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View Results: I have been to the county of Fuckshire, it was ...
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Old 09-06-2011, 07:16 AM   #1996
planktonnn OP
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Again, Ch. 2 pages 18 - 26, draft a final.

Now let’s be clear, the mere fact that I was right there right then and wasn’t experiencing the crushing emotion of my acute deficiency in all those roles and others was in itself a massive dichotomous falsity, because I’d botched those precious responsibilities in the worst possible way and had, quite rightly, been cut off, which was the only reason I wasn’t feeling the throbbing ache I’d felt for so long - However at that very moment I didn’t suffer the burden of being repeatedly reminded of my unwavering failure by seeing it directly in front of me, and so I was able, just for that fleeting instant, to hoodwink my fools-wits into a temporary sense of escape from my intense & eternal internal displeasure at my unremitting chronic under-performance. Whichever way it’d been achieved the pressure was lifted now & I could breathe again.

It wasn’t that the family were gone, and certainly not that I was gone from them - more that the stifling airless pre-monsoon tension of the intemperate emotional humidity we’d all felt had, at long-last, broken from the persistent & unrelenting clamminess of undeclared discomfort into the essential reprieve of a torrent of reality, actuality & transformation. Weird how the human brane works isn’t it? Extraordinary how it will blatantly lie to itself just to create even the thinnest illusionary veneer of a piece of ‘peace of mind’ in order to protect itself & the ‘soul’ that inhabits it. Is this how the vanilla ‘norms’ maintain themselves each & every day? I think it could well be how they achieve it… The poor inhibited & constrained mother-fuckers.

Because, at something towards 3am, I’m scratching surplus thoughts onto stolen paper I naturally have the shed light on, Caro (who seems not to have seen the letter I left in such an ‘obvious’ place) comes down wrapped in just her duvet, and looking thru the small shed window she sees a figure squatting down wrapped in rugs & cheap army surplus clothes furiously scribbling rubbish onto a pad (for which he doesn’t appear to have a receipt), and though she doesn’t know precisely what’s going on it seems to her that most burglars don’t take old carpets & leave thank-you notes, so guesses it must be me - She unexpectedly opens the shed door and bounds in. Now, I’m wearing earphones (soundtrack to Sweeney Todd, there’re 8 good bars in it) and absorbed as I am in my self-indulgent illegible screaming scrawl she surprises the living shit out of me - ‘Most burglars don’t wear just duvets’ I hurriedly think yet still it takes me a moment (or very slightly > or <) to get what’s going on here. Caro says she noticed the kitchen light was left on, which it usually isn’t wot wiv dis bein’ dat thar out in the countryside and all. Then she saw the shed light so came to investigate, safe from harm in a duvet. Rather brave I thought… She presents as sincerely kind and welcoming but she doesn’t feel my bedding arrangements are sufficient, though they do suit me fine, and, despite my protestations, dear Caro begins to make off and get something a little more comfortable. I stop her and explain that I very much have a preference for the modest monkish arrangements I’ve made in my impermanent hermitage, that I’ve sought to ensconce myself in the shed rather than the house so as to be less intrusive. This is where one of the great things about Caro comes out, she hears me, accepts it & understands. Not everybody does that do they? However she does insist on bringing a sleeping bag & shifting one of the two bicycles from the shed to give me a little more room, and it occurs to me that perhaps it’s needed in the morning so I don’t put up a fight – I try to hear, accept & understand.

And so at last I ‘settle’ and submerge into my default state of self-hate yet again. If only I were able to hear, accept & understand my own self, but this has proven forever impossible. For far too long now I’ve deluded myself that there was something in me worth preserving, that there might be some great work here within to be teased or scratched out that could say everything I meant & could ever mean. That I could effect a difference in the ever surrounding non-functionality. That I could be a better parent than my own were. But I’m unavoidably obliged to arrive at jam-packed acknowledgment that it's a vanity for a tomato to think it can ever be anything more than a collection of its constituent parts, with the resultant characteristics of a tomato. Or that said sad tomato could ever reasonably aspire to reach beyond its beyond and conjure itself into the steak it sits beside. And if the constrained fruit could not come to comfort with being a simple berry it must then be the cause of its own withering n ting.

I never even mastered the pencil for fucks sake, couldn’t draw beyond childish scrawls. I mimicked the actions of a person who played music, but never actually had it come out of me. I tried video ‘art’ and just ended up making unsightly discontinuous dishevelment that pointedly left the audience feeling inwardly unfathomably soiled. I had to stop. It's never easy to explain without dull repetition, and no simpler to comprehend without pity, but it's not a sad thing, the sad thing was continually lying to myself that it could be any other way because the outcomes of hanging around have shown that it couldn't, and all things have become as they always were & so will be. After dreaming of unattainable possibilities I’m back down to earth, and in this ‘now’ I create pain for other people, which was irresponsible of me. It would have been better for me to have stopped this l life before it harmed those around me, but instead I listened to the reasoning of others who were themselves already perpetuating their own useless lives. No-one needs to stop me stopping me, unless they want me to continue in this inescapable discomfort - or perhaps they draw some strength or power from my continued torment? There's no reserve left to rebuild with, and all doors are shut. Now I just need to dispose of my remaining clutter and wait for events to provide a suitable circumstance for my end. Don't feel bad about it. I will be happy. I struggle to maintain fragile constructed justifications to not cease this unending piffle that is the 'blessing' of 'life' that's repeatedly brought me back to this inescapable shit. I write…

.i cannot sleep
.i cannot sex
.i cannot think
.i cannot stop thinking
.i cannot stop intrusive flashing remembrances, none of them pleasant
.or reflecting well on me
.or my choices and the utter failures they lead to
.failed as a 'creative'
.failed as a friend or husband/lover
.failed as a father
.failed as a son
.failed as a personality
.failed as a revolutionary
.failed as a 'citizen'
.failed as an income generator
.failed ...

Events have consistently proved all this to be true (no really :-D) and above all I do not need to argue against reality or truth. 18 years or so ago I lay on a railway line full of pop and pills waiting for a train to crush my skull. I thought then there might be another way for it to be, that life didn't have to be the way it was & had been, that I could make it something else. I thereafter struggled in alien worlds to build something I thought might make a difference to ‘society’ & to me, but here & now I know I could not change me - My root DNA fault, the neurochemical mis-design. I could not un-remember me, what was done to me or what I did. Here & now I know there is no change for ‘society’ or myself. I profoundly regret not staying on the train line, I was right to be there, my self persuasion was a lie. I have not been able to make it different, nor ever could I have, it was a vanity to think it would be any other way and now it isn't –


.am not
.never was
.never will be

At this point I was reminded of a letter I wrote a friend some time ago:


‘Dear Nigel,

Yes. I hate the remembrance of it. You seemed very surprised I feel bad about ‘then’? I’m not able to find anything in it that doesn’t cause me angst & desolate ggggrrrrrrrrrr. It doesn’t help that I wasted my time recording these tapes in the first place, and now I‘m wasting the same time all over again rubbing my own nose in my own shit. 278 archive cassettes digitised so far, 50 odd and 300 open reels left. Even if I stopped dubbing & binned the lot it doesn’t stop me knowing myself.

What are we if we don’t attempt to be self aware? Should I ignore what events & reality keep proving to me about me?....

I have a very clear picture of then, and can recall precisely at will, or perhaps more precisely, against my will. I know the events, their order, and their outcomes. I’ve got it taped. I know how shit I am, and was then. Let’s face it. It hasn’t really gone according to plan has it? By now I was supposed to be living on the far side of the moon with the other retired World Presidents. So much ‘could be’ and so little ‘is’.

I don’t intend to whine, although I do, but this is why I hate the remembrance of it. It brings extensive regret, and is hateful. This isn’t directed at others, and what they did or didn’t do, mostly… I am the one constant amid my bad experiences. Sooner or later, that had to become plain to me, and it did. The same distaste permeates all aspects of my life and is inescapable. All that effort to break my pattern with Soundstudio, but here I am again. It’s enough to make me distrust myself.

I didn’t have your musicality or Johns mood capturing fluency or Lees outward go-get blind faith, or Luseans ear to the divine. I understand I have no innate pitch, tone or rhythamum-num-chooka-wooka-pa-pa. No ability to grasp theory. No phrase memory. Incapable of reading score, let alone sight reading. No lyrical insight & nothing to say. Fingers made from turnips. Only really ever found my way around one modal scale so only really ever had one solo, thus I spent endless time noodling variations of chord on the 5th to chordal 4th & back again, wailing in a voice that was only ever good enough for b vox, and twiddling said 5th modal over the top. No interval recognition. Unable to hear sounds internally. Unable to picture images internally. Not able to play in another way than that I could play, i.e. unable to translate direction into modified performance i.e. it’s this shit or silence. Never got intimate with minor keys, which is where the sound I was looking for lived, or perhaps more correctly in the minor & diminished relationships within major diatonic settings? I mimicked what a person would do if they were playing music, and the lack of technical aptitude was not compensated for by intuitive, natural capability. Sometimes it is, which is nice, but it wasn’t for me.

Unsurprisingly I never got ‘picked’ up, I wouldn’t have minded being patronised, but then I had nothing to offer & never put myself where that would happen. My entire life has been one long stress attack. I was verging on agoraphobic recluse, still am, not exactly suited to ligging, the fundamental way you get on in that stupid business they call show. When people don’t enjoy your company they don’t seek it, and not being immersed the world your consumer sloshes around in doesn’t lead to well targeted or successful product. My brittle & jarring experience of ‘going out’ was not enjoyable to the point of repetition, what with me being far too unpleasant & prattish to function at all well amongst people, due to my innate capacity to do the opposite of the obviously required or desired. I am an incomplete person that couldn’t successfully associate with others. Should have been part of a unit. Not enough alone. Couldn’t be together.

I was too late for a fully band based environment, too early for accessible audio equipment & software, which would have been my instrument. Just shit kit & shit material. Period wise I landed in amongst the least of taste. In those decades, what passed for was not, and in any case was well away from me.

During dubbing there are moments where a moment moves my mentality momentarily. Snippets of sound that don’t not work. But what noise I did manage to stumble or fumble on that doesn’t fail by default has been lost among bad choices & endless mistakes that meant nothing would ever be done with it. It didn’t come off did it? And where the fuck am I now? What had already happened to produce a person that was that far off the map? Am I cursed? Yes - Many times over for sure. Do I need confirmation or contradiction for any of this?

