AFTERMATH: Christmas Cracker

Hello, and a happy Christmas too.  As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog, from Jan to April 2013, are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can read here, or buy on amazon if you like.  If you do, please leave a review, as all feedback is appreciated - there are three already, but the more the merrier.  Now this blog is the near-daily ponderings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And, for your edification, here are today's ponderings...

CHRISTMAS CRACKER

Spare a thought for the lonesome soul in a quandary over the festive period.  I once was such a soul, desperately trying not to score with the money I had in the lead-up to Christmas.  Naturally, I failed, and found myself having bought no presents, with a foodless fridge, and a sense of foreboding engulfing me as the drear day neared.  What am I gonna tell my mum, neighbours, and friends?  Where shall I say I'm spending the baleful day?  What mysterious acquaintance shall I fabricate as an alibi?  Will I make up one lie for everyone, or a few to suit each well-meant enquiry?

Then, having fended off various questions, and the odd invitation, Christmas Eve arrives and, because of the imminent string of bank-holidays, money goes into my account early.  I panic, realising there's just a chance I could buy a present or two, and, even though I'm resigned to festive isolation, maybe get some nice food in, and at least celebrate quietly in front of the telly with red wine, some weed, old Doctor Who's, and a pile of nuts and Pringles.  Yes, maybe I could make an early New Year's resolution, and make Christmas the watershed for change in my dour life.

Naturally, I score.  Returning Christmas Eve night, I surmise that New Year is probably the best time for resolutions.  Anyway, now I've given myself a clear run to Jan 6, without a penny to my name, dwindling instant pastas in the cupboard, and half a carton of soya milk, but at least I can't score...I'm a prisoner of freedom.  Oh, what have I done, as I languish, sweating on my bed, Discovery History chuntering in the corner, telling me about the rise of the Third Reich.  Oh god, what have I done?

Then the phone rings.  It's a friend who's just got an unlimited tariff on their mobile, which means they can yelp their woes at me without a worry at any time.  They leave a message, saying they're having a meltdown with their erstwhile half-love.  I steam with rage as their message goes on, and on, and I just don't care, but I know they'll keep trying until they hear from me, when yet more excuses will have to be found.

Then, just after midnight, I'm trying to get to sleep, when the phone goes again.  Another friend is wishing me happy Christmas, which I resent, and I know that I'll have to make a call or two when I unwillingly rise midmorning.  I can't sleep, and heroin's comforting veil has dropped away, and life just seems awful, tense, bitter, and hateful, just a slow helter-skelter of regret and remorse.

After a couple more hours, and another rise of the fucking Reich, I somehow slump into a semi-sleep, flecked with blurred nightmares that wake me with a start, still dark.  The breakfast show is on, but it's a different presenter from usual, cos it's Christmas, and he's playing crap.  I hear my neighbour's door, my letterbox rattles, in drops a card, which I resent, and begin sweating in case they knock.  I glisten for ten seconds, stiff on my stony bed, and their door closes.  But I feel hounded, even though there's nothing but good will for me from everyone I know.

And then, the big day begins.  I roll over, basting in my own juices, utterly stuffed, panicking the phone'll ring any moment.  Hitler has given way to Henry VIII, and I try to trance out with the Tudors.  But the damage is done, again.

And that is my Christmas reminiscence for today.  And I'm mightily relieved it is a reminiscence, because that pretty much describes the last ten Christmases I've known.  But not this time, which I think might call for a little tinsel.

Oh, and here's a link to one of my songs, which you may have heard before, but all ears are welcomed...  here it is...  Get Out Of My Room

I hope you have a merry Christmas though, and thanks for dropping by.  Hope to see you in the next few days...

AFTERMATH: Crack Shack

Hello, and thanks for dropping by.  As you may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can also buy on amazon, if you wish.  If you do, please leave a review - all are appreciated.  From then on, the blog is the almost-daily thoughts of me, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And today I am thinking about one of my many attempts to stop using crack, some five years ago now...

CRACK SHACK

On one of my many parental geographicals, far from the danger of the city, I googled hypnotherapy, to see if that might save me.

After picking my way through numerous charlatans and predators, I found one who seemed to have a training that was more than just a long weekend in a scout hut, at the end of which you're given a laminated diploma in nothing.  He had the same name as a DJ, and was local to my flat, back in London.  His website said he'd worked with people with addiction problems, so, desperate and embarrassed, I gave him a ring.  I couldn't tell him I'd been using crack, so said it was cocaine, in case crack frightened him off.  He said he'd had clients with cocaine issues before, and assured me that, as far as he knew, he'd had good success.

I booked an appointment for the following week, when I was planning to return to my flat.  The next day, I rang him again, and said it was crack cocaine I'd been using, just in case this meant he'd need to tweak the spell.  He seemed fairly unfazed, and I told him a cheque was in the post for my session, from my mum, of course, because at this stage I couldn't be trusted with twenty quid, without spending it on crack at the earliest opportunity.

A week later, there I was, waiting for him outside a shack on the edge of an Ealing industrial estate.  Then up came a cordial, bustling chap, in white shirt and flapping casual trousers, looking doctorly, but not daunting, clinical-casual, you might call it.  Unlocking the shack, we both went in.

After an introductory chat, and confirmation that he'd received the cheque from mummy, he bad me lay back in his reclining chair.  I did so, closed my eyes, and on came the whale-song.  After a few squawks, he began to speak, in a low, slow, almost musical voice.  I was in a sunken garden, there was a fountain there, a gentle breeze wafted, and there was a woman, across the garden, illuminated, seeming to float.  By this point, I found myself smiling, but I wasn't sure whether it was because I found his narrative amusing, or because I was beginning to feel safe, at peace, even hopeful.

I can't remember what happened between me and the woman, if anything, but the next thing I remember is him telling me I was standing outside a walled garden, banging on the gate, demanding to be let in.  It opened, and I found myself among strange, dangerous folk, some of whom were smoking crack, according to him.  I smoked it, and heard the gate slam shut behind me.  I turned to escape, but couldn't.

Next thing I recall is being back in the garden, with the breeze, the glowing woman, fragrant herbs, and the fountain, of course.  It was here that he released me from the trance, and I woke...though I hadn't been asleep at any point.  I didn't know what to feel, but told him I felt calm, hopeful, somehow different, because I thought he'd like to hear this.  We chatted a little more, off went the whales, and I made my way home.

My ever-suffering mum had put twenty-quid in the post, which was on the doormat to welcome me.  I took up the envelope and picked out the note.  Normally, I'd have scored immediately, but something, I don't know what, had me sit on the bed and ring her.  I told my mum that I'd been, and that I thought it might have worked.  She hoped I was right.

I don't know what I did that day, but I didn't use.  Nor did I the next day, or the next.  But come Friday, I felt like I should be doing something, going out, meeting new people, doing what people apparently do on a Friday night.  I felt like a frozen lake, with a beast beneath, rising through the gloomy water, determined to break through the icy crust, and free itself, wreak havoc wherever havoc seemed easiest to wreak.  Unfortunately, because I only had twenty quid, I convinced myself there was no point ringing a friend, or going to some hostelry to coolly read a novel...twenty pounds gets you nowhere these days, I rationalised.  But it would get me down the road to Peggy and Don's, who would always order me a stone of crack, if Killer was around.

I'd gone three days without using, without using when I could have done so.  This was a first, and something to celebrate, something that seemed to offer a modicum of hope, a reacquaintance with my older, better self.  But the blackwater beastie was stirring, rising, clamouring to crack through the ice and see the light of day.  Up he rose, silently at first, and then, smashing through the white veneer, reared, hollered, lay a gleaming tentacle on the shore, and dragged himself to Peggy and Don's, where he wrought twenty-quid's worth of havoc.

Hours later, he slavered home, sinking back into the broken mush of the lake.  The water stilled, and sealed up like up a wound.  But you could still feel his grudge, even though the surface was once again smooth.

And that was the end of my experiment with hypnotherapy.

Here is one of my songs, if you'd like to hear it.  Click on the name and it'll take you to my youtube page...  The World Is Full Of Whores

That's all I have to say today.  Thanks for dropping by.

