White Void; Back In The Day

Image: The legend that is Victoria Climbie.

The wonderful thing about blogging (or White Voiding) is that one can sit down at the ‘personal PC computer cryptic workstation’ and just peruse: What the dickens am I gunna write today? What is there to write about? Or not write about? Nothing. There’s nothing to not write about. Apart from politics, religion, and science. You want to read something boring, go and check out The Financial Times, The Independent, or The Daily Mail. You want to read something free and off the hook (can I describe myself that way?), then stick around here.

            The White Void on 'the cryptic' (PC) is not any longer actually a white void, because I change the colour of the screen whenever I type on Microsoft Word these days (still on Word, I know). It’s a cool feature, a great compliment to the brightness/contrast controls. Between them, you can get the screen glowing with just the right amount of ‘starkiness’ in a colour scheme of your preferred choice. Excellent late at night when the lights are down. Right now I’ve got the screen in a popular shade of charcoal grey (not that it matters), but you have to be careful, because, depending on the heaviness of the colour of the screen, it can make the flashing cursor difficult or impossible to see. Not that any of this matters. I’m just saying. About the White Void. On paper, White Void is White Void, because I don’t know any writers who print on coloured paper. I have wrote on teabag-stained paper though before, I hasten to admit. Isn’t it great, that teabag-staining trick? Probably the best cheap gimmick in art that I know of.

Do you know what I’m on about, or do I have to explain it? Just in case you’re thick, all you do is stain a piece of paper with a half-damp used teabag to create an old timeworn yellow effect. I do it all the time (going one step further to carefully burn the edges of the paper with a lighter to up the overall crispy blackened-edge worse for wear look – what’s that White Void you’re on about?).

Is that enough about the White Void? It’s never enough about the White Void. It’s like totally interesting, dude. Like how you dip your feet in, fall into it, then batter it. ATM (at the moment), I’m fairing terrifically well against this charcoal grey affair. Again, not that it matters. I’m just writing without a cause. A rebel without a gauze.

Do you remember gauzes? Way back when, doing a bit of weed? The very first store-bought cannabis pipe under the bridge maybe, or next to the bins, or behind the shed? Those days were good. The taste of the resin was timeless. The fact that it got you off your head was secondary, it was just the cool chic thing to do back then. Now it would affect me differently; I’d be too paranoid to enjoy the benefits (if there are any, apart from hearing music better). Perhaps you’re a blazer who loves his chong, and I say fair play to you. Wouldn’t it be nice for you to try my drug of choice for a bit, while I try yours? Cocaine, if you must know. Loads of drug rehab and therapy, it’s an awful long story…I even wrote a poem about it…

Since I left school from the age of 16 to early twenties I did nothing but blaze, buying ounces of resin (it was mostly resin back then) with my giro once every two weeks and still having a tenner left by the time the next one landed. It was a tight budget I was on but I was splendid with it because weed was the only thing in need. I longed for nothing else but pot which was always available and affordable. It was enough for me back then; there was no predilection for pills, pastes and powders – you know, all that heavy junk which really undoes you in the end.

I used to watch pornography while stoned, always fumbling a spliff and the remote control with my spare hand. At one point in my youth I was watching it on multiple screens, on a 'video player and a DVD' hooked up at the same time. Maybe, as time goes on, I’ll be brave enough to write about pornography here at piebald77; I’m currently blueprinting the best way forward in divulging all of my personal life online. Should I stick my balls on?

I HAVE to deal with crap. Best place is here. And nobody’s reading, so there’s no embarrassment. Even if they are, I don’t mind. It’s not as if someone is going to approach me in real life on the street and say, “Oi Mr Donny, about your bollocks on the blog last week…” Even if they did, I’d batter them. So stay tuned for some very personal content coming here in the foreseeable. I don’t care for personal shit. When you’ve lost all your privacy, you tend not to. But anyway, take care of yourself until the next time. I really mean that. You can never be too careful. And stop stroking vicious dogs.