No.’

Amidst all this expert self ruin (I’ve got awards in it you know) I’m dragged into inescapable & manifestly vital sleep, flopped right down there on top of pad & biro by the irresistibly efficacious Quetiapine. And I’m dreaming vividly, amongst all the usual flying & nudity, of sleeping in this exact same shed those many years past after the cupid style set-up party. We were on a little ‘break’ during the very early stages and I remember my darling sort-of-semi-ex-girlfriend (and as yet unknown wife-to-be) was graceful, svelte & delightful that night. It’s a long past event in our ongoing relationship, which over the last decade and a half+ has been the most fulfilling period in all my time on this appalling little ball of mud.

During this particular tonight here & now I have the best sleep had for a considerable time, at least in all the time since she left me. In Nmaj. I’d had to ask for an extra pillow so at least in my stupor I could fool myself into imagining she was there enfolded next to me. I couldn’t fall asleep without that image & stand-in sleep sharer, not after all those years... One dense headed morning on the ward I thought I heard her shower running, as I most often had in those thousands of mornings before. This time however I mustered enough focus toward wakefulness enough to find the dorm door right by my bed open, the shower directly opposite running & door open, and an unsightly apology for a man dropping his towel to hop in & close that big white ass away from view. I couldn’t go back to sleep with that image, not after all those years...

My present hosts had, in my long experience, been deeply kind people, far kinder than I might ever have deserved. I met Caro when she was trying to work in support of resolving established problems prevalent inside a Disability Theatre Company, wherein (I felt, don’t sue) it was ok for the Diffabled (differently-abled) to discriminate against other differently Disabled Diffabled people therein and that was just fine, oh yes... Later, whilst working on a panto elsewhere she and Rudi had sewn up the sleeves of my lovely proper-not-poxy big BIG seafarers duffle coat, which did indeed bring me to the requisite heights of flummoxation, much to their wanton delight. I’d been asked by Rudi to stay with her when she house-sat for them early in our relationship, some many years before, after the house-sitting. We’d all shared the mystery of the whereabouts of the third bush, and jointly shouldered the silent scorn for having the temerity to have raised it. I played various times in various settings with Rick – and on one occasion we’d (practically) played alongside the Bee Gees :-D A bit of keyboards, which I can’t play, a bit of percussion & vocal, of which I can’t do either. We recorded a few times, holidayed a few times, but no-one ever flew us to the moon. He managed to get me sessions tutoring audio recording & sequencing summer-schools at the college he worked at, and I once played a childs mini-drum-kit along with his band. It seemed to disjoint some of the band out of full musical articulation, but nevertheless made me happy, and sat well with my general desire to always use such little kit that you could get to the venue on a public bus. It’s far simpler than all that ELP 3 juggernauts thing, and in the end someone (you, the ‘artiste’) has to pay for all that shit. Do you not know that’s how the ‘music’ ‘business’ works, ten tatty-twatty men ripping off any available uncomplicated, vain, opulence coveting attention seekers, that are all queuing up to be the ‘Cunts at the Front’. I always knew to start in on formulating procedures to proficiently scarper when the ragged & impecunious band sees their manager get a spanking new Bentley but no-one asks how it was paid for… Really, the only way to make any coin from the music ‘industry’ is to hang around during load out, divert a few choice flight-cases into your van and scarper before anyone notices (they don’t). That’s the way it’s always been, don’t judge me you fuckers :-D

I hadn’t had much proactive contact with Caro & Rick for a while, or indeed with pretty much anybody, because as part of my badly selected & unfortunate current persona I never felt entirely sociable, comfortable or capable in any general human interactions like ‘friendliness’, even with long term friends, or people I’d never even see again. I had, a while back, spent a week house sitting for them as mentioned, & I hoped I’d helped in some small way for all the friendship & kindness they’ve given little old me & mine over time. They’re two of only a handful of people I know who are actually awake. Caro is godparent to our oldest son, though how we (or at least I) managed to stand before the Nonexistent Big ‘G’ that day & promise to raise the child within the church I’ll never know. Personally I don’t have an enormous imaginary friend in the sky, and have no ‘magic book’ to guide me regarding bumming, or tell me what meats don’t keep well in a hot climate, or how this one is the one true one really it is. ‘Believers’ might (and indeed do) say that’s why I came to be where I am, but then they can fuck right off. One Mr. Richard Keith Herring BA (pending) has a fine sequence of routines/shows wherein he refers to some of the above, and outlines christianity as being that its basic belief is that ’A big man in the sky had created you to have certain instincts & emotions, but was watching everything you did, and if you ever acted on those instincts that he’d given you he would burn you in a big fire, forever, because he loves you! And if you didn’t and were good, he’d reward you by making you drink his sons blood…’ He’s specifically using it in comparison to criticism of importation of halloween imagery, product now available etc., but when applied to wider religion I can’t say I disagree with Mr. Herring or his Graduant observances. It was my brother that had been baptised, not me. Was he absolved of all his transgressions and abuses?, his attempted rape of me?, or purely rendered incapable of ever having been able to have ‘sinned’? Mmmm. Deeeeeeeeep. Believe me - You don’t want to hear it… My ‘parental units’ certainly hadn’t anyway, and still don’t.

I did things the next day? (Monday) What? I don’t know, I was landing & not fixing things precisely to memory, but there were certain practicalities I had to set off and overcome as my main concerns. Money & meds & smokes being tri-mary on the list. My meagre sickness benefit (due after years of taxpaying) is paid into Patient Affairs, a centralised system wherein the hospital receives it, and allows it to be withdrawn at an onsite cash desk. So, I’d recently heard ESA had been awarded at the initial assessment rate, I’m told it was thru in double quick time, which the patient welfare worker was apparently very pleased with himself about. Secondly, on discharge the previous day I’d been issued with a one day meds pack, so I rode the hardly any but some miles into Shitsville to collect the few pounds that millions of peasant deaths in the 20th century industrialised wars had bought me, and used a little of it to buy smokes & a pay as you go mobile. Though I’d booked out of the mad mansion rather than step further back into it, I didn’t intend to disconnect from them with undue haste, and maintaining communication with ‘Head Headquarters’ would be beneficial to all involved. I had a consultants meeting that afternoon, and explained my reluctance to return to the acute ward. They had no reason or grounds to delay me, so they asked for the requisite assurances (as per obviation of liability as before) and issued a 7 day discharge pack of meds. I suck on that afternoons smarties & fill up with fuel to enable a medium length doodling mid-meander back toward the Hermits Hilton of Hiddenham. I learn from Caro that her aged father has been taken to hospital as part of what appears to be the concluding stages of a long undefeated illness, and Rick has taken her mother to be with him. After some talk wherein I endeavour to focus on something other than my own selfish me (thru which I make me disgusted), she lovingly describes a highly active man who’d always been doing or making something, who seems now perhaps a limp soul, hardly talking, barely recognising their presence, sort of gone already she said. There are no words. Being self obsessed I can do nothing but silently face the incongruity of my petulant response to my little problems vs. a lively much loved life near lost. With this sadistic dichotomy to hand I attempt to settle down in shed again, thinking thru, or trying to think thru what was the best way forward at this exact moment in time.

Caro had talked about ‘attachment’ and how I ought to ‘let it go’. But ‘settle’ isn’t something I can achieve right now, so I walk and attempt to clear the remains of my mind & calm my overheated heels. Roughly opposite the cottage there’s a hardcore roadway & public right of way that leads up to an interesting metal yard of some sort. Just entirely the kind of place I’d like to have for the set-up site for ‘Martha Farquar Motorcycles’, the wholly make-believe manufacturer of imaginary bespoke motorised heavy-bicycles for the imaginary discerning gentleman, which my dear Peter & I played with. At that point the improvised road melds to an unpaved tractor-way & right of way giving access to farm fields to either side, and further on becomes a single track footpath.

To take a tiny time to ones-self is little more than one could ever reasonably expect, but to stroll along a rural track-way with a roll up, to pause to listen to the minor chord of my three part tinnitus, and to begin to wonder if I hallucinate hearing the distant but distinct bleeping of what seemed like a very loud heart monitor coming from deep out of the dark night, well that might raise concerns in anyone, right? A remote but ongoing bleep-beep-bleep-blip-bleep coming out of somewhere clear on from the edge of obscurity ahead of me, from outside my head, from way down that dark path. I worked my brane into order and reach out (sort of) educated ears to rake over the difference between the sound and the distortions of it introduced by the surrounding night air & environment. Between the source and its multiple refractions. I chose a response and progressed along the track-way, toward rather than away. As is usual in such circumstances my senses immediately split up and search in different directions for a considerable distance. Once I’d reached almost as far as the reduction to footpath, the sound was really quite massively loud, and as I progressed in the dense dark of a country footpath there emerged the indistinct shape of a light coloured saloon car ‘parked’ right front corner first into the surrounding hedge & brush as though abandoned crashed. The high tone burst was coming from the car, but not from the horn, or apparently from a separate alarm playback, but from the audio system in the seemingly dormant vehicle itself, hard repeating blared out patterns of bleep-bleep-blip-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-blip-bleep… incongruous in a rural footpath setting, mesmerizing yet mystifying.

I naturally assumed it had been dumped and while I kept my distance across the track for sensibles sake all seemed deserted, but no, some form of indistinct inhabitant signalled his disgust at my passing of his little fortress at the end of a lane where no-one went or was wanted, and he muttered while turning to the hedge behind the car. As I walked I perchanced to glance at equipment perched inside on which a red light blips in time with the audio, and my eye is drawn the blue glow of a camping-gaz two hob stove just like the one we used to take to motor sport weekends in the late ‘70s & ‘80s. I wasn’t allowed to go to Silverstone for what would have been my first Grand Prix (’79 British Regazzoni home for Williams first victory) as I’d been caught out having played hooky off school for the previous three or so years. It was the kind of stove I’d been given hot knives from at the ’86 GP at Brands Hatch. I caught a glance whilst passing past of the shadow man moving toward the back of the car to be there when I reached that broad area.

