The damnable life and deserved death of David

The Leap

2007-12-07T19:21:00.000-08:00

Life meanders on, and on the whole it is accepted as good. Whatever state it is considered to be it ‘might’ be better, what if this, what if that? Can we ever tell how a bright spark of a thought can lead to decisions that could in turn lead to an irreversable change in fortunes for better or for worse? A cascade of events that spiral out of control that can lead to the depths of torture or the heights of ecstasy. What makes one man take the leap and another not? Of course it is seldom a leap and more a gradual slither on ones behind, testing out the depth of the leap that when it comes is no more than a small but telling drop, or conversely a scramble back up to the starting place in case of nerve loss. Getting to the drop off ones former life involves little bother but that irreversable ultimate move unleashes all the contents of Pandoras Box and the new life begins.

Carpe Diem.

Munday

2007-01-13T21:35:00.000-08:00

It's hard to understand why people get excited about overseas events, does it promote their being to some higher plane? Showing fake affinity with someone in a far off land who would happily kill them for a few coppers is at best naive. I believe that if we are all honest we don't really give a fig apart from its use to raise our own status, if one needs such things, or that even a requirement exists. The human race got where it is by applying natural instincts and to turn our back on such tried and tested success stories is follie indeed.

More important to me just now is the state of my pen, which is paramount? You know how one gets attached to a favourite pen, the one that never blots or lets you down when writing a quick note; the one that can be trusted when ones life depends upon it, well I currently fear for my beloved charge. It's becoming increasing dilapidated, fragments break off daily like a polar bears old home from the arctic ice mass. I wonder if anyone has checked the CO2 in the locale as I am seeing catastrophic changes in the shape of my trusty implement. I wonder if they can all be encouraged to breathe less and save this endangered species or is it destined to become the 21st century stationary type dodo? I fear there is little real interest and most cannot, I have tried to alter my own breathing practices but there is little natural body function understanding of the magnitude of the situation that is of our own making allegedly. I have only inferior BIC type replacements in my stationary supply and it is inevitable that without appropriate materials the scibes art will be lost forever.

How are you all, tell me tales of mirth and merriment to make me mirthy and meretricious. I know that's the wrong word but I like it, indeed covet it.

David 13th January 2007

Life or living hell?

2006-12-26T01:02:00.000-08:00

Tony had been ill for some years, the result of smoking, drinking and inactivity or so it seemed. Mum and Dad had had circulatory problems that had not ended pleasantly and similar early signs were beginning to manifest in him in his late 30's. Work had become impossible, too many children meant he was better off not anyway, a choice he had made well before now. It was not an ideal family life that had spawned and nutured Tony, youngest sister Anne or younger brother Eric; 5 years spanned their births. Father had been 20 years older than Mum and marriage had lasted only a few years beyond the birth of Anne, acrimony was to last quite a few more years than breeding had.

He was an intelligent boy when young and won a scholarship to a private school, from where later he was to be expelled due to his wild behaviour. The ubiquitous, northern offspring trap was sprung again and there was then no escape from northern hell. The contraceptive pill continued to emancipate scheming women, cruelly inflicting unwanteds upon the wild and carefree in order to limit the victim socially and squeeze their life away. Not much changes even today, compliance and efficacy remain poor, nor even the stupidity of men who continue to be entrapped so easily. Is the ludicrous government action in 'support' of the children harming rather than addressing the real issues?

It didn't last and he took up with another with (1) anothers fruit. Much more production quickly followed and this population was perpetuated further. Is this the only future for a lost people with no hope, to propagate generation upon generation until another perfect species is born? Tony, Eric and Anne had 11 in all, two more generations and over 200 would result at the going rate. Tony didn't see the gene-pool exponential growth materialise, but it is doing nicely at the time of writing.Tony at 40 had in the previous year undergone major aortic surgery and was now dependent upon artificial tubes to keep the blood flowing to his lower extremities. Sky sport and Captain Morgan had been the most important features of his life. A recently gifted chariot enabled him to venture out where once only shanks allowed, and they of course didn't work so well under a newly installed artificial fuel delivery system. Life seemed on the up and reliance on TV and booze waned a little.

A new life developed, one where rum and sport played a less supportive role. The old chariot was replaced by a shiny new carriage and with it a renewed sort of friendship with his ailing mother. She was housebound with a prosthetic device which stood in the corner unused whilst a wheel chair was becoming the end of her life. A weekly trip to Tesco in the shiny became her escape, allowing her to embarrass all who assisted once more. Out of self adminstered painful duty comes self administered righteosness; so symbiotic relationships are formed.

