Bodybuilder Doodles

Hope that these naked dudes don't throw you off, if bodybuilding is not your thing. And why would it be? These cutouts are all I have left in my scrapbook. I would have liked to have sketched them, to make the images wholly original. I've grown out of the sport in recent times, these are champions from years ago, but a figure is a figure. Sorry, I know you would prefer Miley Cyrus. I thought about putting outlines on them. Mostly I'm just making the best of pen work which I feel doesn't quite stand alone in its own right. Some computer-aided design would touch them up nicely. I like the idea of getting back into collaging, with or without computers, I used to enjoy it. It's great for keeping occupied in the evenings.

To begin with, I thought I had no blue tack, so was almost forced into using duct tape. That so wouldn't have worked. I never use glue if I can help it, because then the images can't be re-used as part of something else. Glue is so final. I'm presently thinking about what else I can do with these, as it's not often I doodle anymore. I like to cut a finished picture in half and re-stick it together again in an odd way. Same with sculptures; just snap them in two and restructure them as a general rule.

I've been looking at the best book covers in the world for inspiration. I like being art-minded, it's good for the soul. My initials are ATD (Art Till Death) but I haven't been living it lately. I like the idea of simple art, as basic as can be. It seems that the more complicated and complex something is, the better, but I disagree sometimes. It's hard to be elementary and conceptual.

 

Escaping The Trap

 # 3”[5]!2-6/3(7),

# 485(9)”!/5[-4],

# (0)27”[2/-]!16.

___elevate.proportion.transfer

___connect.candleflame.bookend

___glow.unravel.interwine

 

ỖỦἛἉ;~ỖỦἛἉ;~/ỖỦἛἉ;~ỖỦἛἉ;

Yeah, the slander is hurtling my way thick and fast. I got affronted by a hoodlum torpedo last week. He was there to SOS me (smash on sight). I was sitting peacefully in my abode when he stopped outside the open patio and accused me of looking at kids. Instead of smashing him on sight back, for being so dumb-ass to cite a brother of being a beast, I merely defended myself amicably, showing him respect and kindness. I Understand torpedoes, the less they know the better.  Apparently, ‘a lot’ of people have said I’ve been snatching sneaky peeks at minors. Of course, it’s not true. I value my relationship with the children on my estate as extra special. I feel like I am their soldier keeping them safe, because when I let my guard slip and end up on the comedown wastepile, unable to do a recce around my grounds, it occurs to me that they may be in jeopardy. Because my enemies will hurt anyone to get to me, and because they are reading my thoughts, they know exactly when I am not up for defending my home turf. I’ve seen multiple kidnappings in real life in my manors, so I am under no illusion what might happen if I trip up, I put nothing past them, if they are enterprising enough to build a seedy lab underneath my ground floor home, they are valiant enough to dump someone down there, and, of course, blame me for it. Everyone always blames me for all the world’s problems, it seems.

The real harm I’ve done over the course of my life tends to get overlooked, while my foes are falling over themselves in order to make something new up; the best one I’ve heard so far is the vigilante impeachement that I am a supernatural being called The Orchestrator, a star ship deity above both Lucifer and God. I think that the cabal out to destroy my life commit petrifying deeds in their little underground base (and above) and blame their hobbycrafts on me. They’ve listed me with a lengthy string of powers which fear the general public and all others who are thick enough to believe it (which is more or less everyone by the way). Basically, I can do anything to anyone. My perps DO do everything to EVERYONE around me I think, and because I was once involved romantically with one of this shuddersome mean cabal, they tend to side with her, so all the shit flows downward to me.

Other victims of my perps hold me responsible for their suffer. And there may be many. All I know is that I am directed with vile antagonism day in day out. We are not here to be worshipped though. So I guess it’s just tough on me. Don’t worry, I have an extra large set of bollocks so can handle it. The reason they do it, so they say, is because they are after my supernatural power. They trust in their own lies. Well, so much energy has departed me over the years, thanks to a mixture of my sinful loins and their harassment, that I am surprised I can still function with just a dribble of vital steam inside of me. Every time I think I am practically out of fighting substance I hear a knock at the door and feel that invisible prod in my ribs from the foorman’s blade; it feels all over to me, until I summon one more morsel of mustard seed faith from the very innermost chambers of my self-volition and start to breathe again. I’ve had strangers enter my flat and trap me in the dark with my trousers down, armed, with animals, multiple times, depleting my ‘powers’, and I’ve always lived to tell the tale, despite , at the time, current contrary beliefs.

I’ve found myself in some especially hairy predicaments over the years. The reinforcing death threats don’t help. One time I partially woke up from a drug-induced slumber to find what I can only suppose to be a torturer-for-hire cutting my hair. When it was done he hung around like he wanted a tip. Eventually he returned to hiding in the cupboard for laughs. They like to put animals in my flat when I am out of it. I forget to turn on the lights and soon enough I’ll be windblown by the dire hard truth: My boundaries have been breached by high-up riffraff who wish to physically render me seriously harmed. The realisation never fails to make an impression. Usually I am in the throes of passion so I hold my nerve, as long as the drugs are still in ready supply. Once I am spent though, with no substances left, it is time for the real fear to kick in. I am getting better with it. Best two rules in life I have ever learned: Stay calm and don’t react.