He judders to a stop of sorts, one hand grasping the rear quarter panel of his car to let the rest of him catch up or come back to him, & in the other hand?, fortunately not his penis but simply a mug. The indefinite figure of a man obviously on the run from something or everything, perhaps not entirely different from my own circumstance, perhaps entirely different, with a bit more murder and stuff. He stared at me, with either menace, or what I took to be him trying to get focus on me in what I also took to be his drunk state. ‘Is this a public footpath?’ I asked in my best ‘don’t kill me Mr.’ type tone. I was peripherally aware he might be a landowner or agent thereof, furious at my intrusion ‘onna hees laaaarrrrn’. No reply save the continued glaring and swaying. I asked again and received a blurted indecipherable reply in addition to the previous glaring/swaying routine. My only presently functioning superpower ‘PervySense’tm tingled and hollered ‘move on’, so stepping back and raising my hands in the internationally recognised sign of ‘Now look here fella, we’s all don’t wants no troubles here no eh? We’s all seen Deliverance uh uhh eh?. Yesssss well there I’ll just be on my way aways yessir etc.’ I did just that, being only slightly mindful of an impending hammer in the back of the head - to tell you the truth I wouldn’t have minded, given the year I was having. I retired to a safe distance & carried on another safe distance or three for good measure.

At this belated point it dawned on my impaired mental ‘powers’ that I’d made something of a not insignificant mini-miscalculation, in that as you can see I was carrying on in the direction I’d been heading. Again with the base inability to hold coexisting thoughts already. It took me a way aways alright, though I’d now either have to a) sleep in a hedge further up, b) make my way round via the fields whilst being entirely bereft of even the slightest of stealth skills, or 3) very noticeably come back past the it & its living arrangements at some point. Second meetings can frequently be so awkward can’t they? After what seemed like a decent pause in which I smoked everything I had, followed by a just about tolerable period of vacillation in which I wished I had more smokes, I began to work back toward the amply adequate improvised bolthole (see, if you have a car you don’t need to buy a tent) & its drunk and/or dodgy dweller. There he was in the blue flicker boiling something (the blood of his last victim?), and muttering to his broken self. I didn’t stop as he may have killed me. I wished he would.

My next morning is the end of two nights in the shed of my dreams (no really, I’d worked out where I’d put the pillar drill and vapour blasting unit, the build bench, the hammock and everything), and I can’t help but come to the right-mind that I am taking more than I had ever given, and though there is no suggestion or indication of a feeling of nuisance or burden that my highly un-tuned sense of reading people wot I have not gotten can discern, still my innate ‘TwattySense’ tmtingles and I’ve no difficulty in deciding that I and my piffling needs are the least important thing in the startlingly present unpleasant picture, & as you would expect I resolved to move on - to diminish the mass of the yoke they were already lugging during such a difficult time, by about the equivalent of the full attenuation of me & my mess. I clearly have to be somewhere else, and there’s quite plainly only one sensible option…
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Old 09-06-2011, 07:39 AM   #1997
planktonnn OP
.also, i am a twat
 
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Joined: Jan 2008
Location: ...Fuckinemshite...
Oddometer: 3,550
Again, Ch. 3 pages 26 - 37, draft a final.

3 – Well I wood, wouldn’t I? (or, how my fire got put out…)

I did quite enjoy living in the woods, you know how it is. There was a certain glorious un-encumbered-ness, owning no more than could be carried on my motorbike, having nowhere to be at any particular time and nothing to do beyond the simple practicalities of fire and water; and perhaps most essentially no-one to be. I often didn’t see another human for days on end, quite lovely really. The odd plane now & again, but what with coinciding with 'ye olde terror of ye ash/engine interface' period there were few if any. Although I quite quickly lost my sense of time I imagine I was out there something toward 40 days all in, not quite the 49 of 'our buddies' Buddha but BLISS is indeed the word. I hadn't eaten more than twice or thrice in the last six weeks or so as I didn't feel the need for external manna to sustain my worthless body, I was now that which was once described as a ‘Useless Mouth’. But also fasting's a commendable policy when it comes to not having to shit, moreover not wanting to shit makes not feasting a doddle. Useful in both asylums & the woods I'm sure you'll agree - plenty of fluids though, L. had mentioned I should take plenty of fluids, and beware of sugar :-D

In choosing my free timber encircled palace I selected the local dogging woods simply because they're not actually the local dogging woods, but they do have a reputation as such: and so all the doggers keep away because nothing goes on, but all the norms stay away too because they think it does. This created the faultless formula for a bit of solitude as you might imagine. The locals were far enough away to not be on my improvised doorstep* but they were naturally & instantaneously incredibly curious, so on that first evening, when a passing ‘early-retirement mid 50’s ex-headmistress’ type enquired (semi-demanded) in a fortified but bristling tone to know ‘What the blazes’ I was doing there please? (you see?, always with the please). I sideways (thru the magical power of harmless clever lies TM) persuaded the old dog walking not-so-old not-so-trout that perhaps a friend of a local friend (no names, no names, discretion and all that you know!?!) perchance may have suggested I might like to stop by on my travails & ‘wood-sit’ awhile. There may have been a suggestion that through my presence alone I could in some small way discourage those visitors who were, shall we say, ‘walking a different type of dog’. My big black chunk of a scrappy motorbike and various hefty chains along with a few grunts and glares might help too. Without touching any one of course, we don’t want touching, that’s the whole point. 'Oh Marvellous!!!' she intoned most appreciatively, all the time steeped her best Daily Mail mindset.


* Which happened to be a half buried rock, the seemingly wholly natural manufacture of which was in the extant representation of a skull, bent by environment & wear, with moss eyes bedded in gaunt sockets, the lower jaw removed. I hadn’t seen it & sat there, but sat there & seen it, if you see where that’s at. I left it basically as was, save for added an couple of flint chips for teeth and a lobotomy scar…

Next morning she bought me a mug & flask of sweet black tea, and what a shock that was to be roused to. To be entirely frank I was unsure how long she’d been there before I came to, and now as I was drinking her succulent nectar she seemed to be watching me somewhat differently than before. If I’d not known better I’d have thought it to be reflexively desirous… Perhaps though it’s more likely I misunderstood as I’m a little useless with my ‘working out what’s going on with a woman’ skill set, which in any case had never been very strong. And besides I still loved my love…

My self propelled real-life Teasmade strolled around me chatting as I drank, and, while referring to there having been far more flash photography than one might expect in a wood, and that ‘These blasted people can’t control their Hamptons’* & should ‘Jolly-well bugger orf’, she brought together an assortment of easily portable available geology ranging downward from diminutive rocks to medium sized stones collected from within 5 metres of my residence – she circled them into a small hearth as I watched. To be fair to her and her externally implanted ‘opinions’ she said ‘It’s not just the homos you know, I’m disgusted by the normal ones too…’ Now, to you there on the other side of this ‘writting’ it may certainly seem as though I’ve done nothing but hoard clichéd chestnuts to etch out this implausible woman for you for the purposes of ‘literary’ convenience, but no, you know there are people out there actually like that. Some of you may well be those very people. If so, then what the hell are you doing reading this? You should stop as I’ll warn it just gets worse, in a couple of nights I piss myself!?!


* Hampton Wick = dick = the male penis. Now you know.


Only then did it cross my mind that she may have poisoned the tea. We all know that without fail there’s always a seemingly neat as a new pin poisoner in every TV village - I gulped deep on the remains of the beautiful beverage - please let her have poisoned the tea… Please? I’d not built a fire myself, being unsure of the specific subset of rules applying for this space. There were small sticks all around which she snapped & arranged conically, she finishing the last as I removed the float bowl from the left hand carburettor and dripped a few light splashes of its incendiary contents over the now materialized fire-place. I went a small distance to bring a fallen section of thicker branch, the end of which I lay over the already flaming kindling. ‘That should see off the morning damp’ she chirped. 'Oh Marvellous!!!' I intoned with just a little of the Bond eyebrow, and we exchanged waves as she walked off into the wood and I warmed my ass on the fire she left me.

Could you tell me, was I supposed to have followed her? I’m not very good at this shit. I didn’t want to and I’m (pretty) sure she didn’t want me to, but I could just do with a reference point. This stuff confuses the shit out of me you know?

I dried my bones and took up various poses to get to all the dampness and came to thinking that first nights slumber had been a positive pleasure - dry, not oppressively cold, entirely relaxed - the pleasantly seasonable circumstance made it quite possible to sleep there on the ground, even without a sleeping bag or other such primitively acquired conveniences, though of course the sleeping pills had helped... I’d fallen towards a settled slumber as all the silent stars made their way out, connecting me to the whole of the sky. And there I saw myself laying back into a narrow rivulet, and looking up through the liquefied lens of the clear flowing water above I breathed the heavy fluid deep within, and proceeded on down into the nadir of night where I saw the trees glide by on the banks. The drifting weeds swimming alongside me, a snapped twig floating above seeming to be stopping off in eddies & inlets almost as though looking for a job - ‘I’ve got three leaves & a flower to support you know!?!’ – All this and so much more until I stop breathing in the water and sink fully to the abysmal depths. This is sometimes how I sleep… Around 4am I woke and the world around was dark and the ground was cold with a damp chill, all was so quiet before the pre-dawn. The bikes vociferous exhaust tone tore a massive rip right thru the supreme quiet as I briefly warmed up the airhead engine, without letting it attain incendiary levels, and then, killing the dense din, I began huddling myself around the radiant lump. I gripped that metal mother until I dozed off again, imagining at that last moment of wakefulness I was enfolding the warmth of my lost little family. ‘Melodramatic Maudlin’ is the phrase. I dreamt of them for a couple of hours then had to do this warm up routine again around 6-ish, letting the snarl of the lumpy old motor ricochet through the trees as before, its renewed warmth comforting me enough to allow more much-required restfulness until finally being brought to something towards alertness by my morning delivery of succulent tea some-when before nine. All seemed well in my improvised new universe, but the 2nd nights sleep was altogether less successful.

I’d ridden back to Shitsville on reserve and one of the things on my list (along with getting my first short-back-and-sides in ages, a visit to the League Of Janets* & footing it to the high street and watching the mass of human pigs making all their busy plans, whilst I stood begging for smokes with a simple handwritten sign that read ‘I NEED ROLLUPS’) was of course to pick up a cheap sleeping bag. While at the hypermarket for a generic fried breakfast & fuel stop, a £7 value-range bag saw me set up for the 2nd night I thought. But as usual I’d salved yesterdays predicament without solving the oncoming tempest – You see I can learn from yesterday but no longer from tomorrow.