Anne was by now on her fourth failed indoctrination into the institution, was mimicing example perfectly and providing perfect examples for 4 future mimics to blindly follow. It was her turn to be on the outside of the feuding triplet (Mum, Tony and Anne; Eric had escaped South to University 20 years earlier), jealousy is such an ugly thing. Tony had the shiny splattered with brake fluid, by a fellow sink estater presumably or maybe another even closer to home? Who knows, anything goes in this desperate and disparate world.

It seemed years had gone by and from month to month it was difficult to know who had done what to who, and who was not ever talking again to who. Eric was well out of it, barely keeping track of the latest failures in relationships of the others and never taking sides or offering support to the infighting. This is how it is in countless families where there is no hope and existence, vodka and fags rule.

Late spring, 1999 Tony became ill again. His legs failing to adequately carry blood, and so him, as designed; once more the vascular system was compromised. Many accounts were relayed to Eric by Tony’s wife, and he kept in touch with the hospitals; firstly in his birth town and then in Manchester. It seemed so up and down and not at all promising, a repeat artificial revascularisation was proposed but events were to take over. On many occasions Eric might have travelled North and visited the hospital but didn’t until a weekend in September that year. Tony had been in intensive care and the calls that week were not giving a favourable picture. Travelling up early Saturday morning, the full horror was worse than could have been expected, the legs were showing similar signs to what he had observed 25 years earlier with his Father. He was in Sepsis with renal failure and a machine was doing the vitals for him. It was difficult to see any signs that he was at all compus mentis and the picture appeared very bleak. The bleach was not doing its work on the infection and multiorgan failure was ready to be written on the certificate. At 9 O’clock that evening it was, death begins at 39 and took three years.

Life began at 39 for Eric in the following year; he paid a visit to Mother with his new love, they lived at the other end of the country to her (and the other remaining full sibling; trapped in the home town). With prior warning came a sober meeting, which resulted in many ‘as long as you’re happy’’s and other un-substantive cliches. He knew they were only words, an idea that was supported by history and by the many second hand recounts of the gathering. That it was a deranged mind(s), the booze(rs) or enebriated deranged mind(s) is anyones guess, but the accounts bore little resemblence to reality. Reality is a forlorn hope when sodden minds receive stimuli beyond their comprehension.

Father died in 1974 (59), Tony in 1999 (42), Mother in 2001 (66). Anne (44) is drinking, smoking, thin and without hope by all accounts, Eric is 46. How can such a ruinous path be followed generation after generation with such ignorance. How can it result in such incongruent lives, where the lucky escape and the rest fall by the wayside?

Eric 2nd January 2007

The Noose

2006-12-22T03:46:00.000-08:00

It proves hard to overcome certain things in life, particularly when something special has been wrenched away. Once gone it can never be regained nor forgotten, realisation of the former is achieved in time but the complexity of the latter only becomes evident with time. Constant reminders of the death stir anger and hate, often greater than that resultant from the initial insult. This is probably as a greater understanding of the circumstances is reached, yet the cruelty of it all only grows and with it a need. Where the psychotic and the psychopath meet is a dangerous place indeed.

So glad to see you well
Overcome and completely silent now
With heaven's help
You cast your demons out
And not to pull your halo down
Around your neck and tug you off your cloud

But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends to the dead
To the dead

Recall the deeds as if
They're all someone else's
Atrocious stories
Now you stand reborn before us all
So glad to see you well
And not to pull your halo down
Around your neck and tug you to the ground

But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends to the dead
To the dead

With your halo slipping down
Your halo slipping
Your halo slipping down
Your halo slipping down

Your halo slipping down to choke you now

Perfect Circle (The Noose)

Struggle

2006-05-27T01:59:00.000-07:00

The fight against his ongoing self-destruction by his chosen means continued into his fifth decade. From a very early age he knew things were not right, that there was something defective in his personality. Recently certain life events have tipped things over the edge somewhat and make it imperative that action was taken before it was too late. One only had to take a close look at his actions and mannerisms to realise there was something quite wrong.

Simply seen as a maverick character before his behaviour was cause for more serious concern. He trusted the maniac was more fun to be with than not but it really must have driven his loved ones nuts sometimes. It could be so extreme that it clouded reality and lead to situations that surely must jeopardise everything. He could blame his despicable life, there were indeed horrific childhood events, but he didn’t. It was his personality defect, which he suspected was congenital and unless he assumed complete responsibility for it it would surely win and lead to his demise.

Some years ago he had seen a psychiatrist on Ave Louise whilst in Brussels, boy did he stir up some hornets. He had attended about half a dozen consultations and Dr van Acker had quickly diagnosed that his ‘roots were rotten’; the doc blamed his Mother for everything. Whilst she was quite evil to him, he preferred not to think that she had left her mark on his life and that he couldn’t consequently prevail over himself. His Dad had died when he was young, he thought it had not affected him as much as people believed probable from the horrific nature of the events surrounding it. In many ways it had a positive effect removing the main source of conflict with his Mother, the breakdown of his parents marriage had been very acrimonious. However, it had made him focus on his education, which progressed far enough over a sufficiently long period that any personality could not ruin that too, until now perhaps.

