Fiction Warehouse

 .-(🌙)-.I've been giving regular members of the public tours of my fiction warehouse, without their consent, by grabbing them, whether from the pub or a fellowship meeting, and placing them on a craft, then whisking them away to one of my favourite scenes from the many vistas I've manufactured over the years from being sat solitary at a desk, mostly looking up at the ceiling I might add. In actual fact, I once wrote an entire book about a guy looking up at the ceiling. And one about a guy who couldn't roll over in bed.

Because he was a half ton Daddy, he needed a crane poking through a removed roof to turn him over.

He blamed his weight on Irene in the canteen who dished him out too many beans.

If you are extremely overweight, don't worry about it. At least you don't disappear when you walk behind a lamppost. Or have to worry about falling down grids. Nobody can read you through a newspaper. And you can't abseil from a Dorito. You wouldn't like to be built like a Rizla, would you? Or a whip?

I'd normally say here be proud of who you are, but that sounds corny, as if it were coming from a self-help site. This is no wellness-speak emanating within. It's sheer entertainment. Along with the bent truth and a slap of auto-fiction, which we adore. Just be a regular stand-up guy or girl, that's how I get by. All the comedians are stand-up mostly, although I prefer some of them on game shows. They bring us laughter, which is joy. Echoing from the belly.

Back to the tours. I've been imagining taking an audience into the fabric of my fiction. I'd show them all the penultimate scenes and action sequences. Much of it is drama, nothing much happening, but it would be nice to watch. The beginnings, the endings, the kisses, the fights, the reveals, the suspense, the mysteries, the pinpoints of the arcs. There's so much, I've been doing if for thirty years, they reckon don't start too young because you haven't lived yet, but I couldn't help myself, like one or two others, I learned early on to escape into fiction.

I just witnessed one of my earlier characters in the pub. Seriously. Her name was Breeze. We did lots of intimate activities together. The crescendo was at a fairground. We had priority seats on the biggest and best attraction with one another. It was called The Ascender, and even better than Nemesis at Alton Towers. We pumped our fists in the air at the peak of the cloudy escalation. Yes, it was high. Very.

I don't know what a character of mine was doing in the same pub as me. It happens sometimes. Life throws up a curveball. It's better than seeing a ghost or a wolfmans, so I can't complain. She didn't see me sat there in the corner by the rainy window pane, yet I recognized her immediately. It was Breeze, from my second effort in the Twisted Sister Series, the homeless slovenly scruff bag who flipped her life around to become a coveted sex icon. I won't go into her anymore, as she led a disturbing existence underground in the sewers, but she was like a lover to me.

It's nice having a 'twisted sister' in real life. She inspires you to write for years about her. And then, when you present her with the book she's single-handedly inspired, she doesn't have time to read it, tossing it to one side without so much as a thank you. So you write another one, hoping she'll be more interested. If it's better. If it's cleaner. If it has her name in bold italics on the front. But she still ain't all that interested, coz she isn't into reading all that much.

She prefers music. But you don't record her a song, coz that would be weird. Well you do, but you keep it to private viewing. Nobody likes to be smothered with obsessive infatuation. I should know about it, as I'm a Targeted Individual. This is why I write strange material about having twisted sisters.

Not all of my sisters are twisted. One is terrified of me. She thinks I might 'throw a wobbler' anytime-anywhere because of my mental health. I'm unsure what it is she expects me to do exactly. Thrash the cornflake aisle, whilst shopping? Stamp over the flowers in the park, when out for a stroll? Or rip someone's head off and poop down their neck? What exactly is she suspicious off?

Another one hugs me, which is nice. I think she trusts me. Everything was perfect with her at one point. Then I sold her computer games for drugs. Or was that my step-nephew? I can't remember. Does it matter? Whoever's games I sold was important to me. But not as important as a bag of fast.

I wish I hadn't done that. Fast makes me scared of the world.

I hate stepping over kids to use. Every addict does it. But we strive to reach out in good time and claim them back. If we stay on the right path, they usually return.

Don't worry children, I'll take you to the panoramas of my stories. I swear, you'll enjoy yourselves there. They were written especially for you.

~{💕}~

Aloft & Soaring (For A Change)

You'll be pleased to know I'm in a very special place mentally at the moment. I'm aloft from all my harassers and talking down to them in my mind like scumballs for all the years of abuse they've given me. They can't bear to leave me alone for two minutes. It's more like worship than torment, it feels to me. But enough about them, because discussing them affects my vibrational frequency, which is off the charts, by the way.

If you know anything about lowlife down 'n' out gang-stalkers then you'll have an idea of what I'm talking about. there really isn't enough insults and slurs in the dictionary to describe them with.

They've moved in next door to me, for laughing out aloud. They can't bear to be any distance away. To be honest, I forget they're there half the time. I should have run away by now, I should have been locked up for a crime. But I'm still here, doing what I thoroughly enjoy, talking to you. I know you understand. You'd behave the same way. Unless you lost your rag and embarked upon a rampage. Which is exactly why they do it by the way. Cowardly filth magnets.  

Caught up with a touch of family time the other night. We've all had some rough news which I'll discuss at a later date. I forgot all about my problems for a day. Then I had to return to the plenitude of my issues back home and face the four walls I'm often climbing. We talk in group about sitting with our feelings. Toxic people are incapable of it, they have to cause a disturbance and pester someone, because they can't live with themselves. I've got no contention with it, give me a fag and a beer and I'll listen to some music and nod my head along with it, if not a little dance in the empty room. I could have a one-man party in a phone box.

Give me a bottle of Jim Beam and I'm 'going Congo'. That's what I call it. Going Congo in my head. I start roaring back thru the walls and thrashing property, it's not pretty. Myself and others are vulnerable when I'm like that. That's why I'm saving it for a special occasion. I'd like to die Congo, it's a gifted yet dangerous way to be. But so much for for the time being, those manic episodes are long gone. Now I'm a calm and intellectual gentleman. Lol. Or try to be. Better than a savage vengeful animal.

I don't get drunk anymore. I just enjoy a few beers. And walk around on a higher plain telling jokes to myself.