* I had worked in a building full of Women called Janet, and while ‘inside’ they’d kindly supplied me with writing materials, inner tubes & tobacco etc. We are all Janet, even if only at the weekend :-D

They were out of stock of the £7 value-range tents that day, but anyway a grand total of £14 seemed an awful lot when it came to setting up home from scratch, besides, the weather was good no? I’d be warm now & that solves that no?. Might we see there one of the as yet un-given tenets of Solvation? – Squeaky Wheel Gets Oiled First. Or - If a thing intrudes into Happy it is to be solved without delay. Come on, lets start simple eh? Foundation contemplations of startling plainness, which may otherwise be regarded or received as stupidisms, but are here identified as standing out from the otherwise intricate compound prattle-tattle-ticker-tape cacophony of common subsistent thoughts... to snatch individual water molecules from the throng of the passing river, which others may only be conveyed by?

There are benefits to beating out of sync with common civilization, the simplest of which is to be out from under the umbrella of imposed opinion which is jointly called media. No wireless net or mobile signal there amongst the trees. I know it’s a sub political simplism but to relieve myself of ‘their’ ink and broadcast ilk, it was a positive release, a departure to a state where I’d no idea what was said about whatever was being thought about whichever horrendous societal injustices & self-evident thefts perpetrated by dynastic institutions were happening simultaneously all around the globe that day. I didn’t want to know, does anybody really? And what do you do about it when you do know? There is no solving for others and so separating oneself from their world is the only gleeful bliss to be had. However, to unreservedly eradicate all previous programming would be actual freedom, which is after all impossible. But this here exquisite media detachment that was actually obtainable also had what I’m guessing you people would describe as a down side, which was simply the absence of weather reports. Not Weather Report, they’re shit, yer actual meteorological guesses n stuff innit? After a day of more ‘entirely pointless to describe’ nothings, and following a comfortably unhurried evening of woodiness & hush (which included just one passing (& reversing) visit from a car of likely lads & drunk women) I came to improbable repose on the gravely/pebbly floor beneath the outer fringe of the most grand & principal tree that dominated my environs. Enveloped in my new blue rectangular quilted abode with my bikes tank-bag as a pillow of sorts, it wasn’t comfort as I had ever known it, but it was one block of one layer of an inverted pyramid of don’t needs, as in ‘don’t need to get cold’, i.e. issues prioritised themselves via intruding into my ‘happy’ leading to ‘squeaky wheel gets oiled first’ – I was otherwise oblivious.

I wriggled in a dismal disquiet at my great discomfort on the same floor which I’d had zero issue with the night before, until with immense fortune and sizeable relief, and utterly by chance, I happen upon finding a particular pose, position & degree of rotation that brought a suitably sized, perfectly shaped rock to lay directly beneath the spot in my back that was causing my bleak distress. And yet in that exact orientation the rest of my body was absolutely comfy & untroubled by my mattress of pebbles & stones. There was a very slight slope from the tree towards the gate, yet my assumed position provided a scalloped stone right there at my feet which aided my leggy arrangements. The tank-bag-pillow rested by the Skull-stone. The back pain was middle left, just off the spine, and was the outcome of years of slouching hopelessly, or perhaps a roughly healed break in the ribs from some crash or other. Right there and then I resolved that if I were ever to re-inhabit that marital bed from which I was so understandably cast down, impossible though that may be, but if…, then I would have to come back & dig up this remedy made of stone and place it under ‘my’ side of the mattress. Such a thing would never be done for it was impossible for me to return there to the heart of my erstwhile family. But for the here & now the protruding boulder dynamically kneaded me towards easing of my cricked corporeal ache, much as the tree had done back in that first copse*. I was now at mental rest, looking at shapes where the cloud free dusky sky cut thru the shifting foliage, and as nightfall moved ever more towards unbroken darkness I too glid into the calm stream of that swimming adrift which we have called sleep, though this time I wasn’t sinking in a stream, but instead travelling along a corridor of ever increasing size. Have you ever glid before? Surely you have.


* Does a rock massage count as unfaithful? I just wanted to check you know?

I’d glid into the acute admissions ward with comparatively minimal effort, considering the trouble most have in accessing ‘services’ for their ill heath, which usually ends up with them doing overtly ‘Oh yes they is nuts’ stuff at which point someone else becomes obliged to take action. But you see as my silver bullet I deployed the magic words. That is the catch all - can’t ignore - ward unlocking – must react to - never fails concept of ‘I will kill me’.

This was the day I’d arranged to vacate the family home, and in the late morning I’d had a pre-booked assessment meeting with mental health services at which I naturally raised the issue of self murder. This resulted in a 3.15 pm GP appointment and a referral to ‘The Crisis Team’. On returning to the empty house I sat in still hush* until just before 3pm. I’d packed all the things I thought I’d need to hand, tidied the house, done any outstanding laundry & dishes, hoovered etc. Very nearly everything else I owned was packed from out of the house into my shed, excepting a couple of sensitive electrical bits, a few NAB reels of quarter inch audio tape that hadn’t yet been digitised, & some data CDs, none of which would relish or survive the dankness in the shed. Out of the way on a shelf in the lounge I placed a set of four small tins, each stamped with an elephant, each sized to fit inside the preceding, and in the smallest inner tin a ring depicting elephants, all of which my dearest Rudi had given me a long, long time ago. On that last afternoon in the house I had no consciousness of the reason why I left it there, and I still don’t know. At 3pm sharp I left the house as I’d promised, locked the door, and posted the keys in an envelope along with a cheque book & debit card on the joint account, which had held my redundancy & now stood at or very near zero of our english pounds. I also left the NHS payment exemption card that came under my youngest sons disability living allowance re his Asperger Syndrome**. I really didn’t feel I could legitimately continue to claim free prescriptions under an allowance that was based around & awarded to a family I was, from that very moment, no longer part of. I’d also cut up my two credit cards, both of which were at or near zero (I think one had forty pence owing?) so that I didn’t leave or accumulate any debts for which we might diagonally be deemed jointly liable. I included a note asking if I might retain the wedding ring, mine of the pair Rudi made for us, keeping it for the meantime at least. I rang my erstwhile father in law & left an answer-phone message saying I’d vacated the property and would not return, but that for the sake of stability the family rightfully could. Don’t imagine that I could think of any of this as chivalrous or right-on. I was a sick cunt & that’s why I couldn’t live there with them, or perhaps more rightly the reverse, for which I cannot find it in myself to blame them at all.

* Apart from the bit where I sobbed & punched myself :-D
** For which I believe myself to be genetically responsible :-(

At the Doctors appointment I had much the same conversation as in the morning, and the GP referred me to the crisis team, and told me to call him again if I’d not heard from them in two hours… He was unable to prescribe the meds I’d run out of as I had nothing to pay for them with, having zero cash & no extant grounds for exemption. Overall, luckily, I’m quite aware of how these sorts of things pan out in practice, and my Doctors surgery is just round the corner from Nuthouse Major. So I jumped on the motorbike to make my way directly there. As I sat at the T junction outside the Doctors a scrappy 40 ton(ne – which is bigger?) lorry was approaching at a somewhat higher than speed limit speed, and at the very last before it hustled past I fleetingly slowed all time and had a blissful reflex to leave go my clutch & brake, jerk out across its tragedic trajectory and see my glad release in it’s unstoppable pounding momentum… I saw it all happen in a brief eternal instant, then drove on, though there are many times since I regret having not taken the option. Instead I went directly to the parking at Nmaj., and there I waited for the two hours to expire. Exactly. I need not have gone there, need not have stayed there, could have fallen thru this utterly nonsensical fissure in arrangements and just set myself free from this carbon based reality we (you) call home. But at that time I was driven to hold still, and held by a due desire not to harm Rudi & our Children thru completing the act I most greedily desired. That ending of me. Yes, it’s so fucking melodramatic & me-me-me & petulant & do it or shut up. It’s just I’m so fucking tired you know? Back at the railway line years past where I last considered self murder there was no-one else to be impacted upon, no-one that mattered anyway. However, now there were four innocents.

At the exact passing of two hours waiting, in my mind's eye we all five walked together into Nmaj. reception & presented me into a place of safety, so that in those looming moments where my ‘Do no harm’ rationale (above) could not sustain itself against my ‘YOU DO HARM’ I might be inconvenienced out of action by (theoretical) oversight by staff or at least via a limitation of opportunity i.e. they cut off the lower branches of the trees in the ward garden, and otherwise limit opportunities for strangulation through the design of showers & handles and so on (though there was one spot you could’ve manage it, ssshhh :-D). Had I not gone to wait at Nmaj. on that first day, stayed there, and held tight the invisible hands as I went into reception, then ‘You do harm’ would have undoubtedly prevailed effortlessly. So I duly presented my frayed & collapsing disease riddled parody of ‘myself’ to the crisis team members who had been immediately convened by the kind & perceptive Reception Staff, and I showed them the state of me… Then I was locked in.

Now, back out, and in my wooded time all was well within the limitless confines of my cuntry car-park, and sunken in my refuge from actuality I let go such remembrances as these, & cared as little as I was able for everything anywhere beyond. I slipped across into a sheltered slumber sometime around utter darkness, that being whatever time that it was when the sleeping pills kicked in long after I dryly sucked on them, having run out of water. Tomorrow I must make sure I got more water.

Some considerable time later I was woken by the lightest of tip-tapping, just as the opening salvo of the coming rains began to hit the tail end of my overly porous cheaply acquired but for the most part functionary nylon cocoon. Despite teething troubles everything was going quite well and the circumstance was ok, at least better than being on an acute psych ward, which had of course been the other option. Overall I’d rather have been living in my Shed-Quarters, it would have offered everything I needed, however it was back ay ‘home’, and there was no other space being offered on which to pitch it… This initial trickle of sky-piss had been enough to lift me from the stream of my dream and I bemusedly prepared to initiate ‘Operation Not Soaked’. I can’t say I’d planned it sufficiently well but things started out ok as I’d just spared myself the grossly inconvenient indignity of becoming sodden straight off the bat, but from there on in arrangements predominantly consisted of me being stood up, leaning against the base of the magnificent tree, sleeping bag worn wrong-way-down over my head just like an ankle length hat. I let the weighty sleep meds lower my threshold of ‘BLOODY HELL’ to the point where I dozed off a couple of hours at a time. Yes, I have conducted scientific tests and it is in reality possible to slumber solidly when saturated while slumped on a tree in standing somnambulism, I proved it, though I might suggest there comes a point where being beside the tree as it conduits & funnels accumulated water towards its heart doesn’t work so well no? Each swaying branch or shaken leaf was aiming its moist cargo unswervingly in the direction of my shivering en-sleeved semi-self, but I just stood there and took it. Maybe you should try it if you’ve not already? To model all this in a convenient manner switch off the lights in your shower room, stand leaning against a tree analogue, or just put a bit of actual mossy tree in your shower if you’re really dedicated. Wear a cheap sleeping bag bottom-end-on-top and have the shower turned to the coldest cold. Now internally repeat ‘Noah calling Mount Ararat, come in Ararat...’ and switch on a couple of very cold fans. Make an effort to synthesize the overwhelming, nay - all encompassing sensation of your entire life having collapsed, and then get to sleep for two hours at a time. Granted any discovery has to be replicable to find its place in the pantheon of scientific opinion, but given the right physical, pharmacological and psychological conditions you could do it. I did. Let me know how you get on.