Several times I’ve woken up in the morning grateful to still have my head attached to my neck. These days I spend either arguing with or ignoring my persecutors. I am becoming emotionally distant from their erring, unnerving motherly attention. Enough is enough is already too much. Their antics are silly and childish. They are boring and tiresome. Seriously, the Third World War battle for the human mind is not really worth getting irate about, if you understand human behaviour. People are just control freaks who want attention, it’s as dyed in the cloth as that.

I appropriated an angelic daughter along the way of this uncanny process. In the end I sold her, forsook her, whatever you wanna call it, and she flipped to the demoniac. Now she hangs around sticking her tongue out at me in mockery of anything I ever do. You couldn’t make this joke up could you?

I am now happy to be flying solo mainly, apart from a gentle vague blessing of the angelic. I remain stalwart in the Holy Spirit, am steadfast to protecting my heart, plus my peace and my joy, and I am always trying to stop sinning with my winky dicky pocket rocket. I don’t know what else is expected of me. Evil spirits have taken to surrounding me in a tight circle, upping their noticeability in the visible light spectrum, and watching me intently without saying a word, in order to make me so anxious that panic stations is not far away. I remain untroubled by this odd phenomenon and take to falling asleep on them.

They give me atrocious nightmares, as soon as I am comfortable dozing. I wake, open the window, have a fag, and return to the mattress. It looks as if nothing bothers me, I only cry tears of happiness lately, but underneath I know that my troubles are vastly unique. Life is hard enough, but to be followed every minute of the day by ghouls and ghosts is a bit of a piss take.

I’m writing about them again, which I hate. I should be writing about the grace of God, who sees me through their every plundering attack. I am still here, and telling you the script to myself. I enjoy describing the chaos, but please no more, I am done, stick a fork in me to relieve the pressure.

I’d like to be a warning and an aid to fellow Targeted Individuals, Chosen, Empaths and Dissidents etc, by whistleblowing and exposing, but I am too busy relishing time getting creative about my surreal & outlandish & erratic & unconventional experiences, hopefully for your delectation. I would be honoured if you were slightly amused by my ordeal. I see the funny side after the paperwork is done. What I would hate is if this were to make you even minutely fearful. Don’t be. Stand up with a higher power of your own understanding and take authority over the footman. The atomic karma and justice of the universe is an excellent candidate for anything higher and such. I know a guy who has Father Christmas as his higher power. It’s a fellowship thing.

I stand with Christ as I love what he represents, such as all the virtues and the beatitudes.

Until next time, folks.

Regular

Had a few days of having nothing. I toured the estate asking for favours and one was granted: My neighbour gave me a twenty deck of cheap lung-busting fags. I’m not sure whether it was a generous gesture or a killer touch. Then my bro automated a transfer into my bank, which tied me over until payday last night. I have a cash flow problem at the minute, so any due funds are welcome on my behalf.

My electric ran out yesterday. Fortunately, my meter voltage is not connected to bread and ham supplies, so I was able to gorge on piggy sandwiches and glug council-pop orange juice until my heart’s delight. Come the evening, when my money pennies were due in, I had a dilemma. I had to go shopping, go buy bills, and watch the England game, all after half nine. I flunked out on the game, but after glancing at the highlight reel online today, I can see that the stadiums in America look absolutely docking.

Just been for a couple of pints, blew a pisser at the way someone was eating his pizza, and now I’m here with your good self, conversing as we usually do. I wish you’d open your trap a tad more, it seems to be moi doing all of the talking most of the time. I know I’m chatting small fry bubbles, but the thing is, see, I’m not cut out for a real writer. I could never tackle the big issues of our times. The economy, sports, global warming…I just seem to bang on about hookers, drugs, and mind control. Please forgive me. I once wrote a book about a satellite without once mentioning the satellite. And I once wrote an online article about Lady Gaga, without tagging Lady Gaga. Zephyr Productions paid me a handsome 30 notes. Nothing to do with the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

So today, I’m bouncing around with a few squids in my back burner, I can’t decide on fried potatoes with sauce or a burger. The pub does a burger called the Empire State, its yummy scrumptious. The onion rings are the only good onion rings I’ve ever had. They are well filled and don’t fall apart. All other onion rings apart from these so far in other dwellings have been a joke. Speaking of jokes, I heard that someone yesterday found an eye in their tin of tuna. Isn’t that very funny, don’t you think?

After my meal soon to come, home cooking is strictly off the menu, I might head into the apology green room, Pathways Hub, and see who’s saying what in there, with a coffee. We get all kinds of characters passing thru. Did I mention someone got arrested over a cup of tea the other week? He was banned, but determined to help himself to the kettle on the premises for a hot brew. “Pass me the f**kin’ keckel!” Lol, One person once strutted in, emptied the entire contents of the tea and coffee jars into his pockets, and departed. That’s what we’re dealing with, when we’re not estimating the be-alls and end-alls of narcotic addiction. Our debates are fruitful and lively, you should invite yourself along one time.

Speaking of, I am clean today, which is all that matters. If I wasn’t clean, we wouldn’t be together now. To face coming into an office block and performing my typing is unthinkable on a drug comedown, I swear that these things are killing me off, I’m not so young anymore, I can’t fend the ugly drawbacks away as ably as I once could, that enfeebled state is goddamn minging on the old soul. I’m gunna try and be active and functional in my daily activities from now on in, up and showered and dressed and ready for action, even if it means been back at home early afternoon, with nothing to do.

Duvet days are a thing of the past. I’m try’na stay busy.

