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.

 

These Are The Minds...

I’ve destroyed Tommy Thrillbigger’s latest pornographic exploit for good now, and I sincerely hope that I won’t be going back to it. It was getting a bit boring, truth be told, and I ended up fapping to the voices in my head instead. This leaves me very vulnerable to their power and oppression. I wonder how many other people out there fap to the sexy voices in their heads? I wonder how many people have sexy voices in their heads? They talk and talk all day and all night, until long after I am spent. The upside is, and I found this quite incredible to believe at first, that they masturbate to the sound of my inner voice also. We’re just a crazy gaggle of voices wa*king to one another!

I’ve started hearing my nan now, which is very off-putting, as she’s been brown bread for donkeys years. She’s calling me a cruel boy because of my fapping, and denouncing me as any relation to her. This hurt quite a bit, as she raised me, and is something I have to remember. One positive aspect of the latest psychotic debacle is that God appeared in my living room to me. He was the biggest man I have ever seen with a long red cloak on. He said, “Don’t worry, you’re with me.” This made me feel safe and secure. Usually, whenever I sit down to fap and take hard drugs, the Devil celebrates like he has scored the winning goal at Wembley. That’s how important my suffering is to him, it makes him deliriously happy. He calls ruining my life putting the ‘work in’.

I’ve got my enemies right where I want them at the moment, with me in triumphant power over them, refusing to be dismayed or depressed by their ‘work’. I feel large and in charge and on the front-foot. My apartment, with its dungeon beneath, is hallowed ground. They want me out of there so badly I can almost understand it. An evildoer would relish my property more greatly than almost any other on the planet, for what lies underneath it.

It’s impossible to have a dungeon underneath a ground floor council property in England, you might say. How does he live there? Isn’t the natural reaction to run for the hills? Yes…I don’t know…and yes are the answers to those questions. I just get by. Half the time I forget about it. This is God’s power, enabling me to not be traumatised. My main fear is being traumatised by what I go through on a daily basis, and from where I live and cannot escape from.

My girl Cee who I’ve blogged about in the past is currently in hospital as we speak. Last time I saw her she was speaking like a TI. She said her flat felt like a façade, and that she was seeing people off television on the bus and in the street. I told her not to worry because they always pick on the bright ones. That is something my own doctor actually told me one time. He was the best doctor I ever had. We used to swap poetry and talk about the cosmos. Anyway, I added to Cee (formerly Courtney) that her abounding light is just too scorching for society to handle at the moment, that’s all. She’ll get thru it. Just eat some decent food (depending on the hospital), get some art done, go the gym a bit, reflect on life, and all will be well because it’s a doddle and job’s a good’un. She’s really beautiful, Cee, you should see the compassion on her face when she is concentrating on listening to what people have to say in therapy group. The empathy in her eyes is wonderful to behold. She’s only 24, but has a wise head on her shoulders. I’m gutted she’s back in hozzy.

There were no evil videos in my head-space last time. I think the children in my consciousness have helped bat them away. By evil videos, I mean the crude animations that brain technologies implant into my mind. Last time I was witnessing their putrid perversity a load of children infested it and saved me from it. The kids called themselves THE MINDS THAT TIME HAS MADE THEM. THESE ARE THE MINDS THAT TIME HAVE MADE US, they said to me. I don’t know where these children in my mind have come from, but I choose to believe that they possess a power inherited from the Creator of the Universe. There is nothing so precious and innocently beautiful as a child. Surely everyone here knows that much at least?