As a broadly relevant aside: While we’re trying out other peoples experiences (yes we were) might I humbly suggest that trainee psych staff be made to ‘mystery shop’ a ward in the guise of a patient as part of their training. It would not be too hard as they are all mad too. They’d only do a couple of days, and I can’t imagine it would do anything but illuminate their profession to them & feed into their future practice. Might I suggest the same in the education of judges, police, prison warders etc. ad inf., which ever their relevant placement might be to each of their future functions. Can’t hurt the self-confirming arrogant assed born-in-a-bubble-bastards can it?

I was now completely and utterly soaked. The hospital had run me on pretty weighty sleep meds, and that was what I was discharged with, and they were certainly able to keep me well & truly out until I’d become irreparably drenched in a wood in the middle of the night, now slumped at the base of the tree that was supposed to be helping me. I don’t think it said anything about that in the leaflets accompanying the variously coloured pills & capsules, but I couldn’t have told you because I’d burnt them already, they gave off blue-green flames in an earlier vain attempt to enflame my fire, which had long ago died out. Personally, I’m disappointed it took me far too long to grasp that it was drier out away from the tree than under. Now I’ve little doubt that in the right circles this is a well-known thing. Well I didn’t know.

By around 4.30am I could no longer submerge myself with sufficient commitment to maintain my wretched saturated semi-sleep, and was forced to take action. Now, one of the League Of Janets had kindly passed on a Bill Bryson book to keep my infantile ill-exercised intellect somehow occupied in my woody time. I’ve not read him before and didn't particularly get engaged by the first couple of pages, and so when I got soaked in the rain that night his hard backed & voluminous work came in very helpful - I opened it in a fanned fashion, added a little petrol and hurriedly set it alight to form the core of my nascent fire - drying my ass off is possibly (probably) the best use his works ever been put to... I imagine it might make him happy though? I know it made the League Of Janets laugh, but whether or not it’s literary sacrilege I couldn’t really say, I’ve only read 2 pages* This fire making circa Fahrenheit 451 capability is one benefit of the printed word that e-books may find exceptionally hard to triumph over. My hearth was also warmed by cigarette rolling papers that had become unavoidably conjoined into a huge unusable concertina by the all invasive wet. This of course spells disaster for us roll-your-owners, and I learnt that night to store packets in different locations so if some went with the wet, it wasn’t a total disaster. In an inverted way I’d had the same problem on Barbados, in that the humidity did the same conjuring act of transforming rolling papers into a pack-long string too challenging even for Mssrs. Cheech & Chong off on a weekend in Amsterdam.


* Harry Heine 1797-1856: ‘Where one burns books, there one eventually burns people’

On the isle of the bearded trees finding cigarette rolling papers presents problems in itself, as tax on ready-mades is so low that no-one smokes roll-ups unless the contents are, shall we say, home-made. Again the tragedy of capitalism, as was the case in what was until recently my home estate, we see people being so gripped by poverty that they’re forced to share their smokes… There are beach access laws in Barbados, and though we were staying in beautiful Cattlewash on the east coast, some way off from the tourist version of the island, we once travelled to access a beach through one of the ‘celebrity’ haunted hotel complexes, exercising a right of way the site security guards would rather we didn’t know about. As we left some time later I had a roll up before getting into the hire car to purposely get lost again just so we could wander around the island by whimsical providence. The shift guard approached & remonstrated with me for smoking weed on his site, always in a pleasant island way, but nonetheless troubled. It took a little explaining to get him to sniff the poor innocent nicotine provider, and grasp that high tax on ready-mades at home meant roll-ups = significant savings, and that swapping to tailor-mades on holiday wasn’t appreciated by a connoisseurs palate. He ultimately understood and smiled us off, and I wished so very wholly that we were somehow made able to ‘Crusoe’ it in a colourful chattel house in a quiet corner of that island, and see just how little we really needed vs. how much we just wanted. It was my failure that had seen such sublime sanctuary unsecured, and now, thru the redundancy & failure to recover health, it was forever beyond reach.

By this point in the here and then the drizzle had lessened out there in the open, though my ‘helpful’ tree friend continued to channel its accumulated cargo of condensed cloud so that it rained more under than out from under. My literally literary fire had caught, and with the addition of previously collected wood I began working myself towards dryness, once or twice almost setting fire to the steaming ass of my pants. After suitable levels of ‘not wet, let’s get on’ were reached I damped down the fire & fired up the bike, and headed back towards Crapopolis, taking a short ‘sojourn par sandwich or similar’ in the nowhere that is Wendover. I sheltered from rain in the doorway of a hardware store & watched the morning fruit & veg stalls setting themselves up, as I consumed calories supplied in the much more convenient shape of a can of Dunns River Nourishment, rather than in the solid (subsequently stool inducing) form of the fruit or the veg or convenience store sealed tuna sandwiches etc., that were accumulating there before me. Having assembled their bedouin ‘Vegetarium’ the traders gathered around mugs of tea to look at the bike, then to look at me, and then at the bike again, and I felt it was time to skeedaddle. Not thru any sense of nuisance or danger, merely because that particular morning I just didn’t want/couldn’t encompass talking to people. So instead I rode the wet roads straight to the Doctors surgery to stick in a repeat prescription request and try to sneak a little ‘dry’, as of course I was now soaked again. Drenched but thirsty.

Some time after I’d finished the scrip forms (complete with new hospital levels of pillage) and had popped them in the requisite box I remained in the waiting room sitting quietly by a seemingly heatless radiator in the far corner. Eventually, as I failed to warm from the outside I fancied a coffee of sorts from the machine near the desk, and this gave the normally pleasant & quite chatty receptionist opportunity to ask if I had an appointment, in what seemed to me to be a much more frosty & sternly disapproving manner. Perhaps it was just me, but I felt judged & scolded. I’d shuffled out from the safety of my distant corner and was in the process of trying to understand the one armed bandit that was their public drinks dispenser, so I guess she’d leapt in with her query whilst I’d broken cover was vulnerable out in the open at that end of the waiting room, but her communication coincided with me having pushed a button that started the machine into life, either making me a coffee for a cup I’d not yet found or initiating the self destruct mechanism with all the attendant steam & beeping & lights & countdown. She was asking, it was wheezing & whirring towards imminent puddle or implosion & I just did a confused dance which I quite naturally expected her to interpret as a simple but eloquent representation of ‘Ooh, are there any cups, hang on, it’s dispensed one, ok, now what were you asking?’. What must people think of we madites? To make things simple I simply lied and told her I was meeting someone there in 10 minutes and then going on somewhere else. Like any good fib I could have stretched it out in any one of 15 directions of plausible explanations if pushed, however she, like most, was satisfied with just a headline justification as to why an itinerant puddle had taken up squatters rights in the far corner of her waiting room, so she left it at that. I left too, true to the word of my lie after a further 15 minutes or so, but how exactly does one pull a face of ‘Bloody hell, they’ve not turned up, I’m not hanging around, thanks, byeeee’. I think I’m one step closer to knowing.

When I sat back on the bike I got a fresh load of wet arse that undid all the ‘dry warm chair’ I’d just mendaciously purloined, but I also noticed the sky was clearing and that the ‘great sleeping bag drier in the sky’ was shining thru intermittently. So I made my way ‘home’ and set about some housework in the woods. I found my blue cocoon still there, draped over a fence as I’d left it, and set it out drying on a bench, which it did with quite remarkable speed. I too dried out, and was struck with an urge to tidy my environs, so took a carrier bag & collected up discarded beer cans gulped down by alcoholics who’d stopped off on their way home from work to sup a quickly before gargling mouth wash & driving off. Food packaging cast away by secret snackers, and yes, just one condom, dealt with like hazardous waste as best I could. I put this collection of the detritus of others by the gate, away from ‘my’ area, to try and best illustrate that it wasn’t me making all that mess, oh no. I could really have done with running water though I had some one litre bottles filled at the local garage – Exterior design, what a headache…

But now I also had an interior to consider as I’d relented and bought one of the (back in stock) £7 tents given last nights debacle. Wet intruded into happy and triggered a solution. Think what you like but reality always sets you right, ‘Caesars Commentaries on the Conquest of Gaul’ refer to having a clear battle plan which understands resources & terrain, then getting on the field of play and just killing people depending on what happens, you know? I might see it as ‘Flex plans to meet actuality, it’s only infrequently possible to do the reverse’. Is this another tenet of Solvation? Or simply an act of submission? A symbol of a giving-in a young self told me he wouldn’t do those two or three generative cycles ago.

The value range tent was indeed value, pretty good quality & fit for purpose, and took just a few minutes to put up. I didn’t pin down the fly sheet separately but mounted it with the over arching flexible poles at the groundsheet corners, so that nothing at all was actually nailed to the floor, in the event of me having to vacate super fast it could just be lifted easily and placed outside the gate. I positioned the tent so it rested on top of my rocky rubdown bedstead, and tied the door flap to the motorbike, the skull-stone lay naturally at my door, with the hearth just out of ‘easily starting a tent fire’ range. Having said this, once I was established in what I thought was a clever arrangement I lay my phone before me while I affectionately welcomed the life heat of the fire, and a crackle-pop-ping later an ember had hurtled itself from its hell and landed on my phone screen with much slightly melty effect. That’s one of the innumerable hexes I’m evidently stricken with - ‘The Curse of the Mildly Inconvenient’ - little things, all the bloody time, it’s quite irritating really though straight off I can think of 50 things I would have done to deserve it all somehow to someone somewhere. It’s a bit petty though don’t you think? I mean what must I have done that meant that I would be eternally plagued by running out of blank CDs when I only needed one more to complete the task at hand; or I just arrange somewhere to stack my iPod touch with content & I drop it smashing the screen; or having a passing thought that X programme currently on cable was not quite as dull as I thought it might be and then the cable box freezes; or daring to think the audio track or video mix I was doodling with was just starting to stop ‘not work’ and the system crashes; or I’d be riding away from having secured the distant possibility of some work and just as I’m thinking ‘that went well’ I get a nail thru my tyre and have to borrow £10 from one of the League Of Janets for an inner-tube; or I’m constructively dismissed; or my entire life implodes; or; or; etc ad inf. Everything just begins to go ‘not entirely badly’ and then bang. It’s like standing backwards on the edge of the cliff, and the pitiless game gives me one step forward & two steps back. To paraphrase Einstein contrarily 'In the middle of opportunity lies difficulty'. The glass is half full, but half full of PISS... Oh this Vita Detestabilis.

