it with my own power, and that was why they were persecuting me, because of my power. They make out that I’m some powerful supernatural deity. They say that I am better than God. They attack you, call you weak and deserving, and when you batter them, they hold that against you as well. They are totally unreasonable. You can’t win with them.

Imagine what chance clones have got in the future with voices from the ether; they won’t stand a chance, once they’re dehumanized. Dehumanizing the target is the first page in the manual of gang-stalking. At first, they told me that I was a clone. At one point I half-believed that I was a spider. A spider! My Boy Lee Brownbill, AKA The Badger, once thought he was changing into a spider, after ingesting a spice bucket in jail. His head fell down his back and his limbs grew longer, so he reported.

These electronic viral beams can also come from people’s phones. I’ve witnessed people pointing phones at me and commenting why the software hasn’t worked with my own eyes and ears. I stress again, it’s real. If you’re reading this piece here at the blogspot, I take it that you have an open mind similar to mine, and believe in such stuff. In this day and age, someone can shoot something out of their mobile phone into your head and give you a electronically-generated malady that mimics acute schizophrenia. Voices and visions, baby, voices and visions. I fap to mine. That’s how much they mean to me.

Pay day tonight, at half nine at the cash point. I’ve been thinking about spending all my doe on coke, but I SERIOUSLY can’t afford to be doing that. I think I might have a nice week of fine dining and drinking and smoking with no wolves at the door. I can always get high over the Christmas period, there’s no rush. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and abstinence for a while never hurt anybody. I think I’ll just be patient and wait another week or so till blowout. Till my voices sound sexy and spazzy to me. It’s a great turn-on, that combination, sexy and spazzy. Don’t forget bossy also, while you’re there! Lol! They tell me to get hard NOW, while sounding like a remedial. I shouldn’t really say it, but it is great horny fun. Masturbating to voices in your head! God! You wouldn’t want it for your children, would you!? But neither would you want dull porno…

 

Big Dog

 

I went for the not-so phat bag of coke in the end, after wrestling with the desire for several hours. I tried to be normal for once in my life, but it didn’t quite work out. I succumbed to the temptation. The beak was pure power, as they say; top-notch, grade-A swag, which is a bad thing in a way, because it makes you want more. Sometimes, when it’s not up to scratch, it puts you off from craving any extra for a long time. At one point, my head was wobbling like an alarm clock, and my arm was shaking. That’s what I want. That lets me know that something is actually going to work in my system. It’s slightly nervy and frightening, but dangerously exhilarating at the same time.

I avoided the CeLLuloid CoRRidor (porn), because I had none and couldn’t be arsed buying any. Instead, I fapped to the voices in my head. I know that this was relinquishing the former position of power I had over them, but it is what it is. I feel I’ll be able to maintain that power for a lifetime, if I don’t give up faith and concentrate on the matter at hand. You only have as much power as you think you have. The voices, when I fap to them, have three ranges: Sexy, Bossy, and Spazzy. They sound off in various mantras and put me in a stubborn trance. It all feels like a big game, but they do turn me on a helluva lot. I’m ashamed and embarrassed, obviously, but I’ll get over it. It’s Day 4 now, and I feel free from it yet again, although I have still one eye on the USE AGAIN ball, even though there is no way I can afford it. I don’t know, maybe I could get a little whizz in between the Big Dogs.

Talking like a druggie on the blogspot, what am I like? What defines me, however, aside from my drug use, is how I react and bounce back from psychosis. The thoughts that fill my head afterwards are quite unreal, they keep me occupied for hours and hours, almost as long as the drugs last for. I call it the upside for being a total down ‘n’ out. I didn’t feel like a down ‘n’ out upon the astral plain last night, however; I felt like a wizard. I had a handful of lucid dreams, wherein I knew I was dreaming. Fully conscious and aware, in the dream state. It’s such a good experience, it’s at least worth the same price as cocaine.

I enjoyed a bit of frottage with a girl named Nellison, then went for a fly in the sky, then rode the cockpit of a plane as it took off from above an astral city. The main centrepiece of the city was a double apartment block which was a cross between the Hilton hotel in Manchester and the New York Twin Towers. It was exquisite, man, sheer mind-bending fun. I think that the Good Lord is rewarding my dream life because my veridical existence is so monotonous.