He lived in his own little private world imagining his Dad looking over his shoulder and being proud of his achievements. He didn’t know what this meant, maybe it was just his way of dealing with his huge insecurity. Maybe that insecurity was covered by his extremes of behaviour. Today, he felt ill, disgusted and ashamed for allowing himself to get where he was. For allowing himself, through lack of self-control, to hurt so much the small number of people who adored him. That number had dwindled over the last few years probably, although he hadn’t noticed, because of the way he was. He was charming yet introvert keeping himself to himself but those who knew him sought out the maniac in a quest for the bizarre. He felt this his last chance and after trying on a few occasions recently this must be it, else he thought his life might spiral out of control and it wouldn’t be too pretty. He had neglected so many important things, unable to cope with the simplest of tasks that are fundamental to existence.

He had been reading the initial chapters of a Big Book on his daily travel to work and wondered if he was alone in the struggle afterall. He had spoken to many people over the last few months and noticed very many similarities (but findamental differences) with their lives. He was consequently excited at the prospect of emulating their successes and overcoming this beast.

Just Like You (Rollins)

I am the man from a human choke hold
I am the product of your restraint
I watched the years pass by me
Never once did I complain
Never once did I say no
Now I watch myself explode
My body is scarred by age
Now you get to taste my rage

From the wreckage of humiliation
I got my self respect
I pulled myself together
What the hell did you expect
You should see the pain I go through
When I see myself I see you
Everything that you did I do
When I see myself I see you

RageI

'm just like you
My flesh isn't my flesh
My blood isn't my blood

An incident happened upon exiting Embankment Station. he was late for work and had spent the journey into work thinking about how he could affect a change in his life. Quite jittery after a drunken argument the previous evening, the sum of the parts being greater than each problem. His reaction to the incident was typical and something he knew he must address in recovery. Departing the station a middle aged slight lady stood in his path, she seemed quite nervous and unsure of how to resolve the situation. He moved to one side and she did the same, the process was repeated and she was glared at. He moved markedly to the side and with a wide berth moved forward. She walked in the same direction as him and veered back close to his new path, he walked even wider to avoid a collision. Once a collision was averted he felt it necessary to produce a loud, and audible quite some distance, ‘For God’s sake’. This was going to be hard but clearly necessary work.

He had for some weeks thought about getting away for a week to attend to some important mind and other issues.. The request for a week off was OK’d at work and in June that year he planned to fly off to Sarasota Florida. He knew this place from a research conference he’d attended quite some time earlier, it would be perfect to assist (he thought) in convalescence.

Reading at lunch in Temple Gardens he sought further guidance. By now all his thoughts had calmed him and his blood alcohol level was more acceptable too. There were 4 shaded seats taken by down and outs, he couldn’t help thinking that could be him if things weren’t sorted. It also reminded of an incident one lunchtime, en route to the Edgar Wallace. There’s a sheltered area leading up to Essex St where tramps keep dry and seemingly sleep overnight. One blurted out in Tourettes style, ‘you’ll be here in 6 months, I’ll still be here’. At the time it didn’t make him think for long unfortunately, but it had revisited often since.

Non-gregarious office workers took the remaining seats in the first area of Temple Garden, he wandered on a little further and found an unoccupied bench. Reading a story he saw many similarities. His irritability with the varying luminance (due to the sun/clouds), and the accompanying changes in temperature were clearly on display, He didn’t like himself al all today. Two colleagues passed and made a joke of being in the gardens, one offered some coppers, his book was closed with a finger retaining the place. One asked him what he was reading; he said he couldn’t say, some curious looks but it was left at that. Bill gave him hope.

He had been putting off moving funds around and could not pay for next months holiday, it was due and due to the late decision the money was not in an accessible place for the purpose of paying it. He confessed his uselessness and asked his partner if they would pay it on their card and he would give them a cheque later. Uselessness breeds low self-esteem breeds more uselessness. Another simple task beyond him in this state it seemed.

The afternoon was taken up with meetings, but his attention span was low. It would be a fine line between getting home and going to an evening meeting, He wasn't feeling in top health and his calves were stiff, early claudication he thought. There was a hold-up on the tube and he got home at 7.10 and the meeting was at 7.30, he excused himself saying he was unwell and decided to relax and think instead.