No unwanted presences inside my flat, or losers on the other side of the wall, can bring me down. I'm The Dance (my nickname). And I'll lead you to the dance one day. If you keep following, keep checking in, and view the bags of magical wonders I've got to unveil to you.

Mostly about the survival instinct of humankind, by the way. Namely me. By all accounts I should be getting demoralized in hospital, and a lot worse, we're talking pain infliction on dissidents in the modern world, if you could call me that, because I don't clock into the slavery employment system and have a unique opinion, but I emerged through my last dreadful experience intact and parted both wings to acclimatize.

It took a gaggle of coppers to bust through my door after midnight and nick me in bed for me to agree to that bunkum. They did me by making lies up about uncontrolled fires. What is it about that arson charge from my teenage years? Will they ever stop banging on about it? I'm surprised someone doesn't call the authorities when I spark a ciggie. I come with a public warning slogan come bonfire night.

I once emptied the ingredients from a box of fireworks and inserted the gunpowder into a matchbox. I was going to light it in my mother's kitchen for shits and giggles. Seriously I was, that was the honest intention. In the end I chose the back field. You should have witnessed the explosion. It was humongous. Part of it whizzed by my face. It would have wreaked combustible havoc indoors, I made the right decision by that one. Somebody could have been horrifically disfigured. Just saying. A happy little random mischievous childhood memory. You know, the kind the Mind Kontrollers want harvesting from us, so we lose our personalities and hum along to their own tune. I'd much rather whistle along to mine thank you very much. But thanks for all the relentless attention. It's very flattering.

I've had my neighbours drain all my brain fluid via thru-the-wall technologies. Not very pleasant and it made me dehydrated. Hope they don't deem it a regular hobby. I like my brain fluid where it is. On my brain. Obvious that one isn't it. Where else would brain fluid be? 

Something else to drink for The Illuminati, when they get bored of guzzling infant blood. Or whatever it is they sup. I honestly wouldn't know.

Not to worry, my brain's fine today. Just because it's hooked up I don't do anything stupid. If you put on a show to the Mind Kontrollers they just get envious and hate you more. Plus they rip off everything you do and claim credit for it themselves.

Bye for now hero.

Random Update

Lee Child advised me to stop serving myself up with a serial relapsing diary. He said that nobody is interested in the finer smirches of somebody else's life. He prefers authors to stop writing what they know and start making stuff up. Like Star Wars, for example. They made like 9 of them. I think that Child is good at describing interior design. All his books seem to be about is Reacher walking into different hotel rooms. If we are lucky, he might headbutt someone in the face and walk away.

I watched a Clive Barker interview last night. He described himself as an Imagineer. All he does is sit in his studio up to his neck in canvasses, imagining. I imagine quite a lot. I imagine how the hell I'm going to get away from my neighbours, without storming in there with a pickaxe and wiping them off the face of the Earth.

Their dumb dog entered my home the other day and mauled one of my teddy bears. I nearly had to insert my car keys up its bottom to break its grip. Always works.

I gave an interview once, on camera, while making a sculpture, in a ceramics class. It's probably online somewhere but I wouldn't know the first place where to look. Bit embarrassing really. I had a black and gold Adidas T-shirt on and a shaved head. I was no Grayson Perry, but I actually enjoyed rolling some clay about on a weekly basis. In the end, after a few years of classes, I had a display cabinet at home full of strangely interesting models I based on termites. They were architectural by design, like homes for termites to live in. My signature was four yellow windows, and I gave them loose facial features also too, so they doubled as creatures.

Before I stopped the classes, and my pottery career ended, I was thinking about incorporating glass. Glass and clay work superbly. I had half a mind on some kind of time-keeping device. People around me were making ashtrays mostly. I dabbled in painting plates and bowls and cups.

Is this working so far? Are you glued to the screen? Would you rather me waffle about drugs and porn?

I get paid tonight, so there is a dim possibility, but I'm certain nothing uncouth will be occurring. I've got to be frugal with my finances for the time being, healthy moderate dinners all the way, although I am bursting for a beer. There's a place in town called Room At The Inn, it's a dosshouse for druggies and homeless, but they offer microwave meals for free to the struggling. Last few days I've been going in for a bite to eat. It's not exactly a place an Eton grad would go on a date, but if you are fairly streetwise like me then it poses no problemo. It's pure respect to be down with the homies now and again. I've never forgotten my roots and I'm no snob.

With me being black-ish and getting on a bit I have to be careful where my feet take me these days, in this bustling dangerous swirl of a white man's world. You never know which corner the KKK are lurking behind. They might lynch me to a tree like in the olden days, just because the blonde Blacksmith's daughter took a liking to me. The excuse in this day and age would be to shark my wallet.

I have nothing in my wallet except several cut-out tiny j-pegs of special girls from the internet. I like collecting distinct expressions I come across, I find the timeless glares from female strangers rather haunting and inspiring in a good way. It's just a peculiar little habit I have. You should see my bedroom walls at home. Recently I considered placing a framed picture of my dealer on the fireplace.

What else is going on at the moment? Well times are as hard as ever, in a way, but I'm coping more efficiently than I ever have. Things will be easier with a pint of cold lager in my palm tonight, and a delicious supper in my belly, but nothing much changes on the inside so long as I keep away from drugs. I know you want me to do well, you're sick and tired of me being sick and tired, explaining relapses every other week. I feel on course to do fine for a decent spree now, everyone can relax, I promise to be a very good boy for the forseeable.

Sort out my spiritual peace like, you know. Hope you're in a happy place too.

Observation

My first impression of an observation room was on an acute ward when I was just a teenager. It had a curtained window with the office on the other side. All the staff had to do was peekaboo through the curtain and they had eyes on you. I forget if there was a camera or not. There was a clock permanently frozen on 3am though, the animal hour.

A lady doctor entered and told me to pull my pants down. I think she wanted to see if my phallus was swollen from masturbation, but she pretended she was checking for hernias. I felt mildly violated. Then she ran me through a Rorschach test, which I probably got all wrong, as I was just a silly teen who didn’t know anything.