Code Speak

 ¹⁶.(0)4.19,2[~.6]/

¹².(0)9.19,6[~.7]/

⁰¹.(0)2.20,0[~.0]/

object.stack.parcel.strip.

harbour.intention.

frame.split.outline.

package.centre.join.

₾”€∫⃝₿₾”€∫⃝₿₾”€∫⃝₿₾”€∫⃝₿

Remove pictures-Include typos-Twist meaning.

Usurp Ya What, Ha Productions-Warp the Ceramic Devision.

Approach agent Gus Kidney with bung-Stop representing dissidents.

 

= less views less popularity less confidence less posts

= free content for resale ditched virtual shelf space

X new angle for serial fiction X fresh lease on autobio

 

Host of domain is unmarried/Walks to cashpoint once a week/Has less than 500 nectar points/Relies on takeout meals/Drinker/Smoker/No exercise/Plus points none/History in sex industry/Miscellaneous rap sheet/Issues with authority/Is Doctor Venison required at current time: Y/N/Maybe

Sort Code: 162537 Acc:27389474 Pin Number is date of birth.

“Okay guys, let’s rinse his account and go shopping.”

!!!Computer speak!!! Ignore the chatterbots one of these days they’ll be our undoing!!! Dude just attempted to log on I activated Aeroplane mode!!!

- Keephimoutlongenough

- tochangethebanksaddress

- byonedecimalplace.

Done. Completed. Authorised. Nipped in the bud. Over with. See special notes for extra info. Accreditation required.

 ~

Neighbourhood watch in process of accusing him of aiding and abetting a minor. Nothing too serious, enough to keep him on his toes. One child has come forward saying he looks at her funny. They were once close. Played Scrabble together. He bought her a dictionary. Target maintains she insults him and runs every contact. Target shouting outside door, calling her a cheap little lying skank. Rumours fed back to target. Can we keep this on the downlow please. Requesting framed evidence from PCs 4738 + 4628, Cheshire Constabulary.

Relaxed Day

Just hanging around the town today, laid back, calm and peaceful, no conscientiousness or anxiety which usually comes along with being followed by an evil invisible tribe of brain projections and purps in cloaking suits, drinking coffee and chilled still waters, smoking freebie cigarettes,waiting for my ham butties and tuna sweetcorn pasta later, payday tomorrow, jobs a good’un. Having nothing for several days has given me plenty of appreciative time to think and reflect. I can’t wait to get spending again, loads more of fine eating, measured drinking, and being generally gut-busting merry.

You may think that what the Old Man Of Coniston does to me as rather alarming, and perceive me as a lowly hapless victim of his great immensity in wickedness. Make no mistake, I tell that sado knife licker the score when I can be arsed. I’m fairly competent at standing up for myself. But mostly I exist in my own little world, a kind of post-suicidal limbo, where the curious clash of one world against another (my internal: my sense data’s external) is never quite so boring that I lose all faith and hope in remaining occupied hour by hour. I’ve learned to split the day up by doing one small thing different, and that usually leads onto something else slightly different. Like going the shop, walking around the estate, going to see a few and far between mate. My sleeping time atm is ten till ten, although I do nap in the day. This period fears me a bit, as it’s long and draining and I keep waking up afresh with only an hour or two passed on the clock. Yesterday the authorities turned up at my door and tried to let themselves in to annoy me with procedures. I pretended to be kipping and ignored them. They detain me because I have shining within. I’ve figured this out. Because I’m glued to the Narrow Path. Don’t get me wrong, I stray all too commonly to the Wide Path, it’s delights taste deliciously (and dreadfully🙈) sweet, but I’m after stopping that altogether, and cementing my footfall to the thoroughly rewarding Narrow.

I racked up my 30 Days Clean Notice yesterday. That’s massive that, compared to Day 1. I feel safer. Anything can happen to you in psychosis on Day 1-4. You can get lowered onto flaming spikes after being scalped by an Indian. Your fears become a reality. Being consistently bogged down by evildoers, the world can be an intensely gloomy arena to extol one’s virtues. I’ve sacrificed a crop of angels in my misgivings this year, but I retain them in my heart and I fight hard to win over their fellowship still to this day, as a reformed candidate from the guy who let them slip away. I always talk to them. Over the years, plenty of energies have discarded my physical body. I am now clenching onto the last remaining vestiges of any. I feel confident that there is still something mega important residing within, despite having thrown a lot of angelic anima away thru sexual sin. It’s obvious by the way I am behaving. Judging by my predicament, I should be wracked with negative emotions and in a permanent state of trauma, but instead I’m looking forward to the England World Cup game tomorrow night, with a few beers to flit the time down away with.

30 Days is 30 Days. A lot can happen in that time spell. Time to recover, to heal, to feel better, to garner optimism, to start anew, to feel improved. I’m looking to build on it and shoot for that magical three month abstinence period again. My popular spree numbers are connected to the bible. I feel like I accrue some of my mental ability biblically. Some of the things its said to me in the past are mind-blowing. If I were to use now, and lose this rarity, I’d be back in a screaming squalor of suffering which hardens my heart and blasphemes the Holy Spirit. Three months is special. Beyond that I am daring to dream. Only cocaine and sexy women in the way. Believe me, it’s enough of an obstacle. I wish they weren’t there. The most powerful thing in an evil kingdom, I think, is not a cutting-edge killer with a weapon, but an old-fashioned typical boring old woe-man who happens to attract your lust. A killer can be disabled, or fled from, but try fending a bitch’s pheromones off when she is gagging for your enslavement, and you are burning for her steamy, wonton, pointy-breasted, long-legged, naval-pierced, pink-lipped attention.