So we’re agreed that my weather reading skills need work, but this tent should cover last nights Intrusions Into Happy, and if it didn’t I could turn up sodden on Asstralls doorstep, as long as it’s not after having taken my sleep meds, under which I lost too much balance to ride. I was also wholly averse to appearing there as he lived directly beneath the flat that had been our first marital home, the place we brought our first born home to - and being beneath there unlocked a distressing assortment of unkind refractions of recollections of the former state I so desperately thirsted for… Still, at least I had enough actual water to keep me going today.
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planktonnn screwed with this post 09-06-2011 at 08:18 AM
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Old 09-06-2011, 07:52 AM   #1998
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Again, Ch. 3 pages 37 - 47, draft a final.

There in that wooded time I did have such elongated periods of no thinking. Now, for one as ignorant as I, not thinking is both easy and hard, but the sense of having no-one to be, mixed with utter powerlessness, eased from me the need to try to think of ways forward, or solutions to what was behind, and so an empty headed jerkin' gherkin such as I was, at times, able to become truly empty headed. All without the aid of a formalised religious structure or the payment of even the slightest membership fees. I should now charge others subscription fees to reach the same void. All I need is a wood & sack-fulls of willing cashed-up suppli-cunts. Yet another unlikely, undeliverable business plan devised in every detail in just a flash of thought. I’ve got hundreds of original TV shows devised, & licensed spin-offs worked out too, the least of which is ‘My name is not Earl’ wherein I find ‘everyone who ever pissed me off but I didn’t mention it’ and incessantly swear & rage at them for whatever it was, whenever it was; Or for the late-night audience perhaps I could sub-license ‘Big Brothel’, the natural final base extension of the genre; Or perhaps at a stretch ‘I’m a minor celebrity get that out of me!’ wherein various incongruent items are inserted into inconsequential former famous persons in an attempt to see how far they’ll forego self respect to re-kindle their past livelihood etc. Again, probably a late night one eh? One day I may come up with a plan that would actually work, though it seems doubtful doesn’t it. Out in't woods I only had no solar charger and a cracked screened iPod Touch full of assorted vids I’d made & some spoken word versions of books I could identify from a single Vectabook Touchscreen graphic my dear insightful & massively capable L. once sent me. Even we hedgehogs have to make an effort toward enlightenment you know? By a circuitous route, powerlessness does indeed lead to dealing with loss with aplomb, because if you can't do anything about something, you can't deal with anything, ergo the end result of clear headedness, even if reached through stupidity rather than wisdom. I could ‘Will To No Power’.

As far as actual battery power was concerned, I worked out two or three places in Cacktown where, whenever I got the chance I could sit beside a spare mains socket & surreptitiously juice up the iPod and ‘I ditn’t do fuffink’ steal away my electric swag (the specific offence is one of abstracting electricity), though on one occasion I did pull the plug on a photo booth by mistake. The delightful & compassionate League of Janets had been kind in so very many ways, one of which was net access for topping up the iPod content with a reading of Mr Happy A. Schopenhauers ‘Studies in Pessimism’ and other light listening to keep me occupied. I’ve still to find a reading of Ouspenkis ‘In Search of the Miraculous’ (£128 on Amazon?!?) - Oh the troubles & privations I face…

For example, does the person that inhabits the space set aside for your personality seek to project or imagine futures? When faced with ‘any given reality’ does that you inside of yours produce an incessant torrent of potentials & possibilities however unquestionably unbelievable they might be? Does your s/he that is also your me reach beyond the reasonable & attainable limits of what might actually really actually be do-able in the real world?, and do you get stupid thoughts of what’d be just downright perfect even though they’re obviously observably clearly impossible? You may know by now that I do it repetitively. All aspiration/no actual ability. Always, forever, for all time, for eternity, until the end of time, for ever and a day, at all times, all the time, constantly - Always. You guessed that yeah? This is why I need a benevolent billionaire/ss, who isn't easily offended, making undemanding fiscal overtures towards my little self. At the very least they could pay to point & laugh, none of this Equipe Excellante nonsense, more "Look at what this clods done now :-D". So sort of like this here writting here, but cashed up. I could come to terms with being somebodys tax write-off. I’m not proud. Do I possess nothing that can be moneterised even on a miniature level? Oh the fickle fates of skill distributions...

I’d thought long since of seeking out the bliss-ed haven of a secular non-ascetic hermitage within which to become without. A simple place where one might revive the vocational craft of Anchorites, & in my all alone time to explore Platos exhortation to ‘become not a man, but a beast or a god’. Still though, despite even my most excellent attempts to find an expedient road to dehumanisation & friendlessness thru Hermitry, it seems such luscious openings only arise exceptionally infrequently, if at all these days, and when they do (they don’t) they do almost universally have a tendency to be either a great deal too interconnected to X religion (i.e. any dogma is too much dogma for me); or to the self–deluding remnants of hippydom, still expecting to prevail over the base selfishness I see scribed onto the core of human nature; or opportunity is dispensed at the whim of capricious benefaction from the wealthy senile remnants of Ibn Khalduns thoroughly undeserving 4th & 5th generation collapsing post-industrial cash-carried Ninnies, who might quite probably insist on a vibrational test in Toulouse before deigning to open the path to the paradise pad down by the rock pools; or are basely bungled at their very root, their foundation fouled by some other appalling jambalaya of well intentioned yet lucent socio-politico-spiritual foolishness. Any of the above, and by extension the myriad other undescribed expressions of the same basic principles, offer much too distorted a lens to see ‘poor twisted irreligious non-hippy unsociable non-theist antipathist catch-all personality disordered’ me toward anything even approaching ‘alone’ – The results are now in, and I can tell you that for me there is no available isolated anchorage within which to quarantine or edit out my uncomplicated plain-old misanthropic rage.

It’s not as if you can even apply for the post of Hermit on any of the great estates any more. One used to be able to sign up for seven years (payment on completion), and were obliged to strike a pose of cultured contemplation or tragedic melancholia when your Lord, his retinue or his goat passed by. So not that unlike religion after all? They were not to cut their beard or nails, leave the grounds, talk to the servants, attack the guests, or wear anything other than a camel-hair robe. But where do you see that kind of job advertised? Is there a section for it in one of the daily papers? Or a specialised media outlet or at least an association newsletter? There is a (oh so predictably) sparsely inhabited web forum at www.hermitary.com/forum/ though I couldn’t find a ‘Situations Vacant’ section. What circles should one be moving in to come across such an opportunistic opening? And how does one infiltrate the rich when ones unfortunate personality causes one to seek out ‘separate’ in the first place? For sure this stolen right of self-seclusion was victim to the land inclosures, & the imaginary right of ownership over the soil around us all, the underground beneath it & the overground above to the top of the sky. Surely the mooted migration of the whole human nation was just a matter of someone getting to the point of thinking ‘Fuck this, I’m moving over those hills to get away from these twats’. If such were so, you’d really have to hand it to those hardy peoples of the furthest north no? A people prepared to endure populating privatious polar habitations just to get away from the rest of us.

And could it be a better life?

Well, whilst at contemplatious peace in this days ending here in my wooded time, I drank deep of the extra water I’d collected from the nearest gas station, and I let me loose to take a mental rambling route that led me to let me wander & wonder, and therein to envision a brilliantly complicated and/or simple design for a home I could build there, subject of course to being allowed to, which you wouldn’t, as I’ve no doubt already moaned about, and will again. There was a raised doughnut (torus?) shaped living space encircling the great tree I’d made my current home, built to two imaginary floors looking over an inner courtyard dominated by the living timber centrepiece. There would of course be fully kitted workshop facilities for both Rudi, myself & the kids in San-Zhi like pods at differing heights on the outside of the ring, modular additions of further pods would of course be possible as and when required, eventually becoming spokes to an outer ring, or semicircular section thereof, one floor above ground with a basement below, all in phase three of the development. For sure it all had an unashamed unselfconscious derivative/referential quoting of 60’s ‘future buildings’, but would be the ideal refuge we deserved so much & needed so desperately. There was of course much more detail to the exquisite magnificent design & fitting out of the impossible dwelling that was my pointless dream, but there’s really no function in going any further because absolutely none of the components of ‘getting this done’ are anywhere near being in place. Nepotistic ‘career’ development & consequent finance, land ownership, architects drawings, relevant permissions from ‘friends on the panel’, materials, production of modules, earth moving machinery, construction & assembly labour, a family to share a perfect home with…

Why on earth did I bother to conceive yet another unobtainable ridiculousness, an added absolute impossibility, one more unreachable contentment to whine about & pine over, whilst all the time I couldn’t even get my life together enough to get a dry nights sleep? The reason is quite simple, it’s because I’m an enormous twat - an idiot trapped in the life of an imbecile directed by the brain of a fucktard… All the plans hadn’t come together, ever. All the grandiloquent quests had flopped, all the pompous purposes were dispersed & fell short, every attempt had been stymied, mired deep in almost cavernous incapability & innate ‘unable’. I was simply a ‘could not’ within the societal context set by the generic/ubiquitous ‘them/they/their’, because if ‘their’ set of measurements were applied then, if I were a ‘could’, I too would be brazenly exhibiting the visible spoils of confirmatory acquisitive ‘winning’, and I’d have 5 houses & private schooling for the kids, or an international (tax free) career and early retirement in the western shires (why does the abuser always profit?), or at the very least a bloody doughnut shaped pod house in the fucking woods. For fucks sake I’d make do with a couple of buried shipping containers end to end, or side by side with an adjoining portal - a poor mans underground space station… Like when people used to build their houses replete with nuclear bunkers, only without the house bit on top.