It was near Christmas, so the nurses provided red wine and got us all pissed. Hard to believe that, isn’t it, in a psychiatric facility? I spewed up in the toilet after smoking some weed as well. Just another typical weekend on booze and drugs. Except now I was detained in a nuthouse doing it.

When I left the observation room someone else moved in. She was a young girl called Jen in blue casual jeans, blocky black boots and a red wooly jumper, with short back and sides boyish hair and glasses. I fell for her instantly. All we ever said is hello and goodbye to one another, but we shared so much with our combined knowledge of that room. I never ever saw her again after I left, but I remain thinking about her until this very day. She used to just stand there in the room, looking at nothing, as if in prayer, with the door open.

There’s loads more to the story. I was allowed out to college on leave. Teachers were coming to visit me. I wrote my first book in there. After six months they let me out into a bail hostel and my life almost continued to roll along as normal, except for displacement, stigma and trauma. I put psych units behind me all through my twenties, which were enjoyed getting high when possible, usually on cannabis and ecstasy. I worked a few regular jobs but always signed on the dole.

At age 33 I started hearing voices. The rest as they say is history. It was a manic time of running around the woods with no clothes on and shouting at shadows. I was admitted into the same hospital and the same observation room. I woke up in there in a stupor and recognised the place instantly, with an unforgettable sense of shuddersome disquietude.

I thought I’d never left. I thought I’d imagined my whole life.

That feeling was more than surreal, it was multiform and many-sided. I had great doubt about the nature of reality and perception. How could I end up back in the same room, 16 years later?

That obs room, the second time around, still proves to be one of the maddest experiences of my life. It’s hard to describe my mental state within. Basically I stared into space for over two whole days in a state of fear and wonder, hearing voices and hallucinating vividly. I won’t go into what I was seeing, as I’ve already descripted that thoroughly in another book, but the shock of being suddenly ‘awake’ to all the conspiracies of the world was all-consuming.

There were strange shape-shifting figures at my window, mystical timeless patterns on the walls, space beings were performing experiments and procedures on me, the hairs on my body were combed into picturesque conformations, it was all going off and big time; the most I could do was sit there drooling, listening to people battering my head who weren’t there.

Eventually I ‘came down’ and was let out onto the ward. Same thing, Christmas time, but with no booze or weed. Weed would have been the last thing I wanted. It still is. I fear no mortal, but have an intense dislike for being stoned. It makes music sound improved, and enhances the visual cortex, but those things are not worth the compromising paranoia. If I was in a safe environment with lovely people then I’d consider it. As it is, whenever I try and toke a little, I end up hearing growls and hisses from under the cupboard. Or are they deep within my mind?

I considered killing myself in the cistern somehow, by doing a headstand and breaking my neck on purpose. At one point my skin was sticking to the mattress, I thought years had passed again in some type of time warp. I felt condemned to that room, fated to a lifetime of never getting out. The worse thing was, there was no Jen this time to think about when recovering. Like the first time, I started writing about what I was going through. It wasn’t pretty reading. All the nightmares reached back into childhood.

Luckily they only kept hold of me for several weeks, before tipping me out back home. But this spell was only the beginning of a chain of psychotic reactions which still haunt me to this present day, the only difference is I handle them a lot better. I could never give up the drugs, and I could never strike out for staying clean for the long duration. All of my trauma-based memories are still intact and very much alive, and not only that, but they get added to almost every weekend, it seems. You’ll be aware of a few of them here. Others I keep to myself. I’m going through something very difficult at the moment, but who wants to hear about monsters under the sink for example, because rationale gets in the way.

I suppose all this is a chemical imbalance, and I need treatment.

Patient's Signature: ADON

Hospital Rooms

The hospital room in Accidental Orbs might be a peaceful scenario, but so was the one in Exploitation. Exploitation was the novel where I finally and thoroughly dealt with the now just niggling obsession of having a long lost and estranged black sister. It was about human trafficking. A rich white guy named Jax was paying for young African girls from across the border. He lived in a futuristic ivory tower in the middle of nowhere. He selected one to live with him. Just before the deal was settled, she fell victim to female circumcision from a witch doctor.

The witch doctor used to rip the heads off chickens with his teeth and spray the blood around the campfire, kind of like Ozzy Osbourne in concert; then he would drink potions made from Lion claw and Rhino horn and bang his drums to induce himself into a trance. Frolics would end with a loud chanting jungle dance in which he jumped around like a delusional man on hot coals. He performed the barbaric operation with unsterilized tools and stored the clitoris in a tobacco tin lined with olive oil to be eaten with herby leaves at a later date. There seemed to be no logical reason for the procedure to have taken place. Perhaps he valued her spirit and perceived her as a upcoming princess or warrior who would benefit from non-engagement in sex and men. Perhaps he was simply just peckish.  

When her stitches came undone and she bled on Jax’s bed, he had to rush her to the hospital through curvy country lanes in his supercar, some conceptual souped-up prototype of a Renault. He played dark melodic synthwave music the whole way and almost crashed twice. He gave himself an ulcer by biting his lip. He was on just a touch of MDMA powder. He’d swallowed half a gram or so several hours earlier in a shot glass of Ribena.

You might be wondering what he was doing with young girls on his bed, but part of the plot was tricking the reader into believing he was a sicko, when really he only had their best interests at heart. His living quarters at the top of the tower included virtual reality appliances in a children’s playroom, with tons of modern widgets and gizmos. In his mind, he was giving them a better life, plucking them from wartorn famine and poverty. His only downfall was, he often got bored of the same girl and kept swapping them. To his credit, once he’d had enough, they did all go into protective 1^st world foster care families.

A remedying intervention was performed and Jax had a long existential moment with the girl in a hospital room as she recovered. He brought her all manner of nonsense from the gift shop to put on her bedside table. He sat there smoking and drinking bourbon from a flask admiring her features, as he really was in love with the African form. He called them ‘Dark Heartland Savages’ as a private joke in his mind, apt term to describe the witch doctor guilty of the butchery, but words he would never utter in public through parted lips. The scenario was so serene, the only company he ever craved was that of a sweet little wee girl.