End Of Block - Part 2

I've started a long short story entitled A Satellite For Me, about a man who is being harassed by a satellite. Now that makes for a great original premise, if I do say so myself. No structure, no plot, no outline...I'm just winging it all the way. The going has slowed down after six and a half thousand words, but I'm just waiting for an exit strategy now, some form of an ending. Once I have that, I can go in for the kill. It's good to have the main gist of it done though. By the time I publish this, it should be complete (or not). Depends on how long it pans out. Ideal length would be about ten thousand words, enough for a short standalone book. Otherwise, I could put it into an anthology. I'm still in this mental health rehab, and it's boring me nuts. Aw man, the boredom! It's shocking and it's chronic. I'm quite literally bored as soon as I get up out of bed. I'm getting absolutely no exercise or gym. I'm not even walking anywhere apart from the local shop to buy tobacco I don't even want. The food is hit and miss, spaghetti and fishcakes for lunch today...and that qualifies as a miss by the way. All there is to do is watch TV, and I'm not big on TV at the best of times. There's a separate DVD room where I can chill on my own for a few hours (not now), but my attention span is struggling to watch films at the moment. I can't sit through one without getting up to fidget about three or four times in between. I'm restless. Bored, and restless...never the best combination.

Smoking offers something to do because it gets you outside into the smoking shelters. You get some fresh air, plus there's a social side to it as well. Quite often a rollie is the only thing that gets me up in the morn, and I'm going back to bed by half five in the afternoon. Too much sleeping is linked to depression, I know, but the boredom really is that bad. I don't get asleep until nine-ish, so for three hours I'm just lying there with Radio 4 on. I've been taking my mind elsewhere, to a young couple in love, to distract myself from the present situation. It's nice, fantasising, almost like meditation, because I think happy and positive thoughts. I kinda need to mix it in with my fiction and I'll be onto a winner. Why a young couple in love I don't know. Maybe because that best summarises happiness. I'm thinking of them making love every evening and ringing each other up all the time. Of them sharing cooked dinners and bottles of wine. I wonder to myself: Am I envious? Am I jealous? Am I spiteful and bitter and resentful? It's not like I haven't been there. I'd had my taste of both youth and love. It's just that it didn't last long enough. That's the kind of thing one wants to last forever. But it doesn't, does it? Because nothing does. It arrives too late and departs too quickly. Love does, in my experience, anyway. As for youth, well, you know the saying: It's wasted on the young. Over before you know it.

Saw the psychiatrist last week. I walked out in the end. There's only so much bullshit a man can take. It's hard, been told you're ill, and being treated like you're ill. I am not ill! I AM NOT ILL! I feel like grabbing her and screaming this into her face. But of course, that would be the action of an ill person. Once you have that diagnosis, you can't win. It also gives harassers extra licence to torment you further. It destroys your word forever. Nobody believes you. What goes on to targeted individuals is hard to believe in the first place, but if they think you are nuts as well then your testimony is practically worthless. Still, it's all we have, and it's the truth. The assumption that we have a mental illness is false. No amount of doctors can prove otherwise. I take solace in the reality of the truth. Sometimes, it feels like only I know it.

Got a tribunal next week. I've been waiting three months for it. With a bit of some much deserved luck, they'll take me off my section. If they do, I'll discharge myself immediately. If they don't, I think I will start to lose faith and refuse my medication. I'm totally against meds, but they do help with sleep, and sleep helps with boredom. It's horrible waiting for something out of your hands. They promised me leave before I came here, but I still ain't got it. Social services are involved again, safeguarding my stepson. It's a nightmare. All I can do is be patient and calm and not react angrily. I've never done anything negative in front of him and I never would. I believe I am a good role model for him. I am not monetarily successful, but there's more to nurturing relationships than cash. We have always got along great and I stress again that I have never subjected him to any 'disturbing behaviours' that social services are so concerned about. I actually cannot go back to my own home at the moment, because he is staying there with my girlfriend. They moved in when they lost their house. All I did was do them a favour and spare them homelessness but now I am being punished for it. We are a tight family unit currently being destroyed by my recent incarceration. All I did was have a bad day and end up on Runcorn bridge but have since lost my liberty for six months and it's still not over yet. I may as well have gotten busted for something.

I truly adore my stepson's company. He is bright and sprightly and clever and funny. There's something about been around youngsters that keeps you connected to your own youth. It's an education listening to him as he develops and grows. For social services to ban me seeing him again (we've been through all this before, it took a whole year of going to stressful meetings to get him of the child protection register) really hurts. He was only put on it in the first place because I was hospitalised for hearing voices. All I did wrong was start hearing voices, which by now you'll understand is nothing more than getting harassed by organised stalkers using Voice-to-Skull microwave methods. I've said it before but it's worth hearing again: The five worst things about hearing voices are these:

Actually hearing the voices: It really is a quite unimaginable form of suffering.

Loss of liberty: Being sane in an insane environment is not much fun at all.

Drugs: Being pumped full of medications isn't all that great either.

Nobody believes you: You are now officially loopy, why the hell would they?