But even simple ‘warm & dry’ had shown themselves to be beyond my feeble wits to arrange. Things weren’t going very well, and they hadn’t really been going well for something around 45 years, and I wasn’t getting any of the validating signs of being at the ‘winning’ end of the stick – strictly the shitty end for yours truly, just as usual. In case of any doubt, this was undeniably not a good thing. I took a long swig of the last of my water to wash down the pills I’d need to get any sleep at all with all this shit on my mind. All this and so very much more leaves me forever feeling extraordinarily & breathtakingly low, and ultimately leads me to the inescapable conclusion that there is but one simple truth in my life – ‘Nothing Cannot Be Destroyed’. That is to say that only by wholly expunging all aspirations, plans, aims & goals can I lead myself to the becalmed peace I ask for, in that whatever I try always goes wrong, ergo if I try ‘nothing’ then there will be nothing to go wrong. Pure sophistry on one level of course, in that the nothingness itself could be broken or mis-formed, and something might in fact come off by mistake, however my disproportionately bad reactions to the trifling tumbles & trip-ups of everyday ‘alive’ leave me irrestorably broken & lame. A suspiciously large number of things go wrong, and I am the one common factor between them all. It’s enough to bring one to what in that little sliver of America aboard Fidels little lifeboat would be recorded as having reached ‘The Futility State’. It leaves me ‘thinking about the jaws of life, and how they chew you up and spit you right back out into the frying pan’, and I can say aloud that the unceasingly recurring negative nature of this ‘luck’ scares me.

Now, you tell me. How can I face you unabashed and tell you that I woke the next morning and had right royally pissed myself? What!?! Have you never? I don’t mean in childhood, but as an adult? And not just a little leak, but a full bladder unwillingly unloaded. Well I don’t need an excuse, but I have one - I was so under with sleep meds that I’d not been roused by my body signalling its needs, and even the ‘dreaming you’re pissing’ big ringing alarm bell hadn’t alerted my somnambulate self. I’d had too much water intake the day before (because of dehydration the day prior to that), and the dam inevitably busted itself wide open. But it was far too late to do anything about that now, and it happens to us all one time or another doesn’t it? No? You’re liars :-D

I guess I can say there was only one time in my life where I’d been genuinely happy to piss myself. It was back when I was being made redundant, and I’d screamed my battered de-piped BMW K75 121,000 mile rat-bike away from a staff meeting in not the best of moods, in full knowledge that the following day I’d be in a meeting with my ‘superiors’ being formally notified of what was already an appallingly unsuccessfully kept secret. ‘Left or right at the gate?’ is something that’s obviously troubled most of us at one time or another. Right was medium speed twisty & across the hills, left was flat out dual carriageway. Both took me to home, and I probably ought to have taken the former, though the latter better suited my mood, and I paid for this poor choice by hitting the roundabout at the far end head first, followed immediately, it seems, by the bottom of the bike, and the engine thoughtfully bashed my head back into the roundabout brickwork as evidenced by the sump marks on the back of my shattered helmet, and the little tuft of my jacket on the bottom of the gearbox, torn off as it hit the rear of my left shoulder. Wear marks on my gloves showed I must have landed on my palms and slid before hitting the roundabout and pain in my wrists & shoulder seemed to confirm this, but I couldn’t really tell you, as I don’t remember anything at all of the impact itself, only approaching the junction that ended the dual carriageway and lifting off & braking early, my lane entirely clear. I hadn’t been going that fast anyway, and started the slowing process in plenty of time, but the bike seemed to push on a little* and started bucking on the suspension as the rear wheel slid & gripped & slid. A vehicle ahead in the stationary other lane began to indicate & made to pull out into my lane so I initiated uncontrolled movement towards the outside, and in the gravely dirt & diesel there the brakes & suspension misbehaved even more vociferously, and the last thing I can remember is being high-sided & cast off the right front of the bike by the widening centre reservation at the junction, towards the curving brickwork, with the bike following me. I hadn’t had a lot of choice at the time - it was either that or lay it down in a low-side slide, at the end of which trajectory lay a moving articulated lorry or three. At the time it seemed a good choice but there are times I wish…

* A failed throttle position sensor.

As you can imagine the above resulted in an undefined period of unconsciousness, and, as is so often the case in such crashy matters, it was right then that my bladder thought ‘fuck it’ & let go. Did it not realise I’d guess what it’d done given the lack of alternative likely suspects? Maybe it thought it’d get away with it because I’d be confusedly convinced that someone else had sauntered along & pissed on me while I was spark out? But I wasn’t hoodwinked. Any of you whose life has included (or includes) the potential to knock yourself out will fully recognise my bladders bitter betrayal of me given the circumstances. This must have happened to most motor-bicyclists whether they like it or not, but after all this descriptive guff this wasn’t even the actual time I was pleased, almost joyous, to have pissed myself. No, that came a short while later, after having been questioned by ambulance staff as to the date & my mobile number (and explaining I never knew either so this was no sign of brain injury), and having declined medical service* & then dealt with the filthy pointy headed cnuts who trailered the bike away having promised to pay the recovery fee**. I was then offered a lift home by a ‘colleague’ who’d pulled over. The bike was almost untouched & eminently roadworthy as I appear to have cushioned it somewhat, but the aforementioned cnuts wouldn’t let me ride it away with a smashed helmet, so I chained the bike to a lamp-post for later retrieval, and took up the offer of the lift back into Shitopolis.

* I always decline hospitalisation unless there’s something sticking out or hanging off. I’ve absolutely zero desire to sit in A&E for hours when there’s little or nothing they can do.
** They didn’t of course the lying cnuts, they kept it for a vehicle inspection, which it passed of course, and then I had to pay £266.00 to release it from the ‘you’ll have to talk to the coppers boy’ yard.

Then, while being ferried by a despicable woman who I knew was one of the primaries in my impending removal, who would be behind the enacting that dismissal in the meeting tomorrow, and who had repeatedly been a big shit whenever possible, it occurred to me that from my point of view the damage was already done, and so for the rest of the journey I marshalled all available urine & beseeched my bladder to make up for its earlier disloyalty by silently slopping another hefty pool of piddle discretely onto her front seat. I can’t say I’m either ashamed or guilty, I’d given her plenty more chances than she deserved, but she just didn’t know how to play nice, and I don’t even recognise your right to judge me either way - be as appalled as you like, but you should meet the woman - It’s little things like this that make me happy. You may think me crude, but hear me when I say she got off light, if I’d have really taken appropriately scaled level 4 action then I’d have shat myself in the car and shaken it out my trouser leg to under the seat, no worries :-D Some people, thru their repetitively malicious actions, just don’t deserve any mercy. First time, well we all make mistakes. Second, we’ve talked about this before. Third, you are now on the ‘wanker’ list, please stand on the other side of that line there and do not approach me. Fourth? I will now shit in your car, face, life etc. with total impunity. Who am I and how am I any better than them? No-one, no better. It’s simply Plato and his definition of justice as ‘You leave me alone & I’ll do likewise for you’.

Soooooooooo, as I lay in my urine sodden state back in my tent, contemplatively considering this pleasing past piss based affair, and shaping my present reaction & consequent crafty plan of action to my most recent urethral indiscretion, I again become agonizingly conscious that the state of resignation has never proven easy to summon at will. Certainly it comes a micro % easier when you’ve really no choice in matters, but then the efficacy of this resignation is inescapably undone by the inexorable indignation at my overall innate powerlessness, and that makes everything anything but easy to deal with.

How did I deal with it? Well, I dug out my filthy but (mostly) piss free third set of clothes (I was wearing the other 2 sets), packed them into a carrier bag in the rucksack, alongside the sleeping bag, and rode my way back to Nmaj. With an amusing plan in mind. It was raining again, however this time it conveniently served as part of my improvised design, and I rolled up a dirty dank mess at Nmaj. Once your face is recognised it’s easy enough to get thru the two locked doors into the ward, you could be there for any number of plausible reasons, so the outer door from reception gets opened easily enough, on this occasion by a Doctor who knew my face but not my status. Similarly the inner door was remotely unlocked from the ward office as they saw me on the monitor muttering about meeting someone and I, who was no longer an inpatient, had once again gotten myself inside the asylum. I selected a staff member I didn’t recognise & asked for some towels & access to the laundry room. There I immodestly stripped off, emptied my rucksack & took occupation of both washer driers, putting them on a quick wash/long dry cycle. I then compounded my fraud by asking the poor staffer for some washing powder. I didn’t know them, which of course meant they had little chance of knowing me, and therefore knowing I shouldn’t by rights be there at all. That’s the thing with new staff, as you can see in their face the desperate look of ‘What the HELL is going on, who’s that? Towels? Towels is easy enough to do, what time does my shift end? Aaaaargh etc.’ I got the nod from one of the cleaners &, draped in said towels, asked the staffer to unlock the just scrubbed shower most adjacent to the laundry, locked the door behind me and gratefully sat & unwound under the high pressure near scalding water. I knew I ought to have plenty of time. Each half hour they do the observation round & tick internees off a list, so there’s sort of a system for seeing when they’re down one, though I’ve seen it take them some considerable time to actually work out they’ve had a runner and do something about it. But there’s not really a system in place to tell them they’re up one (i.e. admitted after list was printed etc.). so I was assured I pretty much had as long as I liked. It’s thru these little gaps in the world that one may find a form of coping with the outcomes of unprompted incontinence, and so I got to clean me of my own soiling.

However, lets not forget that to achieve this I’d also had to re-insert myself into the staining chaos & disorder emanating from out of the wrecked souls residing there on the acute admissions ward in Nmaj. Some patients I knew, some were new, some had left while I was there but were back in, some had left. One I knew for a fact had been trans-navigating between in/ill & out/still ill for near on 20 years, the poor fuck. There was mild scale hollering coming from a variety of directions, and though this wasn’t unusual it did proffer a stark & timely reminder as to exactly why I’d not returned there and had booked out of Nmin. instead, it was unreservedly confirmed as having been the right choice even though it’d resulted in me living within the woods in my own urine, but that wasn’t so bad. On the ward, when one becomes acutely aware of the incongruity of ones immediate environs it’s often because one has progressed to ‘a bit better’?