I visited hospital when my sister gave birth. That room wasn’t peaceful, it was rather eerie. She was lost in its spacious contours, a baby rabbit in an oversized hutch. It was just the two of us. Is this what happens after you give birth, I thought, they just plonk you in a room to yourself and leave you? She looked like a mixture of relaxation and bewilderment. I incorrectly believed she’s be holding a smiling newborn. Maybe they got it mixed up or swapped it on purpose, but that’s a different story. You hear about babies being swept away from the mother’s arms and never seen of again, to be used for the purposes of experimentation in lifelong torture programs in a different country. Maybe I’ve made that part up, but I have my own ideas. Imagine what runs through Mummy’s head.

It was only on the radio the other day…a post-natal maniac killed all three of her children. It wouldn’t surprise me if she took the bodies to Macdonalds for a set of happy meals.

Accidental Orbs

I was thinking of my fiction last night, spanning way back across my career. It acted as a kind of refuge for my stinkin’ thinkin’. I told myself that the rigours of the night have purpose, so as to release me free unto the following day to further write some more, providing that I am capable and able. And here I am, having survived said rigours, sat at the typing machine, with the world as oyster. Staring into space.

I can’t start a story here though, can I, it doesn’t feel right. I’m not short of ideas, but executing them now? I’m restricted to an hour or so. If I had a study at home and unlimited beer…that might be a little different. I’m not up for starting a venture in the public library. I’m not up for pressing deadlines. It’s just never the right time.

I do have a working title for one possible story. It’s called ACCIDENTAL ORBS. It starts with a young child getting run over in the street. He doesn’t die but is mortally wounded. It’s touch and go. As a by passer intervenes, a bunch of beautiful orbs leave his body and enter hers. He’s whisked away in a helicopter or an ambulance. She departs the scene and experiences a higher quality of life for a few days. Her perception and mood improve above understanding, all her problems are halved, she starts to live beyond her wildest dreams, good things start happening instantly.

But then, recovering from his hospital gurney, the young boy communicates with her from afar, stating that he needs his orbs back. I’m not sure how this communication would take place, perhaps it would be a disembodied voice upon the ether, or messages in the subtitles of the TV, or blurry text hovering within the fibres of the newspaper, or some such other strange event. Either way, she follows instructions and goes to visit him in a hospital. Maybe his family are grabbing a coffee at the time.

It would be a nice scene. I once wrote overly about a bedside scene on an emergency ward. It was about my long lost sister, when I was obsessed with females of African heritage. Whenever a black girl appeared on the television, I would hit the RECORD button on the VCR. I amassed quite an amount of neurotic footage this way. I even found the confidence to start chatting them up in real life, whenever I was in the city. I took ‘one of ‘em’ for a long walk around the neon districts once. We spent the stroll mostly in silence, holding hands. I didn’t kiss her at the end or swap numbers, because I didn’t even really fancy her, but she was black and that was enough.

My sister was suffering from a rare flesh-eating disease, and in a coma. I had to apply special lotion to every inch of her bare skin on a daily basis. I was addicted to her presence, no matter her condition. I made a big point about her smiles. They lit up the entire room. The whole affair was corny and sentimental, I kept repeating that I was never going to leave her side, I was never going to leave her side, I was never going to leave her side.

She recovered and broke my heart, after everything I did for her. I recall crying for the first time in eight years, in front of my best friend, who could not understand my ache. It ended up with me as a seedy stalker, prying upon her premises from afar at all hours of the night, plastering photos of her over my wall. At one point I was sat in one of her skirts applying her makeup in front of the dressing table, getting into character so to speak. As she was working in a whorehouse and getting chauffeured around by wealthy but perverted clients. It all went so dark, from that pretty calm and peaceful bedside scene. Why did she have to turn out to be such a sex-addicted tramp who can’t keep her legs shut for five minutes?

So (back to the main story) she has to return the orbs because the boy needs them for his future. She doesn’t know how to do this. She doesn’t know how she got them. It’s all like magic; above her head. The boy explains in terms ahead of his years, he appears to be an expert in orbs, and anyway they eventually flow from her belly into his heart or something. Then she’s back to her normal boring life, the fancifulness falls off the design of reality like soap suds, everything is monochrome again, she’s done the right thing but her heart slumps with disappointment.

Then she has a wicked idea. She could turn off his life support and see if the orbs go back to her. She’s a decent lass with a strapping heart who feels for the boy dearly but the elation of the power derived from the orbs have rewritten her reasoning skills. For, sans them, she feels depressed and depleted and even sorrowful.

Maybe she even suffocates him with a pillow.

More likely he gives her one or two back from the bunch as a gesture of goodwill, to keep her still moderately happy.

Or maybe, if she kills him, he could haunt her for the rest of the tale, traipsing around after her with two feet planted firmly in the afterlife. Yet another ghost story for our delectation. In a decade or so, when he reached puberty, if dead boy ghosts ever do reach puberty, he could rape her on her own bed and wipe his peewee on the drapes. Her fists might tug the blankets and her nails might break, tendons in her neck straining like popping cords. He might fling her about the room like a rag doll, like the Evil Dead having a party with a crash test dummy at a demolition rally, or invade her private parts with a burning crucifix when she wasn’t looking.

He could drive her into an unsane institution, where she is drugged and studied and forced to tell of her experience about the accidental orbs to the disbelieving ears of doctors. Or maybe she handles it better than that and keeps herself away from the authorities, too high and aloft to spare him a second thought. What would be the point of taking his marvellous potency if her conscience was going to damn her for it?

I’m curious about how the hospital room looks though, before we meander into the nitty gritty. It’d be showered with love wouldn’t it, for a small child, loadsa’ flowers and get well cards, perhaps momentoes like toys ‘n’ stuff. And what of his family, when they return from their coffee break in the lobby, and his school chums and soccer mates? It might be a busy riot of characters. I’d much prefer just the two of them, bound together in fate, having to work something out.

I’ll start writing this baby for you, just as soon as I get my study, and unlimited beverages. I’ll write into the early morn, snow outside, candles inside, all my ink flowing in an exotic direction, the direction of accidental orbs…

How Are We Ever Going To Agree?