Thanks for being present and casting your eyes over my typings. I plan to keep chiming in with recurring reality checks. Hope your world is safe, not mundane, and if I may not ask for too much of a good thing, slightly ever so magical. I wouldn't take that away from you, no matter who you are, no matter what you’ve done.

~I-AM-THE-ANGEL-MAKER~

and I am the dreamer of dreams

WORLD/MOVER [&] WORLD/FORSAKER

on.whom.the.pale.moon.gleams

Dakota Fanning

 

A Star As A Teen

I really liked her as a child actor.

The Old Man Of Coniston (Part 2)

Here we go. Let’s jump straight into the action about this Coniston codger. Facing my fears and all that. 10 peculiar facts.

1.     He puts seaweed on my light switches and cobwebs on my plant pots.

2.     He leaves little drawings out of ash on my walls.

3.     He places rats, tarantulas etc. in my flat, sometimes on my person as I doze. Most of them are lab-made and six times as big as regular vermin. Highly intelligent too.

4.     He wipes droplets of blood on any new bedding I might purchase.

5.     He regularly stains any new clothes I buy.

6.     He puts holes in my trainers.

7.     He puts dust on my carpet.

8.     He blocks my drains up.

9.     He whittles the electricity supply down when I am out.

1       He hides in the cupboard for hours.

I could go on, but I’ve forgotten half the things he gets up to. One time he woke me up with a siren and a flashing light with a switchblade pressed not far away from my throat. He once skinned a baby (presumably) in my bedroom. This maniac calls himself Lucifer, and I am half inclined to believe him. Most of this started over ten years ago. You should see him now. He just sits around me cloaked in sheathing in a special spectrum of light, LICKING HIS KNIFE, talking trash about what he’s got in store for me. The worst part is that he comes across as all friendly and up for a laugh, then he’ll go nuts and try and stab me invisibly. He plays all manner of petty little mind games to wind me up, along with his entourage. He comes with a posse of up to maybe 15 strong. One of his henchmen is a porous (walk thru wall) Chinese cannibal whose face is covered in blood. His girlfriend’s weapon is an angle grinder, which says it all. She says she wants to use it on my groin. Before she buys me dinner.

This mob I first believed were evil illuminati immortals, energy-sucking beings who feed on human light. They have done their fair share of chasing me around dark parks shooting invisible pellets into my brain. They were trying to blind me by whipping out my optic nerve with a special classified weapon. You can imagine how scared I was, freaked out on drugs and fear. Now I just talk back to them, or either ignore them, one of the two.

They are always causing screams from god knows who in earshot, to unsettle and frighten me, but the worst part about their constant torment is that it is constant torment. Every minute of every day and every second of every night. They just do not, cannot, and will not leave me alone for a moment’s peace. I can’t believe the strong warrior they have forged within me. I survive on a daily basis to fight another day. I think to myself, what chance has the next soldier got, if I capitulate? I feel like I am the strongest of my breed. If I fail, and jump under the hypothetical bus, it will leave hopeless futures for all who come after me. Once I am down in their pit, there will be no optimism anywhere else on Earth. Because I am the light of the world. Lol. Seriously, I tell myself this. I must be, dealing with them.

I was psychic reading the other night and my queries led me to a place I think in The Lakes called The Old Man Of Coniston. It sounds like the worst place ever. I wonder what kind of history it has. I know what it means to me. This is why I decided to jot down a few notes about him, because I found him on the map. 

The Old Man Of Coniston

When I was a small boy, I developed a fear of elderly gentlemen thanks to a movie called The Poltergeist (1982). There was a scene in which a small child was playing on the floor in a room, and right there at the window was an old man just stood there outside, looking in, watching her. I called him the Old Man out of simplicity’s sake. It was worse than throttling her, or stringing her up, because it left it to your imagination what he had planned for her. Christ, don’t just stare at her, do something! Looking is worse than anything. Why couldn’t she see that he was looking?

I always remembered it. When I looked at Prince Phillip, the Duke Of Edinburgh, I felt pangs of the same fear. Oldness to me reeks of ancient evil, of long lost morals, of experience in depravity. I’d rather face a keen eager beaver Tyson Fury than a wrinkly old pensioner.

Anyway, when I took a wrong turn at psychosis, and landed myself in a ward called Coniston, early thirties, I was curled in a ball on the floor, listening to my baby sister screaming in my head. I was very weak at the time, but I am unashamed of my reaction or behaviour. How would you feel, if all of a sudden, springing from a normal life, you started to hear your family screaming in your head? This is not something you squat away.

The ward Coniston was the scariest place I have ever been. Let’s just leave it at that. I can’t be bothered describing its décor or its ambience, we’ll settle by calling it a Punch n Judy horror show of a mental unit.

When I was curled on the floor, hands pressed against my ears, some old man was sat next to me, smirking and chuckling at me. He looked ghoulish, like he was mixed with a gremlin, and sent shock waves through me. I wasn’t scared of him in a fighting sense, but his wickedness flowed out of him like purling smog from a housefire. How could anyone possibly find humour from the worst pitfall of my life? He was thoroughly enjoying my fear.