AFTERMATH: Cokeywokeydoodah

Hi, thanks for dropping by.  You may know, the first 22 instalments of this blog (Jan to April 2013) are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can read here, or buy on amazon, if you're into that kind of thing.  Nowadays, as you can see, this blog is the almost-daily musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green...

COKEYWOKEYDOODAH

Why have so many newspapers shown an almost reverential sympathy for Nigella Lawson's recent admission that she has used cocaine, and, heaven forfend, cannabis?

Could it be a composite reason, a jumbled assortment of facts like she's rich, vaguely attractive (though with a scary resemblance to her father), the plaintive in a case of domestic manhandling by her even richer ex-partner, Charles Saatchi?  Or is it because she's a sacred matriarch, who at least kept her dabblings within the plush confines of her labyrinthine lairs, and, what's more, is a proficient marinader of peach-halves in a spice cordial? 

Or could it be because the chatterati see something of themselves in her non-addicted relationship with various white powders?  One of the clichés I begrudgingly internalised in rehab was 'addiction loves company', and, although Nigella says she wasn't/isn't an addict, cocaine is a vain drug, whispering, by way of an introduction to the novice, 'you don't need me, it's ok, you can put me down when you like...'  This is true for some, whilst, for others, that first line is like the grooves left behind a skier, kicking off from an alpine peak, only to tumble akimbo, snowblind, a chaos of flailing limbs, into an icy gusset half a mile below...

How many of Nigella's attributes would have to be removed before she became the addled urchin that many of these same newspapers call spongers, dishevelled in day-centre denim, skulking into Cash Converters with someone else's hi-fi, or their own flat-screen TV, acquired by misappropriating their ill-gotten disability benefits...but that's a different narrative.

Celebrity is fragile...it comes with built-in fracture-lines, imminent obsolescence as standard.  Some people are better at being it, playing it, and Nigella is probably as proficient at this as she is aerating a salmon soufflé for some sophisticated soiree, in a world where cocaine's not so much a drug, more of a dessert.  But, as with any too-rich tiramisu, overindulgence can lead to regret, a circular state of being where luxury turns to lechery, delight, debauchery, the cure for our woes, the cause.  The boom of cocaine always comes with a bust, a gross, groggy comedown, where remorse and resentment fester, and it's always someone else that's to blame...something daddy maybe knows about.

And, to close, here is a song, if you fancy a listen...

Run Out Of Drugs Again

And that, as far as I know, is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: Something For The Shrinks

 

Hi, thank you for dropping by.

As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read this here, or preview and buy it at amazon, if you're into that kind of thing.  It has three very good reviews, and I would really appreciate as many as I can get.  Nowadays, this blog is concerned with the aftermath of addiction, stories of living in the same neighbourhood in which I nearly killed myself, tales of temptation, repulsion, and boredom, and, I hope, hope.  And here is today's tempting morsel...

Also, here is a youtube link to my most recent song, which I'm quite pleased with, so if you'd like a listen, here it is...

I'm Too Tired To Kill You

Below is an article I was asked to write for Therapy Today.  It's a very condensed account of my addled and addicted life, and I hope the counsellors found it enlightening.

IN THE CLIENT'S CHAIR

I was working for a counselling service, but depressed.  Since losing much of my sight to a childhood illness, aged nine, I’d felt disconnected from my peers, less-than, in particular around girls, and abuse in my early teens added fear and guilt to the mix.  Then, boarding-school for the blind cushioned my sense of difference, but two universities, filled with sighted students, had me feeling like a minnow in a seething ocean.

So, in my mid-20s, I sat behind my desk at the counselling service, but the cracks in my life were widening to fissures, low spirits, worsening sight, and paralysing shyness keeping me stuck in all areas, so I sought the help of counsellor from our in-house register.  I spoke about how I’d been visiting prostitutes as a quick fix for my broken love-life.  It was during this time I called on Debbie, a working-girl I knew, seeking my usual dose of company, comfort, and closeness.  At her door, hidden in the labyrinth of a neglected estate, I knocked, and waited, but a gruff redhead called Sandra opened the door, and invited me in.  Debbie was at the shops.

In the semi-lit living-room, she asked if I smoked.  ‘Smoke what?’ I gauchely enquired.  There was regalia on the table, but I couldn’t see quite what.  ‘Shit, white, crack,’ she replied.  I’d smoked a bit of dope, had an E once, but barely heard of crack - but I was so down, and malleable, that I accepted, and drew in the innocuous white fumes with her blessing.  Within days, my life was in freefall, with job, flat, finances, and numerous friendships falling by the wayside, and twelve years of full-on addiction ensued.

I attended my local drug-service for months on end, where counselling, relapse-prevention groups, hypnotherapy, ear acupuncture, reflexology, shiatsu, copious herbal teas, left no impression on the hardened kernel of addiction at my core.  I was then referred to a residential rehab on the coast, but my designated counsellor left me feeling more damaged than I had on arrival, and, after five months, I returned to London to immediate relapse.

I began attending twelve-step meetings, and must have gone to hundreds, but found the ethos of the ‘disease of addiction’ unconvincing and stifling, and the general atmosphere one of compassionate collusion, in which conformity to the ‘message of recovery’ was requisite, else you might get left behind, a straggling heretic, doomed to chronic relapse.  The fact I fitted this description quite nicely was enough for me to eject myself, on embarrassment grounds.

Beyond despair, I returned shamefaced to my drug-service, and a new counsellor offered me a short course of something called Intuitive Recovery.  For me, it was a catalyst.  A class taken by two former crack-users focussed on the ‘decisions’ of addiction, rather than the ‘disease’.  It also questioned the twelve-step notion that one was ‘powerless’ over this alleged disease.  It seemed to be offering facts to go away with, rather than asking us to sign up to a twelve-step-style ‘spirutual program of recovery’.  I felt like I was being handed back an identity that meetings had overwritten in a spidery hand, casting a web in which I felt enmeshed, resentful, and obliged to talk.

I’d found myself in meetings speaking about the abuse I experienced, then leaving feeling unsettled, exposed, and sometimes with confusing feedback still ringing in my ears, like the oft-used phrase ‘have a look at your part in things’, which, in the context of abuse, had me feeling even more shame.  The Intuitive course, because it wasn’t offering an ethos, a lifestyle, allowed for counselling and therapy, but wasn’t parading as either, whereas I’d felt subsumed in the twelve-step setting, an awkward nonconformist with only bad news and even worse views to impart.

The Intuitive approach helped me isolate my problems, the first of which was my crack use, which had to stop to help me begin repairing other areas.  I reconnected with my doctor, have a suitable antidepressant, am seeing a new counsellor, and working on things without running to the secret, quasi-sexual bolthole of crack.

It was the language of ‘addiction’ and ‘recovery’ of twelve-step fellowships that troubled me, plus the notion that one was ‘powerless’ of the ‘disease’.  It felt like a linguistic coffin, even though others seemed to flourish within its confines.  Intuitive Recovery, fact-based, with no unspoken threat of relapse for those who wouldn’t believe, felt offered rather than proffered.  I learned about the brain’s relationship with pleasure, and how addiction is a predictable state for the brain to adopt when presented with certain stimuli.  In short, I trusted the message, largely because it wasn’t parading as a ‘message’.

I’ve never been one for conforming, and if there was a club for outsiders, I doubt very much I’d join.

And that is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: Phantoms

 

Hello, thanks for passing by.  You may already know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can buy as a kindle on amazon, if you do that kind of thing.  I appreciate all readers and reviewers...there are three good ones so far, but all reviews are gratefully received.  Also, here is a song I just wrote about the seductive nature of pleasure...it would be great if you'd have a listen. 

 

Here is the youtube link to my song  ...  Revenge Of The Sirens

 

So, begging over, here is today's post...

 

PHANTOMS

 

Today I saw a ghost.  Although the soul apparently can't die, the dim gleam in these eyes looked as close to death as I've seen.  The body was hobbling on, the mouth justifying its continuing existence, even though the State apparently wasn't, having cut the ready supply of money the body had got used to.