More surprising than the amount of doe I’ve blown over the last week is the fact that I’ve made it through again to comment about proceedings here, at the sweet spot. This last bender was rough, aren’t they all, and I sit here teeming with disbelief regarding my own behaviour. Why doesn’t anything good happen when I’m sat at home? I received a financial package lifeline and spurned it in my dealer’s direction. It must have been the luckiest episode of his life. Thankfully I’ve just slept it off for over a whole day and manned up to face the public, perched here typing in the council lobby.

It’s nice to be away from whatever is lurking in my flat, hissing away beneath the sink. I’ve considered torching the place and walking off in to the sunset. With nothing but a sleeping bag, ciggies, and booze. How far would I get?

My neighbours deserve bloodshed: Not for their opportune harassment, but for the terrible music they sometimes play.

With no wedge, I consider myself safe from myself for another couple of weeks. There’s no way I’m ingesting anything else cheap and nasty in the meantime. Hopefully I’ve ridden my system of recklessness for the time being. There’s also no way that state of living can be maintained without dollops of cash. It’s time to bite the bullet of sobriety, no matter how mundane it might be.

I’ve been away to guzzle a few pints and take time to think about things. Hardly anything was forthcoming. I’ve chosen to partially wipe my mind off, rather than strut around waffling to myself and providing my mind-reading perps with free entertainment. My internal monologue for the last few years has been off the hook, and all it merits is them punctuating it with negativity. Now it’s the right time to remain silent and listen. Only thing is, there’s nothing to listen to. Nothing but repetitive hate spiel. Which I’ve heard all before, and gets no more less interesting.

I’ve said all I’ve ever wanted to say. I’m now thinking about coffee in the apology green room. It’s just across the road. I’m in the library now. It might be full of harassers who have been filling their boots over the last few days, outside my window at home. It’s a ball ache figuring out how to react to them. Should I wade in there screaming and shouting my wrath, or calmly greet them with fake warmth? Probably just ignore them and slurp coffee.

He’s on speed, and he stinks, so he can’t come out and get us, they were saying. Now I’ve come down with the grand illusion of a Radox bath, so whatever’s on their tongue now I have no idea. Nothing of any intellectuality, that much is for certain. Only inaccurate jibes and subjective false assertions. They’ll most likely revert to aged, and basic, terms of slander. Which is codswallop by the way, and they know it. If only I had a weapon and no concern for my future, I could storm in there and extinguish one or two of them. Go to a lifer’s jail with a smile on my face. Although the paying hierarchy would go on, and they’d delight in tormenting me locked up. Nothing would be accomplished, except I’d definitely be the bad guy with no reasonable doubt about it. In black and white to the public, on the front page news…another schizo loses his rag. Not a mention of their crimes against humanity.

While Out On Leave

It’s the day before pay day. I’ve only had one can of beer since Friday. I don’t know whether to cane a few good old pints tomorrow, and buy an all-you-eat. Life isn’t that bad on porridge, mixed with Nutella and Whole Earth peanut butter. It’s healthy and cheap. I can’t afford to be spending 15 notes on one meal anymore. Although I can afford almost half a grand on coke. It doesn’t even fill you up for the day. Several hours later you are starving again.

I’m also thinking about an 8-ball of that drug. Just one. The potential is there for two. I’d like two. But I also like a bit of few quid in my pocket. If I could afford it, I’d be on it right now. You wouldn’t get a look in with this web convergence we have going. The substances blow my readers away. Isn’t that a sad thing to say, to a reader, don’t you think? Don’t take it personal. They’ve already blown my family, jobs and life chances away. What chance do you have?

If you were a nice bird, and decided to move in to help me cook and clean, with optional extra benefits, then things might be different. I had the family unit with my ex and her son, once upon a time. I kicked them both out into a bed and breakfast so I could use and view XXX. I was hiding drugs in the freezer, waiting for their eviction date. I had to wait for social services to escort them off the premises. I’ll never forget the look she gave me on her way to the door. Goodbye, girlfriend, now I can rock out.

Before that first night without them was over I was on a psych unit having a nightmare. As soon as I got some leave I would go home and get high for a couple of hours before returning to the ward. The time flew by so quickly watching hardcore in that precious window of allotted time. I was using legal highs if I recall correctly. One female nurse said she’d get me some Pink Panthers, or Charlie Sheen, before I left early at 6am. It turned out to be caffeine powder what she produced. I’d never been so disappointed in all my life, but I sniffed it anyway, and it got me there, so to speak. These were the days before impotent priapism. Priapism is a rare condition of the penis, and one I could have lived without.

When out on leave at my home, I was limited to like say six hours off the hospital grounds. I’d usually neck some Green Beans or some such other crap and rock out until half an hour before it was time to return. The idea was to pull up my pants and ring a taxi, therefore getting back to the ‘ozzy bang snap on time. But I found myself so elevated from the legal toxins that I couldn’t stop what I was doing. The porn was novel at the time, I was a pig in shit, after spending weeks and months on a sterile acute ward with a dozen or so other mentally-retarded bozos (sorry). The thrill of sex at home intoxicated was exhilarating. Going back when I was just getting into a satisfactory state of horniness seemed stupid. F**k them for a few more hours, I thought. I was risking them sending out law enforcement for me being AWOL. One time they did, threatening to hammer down the door. It was a bluff. They left me alone in the end, after I blasted music openly to give them a message. But on other occasions, I’ve had them burst thru. It’s a gamble. You’re probably better just opening the door to them, although if you really have no intention of speaking face to face with a copper then try ignoring them, they just might go away without coming thru.

The worst thing was, when I finally decided to stop after making myself late, there would be no cabs available. I’d have to walk back to the hospital high as a kite. I’d finish rocking out on the toilet with spank memory once I was in. That nurse lingered by the door uttering mantra.