The following morning he wandered into work for 9.30, legs still stiff walking down the stairs that morning. He had a quiet morning preparing for a lengthy meeting called by US colleagues from 2-6pm. In between he amused himself with the second day of the test match on bbc.co.uk. A colleague from the US passed by his desk, he couldn't help conjuring up images of the Dukes of Hazard and how she fared vs Daisy. He charmed a while, or so he thought but she probably thought he was drunk from the previous night or just a nutter. A male colleague overheard and joined in the frivolity. He wondered what people really made of that bizarre shit that flowed so easily.

A meeting up near Leicester square had to be missed as he had a working lunch 12.00 to 12.30 and it hadn't begun at 12.40, so the logistics just wouldn't work. The afternoon meeting was a long drag from which he escaped periodically saying ‘just got to nip out and do something’. He was amused with the naughtiness and it became a game to find things to do so as not to return straight away. Around the office until 6 he left for what he only found out at lunchtime was a Bank holiday weekend. He wondered if that was normal not knowing it was a bank holiday and again amused himself with thought around why he had not known. Some days he simply had not known what day it was and had to ask passers by. His pride might have been hurt by those episodes but the strangeness of it amused his sedated mind. He recalled it was to be the monthly Gout club (wine and cheese) after the weekend on the Tuesday and resolved to remember. He had bought some cheeses on a recent trip to Basel and wondered what colour they may be in the spare fridge in the utility having spent two days in Switzerland in a warm hotel room. What colour might they be if his resolution was not kept and they stayed there another month until the next club.

Returning home he felt drained living in his own little cocooned world where bizarre was the norm. He listened to the Smashing Pumpkins thinking ‘were these guys in a similar world due to the effects of more, or maybe less, nefarious substances?’

"Tell me, tell me what you're after, I just wanna get their faster."

He was quite unwell that evening, after trimming the soggy lawn he developed a pain in the left shoulder and by 10pm it had grown unbearable. After lying for 30 mins or so the pain had spread to his left side and he became breathless and consequently worried. It intrigued him that stimuli to the mind could self-perpetuate themselves so easily, like this and like the self-doubt following a bust-up with his lover. He rose as this seemed to ease the symptoms and within half an hour the pain in the shoulder had completely gone and that down his side was only apparent upon deep breaths. He thought whatever comes as long as it didn't hurt, like that had hurt in bed, he would be alright. About 4am he returned to bed and, after a little discomfort in settling, slept heavily for 4 hours.

"I keep this diary to tell the wonderful stories in my life". Modified from Oscar Wilde, unfortunately they may seem wonderful on the main stage but behind the scenes they are torturous.

He dozed until 1.30 pm listening to the 'rain stopped play' test match banter which woke him as an Agnew recorded message playing over and over. He felt a little better his shoulder had ceased to crease and the pains down his side were dulled, as was the day. It lashed all afternoon, in Edgbaston at the Cricket too. It seemed like the pains had calmed but the nightime was to be a storm indeed. After an early night he again awoke in the early hours around 1.30 am. This had become part of his life but not usually triggered in such a devastating fashion. It was now Sunday and since 5am he had slept on the couch, supine in both character and posture. He felt at the will of whatever befell him, afterall it was ‘his responsibility’ and ‘could it be any worse than that he had endured over the preceding months if not years’. He spent from 10am until 3pm at the hospital amusing himself with his ‘uncanny’ ability to detect the slightest of arrythmias by listening to his body. A lovely Indian Doctor called Dave looked after him and after a while assured him it was not his heart. He asked for reassurance re his brain and Dave said it's very important to look after that, he was sure Dave knew that he knew too. He was not sure Dave knew if he knew how to.

It was a better day weather wise, the garden looked lovely and the Cricket victorious. His lovers car was being attended to whilst he was. Pains had waned and general lethargy had too. She was drinking wine and he wondered if he should have a glass, Bills story was fresh in his mind however. An early night, he took the plethora of smarties and went off very quickly. As usual the TV was on and as usual it wasn't when he woke, just the purring channel, he smiled and briefly felt lucky.

It was light and he had slept through, it was 7.30am. Monday 29th May, no pains and calm. He had been here so many times before that he couldn't relax and consider this anything but the restart of a huge struggle. He only hoped it would last longer than his previous futile attempts. The rebuilding of everything begins, it didn’t seem such a task today, even yesterday it appeared insurmountable. He had dozed on until noon, it was a start. Many years had he trod this path and it wasn’t going to be easy to get forgiveness from everyone but as long as he made amends in some way. One day at a time.

Hounds freeze in silence bewitched by the reptile spell
Sulphurous essence pervades round the grassy dell
Heorot awaits him like lamb to the butchers knife
Stellular heavens ignore even childrens cries

Screams are his music, lightning his guide
Raping the darkness, d-d-death by his side
Chants rise in terror, free round the oaken beams
Flickering firelight portraying the grisly scene
Warriors advance, prepare for the nightmare foe
Futile their sacrifice as even their hearts must know
Heroes delusion, with feet in the grave
Lurker at the threshold, he cares not for the brave, he cares not for the brave

A gentle afternoon gardening left him breathless, as did the special evening closeness. How can anyone with so much allow matters to get so out of control and jeopardise all? Some people have so much love they can forgive almost anything and some are lucky to be forgiven by the special ones.