 

The figure (we'll call him Rob...because that's his name), was hobbling shapelessly down Goldhawk Road, where I live in London.  I'd met him in rehab five years ago...he turned up for about three weeks in the middle of my time, until it was decided he had too many mental-health issues for a non-psychiatric facility to cope with...so he packed his rucksack and went round the corner to Psycho Lodge.  It was kind of clear he had some 'extra' issues, as he'd agree with everything I said, regardless as to whether it was right, funny, or even half-interesting.  He agreed habitually, which can't have done him much good in the ragbag world of addiction.  And this is why I was half-surprised to see him...somehow he'd managed to stay alive, even though everyone and everything around him seemed to be banking on him dying quite soon.

But there he was, Rob, haggard in drop-in denims, saluting me with a face more malnourished than the £2 a month crew you get on afternoon TV.  I said hello, as if pleased to see him, which I half was, or maybe wholly was if you put the two halves together, for they were the half that was polite and social, and the acrid demon, curdling inside, that fancied scoring, which would have been so, so easy.  I could tell he was sniffing around this particular dog's arse, with his too-easy cordiality, and stationary way of holding you in place, even though you were in motion just moments ago.
  'Hi Rob,' I said, mock-cheerfully.
  'How you doing?' he asked, effusive and impatient to get to the meat.  'I saw you by the market the other day...I called, but you disappeared behind some railings.'  I waited.  'Where were you off to then?  Up to no good, were you?'
  I tried to ignore the drug-allusion.  'I think I was just going to buy some pyjamas,' I said, lying, but I thought the quiet absurdity of the situation deserved a dash of Dada, in the form of a false pyjama-purchase.
  And it did nonplus him slightly.  'Oh right,' he said, seeming to wonder what to say next.  But he came good.  'I'm living round the corner now, with Sonia?'  The woman-lure had been planted.
  'Oh right,' I replied, feeling a wave of enticement in my lower-gut.
  'Pop round if you want...'  And then he threw in the killer.  'I'm just waiting to see X-Man,' (a dealer, real name Gavin), 'I can call him if you want to chip in...?'  I felt like a chess-piece, two moves from mate.
  Perhaps cos of recent boredom, loneliness, anxiety, anger, boredom again, general pent-upness, frustration that I'm not as successful as David Bowie, I almost succumbed to this honey-trap...it was Manuka.

Ah, the honey of sweet, sweet crack being drawn into my submissive, hoping lungs...and a woman (he never said she was his girlfriend)...and ah, woman, living emblem of all lost pleasures, current lusts, libido-drenched pleasure-facilitator for the damaged man, whose life's gone off the tracks he stared down in youth, when life was mostly ahead of him.
  'I've been good for a while now,' I thought, 'maybe I can manage it now, and X-Man is usually prompt, perhaps a day out of life is just what I want, need, deserve...'

And that is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: A Crackhouse Romance

 

Hi, thanks for popping by.  You may know by now that the first 22 episodes of this blog (Jan to April 2013) are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  You can buy this on amazon, as a kindle, if you would like to.  If you do, or have, please do post a review there, because all feedback is appreciated.  So, here is today's little contribution, memories of a couple I knew when I was in the thick of my inglorious decade of addiction...

Before we begin, here is a song for you, written by me under my guise of Benjamin Lo-Fi, and posted on youtube...would be great if you'd give it a listen...

My song, 'Get Out Of My Room'

A CRACKHOUSE ROMANCE

Rob sat on the sofa, Carol in the armchair.  The dog, stinking, scuttled in, a skeleton in a tight fur suit.  'Ah, Mungo, you're a menace,' Carol decrees.  The crossword is done, so there's no way to speed up time, to bring Killer that bit quicker.  Rob notes a note.  'Is it the 24th?'  Carol looks at phone.  'Yeah...'  'Then we've got three days to get the bike out,' he says, showing the note.  'I know...'  'We're not going to be able to do it, are we?'  'Alan might want juice on Tuesday...'  The buzzer goes.  'It's Killer,' says Rob, in a mock-Mexican accent, rising like a stickman from the sofa.  Clutching notes, goes into the hall.  Carol, in armchair, reaches forth, places pillow of ash on pipe, hopes Killer has both, crack for starters, and main, heroin dessert.  Her anticipation, the cerebral equivalent of a salivating cat when the treats are rattling.  And Rob, one of the harem, gyrates in old jeans, looks for work, coughs up on Thursday, keeps the patchwork of the week almost intact.  'Would Alan want juice?  If so, how many mils?'  Peaks, troughs, and the peaks are getting thinner and shorter, the troughs longer and deeper.  But she knows there's love in the midst of this, in the mist.

And that is the end of this small crackhouse romance.

AFTERMATH: One Day When I Didn't Score

Hello, thanks for coming by.

You maybe know, the first 22 instalments of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (from Jan to April 2013).  You can buy this as a kindle on amazon, if you do that kind of thing, and it would be great if you could review it...there are 3 good reviews so far, and all are appreciated.  Now here is today's lesson...

Here is a link to a song of mine on youtube.  Just click here to hear Masochist's Anonymous

ONE DAY WHEN I DIDN'T SCORE

It was a rare, drear day.  Woke at 6.44, and began the countdown in my mind to about 9, when I could viably ring cohorts from Hepatitis Court, a tenement-block where once I'd scored.  They were, at the time, the only other users I knew, a couple, with two kids of about five, who hadn't been taken into care yet.

I managed to drop off for an hour or so, truncating my wait, and then, at 8.45, I dressed, and left.  Past the garage, the shops, the bus-stop, and then right down the ramp into Hepatitis Court car-park...up the steps to stairwell one, and through to number 3, Spike and Suzie.  One would surely be in, and would ring Killer, the probable nearest candidate to bring the wares.

But I knocked, there in the dinge, little light upon me, filtering through the fire-door, but all I heard was silence, and then a shuffle, a voice, a child's voice, 'Hello?'

'Hello,' I said.

'I can't open the door,' it said.

'Are your mummy and daddy in?' I asked.

'They're not here,' it said, footsteps fading away.

After a moment, I turned, and left, through the fire-door into stairwell one, downstairs, and out onto the street.  I had an eye out to find someone, or be found by them, but somehow, more by chance than judgment, I wandered home.

And that is my reminiscence for the day...

AFTERMATH: It's Hard Being Wise When You're Bored

Above is a song...

Hello, as you might know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of the ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (from Jan to April 2013), which you can also buy on amazon, if you have three pounds to spare.  From then on, the blog is the frequent emissions of the servile blogger, who aims to please you daily, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here is today's attempt to please you...the above is an old song, but you might like it, if you believe in the link between love and garbage...

IT'S HARD BEING WISE WHEN YOU'RE BORED

Addiction's a social-life in itself.  You don't need a diary.  You can just be assured that every day, and any ensuing days, will be related somehow to drugs.  It may be a using day, or it may be a day after a using day, or a day before a using day, or a day where you just hide in bed, and wait for something to drop into your bank-account, counting down the hours and days with Time Team and Hitler documentaries chuntering away in the corner.  Odds on, even if you haven't used for a week or so, this is probably because you're broke, and so who needs a diary just to write in it 'remember to stay in'.

But today is a bank-holiday, which, in case you're reading this somewhere other than the UK, is a kind of extra Sunday, nailed on to the end of the week as a treat for those whose lives are impaled on the stake of the working week...or something like that.  Yes, just when you've got through a weekend, there's another day of semi-blankness to consider, confronting you with extra helpings of Time Team, and family-friendly films all through the day, messing with the schedule you'd got used to punctuating your day with.  Everything is set adrift, and all you can find, if you're lucky, is Jason and the Argonauts, toppling that giant, and slaying those skeletons and the like.

It can be as paralysing as any snake-venom, a bank-holiday, once its got its fangs into you.  You might rise with noble intent, hopes to write this letter, that poem, win that game of scrabble, ring that friend, write that song, do that exercise...and then, come four o'clock, with only a few Jaffa Cakes consumed, your mind strays towards that 'spare' £80 in the overdraft, which is already spoken for...but what the hey?  You stray a little further, picturing, as if in a cinematic dream sequence, your good self wandering down the road to the cashpoint, getting out forty, pottering along to your friends round the corner from the pawnshop.  Yes, ok, you're going to use, but at least you're also doing it because you want some company, some human contact, some stimulation, interaction...is that so bad?  Is it wrong to want a pick-me-up, the personal touch, a little pepper on your pasta?