Dragging myself away from XXX with substances still on the kitchen counter is an impossibility. When they run out, I have been known to resort to drinking a cheeky shot of bleach. That sums up my mental state when I run out of narcotics. The more you have the better you feel, but the more you do the less you have, and the quicker it disappears. That feeling is dreadful. You’re still in party mood but you have none, can’t get none, and can’t afford none. If you have the funds and the dealer’s phone is still on then I’d spend next month’s pay check to finalise that deal, and the month after that, until I was selling my arse up the common for half a line.

It’s this vice-like grip I will encounter again tomorrow when my money goes in. It’s the same dilemma every time, and I usually lose out. Don’t worry, I won’t be drinking bleach. It was a very peculiar porn star who made me do that. She was like a demonic force. I wanted a hit from anywhere to spend a touch more time with her. All it did was make my teeth squeaky and give me a pain deep in my organs. There was no buzz whatsoever. I was probably self-harming in a lenient way. Graphic sexual imagery has that effect on me.

That porn star, and the aforementioned nurse, are now part of the stalking network giving me grief, wouldn’t you know. They hail from Scotland and Russia. They harass me on a daily basis with visuals in my head and vibrational auditory stimuli. When I used to get broken in psychosis they’d drive by me and stuff on stolen motorbikes. They have even moved in next door under a cloak of high clearance secrecy to torment me from the other side of a flimsy wall with plausible deniability. I am still in a kind of complicated sexual relationship with the nurse which makes things extremely overcomplex when navigating feelings like sheer hatred and weird attraction. Half of the guns and goons who currently pester me for fun I was once in love with. They do say that only true love has the ability to hurt you.

I hope your emotive feelings are a lot more manageable than mine.

This has been the 77th Piebalder, typing at the sweet spot. Look after yourselves, and each other.

Storage - Face Off

Vivien Maier Photoghraphy

 

Uneventful

WARNING: The following blog contains pointless information. Please be advised about lack of stimuli while reading. Google recommends Toxic Junction for shits and giggles. Any resemblances to living people are strictly coincidental. That's if the author knows any living people, as he is a recluse who sees less sunlight than a potholer. Coping mechanisms have been tried and tested, but when faced with the challenge of a fully grown mountain lion in your neighbourhood, you are advised to seek technical assistance. Armed guard if necessary. If you are suicidal and here for desperate measures (like most readers), admin recommends you drown your sorrows in a bottle of rum with an affordable escort to get you over the thick of it. If you still feel lousy in the morning leave a comment in the relevant section and one of the team will cheerily respond to the particulars of your ailment. The ideas in this weblog arise from daydreaming in front of the local brook smoking hash. Please speak to an experienced fisherman who can lead you thru the process of understanding exactly what is entailed in the act of doing classic f**k all, and thriving from it. The whole of this site is now available in print. Please request from Emerging Futures. There is large print and braille available upon demand, not to mention illustrated hardbacks and audiobook. Negotiations permitted. This site was written for soul mates, the oppressed, deep thinkers, goth chicks, and mulattoes.

Things are getting dire around here now. There are no life events going on in the existence of Yours Truly. I’m plodding from one uneventful day to the next. Today I’ve been out and about functioning in public, but with no real chance to speak openly and meaningfully in SMART class, or what I call apology. The facilitator does all of the talking, we don’t get a sniff in. It should be the other way round.

Last night my skeletons were creeping up for a private sneaky-peep showing. It’s been quiet in my head for a week. I silenced them by thinking creatively. I think about what I’m going to write during my next blog spot outing. It’ll be big, I tell myself. It’ll be mental. Except when I get here at the station crap like this comes out.

My pretend Agent Clint gave me an idea earlier, to raise me up from the stagnancy. He told me to write about someone who has the whole world in his hands but it isn’t enough. I thought of power and eternity and corruption and where that leads to. In my head, Royals sacrificing children. I’m not dwelling on that for a living. My neighbour sacrifices children, for God’s sake. Or that’s at least what it sounds like at daft o’clock in the morn. Then he has the cheek to bang on the wall over my music and shout thru the plasterboard.

I post mental health leaflets thru his letterbox, but what I really feel like doing is storming in there with a weapon and wasting everyone in sight. There’ll be blood on the windows and walls. Enough about them already though. I have bigger issues going on. Like how to remain creative. When the anxiety transforms into panic attacks, focusing on inventive endeavours is all I have to sustain me thru it.

I’m drawing a bit at home. I wish I could sketch dragons perched on castles and water skis rolling in white water rapids but I’m limited to abstract doodles which depict only a neurotic mind. Although they appear as a whole load of nothing to the casual eye, I must admit that I do enjoy the way I perceive them, once having been rendered. I see all manner of possibilities within their inky detail. I can’t do 3-D or perspective. Yet I still enjoy the process of being a basic scribbler. I like my pens and my colours, they’re simple pleasures. One day I might try something brave, like a robot.

Not Too Bad Apart From Being Skint

(🎇🀣) I’ve got to be dead honest here, I’m in a transformative phase due to lack of cash. I got my pay day mixed up by five revolutions. I’ve got porridge and juice in and that’s it. Maybe some toast. I applied for an advance loan and they politely told me to go and die alone next to my empty cupboards. I’m strolling past the beer gardens wondering about how good I’ve had it for the last couple of years, a monkey in the bank every two weeks and more on top. Now my funds have been slashed by a large chunk and I’m left scrimping and scraping the rest.

____________________

I could habitually afford 3 or so cocaine days a month.

Now I’m down to one. With virtually nothing left. Other than porridge and toast.

I don’t like porridge and toast. I like Orphan Makers.

_________________

Orphan Makers are expensive Chinese meals, so called because the Albanians will kill you for one! Should see my salt ‘n’ pepper selection at the local all-you-can-eat Eastern Orient Buffet Restaurant. I’d kill you for one.

I can’t even afford ciggies. I just found a ~ King Docker ~ on the floor outside the pub and swiped it up into my pocket. Disgusting I know is, ducking for dimps. There’s literally nowhere to turn. I may as well give up drinking and smoking if I can go five days without.

Without money, I’m suddenly thinking about exercising to pass the time. And I’m dying for a blowout. When I do finally get paid, God help my will power. There’ll be none of it existing. I’m virtually up for anything. Crack, smack, and scrumpy jack are go.