In the end I escaped after shattering my ankle during a flying lunge kick at the security door. I couldn’t imagine sitting with him at the dinner table. I tried to break in to another hospital. That’s insanity for ‘ya. The best thing was that Coniston was now a distant memory.

He started popping up in my local regular life. He would follow me in parks and torment me while any other worsening psychotic episodes were underway. I wondered what he wanted from me. He said he was a 33^rd degree Grandmaster Great Mason who had waited all his life for my absurd pain tolerance. He had sharpened teeth. Spooky voice. And those ghoulish gremlin-like looks. There were all kinds of other hateful figures in my life at the time, but none quite as foreboding as him.

He was a master of stealth because he got ridiculously close to me. At times he had me spinning around. He’d enter my property while I was still in it and dance around me like a shadow, I thought it was impossible, I believed he was part phantom. He left dead animals for me along my route, when I was running away from him, always one step ahead. Obscenely, he wore clothes from my youth, what I’d been wearing on my 18^th birthday. He was super quick.

When I resume with a little more about the Old Man Of Coniston, I’ll share with you what has led me to write about him, and maybe 10 or 15 curious facts about him. There is no shortage of morbidly interesting material about him. I’ve always said that I will never write about the Devil, because it steals glory away from The Father. But the Devil is the Devil and The Old Man Of Coniston is The Old Man Of Coniston, even though the only recognisable difference to me, sometimes, is in their title. 😈

Coming soon: More unsavoury facts about TOMOC. 

Another Stored Face/Image

Missing Japanese Schoolgirl. I have a talent with playing cards (no tarot) to discover information about them. It may or may not be true but I enjoy the process.😟

Where Can I Store this Pretty Face?

I save what I consider striking female faces for various reasons. I haven't got time to go into why, and I have no where else to put this one but here. This is not a traditional post but me being daft and not having anywhere else to store electronic information.

I'm drawn to the nostaligia of youth and what it feelos like to be young again. It's not a pervy thing, honest.

In short, I use them to overlay moving images with, namely music video. It's a simple technique I learned for myself. Have you ever found yourself watching an Avengers movie and being lost in all the action? The Hulkbuster is going full retard on a bevy of bug-eyed monsters, the Black Widow is showing off her somersaults, Captain America is flinging his shield around the shop, there is muzzle flash and multiple explosions💥 everywhere...I get knackered watching it. But more importantly, my eyes get lost in the frenetic display. I don't know where to look. Sometimes I find myself going gozzy-eyed to take in the whole shot, but then you lose out on the detail.

I've used binoculars and mirrors and magnifying glasses and other creative implements on motion picture. The results are great, very pleasing indeed. Even better while safely micro-dosing on ketamine in a safe (and preferably elevated) environment. I'd like to watch a movie in Bruce Lee's Hall Of Mirrors, ideally, one day.

Anyway, my favourite trick is to overlay a transparent image of a young girl on the moving imagery. I pretend she is the brainchild of the video then, and start interviewing her on my mind and all other kinds of wacky phantastical stuff, seriously, its great fun, watching videos without a face over the top is never the same again. So now you might consider why I picked this girl in particular. Well, I like them with a certain look about them, a certain edge, and it's quite hard to find a good one. Hence why I saved this one here. Okay, over n out. All the best!

S t a b l e D i f f u s i o n

A Little More Strength...Don't Give Out On Me Now!

Hello there. I’m pleased to announce that aside from ongoing mental horror, I am absolutely fine today. I didn’t pick up the amphetamine, and my year-plus record remains intact for the time being. I feel like I am getting somewhere with this latest abstinence spree. I feel like the amount of time I go without submitting to temptation matters somewhere else out there in the universe, not just solely to me, and my calendar, which I count the days off on. When I am down and out on drugs, trapped in my room among pale light, I hear screams and general lawlessness echo round the neighbourhood. If I were up and fighting fit and bouncing around the perimeter of the property sober, like a recruit doing a recce, none of that foolishness would be occurin’. So finally I have had to accept that stuff like that is my responsibility. I am a soldier of my streets. Maybe thee one.

My last post was scary because I was half-committed to using. I think that a small portion of my intentional thoughts for the dark side may come from manipulated erotic dreams. I wake up horny after sex with a goat in a vat of treacle or something and the lure of drilling a woman on red satin sheets out-governs all other prerogatives. I’d take anything for a high to aid the procession. Speed is nowhere near as good as coke, but it sure gets you in the aphrodisiacal zone all the same, all night. Now I’m simply enjoying pints of Bud Light, priced at £1.99. I’m living on ham butties, rice and veg stir frys, and tuna pasta sweetcorns. Smokin’ like a trooper again unfortunately. And still no exercise. But my heart is in the right place.

Enough about me. How are your days panning out? Are you keeping busy in this ever-raging tide against the mundane? An hour can feel like a long time with nothing to do in the diary. Always rest assured that things could be a lot worse. Let’s try and be grateful for what we already have. We have each other, for one, and that counts for something from my side of the street. I’m always here, most of the time, to share the surface detail of my escapades. Not that anything much exciting ever happens, but you know what I mean. I’m sick of thinking about invisible energies and evil forces, so the last thing I want to do is spell them out here for you, and get you worried about them too. If you have something similar in your life, mental health namely, then you might know what I mean. Keep quiet and don’t respond sums up the best of the bunch of my advice. Or batter.

I’m talking about oriental cannibals in sheathing suits, about porous black ops hiding under beds, about genetically-engineered assassins lurking in cupboards, about the Devil in Prada bringing tarantulas to a bed he wants to share with you.