Social services: They literally steal children from people.

There it is. I learned these harsh lessons through experience. Still, I try not to be bitter, and practice peace, tolerance and goodwill to all the peoples. That's my philosophy. I learned it from Buddhism. I'm not saying that my blood doesn't boil when I have doctors insisting that I'm a dangerous man, but I have total control over any rising anger these days. I get sad, morose and faithless at times, but never ever raging. That's not me.

End Of Block - Part 1

So here I am again at this fidgety little notebook with the too-small keys for my too-big fingers, the sole reason being to end a two month-some block. Writing is like drinking water, I remember the author Conrad Williams saying. My lips are pursed at the fountain...Not a single word in over two months. I mean, like, not even a Facebook post. My last Facebook post got me in big trouble, by the way. It read, You can't beat a nice crack pipe in the bath. It was a joke. I had never smoked crack in my life until a couple of days after this post. It spurred a new contact to get in touch with me and request a get-together. He must have thought I was serious. That's the problem with my sense of humour; it's all very blurred boundaries. It's difficult to decipher if I am straight-talking or taking the piss.

I tooted for the first time. It was a blast. I'd been cocooned on a claustrophobic hospital ward for eleven weeks and was out on leave with new friends. It was a happy occasion. I subsequently failed a random drugs test and lost any hopes of future freedom, including my leave. I was crushed. I couldn't get out of bed for two weeks. I should have been painting the flat with my girlfriend but was instead locked up against my will. It's literally set me back months and months. All over a random toot with a random guy. If only I hadn't posted that joke, then we never would have hooked up. Zestiny. That's a bad form of destiny. I don't know where that comes from, I think I made it up. Still. Drugs wreck lives. Even if you enjoy it and it feels nice at the time and nobody gets hurt. Look at these judges and footballers getting caught doing coke with prostitutes. One line on secret camera and their careers are over. What's the real harm they are doing? I feel for the dealers who get put away for time. What's their crime, really? They are just handling stuff, yet they get more than child abusers. All they do is handle stuff. I fail to see the fairness.

It feels good to have my writing cap on again. Life is bad enough without not being a writer. It's a difference in the mindset; my mind becomes a catchment area, a fishnet for all the bullshit. It's here where I mine the sense in the nonsense. Already I'm cautious about how long this will last, whether it's just a fad for a couple of days before the block sets in again. It's lacklustre not being a writer, when you really are. It's like smoking, when you really don't. Or not jogging when you really should be. I miss my swimming, I tell you. I've not swam for over seven months (the length of my recent ongoing admission), and it sucks. Not doing anything you really love sucks. We should be overdosing on our hobbies and interests, not putting them off for no good reason. I've not been blocked because I've had nothing to say, rather the opposite; the truth is I've got too much to say. The trouble is organising it into a coherent flow without repeating myself too much. The trouble is structuring the torrential outpouring to come. I've not kept a diary in the last seven months either. That's a genuine loss, especially while in mental hospital. All those goings-on and not an accurate logging of any of it. What a shame. All the characters I've met, and no record of them. I don't write diaries because I have an eventful life, I write them to keep track of time. Without a diary, time slips away into unmemorable nothingness. You simply forget stuff. Rereading old diaries exercises the memory and the mind. It's like little flames rekindling in the grey matter, flames otherwise extinguished by the monotonous swill of weeks and months cascading over each other.

Saw a rainbow earlier. It made me think of ancient civilisations. As in, I wonder what they made of them. I bet they thought they were portents from God. It got me thinking that I would write about it, somehow. Hey, writing about anything qualifies as being a writer. The blocked author will take any food for thought. But that's enough about rainbows. Content is all. It's probably better to be blocked than to be writing pure bollocks. There's a thousand and one other writers out there writing pure bollocks. I hope this isn't pure bollocks. You decide. This is where I am almost stumped: Where do I begin? I'm in my chair, I've got the cap on, I'm drinking from the fountain...but it's as if I'm afraid to start gulping it down. There's too much of it, it's too serious, where oh where do I begin? Mind control. Start with the mind control. But that's like a child abuse victim writing about child abuse. It's too full-on. It's too much. That kind of stuff can be weaved into the fiction. Fiction offers a release. Fiction offers extra licence to express oneself. Or does it do nothing but muddy the waters? It's oh so true: Truth is stranger than fiction. Maybe I should stick to non-fiction. And this is the beautiful part of writing...talking to yourself. I'm doing nothing but talking to myself now. Just gotta keep it going and beat this block...