I am able to attain a couple of microwave meals in the night shelter. It’s known as The Ratty. Bit rough ain’t quite enough to describe it. It used to be okay, when it was better run, a decent place for the struggling, but now it’s been taken over by druggies, like one or two other institutions I’m aware of. We won’t name any names, but James Lee House, a former stepping stone hostel of mine, is one of them. Used to be so much better.

Many things have gone downhill, haven’t they, thinking about it. The food bank is one more example. I remember one time they fobbed me off with a frozen turkey. I felt like an unholy butcher when I dismembered it with a knife. The whole ordeal was sacrilege. The Y.M.C.A too. Soup kitchens. Anything that’s basically a needed lifeline and irreplaceable. Everything just seems to be getting worse and not better. Even my barber has gone AWOL, so I can’t get the buzz cut I appreciate the best. If I could afford a buzz cut, that is. I can’t afford nish at the moment.

It’s tuff on me, isn’t it?

I could have been a wealthy man if I was wiser.

On The Up For Now (Fingers Crossed)

𓀗 I sit here today beginning to feel better about myself, and most namely my mind, which has been downcast. It’s been nice and quiet upstairs in a way after I switched myself off with chemicals last week. Silence is half-considered a mental failure, like a lobotomy, but I have grown to quite adore it, because usually I talk to myself at like a million miles per hour. I’ll say anything. Just like the new depression buzz term: Small talk saves lives. It’s good to natter.

For the stalkers hooked up to my thought rhythms, this recent silence must spell boredom for them. That’s what I prefer. Why should I entertain a bunch of criminals with my psychic chin-wagging who offer only hostility back in return? I relish actual conversations in the real world, as I have so much to offer. I was a counsellor in a former life.

I learned from Buddhism to take more interest in your subject than in yourself, to treat every human being as a special creation, and to understand that each and every one of them have parents who love them dearly. I was also taught to have great compassion for all of mankind, yes, that includes even the gobshites amongst us.

This I do as standard procedure now. When I am old beyond belief, if I am so lucky, and in a mobility scooter or wheel chair, I hope that a hot young female bodybuilder or suchlike takes an interest in me. The aged have a habit of being invisible to the young and sprightly. It’s a young man’s world, so they say, an young white man’s world; well, I’m big and black and getting on a bit with my stiff bones but I’m here to stay, I don’t care who owns it.

THE WAY I SEE IT, this cosmos and world we inhabit are just a construct of my imagination. None of it would exist if I weren’t here. I walk around as if I own the joint. It has to be this way. Its loads of fun, there’s no harm done, and nobody stops you. It’s kind of a retaliation to Mind Kontrol. When this mean universe takes a lifelong dump all over your force, the self has a habit of sticking up for itself. Call it the superego if you will. Even a planet full of international agents have a hard time putting it down. That’s even with several crippling addictions which cause it to ruin itself and make it doubly easy for them to stick the proverbial lead wellington boot in. Is it ever job done, in crushing this poor individual? Far from it.

Saying I own it and all that, I’m half serious. Sometimes, not often, I look around in the pub and feel like ‘these are my people’. There’s order, it’s civil, there’s no savagery, it’s serene and peaceful. There’s something missing, because nobody is overly friendly to another, we’re all still a touch ignorant, but it’s evolution, it could be a lot worse, I’ll settle for it. It’s far from militia law, and therefore beautiful in a way. Everyone just seems to…get on.

I recall being sat in a fellowship meeting and letting loose several tears from my eye. God’s children were just so amazing, in all their different ways.

If I could see myself the way I see others, instead of wrecking myself with silly addiction, the battle would be over with.

Guard Down

(🎡) This latest two day ‘blip’ had me strictly planted in the doldrums, but yesterday I snapped out of it and had a little dance to music. Today I’ve been to class, which was off the menu I thought, so that was positive also. I decided to keep my mouth shut for a change and just listen. I’m still processing the awfulness. I didn’t want to spill my guts about being targeted for imaginary psychosis and all the rest of it so soon. Not until I’d computed exactly what the frig had happened.

My harassers don’t half grow a set of cohonies when I’m strung out on narcotics. They know that I wouldn’t say boo to a goose, when usually I’m on the batter. They completely surround my home. The neighbours are terrible, their properties are being used for observation bases (and worse). It’s hard not to react when I’m sober, but on a speed comedown I’m easy pickings. And boy do they pick at me well.

Because my guard was down they got down to business. I think I saw a child being kidnapped. It could and most probably was a skit, I can’t be sure, but it wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t vulnerable. I want to apologise to my God for being a helpless druggie sometimes. If not for addiction I would be in fine fettle to deal with gangstalking. As it is, when I am catatonic in the midst of a synthetic hell, with no brain activity, and other people’s graffiti on the ceiling in my own home, I am an elementary target with no effective mental defence (EMD).

I hope and pray that you are not a soldier in this Silent Holocaust, and going through similar rigours of organized criminality. If you are getting stalked, then stick around. I get by with a faith in God, even though I’ve suffered the loss of multiple other higher powers who jumped ship at the first sign of mutiny. Now I stand alone in the face of adversity knowing only who I am and how I came to be this way. Chosen, I believe.

I escaped some of the comedown by reading a good book about addiction. Gossip Girl goes to rehab. It’s bad enough, on top of normal life, but being targeted as well? Forget about it.

Ah well, life goes on, and I can only make another concentrated effort to protect my peace and my joy. I feel like telling myself never again, but I’m not sure what the point is. Every time I’m doing well I screw it up. But I do keep doing well. That counts for something. At least I have some recovery to abolish. If I used every single day I could not imagine how bad my life would become. It’s only these sprees of revival which give me any hope. The way I fight back defines me. And this written testimony, of course. It’s not as creative or inspiring as I’d like it to be at the present time, but God willing I’ll be back to my best sooner rather than later.

Other than that and me, I wish that you are well on this day. I’m battling this contest so that somebody else out there doesn’t have to one day. There’s an agenda out there who wants us all hooked up to a computer with our brains siphoned off. I know this because it’s happening to me.

But monumental ape strong!!!

What Was That About?