I’ve been banging on about this waffle for years. Like I say, I only mention the crème at the top here. There’s a load more substance to my testimony. It’s all great fun now that I have (I think) emerged thru the tribulations with a reformed character. If I was still in the madness, I would be serving myself up. Now, with a forward direction away from miserable suffering for ever, I can look back reflectively and also rise to the challenge of future tortures more positively, if that’s possible. It has to be possible, I might add. I can’t render hope defunct. Every day is hard, but the splendour of the struggle brings its own rewards. It may not seem like a big thing, but being sat here talking to you is a very sweet example of one of them.

Weakness

On Monday I was skint, out of ciggies and beer and surviving on pot noodles. As a point in case, I always check my cash account, to see if a White Operative (good guy) from the government has put a few quid in for me. On this occasion he had, and it got me out of trouble. Unexpected bonanzas are lovely jubbly! Except today, payday, has rendered my account empty. I’ve not been paid when I should have! Just as surprisingly unexpected, but on an ugly level. Thankfully so though too, in a way, because I was thinking about using this morning. Divine intervention? Yes, maybe, but how many pot noodles can a king eat in one day for a change?

Because of this bad news, the addict in me is raging to use anything cheap and nasty, with the remaining dollars I have in my possession. We’re talking evil bags of amphetamine here, which I haven’t used in over a year. Undoing this statistic would be a severe setback. It’s the disease talking. One knock (no money), and he’s reaching for the FiB (f**k it button).

As an addict I’m just laying out my rags to dry here. There really is no rhyme or reason to it. My online presence, my apology classes, everything I stand for, all on the line for a parcel of dirty drugs which ruin everything about me. I hope my mind switches over swiftly and I am able to put this scenario out of it. But hardly anything compares to the lawless abandon of impromptu intoxication. A cup of tea and toast just don’t cut it. Praying for myself at the moment. I am seriously tempted to backtrack. Everything is just too mundane. Chirp in with an amen if you are able!

😷 Never be afraid to expose a weakness in yourself. Exposing a weakness is the beginning of strength. x

Rosy Cheeks (5)

T,h.Re,e/diFF.e.renT] ^a/i en.#[Ding(s) o=F rosy C(h<ee~K)s

13.03.14.57-30._{binary finary}11.22.46-16.01.11.01

1^st?2^nd?3^rd?4^th?5^{th happy sad open possibilies} delete others

Ending 1. . .

The Mothman enters, chaos around him like smoke. He looks like a modern banker in a tight all-in-one leather piece. He has a futuristic jar and a siphon with him. He approaches, grips the Banshee by her hair, drags her into the floor, marches back out into the carpark. His leg looks cocked into the earth as if to maintain balance, like a long embedded jack, his toes are injected in to the asphalt like cinches. He poses behind himself, a comedy of perspectives, then sticks his siphon into her temple. Her creative juices flow out of her like drafts from a sideshow circus tent.

          “My grandfather cannot make it,” she attests. “Remember me…”

Ending 2. . .

“He wants my creativity!” she said.

          I wished I could protect it. But I was about as useful against this Mothman geezer as a traffic warden against a hurricane.

          “My brain fluid takes months to regenerate.”

          “Where’s your grandfather?”

          “He said the Mothership won’t start up. He’s coming in a Mercurial. Hold tight, he said.”

          I stood up in the fake storm sweeping around the diner and protected the Banshee, both standing forward in front of her and leaning back into her. She clutched at me like sovereign gold. I wondered if he intended to rip her head clean off to get at her fluid or leave her brain-dead in a vegetative condition.

          “Stand by me,” she spluttered, “and I’ll marry you on Neptune.”

Ending 3. . .

His face appears in the cracked partition between broken halogen and ominous shadow. “Both of you come with me.” His voice beckoned like thunder.

          “Grandad, Grandad…” the Banshee spoke into a cupped hand like a telephone, but there was no answer. At least not yet. And then--

          The noble gentry grandfather swept in with a swirling cloak. He looked Victorian apart from this, he defeated the Mothman outside underneath his mothership, and saved his daughter from losing her brain fluids. I was dead happy to meet with him.

          “You sure did one hell of a jobbie back there,” I told him.

          “You are more than welcome with us,” he replied. These mountains will survive your absence should you decide to abide with us on our return journey.”

          I looked at the Banshee, being held in his arms. So comforted, so safe. They looked like they never belonged apart, or had ever been apart, or would ever be apart. I imagined myself in their company, in a distant time, in a faraway place.

She smiled welcomingly. She licked her lips. Out leaked a little drool.

Rosy Cheeks (4)

The diner was expansive if a touch shabby, reasonably populated, bright enough, blare coming from several newscreens on the wall (something about the war), and the hiss of a percolating coffee machine travelling in the air throughout. Prints of Dali and Bosch and Picasso hung symmetrically on the peeling walls. These were easily recognisable by the melting clocks and angular faces.

          A barmaid with a badge reading MARIS attended us promptly. “Table for two?” she asked. Short and plump, sandals, laddered tights, hairnet.

          “Maybe three,” I interjected.

          “Possibly four,” the Banshee added. She was fully expecting the Mothman.

          Hearing her engage with a member of the public made her feel much more human to me. Especially now that she had stopped drooling. In the blinking overhead halogens, she could have came across as a princess down on her luck, one who had been turned into a frog once too many times. Or was it the prince who usually got made into a frog? Who by? Just wondering.