One washer concluded its mission before the other, so I was able to dress in toasty warm clothes and sit discretely in the visiting room opposite the laundry & wait a while. It was just outside visiting hours, and patients or staff rarely ventured up there, so no-one bothered me. I was surreptitiously inside doing what I needed to get done, could get out as simply as I got in, and was managing to avoid the full engagement with the ward proper. This was going so well I began to get nervous :-D

How do you describe the inside of an acute psych ward? Anyone that’s been in one will doubtless swiftly vouch that you’d not believe most of what goes on if you were to be told. If it were recorded here verbatim you’d unquestionably presuppose it far too far fetched & fantastical. Even accounts from staff or visitors wouldn’t encompass the experience of the internee themselves, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen or read a candid & correct representation that captures the accurate texture of the experience. If you know any Nutters* just ask them, they’ll tell you that any true description would seem utterly implausible, for sure. Also, to be fair, I ought not delve into describing authentic events because of rightful patient confidentiality. They have a right to it, and even if I herein waive mine, I’ve no right to waive theirs. It’s sort of like ‘What happens on tour, stays on tour’ you know? (Nothing ever happens on tour).

* Remember, being one then I’m allowed to use the ‘N’ word, that’s how it works isn’t it?

But still, you may wish to never find your wretched carcass in a mental hospital, or perhaps you find yourself unable to conceive a situation that would ever lead to this. However, should such a thing occur in your sorry facsimile of a life do not be fearful. Some of it will shock you, other parts will stretch your capacity to believe or understand the breadth of human behaviour, while some will just confirm your suspicions as to the profound depths that can be arrived at by the humanzees… Is madness exclusively found in the mental wards? Well no, for as much as you may find yourself locked in you’ll also find the outside locked out, and believe me this is, for my taste, half the point of being there. Do not let the stigma leech itself onto your experience, nor preconceptions come between you and the ‘being there’. Never allow the illness of others to project or imprint itself onto you. Just be there and embrace whatever had caused you to be there. Take it all in & know that no-one will believe you if you tell them even some of happened right in front of you. Not even if you included diagrams.

Hospitalisation is a great leveller, hitting all classes & backgrounds. It’s only the nature of the individual mental disease in question & its expression in you that will separate you from your fellow madees. They’re all there for a reason too, and though the exact nature of their brain disease may differ from yours, they are humans stripped to the core instinctual responses and subject to their ‘faulty DNA’ just as you. Yet if one were an adherent of Darwinism (I’m not, but then neither am I deity driven, or cradled by animistic totemism, nor do I even know what Humanism is?) one would accept that progress only occurs at the mutational margins, so faulty in what way? Anyway it’s generally been my experience that one quite probably meets a far better class of semi-awake humanoid in a mental hospital. I worry for the those outside who stop working on recognising the sickness in their souls & hearts. Those classified as the model norm who fall short of spectating their genuine place in the scheme of things. Do they not know that, as L. once delightfully quipped - We are all plankton? :-D

Getting out of Nmaj. was no harder than entering. One of the three visiting times was approaching and I took the entry of the first wide eyed relatives as my opportunity to exit, seemingly fumbling for my swipe card & not acting ‘nuts’ was enough to convince them I was allowed out. I could have worked another way out sooner, but was in no rush. I’d been happy watching the Magpies hanging around the large smoking garden as they so often did, I’d seen more of Magpies there at Nmaj. than anywhere ever… Outside now I pressed life into my metal mares monstrous motorissimo & rode that spartan form hard back to woods the long way round, on roads now parched & irresistibly grippy. Everything I’d left there was still there, I’d not been sure it would be, and I parked up in front of the tent, clipped the door flap to the adjacent bike and sighed to myself, slowing down, calming. My brain became made of sand, each grain dropping through the narrows of my neck to rest below. Each grain denoting steps in time, every one slower than the last. Finally I came to respite & could think, sort of.

I was immediately reminded why I was there rather than back in the hospital. That’s not to say I was no longer nuts, I always have been, always will be. I’ve gone beyond thinking this could ever be overcome. Oddly, to my mind, people have asked if I was ‘scared’ in the woods, but no. I was entirely free, completely relaxed, ah the quietness – both inside & out :-D Now, comparing these woods hereabouts to the sort of woods one might get in the former Soviet states or the US, they barely register as more than a large garden. But for Grate Britannia (or as we now know it, the Former United Commonwealth Kingdoms) they’re wood sized and that’s plenty big enough for me thank you very much. And comparing the broken brane issues I face then I could be far worse cast with any of the mental dis-eases I’d watched in the hospitalisation. I could have done with a more vast separation between me & ‘civilisation’, but I was far enough out to be able to imagine I was entirely away from the world. These woods were so called public access and so theoretically open to all, as opposed to most land in F.U.C.K. which is owned by ‘The Man’ or one of his cousins, business associates, or cousins business associates, and therefore access is rigorously restricted – Thus here we have the phrase ‘Get orfa my laaarnnn’, the ‘my’ being the result of the many & various Land Inclosure Acts and the eons long battle of ‘previous or primitive accumulation’. Though we may have been encouraged to imagine we’re in the 21st century, you know we are in fact somewhat pre Magna-Carta & they get all Baronial on our asses when it comes to who owns which land, what they can do with it, and what they can stop you doing on it. You know that all, right? Try and keep up at the back there.

But, in the shelter of a car park in a picnic area in the woods I am afforded a kind of general legal protection from outside interference. I’m not on private, private land, yet neither am I pitching up un-allowed to seek to actually reside in the forbidden depths of the woods, and in doing seeking to conceal presence. I checked the sign on the gate and it basically said ‘NO FUCKING’ in more proprietous parlance, but said nothing specific regarding ‘no camping’, so being there I was somewhere I wasn’t not allowed to be. As if to illustrate this, late one afternoon I heard a Landrover & trailer come rushing down the single track road adjacent to my little empire. It abruptly halted as it went past the gate, thru which I could be seen, and reversed back into the car park so that the rear of his trailer was facing me, and he could observe me discretely thru his drivers side mirror. I opened my tent flap & glanced out, and he sat there for a short while, and then began to pull away, presenting his flank to me as he left, complete with Cunty Cuncil logos etc. It was apparent he was a junior park keeper type as they’re responsible for such locations, and he gave me a cheery wave, so I gave him an equally cheery wave back & he was gone.

Then a couple of nights later I was predictably visited by passing Peelers, they were driving down the lane late at night and, as I’d made no attempt to conceal myself, they spotted my abode without an address, stopped and reversed back shining the lights of their pig-mobile at me. PC Gone-Mad climbed from the vehicle, leaving Sergeant Liar safely inside (Detective Inspector H.T. Leads was on leave?), and he cautiously wandered toward my little abode calling out ‘Where are you all?’ in a sort of slightly timid tremulous tone of a kind which doesn’t make one feel full confidence in the approaching officers confidence. I replied that there was only me and slowly made myself visible without any sudden moves, keeping to low status body signals, but he still shone his little light around the area looking for some gun toting comrade who’d leap out on him and make him earn his pay for once. Having satisfied himself I was indeed alone he straightened up, swaggering & all dressed up in his action-man kit, and tried to make himself grander to impress me, I wasn’t impressed. He grudgingly asked why I was here & what I was doing so I briefly explained my situation, and he wanted to see some form of ID. I had my driving license to hand and he officiously carried out a radio check to see if I was Ronnie Biggs (I’m not) & therefore wanted by the forces of law & order (I’m not) for being a very bad man (now that I am). Are they a police service or a force? There’s a big difference. I for one don’t feel protected by them, am clearly of the mind that they’re there to keep me in my place, which is below them, and I can’t say I’ve ever met one who didn’t piss me off in one way or another. His check came back negative, and, seeming somewhat saddened that he wouldn’t get to exercise his ‘powers’ and wrestle me to the floor or tazer me (either before or after I shot myself, it won’t really be clear). He bade me goodnight and drove off to hassle some other poor shit for doing absolutely nothing at all.

I can’t help but get into ‘debates’ with my old chum the venerable vegetable based life-form known as Asstrall about the nature of ‘Ye Olde Cops & Coppery’. He’s of the (half blown) mind that they’re almost all very nice fellows oh yes indeed, while I tend towards PJCRs view that they’re pretty much all pointy headed cnuts who are intellectually like builders but in uniform, to me they’re all playing little boys games with big boys toys. I’m thinking of having Asstrall needlessly arrested and stuck in a cell for a few hours more than it takes to find out a persons done nothing, just to wake him up a little you know? He tells me its decades since he was last cast into a cell, and that was just the once. Perhaps periodically one needs a reminder of just what ‘they’ can do if they feel like it. Would the great swing be possible where the ‘middle classes’ (as discussed elsewhere here no doubt, actually the medium working classes who’re fooled into unfounded aspirations) experienced this for themselves & came to realise they are as oppressed, repressed & befuddled by state lies as the rest of us? You’d have thought that after the pasting meted out to the ‘Cuntryside Alliance’ they’d have woken up wouldn’t you? But no.

Then, unsurprisingly, a few days after the police stopover, there was a second visit from a park keeper type, this time a boss. Not only did he look as though he were, but proto-amiably took the trouble to broadcast himself as such. He asked various innocuous questions to get the measure of me, but was really quite pleasant and said (off the record) he was quite happy for me to stay there for as long as I liked, and that I was probably helping him by driving off any undesirable types. He mentioned how I’d tidied up for them already, and implied that the locals had for sure reported a conspicuous decrease in the previously prevalent problems over the weeks I’d been there. He locked the gateway behind him in the knowledge that I could get in & out via the brief pedestrian access-way directly alongside it, as he himself indicated, and he gave the now customary cheery wave as he departed.

And this is how snakes eat themselves.
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Old 09-06-2011, 08:52 AM   #1999
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Q: I am both needy & hopeless, so

On balance, is there any point in completing Ch. 3 plus -

4 – Swimming adrift (or how my homework ate my dog).

5 – Whilst euthenising a sick canine may be hard on the owner, it’s the dog that does the dying…

6 – I am fucking cursed.

7 – Most of it’s just dross, but there’s some real shit there too.

8 – Yesterday will begin again tomorrow.

9 – Asabiyya in a population of one.

10 – Please insert pithy title here.

11 – I never get things finished.

12 – Oeuvre and out.
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Old 09-07-2011, 01:25 AM   #2000
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Old 09-07-2011, 01:35 AM   #2001
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Old 09-07-2011, 01:37 AM   #2002
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Old 09-07-2011, 01:41 AM   #2003
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Old 09-07-2011, 01:45 AM   #2004
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Old 09-10-2011, 04:52 AM   #2005
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Old 09-10-2011, 04:57 AM   #2006
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Old 09-10-2011, 05:02 AM   #2007
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