Tuesday: He woke early but lay in bed awake until late for work wanting to hang onto the loveliness of yesterday. Gout Club, splendid curds and much fine juice delivered from the left hand side, in the afternoon. He enjoyed it a little more than safe, slept on the tube and was met with loving smile on returning home. He felt lucky to have been blessed with beautiful love from two special women, with his current and ultimate love for 6 years since the break up of his marriage. His eventual perceived unhappiness was probably a reflection of his condition more than anything else. Nevertheless he had found something very special and subsequently retained the previous happy memories. For both to put up with him, for so long, he must have done something right at sometime.

The evening was wild and exciting and reminiscent of what was once commonplace. Such recent experiences had dragged him back from the edge, restored some residue of self-esteem and given him a chink. This night was indeed soul restoring. He had a great-untold love story, she was his life and he was clinging on desperately. The awakening and lateness of the previous morning was repeated over the next few days. Relative sobriety and closeness were working wonders on his resolve to tackle the beast head on.

‘Warriors advance, prepare for the nightmare foe’, or is it heroes delusion?

He recalled the numbness the following morning during the early extraordinary years and here it was once more, he had never experienced that with anyone else. The evening was again a repeat and the following morning too. The strength afforded by recent events would be invaluable in the weeks ahead, or was he fooling himself with such hope?

Thursday 1st June: He floated to the tube station at a fashionably late time, just missed the Met and got on the Piccadilly. The fatigue was much less noticeable and his mind had become active again, he felt that a good thing as long as he could control it. He read some philosophical shite and listened to songs with stories. There was a problem at Holborn, a security alert that didn’t make any news, he needed to get off at Covent Garden. The queues for the lifts were 10 deep and he decided to take the stairs. A spiral staircase, which seemed to go on forever. Since the new year he had been walking much around west London sometimes doing 30 miles a week to and from work and during lunch times. The spiral staircase nevertheless won and by the top his lungs were on fire. The subsequent 10 min walk to work simply extended the pain period and it took him the rest of the morning to recover. Consulting a medical friend he was advised he shouldn’t be engaging in such activities with pleurisy, the lung could become attached to the rib cage and result in collapse. It didn’t sound a desirable state.

Early departure from work and a quiet mindless evening and early retirement, the latter saving him from the rest of the shiraz. An early start for work the following morn and excited at the prospect of showing off his Darling who was meeting him after work. The beast had however tried to contact disguised as one of the denizens of like beasts that inhabit the stagnant mire.… as Grendel stalks the night

Earth rim walker seeks his meals
Prepare the funeral pyresT
he shapers songs no longer head the fear
Within their eyes, within their eyes, arise, derise, demise.

The rhythm of its cruelty had infact been broken; the night was not his playground anymore. He entered work excited about the day ahead. Quotes throughout from ‘Grendel’: http://www.lyricsfreak.com/m/marillion/grendel_20088812.html

Friday was a lovely day for him, looking forward to the evening. She arrived late around 5.15 after shopping in the afternoon down Oxford St. They met at Enbankment station and had a couple of wines in Gordons. They arrived home about 8.30 and danced the evening away. They were happy songs and she was quite the most beautiful girl he could imagine and he wondered ‘why me?’

Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time I feel alive
And the world I'll turn it inside out yeah
I'm floating around in ecstasy
So don't stop me now
Don't stop me 'cause I'm having a good time
Having a good time

I'm a shooting star leaping through the sky
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity
I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva
I'm gonna go go go there's no stopping me
I'm burning through the sky yeah
Two hundred degrees that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheith
I'm travelling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic woman of you

Don't stop me now I'm having such a good time
I'm having a ball
Don't stop me nowIf you wanna have a good time
Just give me a call
Don't stop me now'cause I'm having a good time
Don't stop me now Yes I'm having a good time
I don't wanna stop at all

I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars
On a collision course
I am a satellite I'm out of control
I'm a sex machine ready to reload
Like an atom bomb about to oh oh oh oh oh explode

I'm burning through the sky yeah
Two hundred degrees that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheith
I'm travelling at the speed of lightI wanna make a supersonic woman of you

She passed out quickly and life was fine, she was fantastic and he sober. Life was great again but all the time there was worry at the back of his mind: It was a lovely morning, sun shining inside and out. He woke early as usual, quickly realised it was the weekend and had nothing important to do until lunch time. They spent the day looking around property in Aylesbury, it was exciting planning for a future, one that seemed real today. Their move away from London was a step closer, although quite a few strides away, and one huge leap. When people get close they seem to get scared, why after such great moments in some lives do they all of a sudden, no warning, get spooked by the prospect of happiness or by underlying mistrusts? Of course when there has been such turmoil, as there had it’s difficult to trust again or perhaps to open oneself up to a repeat of the pain.