Pleasant dreams last night, mingled in with erotic ones. When you are regularly subjected to remotely-induced night terrors (mind control), pleasant natural dreams are to be cherished. It's nice when pop-ups from youth appear, random people you'd forgotten about. I used to make a lot of dream logs a few years ago. Sometimes stories appear in dreams. They take harbour in their entirety, start to finish, and need no planning. I've often capitalised on this, and written straight-away in the morning. I don't write about my dreams any more, I simply enjoy them. The good ones, anyway. I wouldn't have thought it possible that someone else can control your dreams, but I have long been a victim of this. I'm certain there is either an implanted chip or a satellite involved. It's fantastic material to discuss, but scary as hell when it happens. I think, of all hallucinations, tactile ones are the worst, because they are the most convincing. It's bad enough hearing things and seeing things, but feeling things, like something crawling on you for example, is particularly convincing. Simply horrible. When you combine the three, you are inhabiting a virtual reality. A bad virtual reality.

It's hard work not wasting time dwelling on my harassers. It's as if their sole purpose in life is to destroy mine, but sparing me the mercy of death. If I could make just one shout out to the world, it would be to enlighten people about the evils of organised stalking and electronic harassment being done to targeted individuals. Please google targeted individuals and help me raise some awareness about the awful and terrible crimes being perpetrated upon hapless innocent civilians. It's so atrocious. And its all true as well. Don't believe the lies been told about how they are all crazy. The stuff happening to them is crazy, but they aren't; not unless they are driven crazy by it anyway. Moving on. I've just come across a comic called The Secret Of The Brainchip, about psychosis. Fascinating reading. The truth will eventually come out in future generations. I feel the block coming back now. I feel as if I have to keep giving reference to it, in order to beat it. What I am at heart though is a fiction writer, whether I like it or not. Flash fiction especially. A thousand words or less is enough to make your point. I like compiling flash into short anthologies as well. I might write something about a satellite next, but I do have something to say about psychiatrists also: They don't know a goddamn thing. There, I've said it. They know nothing about mind control or taking drugs, yet they sit there lecturing me because I'm not a 'professional'. Professional. Don't give me professional. They don't even know about the very drugs they themselves dispense, because they have never tried them. Oh please, don't get me started on psychiatrists. Ah well, you know what they say: If you don't have nothing nice to say, then don't say nothing.

Blocked again! Well, it was fun while it lasted. And at least I got over it for a short spell. Think I will read over and edit some recent flash work to keep me at the keel. Ok, done that, and am now about to read over this. I'm aware that I'm starting to waffle though,so it really is time to wrap up End Of Block. It has proved as a useful warm-up for something else to come, something bigger, maybe a long short story. There's something cosy about calling in everyday for a little chat with myself, but I guess that's what blogging is for. There's no better listener than the blank white page. It's both daunting and inviting. I'm in that strange place of wanting to write but not knowing what to write about. I'm in the mood for redrafting, editing, publishing...I enjoy making chapbooks. It's an ordeal numbering each one, but there comes a satisfaction in producing quality products. Away from my office and home computer though, I'm at a bit of a loss. My travelling notebook is usually reserved for new stuff. Fresh, off-the-cuff new stuff. I'm acutely aware however that one is only as good a their latest offering. That means that if I write something crap, then I am now crap. Each creative outing is a test. Do I still have the goods? Have I still got what it takes? There's only one way to find out...

Non-Productive Season

You have to use it or you lose it. True dat you know. The brain needs something to do otherwise it begins to shut down. Movies are fine for a dose of emotion, but you really should have your head in a book as well. Reading a novel pretty fast seems to do the trick for piecing words together again. Even typing keys in the right order can be hard to get the hang of after a drought. Good job typewriters are extinct or we’d never get anywhere would we. There’d be umpteen screwed-up pages a minute flying over the shoulder.

The alphabet is the best remedy for a fuzzy-headed hangover from life. It’s like being in the matrix. And soon enough, when you’re getting back on track and the gears aren't slipping so much, you find yourself dipping in and out of the thesaurus quicker than Lewis Hamilton in a pit stop. Finding a word is a small inconvenience, rather than a DON’T PASS GO sign. You find you’re not so bad at arranging this code of 26. Not bad at all actually. They’re in your power. That’s a confidence booster.

The screen is off-putting, and so is being hunched over a desk, so an hour or so every week or so is more than enough to reel off a masterpiece every once in a while. Not unless you have deadlines, and cash to earn.

It's a strange calling, sitting down to force-feed geese write. Born of conflict, yet a harmonious marriage.