Who wouldn't want when their life was so wanting?

It's so hard holding on with fingernails chipped and flimsy, rainwashed rockface...oops, I've gone again...

And that, as I splash down into ravenous rapids, is all I have to say today...

AFTERMATH: Autumn Eventually

Hello, as you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog (Jan to April 2013), are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can buy on amazon if you want to.  From then on, it's the daily emissions of your faithful blogger, Benjamin of Turnham Green, edutaining you with words, some addiction-related, some not, music, and pictures, like a child's scrapbook, with no overseer.  And here is today's emission...

AUTUMN EVENTUALLY

Today, I am dreaming of mutilating Richard Curtis, author of films such as Love Actually, Two Weddings, Notting Hill, and the recent one, About Time.  The idea that a character in a film can time-travel to any middle-class setting in history, is a remarkably original idea, and I commend him for it.  As for mutilating Curtis, I think I'd probably do it, go back, do it again, and perhaps do this up to ten times.

I also have a film coming out this season, entitled Autumn Eventually.  In it, I, the protagonist, am seen initially kicking my way down a leafy mews somewhere in the Kensington neighbourhood, dressed in Doctor Martens, naturally, some kind of bookish jacket, the sort a librarian with attitude might wear, and probably bootcut jeans from ebay.

Later, I stop off at a coffee-shop, ask for a latte, and sit down, noticing as I do the woman with ringlets and a book, sipping a tall tea at the table in the window.  The book is probably by Hermann Hesse, or some such, and I comment on it unobtrusively.  She smiles, and tells me what she likes about it, and how she loves his use of water-related imagery.  I concur, and buy her a teacake.

When she leaves, her perfume, a non-animal-tested fairtrade fragrance from a festival, lingers in the air at my table, almost making my muffin taste slightly medicated.  I smile a goodbye, not wishing to seem too keen.  She thanks me for the teacake, and parts the scene.

Then, because I'm depressed at another too-fleeting encounter with a woman, I ring up my crack-dealer, who meets me outside and slips two-and-one into my waiting fist and shimmies away.  I return to my table, and order another latte, pretending I work in publishing, and am reading a manuscript from a possible author I'm going to represent.  Then, when it comes, I ask if I may use the gents'.  The polite waitress says 'of course', and lets me know it's just behind the counter, down the steps.

I pop to the loo, and, because I thought to bring my pipe out, I lay me a chunk of white on the gauze, and light up very nicely thank you.  I sit there on the loo, wanking for a minute, cursing the woman for leaving, and not obeying my desires, not knowing my desires, and acting in exact accordance with them.  Then, when the high subsides, I have another, but the gauze burns, and I choke badly.  Then the fire-alarm goes off, and I panic.  So I try to load up another pipe, thinking to dash...but then I remember I have to pay...I'm shaky, and I begin to sweat, and I can't load mi pipe.

I shove everything in my pocket, resentfully and flustered.  I go back into the eating-area, and offer to pay at the counter, but we all have to go outside.  I follow the herd, about eight of us, and two staff.  The chef comes out saying there's smoke in the toilet, and they all know it's me.  I'm sweating even more now, and can't think of what to say to appease them all.  I apologise profusely, and say I did light up a cigarette in there, and start crawling and fawning like a fuckwit.  There's not much sympathy, and the chef points out that there's a no smoking sign in the very toilet I was using.  I go even gaucher, and start swivelling about like some tweed-elbowed English teacher in a tizzy.

Then the lady with the book returns, a little astonished to see us assembled so.  She's forgotten her notepad, and indeed, it's there, open on the table she was sitting at.  The words on it read, 'I recognise the man who's just come in, but I'm not sure where from...'

I then realise I recognise her.  I once shared a twenty with her in a bin-chute near Acton Central.  She asks me if I'd like to go and discuss Hesse's use of the semicolon in another café.  I say I would, and press a tenner into the clutches of the calming waitress, which she accepts.  The alarm stops, and we wander down the mews in slanting golden sun, warm, yet with a winter-crispness creeping in.

'I'm sure I know you,' she says as we meander towards the alternative tea-room.  'What's your name?'

  'Acton, I say, Acton Green.'
  'Oh,' she says, with turtle-eyelids, 'don't think I know an Acton.'
  'There aren't many of us around,' I say, and we enter the tea-room.
  We sit down, order, and I pop to the toilet.

And that is all I have to tell you today.

AFTERMATH: Money Days

Hello, as you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can buy on amazon if you wish.  If you do, or have, I would really appreciate a review - there are two good ones already, and all are welcome.  From then on, the blog is the almost-daily reflections of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  So here are today's profound reflections...

MONEY DAYS

Well, today has been a money day, which has been hard.  I had no plans, and I've heard that if you fail to plan, you plan to fail.  The morning was hard, because I'd hardly slept, so, after a few cups of tea, and a bit of youtubing, I lay on my beanbag (one of the lovely things I've bought for my little cabin since putting the crack down), and listened to England vs Australia playing cricket, and it was quite a nice experience, even though Australia were doing quite well.  I then buried myself in finishing off the first song I've written in a while (with my new keyboard, another gift of recovery).  I got money today, so I often felt like appeasing the boredom by going out and using, if only for the company.  But, luckily, I managed to complete the song, and although it's a bit rusty, I'm glad I've got it done, and put it on youtube with a little video filmed with my webcam (another reward of recovery).  And it's above, if you fancy a listen.  It's called Autumn Blues.  Turns out there are about two hundred songs called Autumn Blues on youtube, so it needs all the support it can get.  I hope you quite like it.  There are other songs by me on there too, under the name of Benjamin Lo-Fi.  I shall write more tomorrow.

Thanks for dropping by.

And that is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: Counsellor Warns Of Slippery Slope

As you might know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can also buy on amazon, if you're into that kind of thing.  From that point on, it's the near-daily meanderings of Benjamin of Turnham Green, your happy blogger.  And, on that note, here are today's meanderings...

Oh yes, I'm also Benjamin Lo-fi, apparently, so here's a song of mine from youtube...

COUNSELLOR WARNS OF SLIPPERY SLOPE

  'I just can't get settled,' says Darrell in the study-room, halfway or so through his life-history, to be read in a week before all his damaged peers.
  'If you're going to kill yourself, at least do it with a degree of style,' quipped a passing keyworker on his way to the yard for a Camel.
  Then Greta, Darrell's counsellor popped her head in.  'Remember what I told you, Darrell...I had a client who had a Baileys ice-cream, and that led to a whiskey, which led to heroin...'
  Darrell nodded as if listening.  Then, as Greta passed, he thought, 'Better not have bay-leaf in my stew...'
  But that night there was a bay-leaf in dinner, served up by a recovering bailiff.

And that's it for today.  Come back for more Rehab, tomorrow...oh do?

AFTERMATH: Post-Mortems

As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can buy on amazon, if you're into that kind of thing.  From thereon in, the blog is the almost-daily meanderings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  I am also Benjamin Lo-Fi, if you'd like to sample a few songs on youtube, but I respect your prerogative not to.  So anyway, here are today's meanderings...

POST-MORTEMS

I think I've performed more post-mortems than Quincy.

And to date, every time, I've found I'm still alive  He died, she's dead, he's as good as dead, and she died some years ago now.  So why am I still standing, albeit not in the clothes I'd like, in the midst of this decay?  Not through want of trying, I've abused myself as much as I've seen others themselves, and still, albeit not in the boots I'd like, I find myself lumbering still, faltering over the embers of those who lit the fire for me.  I've almost got survivor-guilt.

I see an ashen mask, looking up at me, the one who struck the match, a face a kiss could crumble, a too-close sneeze, or the gentlest of breeze.  Now, made new in age, she speaks like a sage.  'Go on, go forth, with a guiltless heart, the crime you carry the guilt for was done to you, not by you.'

'By you,' I reply.

I hope whoever gave Jack Klugman his final going-over had a quiet smile to themselves as they signed him through.

And that is all I can say today.