The cruelty of some is unbelievable, it had damn near killed them, sad pathetic creatures rummaging for snippets of comfort and living on the scraps of humanity they receive. He knew he had to overcome this anger as part of overcoming himself, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

Ugly, You and me
You see, you see, you see the real me

Oh So obscene
Flapping wildly
You see what I mean

Oh Keep away
Can’t see why you do what you do
And you say what you say

(Rollins)

Something had been said on Saturday evening and old wounds had been reopened by a small thing grown by an insanely jealous mind, the poison sent was still doing it’s work. He found solace in the Pimms and wondered if the uncertainty was ever going to end. This day he realised that unless a safer means was found of help and comfort he would surely lose.

He had Friday received an e-mail from an ‘Anne Philips’ who he didn’t know, Anne made out that they had been in touch and she were coming over from the US and would meet up if he wasn’t ‘fixed up’. There were obvious pointers, which gave it away, were they not happy with the torture they had inflicted already? His rage grew all day, and he kept it all in, safe and sound.

His mind was elsewhere in the evening, analysing the effect that the uncertainty was imposing on itself. He played happy songs which had reduced effect today.

Monday 5th June: Early start and resolved to conquer all. It was a peaceful day, measured by his calm as indicated in his unusual lack of perception of probable office hilarity at his weekend sun baked, un-pigmented epidermis. Work was productive and he enjoyed a little research interest that was used to fill in the gaps between the drudgery of his necessary project work. The evening was a close affair once more, the eruption seemingly passed. They were getting less severe and further apart; he hoped they had not done irrevocable damage. What beautiful things has the mind got in store?

This was the day he thought his pleurisy had become not so debilitating. Breathing was comfortable and pain absent. Later in the evening was wild and he couldn’t help acceptance that his recovery was far from complete. It left him feeling a little inadequate, although maybe it was the erratic times that his urges were succumbing to. He had recently checked his hairline for numerical signs that could explain his historical poor behaviour. Maybe, he thought, he needed to shave the lot off, just to be sure. TBC

Shadowplay

2006-05-11T04:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve had some fun recently, studying behaviour. People’s ability to mind read is amazing, out of one simple statement some seem to know all about you and quickly apply a damning label. The support mechanism offered by insecure people then kicks in and all are assured of their intellect at the perceived expense of the ‘damned’. Others watch with interest and enjoy the pack vs individual confrontation and only join in the hunt when security is assured by the size of the frenzy. Some with sympathies for the damned views dare not become involved particularly if the believed Maven(s) has/have become involved.

The little window offered into a personality is all that can be comprehended. In reality the situation could be far more complex, there could be many personalities/characters involved. "Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred" (Shelley). TBC

All is Quiet

2006-05-11T02:53:00.000-07:00

New years day 1981, the dust had settled from the events of the previous day. He was driving without due care and attention again and his Lada had come off second best. A write off, his roof caved in completely, windscreen and bonnet similarly. Thank God it was only a Lada. It was the last in his second series of driving lapses in his very short driving career. He had acquired sufficient points once again for a ban. He called the hospital, he was still alive and would survive. He had not quite deserved it yet.

His victim attended court in a wheel chair; the impact had not quite written him off. 15 weeks had passed, 1 in a coma, 1 feeding through a straw, 10 more having his arse washed daily and he was now being pushed around by an angel. Mr Mc had only been driving 4-5 years and didn’t seem too good at it, but his job depended upon it. Not even wheeling in a horror story could convince the court that he might be better off taking some more time out to reflect on the damage he had done and could do again. His job was more important than anything it seemed.

Jan 6th, Brigitte the auxiliary was feeding the winner tomato soup with a feeder. Mum and Angel were sat by his side when his seeing eyes first opened and he tasted the tomato. The brain had switched back on and was registering the damage, tubes everywhere, no pain, ‘Oh my God, my legs!’

TBC

Crisis

2006-05-02T19:16:00.000-07:00

When your mind is constantly searching for answers and finding only questions, when your mind is unstable and unable to function anymore, when your whole world has been torn apart who will pick up the wreckage?