          We slumped at a stained durable quartz table top, chaperoned step for step by Maris, who wore the kind of fake yet harmless smile that seemed permanently sealed on. We accepted her offer of coffee and gratefully accepted two worn dog-eared menus, which I wondered if the Banshee could read or not. Maris skipped away, back behind the bar. On her way, a fat leery lorry driver reached out and gripped her rump; then he whistled rudely and ordered another stack of pancakes.

          “There he is!” the Banshee moaned at me, pointing at the nearest window.

          I caught a fleeting shadow of a large snickering face, fading into the oxygen behind the glass. Its passing left a smudgy imprint of a similar countenance on the curtains, like a parlour trick, like a gimmick from a time-served cameraman with a host of special effects at his disposal.

          “Mothman,” I muttered dourly. “What brings him to the party? Is he a ghost or an airbourne phantasmagoric reel of exposure tape?”

          The Banshee joined her fingers and did something funny with her eyeballs. “Hurry up, Grandfather,” she pleaded with the grapevine, extracting a gobstopper and a walnut from her pocket. “This is my last meal, she stated. “Along with these.” Fizzy Nerds, jelly eels, a grab bag of that beachside savoury snack named fish n chips, a candy bracelet, and a Swizzels lollipop…“You feel free to order whatever you like.”

          My eyes betraying me, lingering over the windows, I purveyed the menu. Nothing stood out that wasn’t belly-busting apart from a Sri Lankan chicken curry. Because of the mutant conditions of modern poultry farms, I called chicken Franken chicken. Bit of a joke after a picture of one online. It was half worn-out feathery coat, blisters and tumours everywhere, humanoid like a man, sitting in its own gunk in a claustrophobic cage. And this is what we were eating. Tragic.

          I waited for Maris to return. 

           When my food arrived, it was a bleeding ball of Franken-whatever leaking dark red pus. Maris’s nose was bleeding the same goo. I quickly checked to see if the Banshee was drooling similarly, but nah, she weren’t. Maris collapsed backward after settling it on the counter, her legs looking broken beneath her fair-sized heinie. All the other customers in the establishment slid off their chairs to the floor, slumped like switched-off robots, the halogens blinking more rapidly now and a majority of them blanking off altogether, leaving us in semi darkness.

          “That’s das Mothman,” the Banshee gasped.

          The newscreens volume inflated to maximum. Something about Donald Trump accusing the democrats of stealing one thing or another. It was white noise to me. Something exploded out of sight, a dull thumpy thud, then the entrance doors swung open, aluminium screeching across the floor tiles, letting in a gust of wind which ruffled the pleats of Maris’s skirt.

          “What does he want?” I asked. Apart from tasting her blood, that is. Apparently Banshee blood had psychoactive properties. But he must have wanted more from her other than just getting off his chops…

The Mothman craves her brain fluid...will he get it?

R<.‡. >c 🥘

Rosy Cheeks (3)

The ride was bumpy and chaotic. We almost capsized twice. I had to slam on when a mad stag crossed our path in a single bounding leap. We heard its forefeet slam into the ground like two mechanical pistons, saw its breath dissolve in a snorty cloud in our beams. It resembled raw biological power. Stags were my spirit animal, I had knowledge of them crossing dangerous, fly-by-night turbulent river systems with their young, who didn’t always make it, when they were migrating for a living. I saw it on the Blue Planet show. They had to swim to avoid drowning, some of them after only having just been born. They also fought impressively, clashing their antlers epically. And they appeared in movies books TV and folklore all the time. Really, they were as mysterious as the wolf. Well, maybe, not quite. It was cool to see, but risky with it being so close to taking us out. There was only one winner in a stag and my dirtbike collision.

 The banshee (I was unable to summon the courage to ask of her name. that seemed overly personal) continued to drool and hold me tightly. One of her fingers lodged in my belly button. It tickled me a bit. She muttered unintelligible mantras under her panty breath, probably pleas for assistance from the noble gentry she was in the process of calling, this mutual aid bloke who could take her back to tinsel town. It was neither English or Spanglish, but a nasal utterance of pigeon broken mixed-up dialects. At one point I got emotionally caught up in a divine purpose on my hands; if I crashed, it was the end of her and I. I would be stuck with Banshee for the foreseeable. We’d be forced to live on cereal in my shanty house, I could never show her a good existence. If I held my nerve, I could impress her with some slick and fanciful once-in-a-lifetime wheeling and a quick escape.

Because something was coming for us.

That’s what I deducted from her voice. That something was coming for her. Banshees are a rare commodity in this universe, and they are always hunted when out of their natural habitat. I supposed she had trinklets on her or crystals or something she could rub together to garner the attention her grandfather, the noble gentry; honestly, I had no idea what communication device she owned. Maybe it was the power of her mind, the power of thought alone.

She made it clear to me that that method would a last meal, at any eatery at the bottom of the mountain. A celebratory last meal sealed the deal. The devilish foe on her trail who meant her harm, and perhaps me too, was the Mothman, He Who Could See Farther, and he who had a penchant for the taste of blood from Banshee. She called me the Faring Patron, one who could settle a deal between noble gentry and Mothman.

I had seen a movie called Mothman. Apparently he gained his strength from creativity, which he rather stole cheaply from female Banshee. This was way back in my youth. All I remember about the Banshee in that movie is sleeping with the light on for three weeks after the film. In my mind’s eye, she looked like an angel who had seen better days and ended up in the dole queue, all bashed and tattery, but no less likeable for it.