AFTERMATH: Triggers

As you might by now be aware, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can buy on amazon, should that appeal.  From then on, it's the daily movements of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  So here, as promised, is today's movement.

TRIGGERS

  'What else makes you want to use?' asked the drug-worker.
  'Sex, man, women,' said the bloke in the chair next to me.
  The drug-worker was happy with this, because it was honest.
  'Being angry,' said a woman across the room.
  Worker liked this too, and was writing the list down on his whiteboard as we all coughed up some virtuous self-perception.
  'Having money,' I said, and this too was jotted down.
  A couple more suggestions, and we all began discussing how to see a trigger coming, what to do when it's 'on us', where to go, who to call, how to breathe, be, find the right tool for the job.  Suggested coping methods ranged from 'knock one out' to 'phone a friend' to 'write an affirmations list' to 'get to a meeting' to 'go to bed', the last of which didn't go on the whiteboard, for some reason.

  Drug-worker drew a human person on his flipchart, which he placed on the floor, and we were required to label the parts of the body affected when a trigger hits.  I labelled the pocket, where the cash-card would be, just waiting to be wasted, without a thought for the consequences, first bloke drew an arrow pointing at the region of the groin, and angry lady put steam coming out of its ears.  The figure cut quite a caper, down there on the carpet, peppered with body-parts and cartoon-eruptions, and looked like a prime candidate to be stuck in a two-dimensional world for ever, knowing only long, languishing lows, fleeting highs, flatness, fear, and the smell of black marker.

  Drug-worker facilitated a very, his words, 'honest and constructive' discussion about what triggers are, how they're different for different people, and how we can find ways to sit them out, help them pass, etc.

  Then I went and scored with cock bloke and angry girl.

  And that is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: How To Spot A Relapse

As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can also buy on amazon, if your morals allow it.  From thereon in, this blog is the daily inspirations of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here are today's inspirational speculations...

HOW TO SPOT A RELAPSE

The doormat cannot be seen for letters
The washing-up smells
This evening's episode of Family Fortunes seems familiar
You stop buying normal things, like food, you can't checkout on ebay, and you begin making out it's time to start saving
You're playing Pac-Man online, and actually putting your name in the high-score chart
You haven't seen anyone for a few days, even though you could have
You may get up, but you don't eat until your ravenous, late afternoon
You're entertaining the possibility that a bath with Radox may change your life
You're wondering how much the hoover might be worth
You're reading the blue book for the first time ever, in search of loopholes
You find many loopholes
This morning's episode of Family Fortunes looks even more familiar
You make it to the shop, but you're walking slowly and obviously, in the hopes you'll be spotted, which won't be your fault
You've bought milk, but you're walking away from home rather than to it, even more slowly and obviously than before
You're dialling variations of a number that you think might be someone you've used with
You're going down a street you remember scoring on
You dredge up a grudge that hasn't bothered you for weeks
You study passers-by to see if they look dishevelled enough
You ring a bell you think might be the one
You're thinking it's as good as fate now, so you may as well just get it over with
None of the above has anything to do with you

And that is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: Clawing At Silence

Hello, as you may know, the first 22 instalments of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (from Jan to April 2013), which you can also buy on amazon if you want.  From then on, it's the daily musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  Here are today's musings...

CLAWING AT SILENCE

Days can be so empty.

Sometimes, lodged at my computer, I wonder if I can sustain, and build on, this life without crack, without resorting to other things to fill the alleged void.

Yes, I've done a bit of voluntary work, which I found quite gruelling, in its weekly way.  Maybe I should have tried something other than visiting another visually impaired person, when meeting him provided, in many ways, a stark reflection of self.  He was quite an isolated elderly guy, in sheltered accommodation, and, although I liked him, and sympathised with his plight, he seemed to have a better social life than me.  I managed to do it for nearly a year, and then drew it to a tactful close.  And this was ok, I think.

I've begun doing some stand-up comedy spots too, which is, although quite terrifying, definitely one of the best things I've done lately.  I began doing comedy before the crack came along, over ten years ago...I tried to pick it up halfway through my wasted decade, but to no avail...I'm so glad to be doing it again, and, so far, it's going quite well.

I have good friends, most of whom I don't ring or see enough.  And so, in short, my life is still quite empty, and when a day begins, I can feel quite good at first, cup of tea, bit of youtube, anyone looked at my blog etc, but by lunchtime it can feel like my forehead's made of stone, tense, tight, throbbing not quite enough to be called pain, but just as draining I fear.

Then, if I'm not vigilant, I can easily slip into loose, despondent thinking, convincing myself that I could disappear for a day, go use...have money in the bank, no commitments in the next few days, and a quick fix of crack would fast-track me to somewhere, at least...when somewhere can seem so hard to get to in the normal course of things.

And then, a strange and deep current can if not buoy me up, at least stop me from drowning, and I'll hold on, however stony it gets, however quiet it seems, however much I feel like I'm clawing at silence, like wet chalk on a blackboard, screeching zigzags, hoping there's enough chalk to write what I need to write...

And that is all I have to say right now.

AFTERMATH: Crack Cocoon

As you may know, this blog begins with the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (from Jan to April 2013), which you can also buy on amazon, if you ever stray that way.  After this, it's the evolving musings of myself, Benjamin of Turnham Green, or Benjamin Lo-Fi, if you find me on youtube.  Here are today's thoughts...

CRACK COCOON

  'They've put me on the ground floor now,' said Victor from the hostel.
  Naturally, I was delighted.  It was proof, as was I, that harm-reduction and responsibly administered prescription meds can work, even when housing environs have embedded associations.  I texted demo leader and said as much...but then I woke up.
  'Oh god, I just dreamt I was a drug-worker,' I said with a jolt.
  My partner said, 'Are you alright, what's going on?', her Doctor Who t-shirt slipping to expose a shoulder pearlescent...and then I woke up.
  'God I wish I weren't so alone,' I sighed, with as much venom as longing.
  The 94 threw itself down Goldhawk Road towards Chiswick, which I filmed on my webcam for a future youtube collage.
  Again, I woke up.

  So I turned over and went back to sleep.

  And that is all I have to say for today.

AFTERMATH: Haunted ipod

The first 22 chapters of this blog, from Jan to April 2013, are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  From then on, it's the daily musings of yours sometimes truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green, also known as Benjamin Lo-Fi, well on youtube anyway...and here is today's musing...

HAUNTED IPOD

In the old days, when ghosts were fairly recent, they just appeared, maybe translucent or with their feet underground, but they made a go of it, they appeared.

Since around the 70s, or at least that's when we say we started noticing, they couldn't be bothered to actually manifest, so just left us some whispering on the telly, some sepulchral murmur under the white noise, which you don't get much these days.

So now they're having to go digital, appear in pixels and menus, as cryptograms.  But don't worry, they're still there.  We're as haunted as we ever were.

Goodnight.

AFTERMATH: Chinless Wonder

Hello, as you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can read here or buy on amazon, if that's the kind of thing you do.  From then on, the blog is merely the humble parables of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And below is today's fable, which I hope find edifying...

CHINLESS WONDER

One afternoon, Jacob and I were on Shepherd's Bush Road.  We had some crack, but didn't know where to go with it.  He went through his list of nearby damaged ladies.  One came up.  Minutes later, we were up a concrete staircase in Veronica's place.

Introductions done, we all had a pipe of crack apiece.  I sat back on the slumping sofa, relieved to have interrupted the comedown from the previous pipe, about half an hour ago in a stairwell, hoping this high wouldn't fade before Jacob fed me another.  Jacob, himself, was negotiating some activity with our host, who was now picking at a crater on her chin...but Jacob didn't mind that because her t-shirt was tight, and the two of them sashayed into the kitchen.

They shut the door, but the hatch was open.  Inside, Jacob administered another pipe each, and it went a bit quiet.  I, distraught on sunken cushions, knew now that it would be a while before any more was administered in my direction.  I knew not to interfere, though, because Jacob could be quite assertive when in pursuit of some private time with his lady.  It was quiet.  The telly was on, but silent, a game-show relating to antiques, which Jacob would sometimes show a keen interest in, but even Bargain Hunt wasn't going to entice him from the kitchen this time.