This is a crisis I knew had to come
Destroying the balance I'd kept
Doubting, unsettling and turning around
Wondering what will come next

Is this the role that you wanted to live?
I was foolish to ask for so much
Without the protection and infancy's guard
It all falls apart at first touch

Watching the reel as it comes to a close
Brutally taking its time
People who change for no reason at all
It's happening all of the time

Can I go on with this train of events?
Disturbing and purging my mind
Back out of my duties, when all's said and done
I know that I'll lose every time

Moving along in our god-given ways
Safety is sat by the fire
Sanctuary from these feverish smiles
Left with a mark on the door

Is this the gift that I wanted to give?
Forgive and forget what they teach
Or pass through the deserts and wastelands once more
And watch as they drop by the beach

This is a crisis I knew had to come
Destroying the balance I'd kept
Turning around to the next set of lives
Wondering what will come next

Ian Curtis

Torture

2006-04-10T05:23:00.001-07:00

The pain in his stomach and chest were probably the result of the two pints every lunch, bottle of wine or two every night for the last two weeks mixed with the sleeping pills, tranquilisers and beta-blockers. He was not handling life very well and was becoming reliant on such support to calm his mind. He sometimes wished it were more serious so that he could have some respite from the continuous torture that had become his daily life over the last weeks and that was being inflicted upon him mercilessly. A little crushing pain might take away those feelings of guilt also, maybe they would forgive him a little for the heinous crime he had committed. Maybe if he had some sort of infarct that would be sufficient revenge and it would leave him be, but maybe he’d have to die horribly to absolve him for his deeds. He used to think he knew about such things but these weeks had made him question everything, the absolution was perhaps a forlorn hope. He was probably doomed to eternal torture which was becoming more self-perpetuating and from within with every day.

All those weeks and months ago it seemed such a challenge and an ego trip. Could he get what it seemed everyone desired? Could he overcome a cruel nature, and tame the beast? He didn’t know it but it was about to tear him apart. It would also appear that the hunt for the dream was impossible as it subsequently showed it had no mercy. Or did the pursuit create something so sinister so awful, something bigger and stronger than it could overcome?

What dangerous games we play with people’s emotions, not knowing what our actions might conjure up in a mind. When intelligent but fragile minds interact the result can be bigger than the individual parts, and be truly chaotic indeed. The stimuli provided by a simple situation can release mighty demons in such circumstances. A hunt for closeness and affection together with it’s associated niceties can get so out of control in the hands of such beautiful minds, so it seemed.

Obviously a gross error, but the monsters were created and venomous poison flooding into his life. Threat after threat and insult after insult reigned down and after weeks a weak mind was struggling to cope with the assault and the possible consequences if the threats were realised. The contradictions and uncertainties were having profound effects, would it be better to confess all to his real love or even face the crush. The inevitable resultant cascade of events in his personal and work life were leading to a feeling of devastation and hopelessness; anything would be better than this surely? He could live in a hospital bed and blame everyone else, like everyone else, for his plight. That unfortunately is not possible for some and he knew that he needed to survive himself first.

He stared out of the carriage window, the painful flashes rapidly coming to him. Looking around, everyday people with everyday lives; what he wouldn’t give for his normal life back. To read the paper with mindless stories, or just to close his brain off for a while. Instead he was finding solace in the pages of Dostoyevsky and Goethe. The more he read the more he saw how the thinking was working and what the next step in the torture might be. He had convinced himself that this would go on for years, always threatening to spoil his life. How could he have been so stupid, so hurtful to the one true love he had ever experienced? A blip or something inherent in his nature that had just surfaced, he might do it again, he questioned his love, his dedication, his staying power? The last 5 weeks had been a nightmare on one hand and a rebirth of his love on the other, one threatening to destroy the other. Those fears constantly refuelled until his mind was self-supporting in its destructive abilities.

Self-destruction.

Families

2005-12-14T10:05:00.000-08:00

She was 65 and years of boozing had somewhat scrambled her brains, 3 children from her first marriage and 1 from a subsequent. The eldest son had died a year or so earlier from a circulatory problem, the family history wasn’t good and she herself had had her left leg amputated below the knee 3 years ago. The second boy lived at the other end of the country and was in contact out of duty fairly regularly, she didn’t recall all the things she had told people about him whilst under the influence. She had referred to him as the ‘devils son’ and had wondered how she ‘could have given birth to such a monster’. But when she was sober she was proud of his achievements, he seemed her favourite. Her daughter had followed in her steps and knew only vodka and fags as pleasures in her existence. Her youngest son had some difficulties and had become quite a handful; he was diagnosed schizophrenic but didn’t take his pills when he wanted to booze. Over the last 20 years or so there had been long periods of acrimony between the eldest son, the daughter and their Mother and often years would go by without any contact, usually ended after months of encouragement from the ‘devil’ son.