(♡) I made it out alive. Or you might agree that I’ve suffered yet another spiritual death. It wouldn’t be the first, would it? My spiritual capital is flying out of every window at the moment. And all I do is sit at home.

I can’t mention drugs and porn currently. God, do I ever stop banging on about them? This relapse was a bad one, I’ve only just crawled out of bed and rolled into the shop for a super strength beer. I supped it on the bench outside, watching happy-looking pedestrians meander past.

Well, at least I’m out in public. No amount of give-away ulcers on my bottom lip can keep me hiding indoors forever. I’ve noticed that addicts always get face sores when they use. It must be a thing. Something takes away their confidence and resolve and leaves them a scab in exchange. Quid pro quo. Fair kop.

It was crap, by the way. I didn’t enjoy it. There goes my clean time. But I don’t want to focus on the negative. At the same time I can’t distract myself by writing a story. Suppose I’ll just chat bubbles as usual.

Back in college, way back when, our philosophy tutor asked us to describe what thinking feels like. Easy that. I said it was like blowing bubbles through bubbles. Lisa had jewelry last week that doubled up as bubble blowing devices. She removed her chunky ring and started blowing bubbles through it.

How would I describe the thinking process almost thirty years later? Difficult, at the moment. My visual cortex has been hacked to ribbons, so there goes the pretty pictures of silver lakes and castles in the sky and dolphins and fairies and leprechauns sat on the edges of giant magic mushrooms. I wouldn’t be able to envisage my own face if I’d been staring into the mirror all day. But hey, I can live without that. 

Having an overactive third eye, unless you are hooked up, is overrated. Now the menticiders have nothing to harass me about. I have theoretically lost my mind! Who knows, maybe it will return to me one day…

Until then I'll try and plod on, getting my arse onto this chair as much as I am able. Should be back later.

Writing On The Wall

I looked at adult DVDs yesterday, and since today is pay day, I’ve decided to buy some later to view while on amphetamine and pregabalin. These behaviours are not what I would expect in my own children, if I had any, and I do not condone them. Go jogging instead is my advice.

I’m living like a monk lately however and I feel like I need a release. I love the experience of a sexual movie. At home, all alone, nice and safe and warm, harming nobody, gratifying oneself…a pub lunch just doesn’t compare does it.

I should go the gym instead I know and kick these addictions into touch. Still, I’m not doing it every day. One and a half years off porn. Now that is some accomplishment. Today should be good!

Listen to me. Who would want to read this? A man telling the world he’s a wanker and he’s up for a sesh. I know I’m not the only one though. I just pray that the Lord forgives me for giving up other responsibilities, such as keeping tabs on my neighbourhood and generally being better off porn-free. But those women are so tempting, I fear I cannot resist them forever. For a month or two, yeah, perhaps.

So, the writing is on the wall then. That’s that. I’m going to hand over all my special sacred sexual energy to a bunch of adult actresses who I don’t even love. It’s sad isn’t it? I feel compelled to engage in these entrenched exploits regardless.

I just hope I don’t feel too down afterwards.

Sorry for the negative post.

I hope you yourself are far away from pornography, white water rafting or hill walking or something. Even if you are monged out in front of the telly, doing Sweet FA, then fair play to you. There’s nothing wrong with anything that doesn’t hurt anyone. Don’t feel too bad about your follies, faults, failures and flaws, if you have any. We all have vices. Yours might be food. Just accept that you are a wonderful individual in the Lord’s eyes and in mine, and that we’d both do anything for you. No matter how fat or anorexic you are, no matter how poor you are, whether you’re blackish or black or white or albino. I’m in love with all of the human condition (no kids or gore) and sexual innuendo is part of that. It’s hard to accept that I’m a sexual creature. But I am a creature.

I’d rather make love to a woman in the woods, but that isn’t an option. Maybe one time in a future life.

Pressing Behaviours

More erotic dreams last night. All I recall are quivering female buttocks. This sets me in a mood for pornography. I get paid tonight, the boutique is open tomorrow, there’s nothing stopping me from rocking out. These masturbatory behaviors spell doom for me personally, once the illicit substances begin to wear off, as I am left alone on the bed behind a curtain with no hope for the rest of the day. There’ll be no pockets of joy in fine cuisine, no walks in the sunshine, no writing online to special readers, no public speaking in Pathways…and the cretins in my hallucinations will be laughing all the way to nasty jolliness, gleeful with tenacious torment.

Still, in saying this, the dopamine that rockets from adult material and drugs is a difficult bond to break. It’s all I want to do, I’ll be honest about things. My flesh feels very weak every pay day. I might buy some expensive trainers instead of narcotics and porn this time. It’s all still up in the air. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. Maybe I could have a pad workout and lift some weights at home before thinking about getting back into the gym. That would be a critical U-turn at this important juncture. I can be sat on the floor jacking off to sexy ladies chomping on mens’ private parts or rejuvenate my blood iron in the sweathouse gymnasium, which makes me into a mass monster ready to smash everyone’s head in. I have a choice to make, and it’s not a no brainer. Women or muscle?

Already I wish all my pertinent decisions were done so I could reside in the surety of Heaven, surrounded in the protective blanket of the Holy Spirit, but unfortunately I have more slogging it out with demons to be done. I do not fear a knife welded on the end of an invisible arm, but a woman covered in make-up choking on a nob. I have a supernatural reaction to nude imagery which turns me into an empty vessel of a tossing-off creature for very many hours. My brain lights up and I can’t stop observing pornographic scenes. Why I buy them in the first place, from a reserved divine position of healthy clean time away, is a mystery.

If I resist today, it’s all over me the next, and if I get through that, then it’s waiting the following day, and so on. I feel like I need to go to the shop and at least look at the DVDs, to ease something churning deep within. I’m a highly sexual being and it’s been a long time since I viewed mature content. The absence has made my heart grow very fond, even though I know it’s unwholesome. I lie to myself, telling myself that it’s harmless, it’s not a grave sin, I’ll be okay, nobody is getting hurt.

Of course I’ll let you how it goes. Wish me luck. I wish you the best of it too, throughout your many undoubtful struggles.