I knew there were still drugs, so just stayed glued to the sunken sofa, and hoped, though I fantasised about slipping away, free from the shackles of my craving, emancipated, transfiguring, over a period of weeks, with the sage support of a suitable keyworker, into the non-judgmental ex-user, who's polite to the users, but never dallies.  But when desperation's you're only company, the only news is desperation's own self-recommendations.

There was activity through the hatch.  Then, after a flurry of failed attempts to get a light, the two re-emerged.  Jacob asked me to go to the shop to get a lighter.  I gauchely said I would, if he'd give me a pipe when I got back.  Of course he would.  So bitterly I skipped down the concrete staircase and round the corner to the all-night kiosk.  Then, returning with a clipper, I rejoined the party.  'One minute,' said Jacob, clipper in his clutches, and he and his lady went back in the kitchen.  I knew there was no point asking for my promised pipe, because that's a contradiction in terms, and it was only desperation that had traduced me into hoping in the first place.

But there is a happy ending to my tale.  That day, when the crack went, and it was established I had no more money, and couldn't get cash back at Sainsbury's, I drifted off, leaving Jacob and his lady to their private.  But, a few weeks later, I met Veronica on Shepherd's Bush Road.  By now, the crater in her chin was so cavernous that you could almost see her jawbone.  She could tell I seemed concerned, but reassured me that she'd given up smoking crack because she couldn't really suck on a pipe anymore, as her gaping mouth would let far too much air in, and spoil the buzz, and there was no way she was going to start injecting...those people have no sense of physical integrity.

I was pleased she'd found a way forward, truly in the name of harm-reduction.  'I guess sometimes you have to do harm in one area to do good in another,' she surmised, and we smiled (well I think she was smiling).  Then, leaning forward, her arm on mine, she placed a lipless kiss on my wary cheek.

And that is the end of today's parable.

AFTERMATH: Moths

Hello, you might already know that the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can also buy it on amazon, if you don't mind their tax arrangements, that is.  From that point on, the blog is my daily musings on a theme of addiction and recovery (not that I really like those words, but what can you do, sometimes you just have to use the tools in the box).  And here are today's spanners in the works...

MOTHS

I wonder if moths have a problem.

They sleep in the day, then spend the night chasing the moon and orbiting light-bulbs.  Has no one told them things wouldn't be so desperate if they just got up with the rest of us?  I use the term 'us' loosely.

But we, who've hovered in hovels with many a moth, have seen the difference within the generality.  It may seem their lives are all the same, flitting about in stairwells and porches, hurling themselves at whatever glow's on offer, as if that'll make everything ok.

But no two moths can occupy the same space at the same time.  They may be hurtling towards the same light-bulb, but from different angles, and their gossamer pilgrimage there will be defined by the competition around them, those other flapping nocturnes who want a piece of it too.  Maybe some will become allies, but surely, in the chaos of clashing wings and antennae, it's a bit like when a lone food-drop lands in the middle of a famine.  Suddenly friends become enemies, commonality turns to competition and commerce.

Then, along comes the caretaker, doing his rounds, and the corridor goes dark.  Bewilderment and panic set in, as spirals, like tiring tornados, begin to unravel and unspool, and feelers are put out for news of a nearby light that might see us through the night.

But if there isn't one, it's flap around in the half-light, scavenging on a shaft of streetlight that's spilling through a window, like a taunt, like at the end of Bullseye, when, having not won the jackpot, you're nevertheless shown 'what you could have won'.

And there's nothing worse than walking into a hallway, full of angry moths.  Some will still be flapping about, limping through the air like bitter geriatrics, others will still be throwing themselves at the glass, hoping for an opening, whilst others will have adhered themselves to the wall, waiting for better times, wishing they'd been born a butterfly.

And that is the end of today's sermon.

AFTERMATH: May As Well Be A Different Planet

The above tune is the theme tune to today's entry...that's my excuse, anyway.

As perhaps you're aware, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (from Jan to April 2013).  From then on, it's just like other blogs, purveying daily musings for a hungry readership.  Also, though I don't like to mention it, you can even buy the above-named ebook on amazon.  I won't tell anybody.  Here is some more pigswill for your trough...snouts in...

MAY AS WELL BE A DIFFERENT PLANET

When I was using, really in the loop of it, there were days when I'd never leave my flat, weeks where I'd see no one but the shopkeeper, for milk, which I'd pay for with change.  There'd be months where I'd be broke for 27 out of 30 days, fridge'n'cupboard bare as you'd find in any fairy-tale, when I'd barely stray more than half a mile from my desolate little grotto, and that would be to score.

Not long ago, I was sitting, sweating, in a curtained room, about nine floors up, with a schizophrenic who was in a kind of delusional mania, and a fat bloke who'd undressed to his pants, and was now lying on his back, smacking his chops and chuckling, saying, 'I'm having such fun,' then reaching out and clutching at the backside of the deluded lady, who wasn't wearing very much either.  He had some crack, which, oddly, he was quite generous with.  He'd get Lydia, the lady, to load and burn him a pipe, which he'd take in like a neglected newborn, let out the guilty dry billows, and then resume feeling her up, and even leaning against me a bit, because he'd apparently asked if I was bisexual when I was out of the room.  He was enough to put you off any form of sex, regardless of any pre-existing proclivities.  Splutter, splutter, smack, smack, 'Oh, I'm having such fun,' he'd chunter on his back, body bronzed from a recent trip to Thailand, probably as a sex-tourist.  Then Lydia would stand with her back to the door, telling us at ten words a second about the Pope, and other people who'd stolen from her, and could we hear her name in the pear-tree outside?  There was no pear-tree.  We were on the ninth floor.  Then a guy called round with some crack, but he seemed a bit mean, not just because he didn't give me any, but more because it wasn't long before he was chasing the fat bloke around the place with a kitchen-knife, because he thought he'd stolen a crumb off the bedside-table.  He didn't stab him, and Lydia managed, somehow, to diffuse the situation.  Then, shortly after, knife back in the drawer, I thought I'd make my way.  After all, all the crack had gone.

That was about two months ago.  Today, I went on the train to Eton, where my family is from, to see an old friend.  We walked along the river in golden sun, stumbled on the last few overs of a college cricket-match, on a ground I'm sure some counties would be happy with, surrounded by beautiful trees, some clearly donated from foreign potentates in days gone by, like an Indian Bean Tree, and a Turkish Lazuli, all bathing in the warmth of an egg-yolk sun, looking on from a low angle, thus getting in the bowler's eyes.  There was a bench we sat on, under the shade of a well-trimmed willow, and I drank my cherry Lucozade without a qualm.  The college chapel rang a slightly clanking, and therefore ancient, bell, punctuating the late afternoon with its monkish, tin janglings.  There were footpaths, barely beaten, through woods that led down to the river, upon which a seemingly sedater life existed, as rowing, private, and pleasure boats drifted by, leaving a wake that was pleasant to watch to the shore, and bounce back into the next one coming in.  Even conflict seemed harmonious in this idyll.

Then, back through a quadrangle or two, a cobbled arch here, a prohibited lawn there, we made our way back to the station, where I caught the train back to my enchanted grotto, just ten minutes from the curtained room above.  You don't need NASA when a train and a short walk can get you to another planet, albeit it one where you rarely see the sun that gives it life. 

Maybe bad light stopped play.

And that is all I shall say today.

AFTERMATH: Silence, A Symphony Unwritten

 

As you may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  If you want to read this here, that's fine by me, or you can buy it on amazon, which is even finer, because I'll get £1.35 from it - I can't say where the other £2 go.  Anyway, here are tonight's reflections, after a day of quite a lot of solitude, some cider, dope, and a sleeping pill, which may cause typing errors.

SILENCE, A SYMPHONY UNWRITTEN

Today I saw my most recent drugs-counsellor.  He's an ex-user, of something or other, but not one that comes with a pamphlet, or a reading-list.  I told him I'd been adding to my blog whilst listening to the cricket, before arriving at his place at two o'clock, a little alcove of my doctor's surgery, just a few minutes from my own alcove.  Sometimes I'm silent for such long stretches that my lips feel almost stitched, but a therapeutic hour with Mr Drugs Worker allows for a bit of an exchange, some client-counsellor badinage, to bandage the silent wound of what's been.