All siblings were jealous of what the black sheep had achieved, yet were only too happy to receive assistance when required. It was time to call his Mother, she was wheelchair bound, as she never really tried with the artificial leg that stood in the corner. It was strange that there was no answer, it was a Saturday and it had been some time since she was able to shop and her widowed daughter in law used to get her shopping in. The death had brought all together again and unified them in their misunderstanding of the other son. His marriage had broken down since the death of his Brother and his soon to be family had moved back to the hometown, this completing his alienation. His only point of contact was his sister in law but contact could not be made there either. Maybe she had been taken ill and none had thought to contact him to let him know?

He called the hospital and after a degree of passing around was told that they were very sorry but his Mother had died the day before having been taken ill a few days earlier. He had no feelings left after all the years of torture. It was left to a family friend to call him in the next few days to discuss funerals. When she was ill it transpired that she had been asking for him fondly by name, but it would seem the family felt it appropriate to deny her last wishes.

The funeral was a tense affair; he sat at the back with his partner. They had only met once but in typical fashion stories had abounded about what his Mother thought of her. His half brother made an effort, as did his step-Dad, sister in law and an old family friend Dave. The hole was filled and that was that.

A Blessed Release

2005-11-22T13:08:00.000-08:00

A Blessed Release

A Knock on the door and two Police officers walk into his bedroom. 3 in the morning and he’s been aware of some fuss inside the flat and outside on the street for some time. “There’s nobody in here officers, he’s not well”. “OK son just checking”, they leave.

He hadn’t been for some time, started with a black toe, which now involved the whole foot. The infection and pain had driven Eric Shaw quite literally up the wall and he was hallucinating, imagining strange people in the flat. He had been spending most nights recently telling the imaginaries to ‘get out’ and the lad had become accustomed to the nightly ritual.

The boy lays still and wonders if this is the end of the ordeal, but it will only prove to be a temporary respite in this chapter of his little horror life story. Eric is remonstrating with the officers who are trying to calm him down. After a short time the lad decides he should get up and help the situation along. He explains the history to the policemen, by which time his Dad has calmed down probably due to a surge in pain. He rubs his shin and moans constantly, a sight the boy is well used to. The heat from the 2 bar electric fire has proven to give some respite from the pain, well anything might be perceived as relief from such torture.

It’s early spring and David was closing in on his 14th Birthday. After a long and acrimonious separation and divorce, and a long drawn out custody battle he had finally got to live with his Father the summer before. It was not ideal, the flat was dirty, dusty and moth ridden and he had developed a mortal fear of the winged random beasts. Eric worked nights to get more money at British Aerospace, with the only other person in the house being Mrs Johnson the infirmed owner who lived on the bottom floor. The flats were not separated but simply an upstairs and downstairs in a three-bedroom semi. Mrs J was on the downward spiral, she drank heavily and could barely stand. When she opened the room in which she seemed to spend all the time the waft of urine and faeces filled the house.

Eric had three children an older boy and a younger girl, each about 2 years different from David. The girl had initially come to live with Eric but had thankfully left some months before and returned to the relative safety of Mum. The older boy had a few years earlier stopped seeing his Father and was a bit of a lad about the place, his dad simply not fitting in with his life or developing image.

Eric was taken off to hospital and David returned to bed rising again a few hours later for school. In the following days he went off to school everyday, dirty and smelly clothes as usual, Dad had been ill for some weeks and they probably couldn’t get any worse. One male teacher at school knew about the ongoing situation and periodically asked how things were. Almost a week later, and having cared for himself, David was returned to his Mothers not far across town.

In hospital, the leg situation was not improving despite treatment but the mental situation was recovered. It was decided an amputation below knee was the only course of action. Eric had fought so hard for the last 8 years to gain custody and he was still at this time planning and fighting for the future. The social services had promised, or so he thought, a small place where once settled David could rejoin him. He had so many more plans for the future, which seemed at odds with his immediate plight. The amputation was a success and there seemed no ill effects, David visited every night after school and began to buy into the idea of their own little place.

He was a bright child best in the year in Mathematics, was quiet and studious despite his upbringing. He was always dirty and was quite embarrassed at the odour he more than often gave off, particularly so when he had to sit next to girls. Late in the spring/early summer Eric was released from hospital and the two were reunited in the flat on Waterloo Road. Who was to look after who?

The summer would prove very very difficult and quite a growing up experience. The finding of Mrs Johnson dead after several days, the numerous other hospitalisations and amputations, and the inevitable end to it all. The yellow-fingered 40 Park Drive a day man had screwed his vascular system beyond the current level of help afforded.

One morning that September David came down the stairs of his Mothers house to find her on the phone and in tears. Just over 1 year after David had got what he and his father had fought for for so long, his Dad had mercifully died. It perplexed him why his mother was so upset and why he wasn’t, he never tried to resolve in his mind the first but his own of course was blessed release for both.

TBC …..