Finally we reached the bottom of the slope. There was a diner at the end of a car park, lights on in the windows, waitresses attending customers within. The halogen didn’t stray far from the glass, and the neon sign outside was down most of its letters, keeping the build shrouded in an air of shadowy secrecy and foreboding.

We parked up, took deep breaths, and prepared to go in for our final meal.

Stay tuned for more Mothman, Noble Gentry, Banshee, and Faring Patron.

Commonplace Blather

I’ve hardly had the energy lately, of the physical variety, to carry myself across town to the library and back. I’ve gained a pile of weight this year, even though I stopped smoking for 6 months and became a vegetarian. I knew I had to start exercising but I never quite got round to it. A few stretches is all I did. Then I could touch my toes, now I doubt it. After maintaining a level of decency over recent years regarding my physique, I’ve now come to terms with the stark reality that I’m out of shape. It’s one thing looking out of shape, but feeling out of shape is even worse.

There was one time when my physique was important. At times I lived and slept in the gym. My motto was Eat like a Dickhead, Train like a Wolf. I’m 6’3, so had a tall angular frame to fill out. I enjoyed the challenge of being a hard-gainer. I remember one bus journey to the gym when I sat on the backseat with my hood up superbly focused on the task at hand. It was full of squabbling schoolkids who normally made me nervous. I couldn’t see them this time. I was blocking the world out. I was poor, cooking all my meals myself, eating out of Tupperware, not quite sleeping on the floor, yet utterly single-minded and tenacious to get the job done. I adored bodybuilding videos, new and old alike, they transported me around in time. I even went to a show one time, hooked up with a couple of girls, met Mr. Olympia, and had some sh*ts n giggles.

Its okay, I tell myself, look at my age for crying out aloud, I’m over the hill, I’m all washed through, I’m a has-been, but I’m in daddy mode big time. Is my main goal to be a full-time athlete? It was, you know, before the virus hit us. I was training twice a day, in the gym at 6am. Cardio, swimming, iron, you name it. No Zumba, no yoga, no intensity classes…but still a major portion of the day killed off. I used to love running ‘downhill’ on the treadmill, at a fairly fast rate I kid you not, to the drony rhythms of German trance music.

Instead of wide-awake nightmares and visual disturbances, I’d have genuinely pleasant scenarios in my head. I’d be with my ex-girlfriend sometimes, she’d be jogtrotting leisurely on the adjacent machine. No smokes or beers, or drugs or porn, just pizza and juice, or percolated coffee, back at her place, then off to the kingsize bed, to read a Harlan book on laundered sheets. Happier times, but everything’s different now.

I might have said this before but we would leave each other little sublime notes around the house. P.S. Always Love xx, and sentiments like that. The trick was to have it found as long as possible after you left it somewhere. If she found my message in five minutes because I left it in the breadbin then that was a dramatic fail. Somewhere like under the toaster was better. She got the best one ever. She wrote a message on the label in my bobble hat. It took me 6 years to find it! I have great faith in the one still behind her washing machine though!

We split up because of the Mental Health Act. It spliced us apart when I first recognised early bird symptoms. I got hospitalised, she lost her house, she and her son moved into my flat, I was organising food vouchers from the ward for her, it was all really tough. When I got out we were all rather squashed up like sardines with the bed in the living room so I booted them out so I could self-indulge in cheap counterfeit pornographic material on my billy goat. Laughable, isn’t it, making half a family homeless, just so I could return to my stimulating vomit, but that was its pull over me.

I recall shaving my genital hair before sticking the slap n tickle on. Someone in the pub told me that it aids sexual pleasure. Another said it adds an inch to the length. I heard a perplexed voice from outside the window at the time, “Andrew, what the dickens are you doing?” It’s awkward and far from easy, no matter what implements you are using, and I had a waterproof multigroomer trimmer kit. Joke. I had a Bic razor. Dead embarrassing. It’s the worse thing you can do when you feel like you are being watched.

I once nearly self-indulged myself on a railway line. I was running away from home but still really horny with images swirling around in my head. Stranger Things, eh?

I might buy a weight lifting magazine to keep me in the game. To ‘stay in the game’ of something, you don’t actually have to participate in the activity of it, you just have to sniff around it long enough to fall in passion with the waft of its nostalgia. This includes a maintenance of general interest around the sport or hobby, which may come from simply looking at a website about it from time to time, watching a documentary about it, or reading a piece of literature about it. Your previous devotion may well up in a spate of recent newly-founded rekindled appreciation. When you’ve forgotten all about something, and you go back and revisit it, the results are often utmost pleasing.

Just been regularly amused with the specific knowledge about a craft or habit you were once involved in keeps your nose in the current affairs around the pastime. Knowing a little something about something is a foothold of conversation, banter, debate, and smack-talking, rather than knowing nothing at all.

I call this staying in the game. Or keeping your nose in. Or whatever. I might have to implement this philosophy with my lacking exercise regime. I used to write novels, for example. Now I fear I am unable, so I do this. Little tiny blogs each week. It means that I haven’t totally sacrificed the art of autofiction. You don’t have to run 10k, you can hobble around the block. It’s a nice technique to cultivate enthusiasm in something bigger than what you do.

Try and get re-involved in something you’ve been away from for a while. Times are always moving on but you might like it. Guru advice there.