Increasingly, I can feel the silence around me, dormant, yet waiting to erupt into sound, and possibly fury.  Although silence gloats about its golden status more often than it should, it longs, underneath, to be peppered with people's contributions, craves to be filled with song, for a time, as long as it's either suitably indie, or perhaps early baroque, something churchy with scrapey viols and clavicle, harpsichord and choir, and maybe some flute.  But silence can't really do Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms and so on, likening them, as it does, to a thick pork bap.  All you can do is sit there, looking down on the frenzied elbows of violinists, turgid tubas glinting, onerous oboes, avuncular cellos, and incestuous violas grinding out variations.  It may seem edifying at first, a filling and wholesome snack, worth persisting with, chewing over, even recommending, until you find, on completion, the theatre is emptying out, and you're back on the plaza, amid others with stomachs laden with bread and half-chewed pig.

But at least it's not in the name of some genocidal regime.  So count your blessings, and enjoy your gig.

And that is all I have to say right now.

AFTERMATH: Searching Indie Bands On Youtube

As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog, from Jan to April 2013, are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can purchase, if you so desire, on amazon.  From then on, this blog is the daily, and sometimes more than daily musings of the man now typing at this computer...that man is Benjamin of Turnham Green.  I hope you like today's reflections...if you don't, there is no complaints procedure, so you'll just have to let it fester.

SEARCHING INDIE BANDS ON YOUTUBE

I fell asleep in 1991.  I can't say exactly when it happened.  It may have been when I was listening to Mute Witness by Morrissey, in my bedroom at 69 Lorne Road, Leicester.  The story of this bedroom is fascinating, as you're about to find out...

It was a good bedroom.  Although I had no sex in it, I can't entirely hold the room responsible for that.  There were probably other issues at play, of which the bedroom was utterly unaware.  But it was a big room, in shades of tasteful brown, with a window, where placed was my desk, overlooking the humble grandeur that was Lorne Road.  Because I'd had the backroom the previous year, on Bulwer Road, I had first choice of the rooms in our next house.  I was sharing with two other girls (not that I'm a girl) and, I have to say, Lorne Road was a step up.  We were students, of sorts.

One night, I drank quite a lot of Merlot before going to the Megadisco (yes, it was called the Megadisco, or Mega, by those in the know).  Crossing Victoria Park, with its futuristic cycle-path arcing across the green towards the very tall Attenborough Building, I swayed my gentle way, for to meet a lady.

When I got to the Student Union building, I met a friend who I now realise was a Goth, Stephen Gregory, who was playing snooker in the Mandela Bar, probably.  He had a Snickers bar sitting on the side of the table by his chalk, which I found rebellious.  I was probably better than him at snooker, but my sight didn't allow that to be shown, but that's probably another story.

We went down to a bar named after another political prisoner and drank some cider, probably.  There was Veronica, and crew.  Veronica, on my course, was deep-voiced and wore tight jeans...she was on the cusp of slender and voluptuous, and therefore both confusing and enticing.  She had her prog-rock boyfriend with her, a stocky economist, and a couple of girls from the wine society...yes, the wine society.

Although I'd just drunk a bottle of Merlot, I didn't think this would necessarily be a suitable opener.  So I sat there, with my cider, Stephen Gregory, and a rollup that seemed to have hash in it, feeling peripheral, yet steeped in potential, and general dynamism.

When I was suitably drunk and stoned, I veered into the dark, high-ceilinged void that was the Mega.  It was great in there, like a kind of indie petri-dish, seething, full of the future.  They may have been playing the Stone Roses, amongst others, and I was heaving around like an indie mess in the midst of darkness.  There were other people there...some of them female.

I was so gone I didn't even care if I came into contact with one of them.  Now lost to previous acquaintance, I jolted about until someone leaned into me and tried to make contact.  'Hi, it's Hermione,' said a voice, and I sensed a bloke to her side, who might have been something of a nuisance.  I shouted into the gloom, and our cheeks were nearly touching, her hair was in a crimped bob, and her eyes had rings of irony about them, as if to modestly declare a knowledge of her own beauty.

Although I've never considered myself an ouster, the bloke kind of gave up and wandered into the mass, to an indie beat.  Hermione was one of Veronica's friends, from the wine society.  This was, as still it would be, as good as it gets.

We talked, or at least shouted, over the Inspiral Carpets, and she placed her hand on my arm quite a lot.  Used to being touched, I thought that was all there was to do, and that reciprocation was superfluous somehow, not necessary, would be worked around.  So ensconced in my inner-cubicle, I took her interest as charity.

And it wasn't long before the music stopped.  We could now talk.  Turns out she loved Morrissey too.  Turns out her birthday was May 23, the day after his, the day before mine.  We remained in the middle of the emptying disco until a leftfield bouncer asked us politely to make our way.

In the vague vending-machine area outside, Hermione said she'd wait for me as I retrieved my coat from the ticket-based cloakroom-hatch.  I got my jacket, which had something awful written on it, and we wandered back across the now dark Victoria Park, straying from the arcing cycle-path so as to arrive at the road that led to Hermione's house.

And then I guess we went in.  Her friends and housemates were in the living-room, talking, watching something on the TV, and Hermione and I ended up in the kitchen.  She said she wanted to do some voluntary work overseas.  I endorsed her wish with expressions of general approbation, and unneeded extras.  We were sitting either side of her kitchen table, and I wasn't sure what, if anything, I was meant to do.

Anyway, it was about three, I wandered home, and felt quite trendy for having been out so late.

Two days later, I got her number from Veronica and gave her a call.

I had to explain who I was.

And these were my glory days of indie consciousness, back in the early 90s.

That's all I can bare to say today.

AFTERMATH: Unfreezing

As you might be aware, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (from Jan to April 2013).  From that solemn point onward, I present you with the daily musings of me, your blogger, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  Some of the thoughts and reflections here may be of a profound and adult nature, so grow down, grow up...

UNFREEZING

Even with the cajoling of global-warming, glaciers are notoriously reluctant to melt, and move on.  It's partly because, when you've been sitting around for so long, it's quite hard to think of new things to do.  Also, even if one starts, how will all those lost years be redeemed?

I knew a glacier once, who refused to melt, despite the fact that everything about him was jungle and humid sun.  Rabbits, snakes, and creatures of the foliage would sometimes play and skid upon him, like a frosty uncle with a high threshold for horseplay.  I, below, at his side, where a crack was promising to lengthen, enquired as to the reason for his stasis.

He didn't want the parasites to lose their playground.

I coaxed a touch, suggesting that a little melting could lead to a modest brook for the roughhousers to splash around in, but he, looming above, would still provide a decent plateau upon which to skate and play, perhaps even with a sloping side for skiing and tobogganing.

I could tell he was considering.

Then, after a few thousand years, he said, 'Yes, what the hell, let's be spontaneous...'

And my glacial friend cried tears of both his own, and someone else's, joy.

And that is all I have to say at present.

AFTERMATH: People Who Seek Out Damage

The above song is so old, it's virtually in Sanskrit.

Anyway, as you may know, the first 22 instalments of this blog (Jan to April 2013) are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can buy on amazon, if you're that way inclined.  From that point on, the blog is just the daily reflections of yours untruly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  Here is today's fodder for your nosebag...

PEOPLE WHO SEEK OUT DAMAGE

When I was using, I found myself especially compelled to do so in the presence of the most damaged people I knew, who also used.  It was a kind of deal.  I guess there's something Newtonian about it...if you begin from a point of particular depth, the momentum of that first rush can seem to propel you faster, higher, further.  But, unlike pure physics, there's a moral overhang and, when the comedown begins, the fall is harder and more bruising, with an extra dose of remorse thrown in, as a reminder that there's no such thing as a free launch.

I have always been addicted to damage, because it's virtuous to hang with the down-and-outs, even to be one, in a spirit of solidarity.  Damage, once identified, can function as a very good reason to fail, and make failure a living form of poetry, for one or more players.

Me and so-and-so would often chat about the damage done, being done, and yet to come.  It's a narrowing narrative, like a river that gets thinner the nearer it gets to the sea.  Yesterday yielded up the reasons for today's mishaps, and today we're forging the gorge of tomorrow's tortures.  It's really quite wonderful, the poetry of falling short - like a slow strangle, you barely notice your breathing is impaired.

Sucking on a smashed Martel bottle behind St Saviour's, I can remember that all-consuming sense of rapture as the crack'n'bicarbe slinked into the sponginess of my lungs, alongside me a ginger-bearded gnome called Lenny, and a vague young guy with stubble and crash-helmet hair.  I came off the bottle, held in the vapours, Lenny grinned, and set one up for himself.  As he was doing so, a lady came out from the back of the church, but, in a spirit of compassion and social inclusion, hardly bothered at what we were obviously doing.  She and Lenny seemed to know each other.

Then Lenny asked me if I could lend him a fiver, cos he got his money tomorrow, and we could meet at Spike and Suzie's, when he'd give it me back.  I told him I didn't have it, but, in his garbled way, he insisted.  I told him no, and made my way down the road to a safer haven where I could score in peace.  As luck would have it, Darrell appeared from his front-door, and shooed Lenny away.  Lenny was obviously lower down the chain, and scampered gingerly away.

Darrell invited me in, and we rang someone that he had to go and meet.  I lay on his floor, still coming down, for two hours, until he returned, saying he'd been arrested, but, as if by magic, coughed up a phlegm-clad wrap, which we shared with the Antiques Roadshow on.

Seems in their world damage devalues.

That is all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: ASBO SALLY

As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog, from Jan to April 2013, are the text of my book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which is available on amazon, as an ebook, so as not to waste paper.  From that point on, the blog is the daily, or near-daily musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green, raconteur and repressed metrosexual.  And here are today's reflections...

ASBO SALLY

She's good at what she does, but what she does is bad.  There goes ASBO Sally, copper-topped and damaged, by the market where I met her.  If I'm over the road, trying to slip into the station, unseen, she'll often bellow over, 'Dan, Dan, it's Sally...Dan!'  Cos she's like that.

Saw her today.  I was sidling by the market, on my way to an interview at Chicken Cottage, and she caught me.  Her gruff salute seemed to invoke a stickiness of tongue, and I, flylike, tumbled in.  It was all ok, though, because, somehow, now when I'm presented with the opening approach, the freakwave Discovery speak of, I see calmer waters beyond.  I also feel the sickness of the initial drowning, the sopping deck, rainsoaked trawlermen depressed and agog on gleaming boards, knowing they have come out too far, taken too much, but must dredge deeper, harder, further, faster, reflecting how they used to be casters of nets, but turned, with too-slow warning, to marionettes...

...which kinda helps.

And that, you may be relieved to know, is all I have to say today.

I once wrote this song, about maritime issues...


AFTERMATH: Nocturne

As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog are the text of the book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  From that point on, it is the inimitable musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  Today's entry is possibly a bit surreal, so I promise you that tomorrow's thoughts will be really realworld and incisive, the kind of thing you'd like to hear from a wise'n'experienced drug-worker, or the normal person in a twelve-step meeting.

NOCTURNE

One good thing about not using so many drugs is that I'm getting my teenage vocabulary back.  I can begin blog entries with words like 'Nocturne' without feeling too guilty about it.

It's ok to imagine a wheelchair-bound harlequin parked up at your window, whispering old weather-forecasts in various tongues.  It is also fine to imagine the harlequin rising from his throne of wheels and skating forth on slats of Dairylea, seemingly produced automatically as his feet touch the ground.

Of course, you'd think the Dairylea would lack solidity and slickness to function as a ski-like means of self-propulsion, but we as a race have much to learn.  One thing I do know is that Laughing Cow would not work, so please do not imitate the harlequin under any circumstances.

On another note, we who have nurtured our impatience with various quick fixes to the slow break of our lives, know well the virtue of slowness.  The harlequin outside my window was once as plain as an envelope, but now, either rolling around in his throne of incapacity, or skiing on his Dairylea slats, is always seeking the next big thrill, the next big-top to awe with his own inimitable brand of gaudiness.

His whole act is mime, which makes you hate him before he's even opened his mouth, which he never will.  He gestures, flat-handed, at panes of glass that aren't there, juggles grenades invisible flawlessly, smokes transparent cigarettes until he mock-dies of complications.

Then, years later, at a minor-celebrity paraphernalia auction, two rancid squares of Dairylea are put up for sale in memory of the much-missed Grenadier of Gaud, the debilitated harlequin.

And that's pretty much all I have to say today.

AFTERMATH: Afternoons

Thanks for dropping by.  As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog, from Jan to April 2013, are the text of the book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can buy on amazon, if you stoop that low.  From that point on, under the bitter banner of Aftermath, you will find the near-daily musings of your author, the last living baronet in Shepherd's Bush.  I hope you enjoy them.

AFTERNOONS

Every friend of compulsion knows the mystic force of early afternoon, money in the bank, days of anger banked up like unmeltable snow, and a wish for something more, but not necessarily a noble more, like that bowl of gruel Twist requested, but a borderline more, one that comes with a hung parliament of whisperers and silhouette spectators, all with an opinion on whether to sit it out, or proceed.  And when proceed translates as advance, it sounds more advanced, even though it hasn't yet.  But when the boulder of self is shouldered through the foliage, a dark momentum gathers, and birds either go quiet, or perhaps are just more easily ignored.

Snakes hide under logs, until you're on your journey home.

And they are my thoughts for the day.

AFTERMATH: The World Owes Me £2

Hi, thanks for dropping by again.  The first 22 episodes of this blog (from Jan to May 2013) are the text of my book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can buy on amazon if you do that kind of thing.  After that point, it's the almost-daily musings of me, your faithful author, and local antihero, so happy reading...

NORMA WANTS £2

It's a blistering hot day here on Goldhawk Road, which means you're more likely to get begged at or mugged, or both, if the first doesn't work.  As a local dignitary, it's hard getting past the market without being assailed in some form or another.  Because it's hot, you can sit on the pavement with impunity, and see if you can bleed a few quid out of those who come and go.  I am so stoical and heroical that I, now a venerable ex-user, have to tread a line between identification and non-judgemental sympathy whenever I hear the cry, 'Yo, B, gimme some change.'  One of my favourite accosters is Norma, bloated and furious, can in hand, and often to be found by the fruit-stall.

A year or so ago, it was a quid she wanted, but now it's gone up to two, which is in no sense in line with inflation.  I nearly always say I don't have it, sometimes because I haven't, but mostly cos I don't really like her, and anyway, it would surely only go on another can of fizzy petrol, or possibly a can of lighter-fuel to clamp down on and inhale every five or ten minutes, until a better offer comes along.

But Norma gets very angry when I deny her, however polite I am.  'I know you've got money, y'bastard,' she explains, 'I just saw you come out of Tesco.'  'Yes, I had to leave Tesco because I had no money,' I might rejoinder.  'You get more money than I do,' she says, aware, as she has been for a while, that I receive a higher band of disability benefit than her, despite her best efforts to appear mentaller and more decrepit than she actually is.

So I swan by, moneyed, gloating inside that I now have a slightly smaller overdraft than I had when I was using, with her, or whoever I happened to stumble on, or be stumbled on by, at any given time.  Monstrous the curses that spill from her slack'n'flaky lips as I saunter by with a secret sovereign in my chinos.  Once she even tapped my pockets to see if they rattled, and, when they did, she almost went purple, but I assured her falsely that what she heard was the jangling of my keys, but she thankfully fell short of delving in, where she would have found at least £3.40, and maybe a note.

Sometimes, there might even be a secondary scavenger, a kind of para-parasite, hoping to feed off what meagre crumbs Norma might drop, not knowing that those bulbous clutches only unclench when there's something coming straight back in.  But the sidekick might back up her claim, or even undercut it, hoping I might perhaps have £1.50, even just a quid, to proffer it.  It is always tempting to throw a coin into the air and watch them scramble for it, scratching and clawing each other to death in a battle to snatch the guinea - this would not only mean one less unfortunate on our streets, but also keep the economy ticking over in these times of tight belts.

And that is all I have to say today.