Monday 10 November 2014

WARNOGRAPHY

Hello, and thank you for dropping by.  You may already know that the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  I'm thinking of calling it Blind Man On Crack, just for the hell of it, but until that time, you can read it here, or on amazon, if you wish - it costs £3.35 or so, and if you buy the ebook, I would really appreciate a review...I have three so far, all good, but I would like more.  And so here is today's little instalment.  I honestly don't know what I'm going to say, but I thought I should check in, if only for my own peace of mind, and the mild entertainment of my 2 followers...


WARNOGRAPHY

Well, in my virtuous state of abstinence from crack, and other heavy drugs, I just wanted to vent what I think may be an opinion.  Here in England, in November, we have Remembrance Sunday, where we all remember people who've got done in in wars, with particular attention paid to World War 1.  That's fine.  That is a good thing.  But this year things seem to have been a bit fetishistic, in my opinion.  There is a sea of poppies, the symbol of the blood of the fallen, pouring from a window of the Tower of London, and spilling into the moat, numbering around 880,000, which is apparently the number of English and 'colonial' soldiers that died in World War 1.  This too is fine.  But I have to be honest, I get sick of seeing everyone on the telly wearing a poppy like they'd be shot if they didn't, like they're setting an example for the rest of us...I mean, some of us, virtuous as we are, are thinking daily about the pointlessness of life, and the even-more pointless nature of death, in particular in wars that should never have been fought in the first place.  Every news bulletin has that ingratiating tone, which I assume we are meant to adopt, when it talks about remembrance, poppies, what the queen did, and what texture the Prime Minister's shit was the day he went to see the sea of crimson flora at the tower.  I heard on the news that a soldier had done a sponsored run around London to raise money for the fallen, and his run was in the shape of a poppy, i.e. circular, with a slight crimp, and maybe a stalk.  He'd lost a limb in a recent conflict, and this I also respect, and empathise with.  But the news bulletins loved it, and I fear that next year we'll be thinking how we can outdo this year's grief-fest, and then, in 2018, on the hundredth anniversary of the end of World War One, what will we do then...how will we better this fest, the traffic-jams to the Tower of London, the silent milling crowds, paying their self-centric respect to the fallen as they scan their smartphone across the ruby sea, and put it on a sepia setting, to evoke a more innocent time?

Maybe the X Factor should factor in a competition for 2018's remembrance, or perhaps we should convene a Grief Olympics, especially for people who want to be seen to mourn the most.  Is it fair of me to use the word warnography?  Well, I improvised a little song called that, if you wanna hear...and here's the link to it on youtube.  Thanks for letting me rant.  Oh yeah, and no, I haven't used crack lately, which is great, cos I want to buy my friend's little girl a nice Christmas present this year, and a few grown-up friends too.  Only a few Christmases ago I was in bed, having had my telly taken away by a mad woman, who'd said she'd be back in an hour, when she'd sold it.  I never saw her again.  Maybe she died in a war.

I hope you understand the spirit in which I've rattled this off.  I just don't like enforced circuses, and I feel like the past few weeks have resembled a bloody kind of big top, in which the clowns are mostly politicians and newsreaders, and those who're looking for something to pin their personal grief to...

And on that bombshell, I shall leave you with this link to my song.  I thought it was a bit of a racket, but some guy on youtube seems to like it, so what they hey...!  Click here if you feel inclined...Warnography.

Maybe tomorrow?

Tuesday 21 October 2014

THE JOYS OF RECOVERY

Hi, and thanks for dropping by.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read it here, or buy it on amazon, if you prefer, it's cheap.  Now, this blog is the sporadic ejaculations of your dutiful blogger, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  I hope you enjoy today's ejaculation...


THE JOYS OF RECOVERY

Truth is, I'm quite tired, and my fingers are thudding down onto the keyboard like the heavy legs of a shire-horse.  But I had in mind to share one thing with you, and one day you too could be like me...

In my abstinence, and occasional serenity, I somehow won a little short story competition, and I thought you might, or not, like to read it...

Here it is...


ON GOING BLIND

Amok in copses, wild in municipal allotments we’d run, throwing matches lit over blazered shoulders, hoping our uniforms wouldn’t be identified by uncalled-for onlookers.  Jet-black’n’wet in our wake, Morrissey danced a zigzag through nascent flame.  It was too early to know if we were in trouble yet, as we tore across the Town Hall car-park, and into the air-raid shelter, ivy-clad.

Morrissey panted and pawed in the grit, seeming to know we’d overstepped.  Through mesh, David said small fires were forming, pooling their rapacity to flourish as one.  This was more than just knocking on doors, or stealing gum.  Can’t undo the done, I thought, in honour of a senior family member.  I could almost feel myself telling myself off on their behalf.

David had to take Mozza back - he walked him for an agoraphobic lady, who stayed indoors making lavender potpourri.  He said we should go, but I was afraid, half-thinking to earnestly seek assistance, making out to anyone who’d listen that we’d stumbled on the blaze, playing Doctor Who among the plum-trees.  My head was aching again.  Was it guilt, as that same senior relative had once suggested?

Lead jangling, the pair shuffled out, and I followed, smelling smoke, choosing not to look back.  Down the subway slope at speed in a shopping-trolley, dog chasing, David dared on, as I stumbled in his wake, dodging broken glass and dog-mess.  Then, surfacing by the bingo-hall, we parted at the pillar-box.

Home, I could hear a sibling strumming, smell a joss-stick.  In my room, Kate Bush was still spinning, needle having missed the cradle.  Sibling had a guest, the record-shop owner, bearded and bespectacled, demeanour of a Timelord, but for the beard – Timelords rarely have beards.  He was at the top of the stairs, and I wondered if my face looked convincingly innocent as he smiled and waved goodbye.

From the end of my bed, I could see into nextdoor’s garden - even the mouldy Satsuma I threw down the day before was still there, gleaming by an upturned bucket.  The back door showed activity, a figure, vertical and vitric, made many behind corrugated glass.  It was Wendy, and out she came with bin-bag hanging.  She looked up, waved, and when our eyes met it felt as if I saw beyond her face, and she mine.  My brain felt probed, researched, lovingly reconnaissanced.  She did a little jig with the bin-lid spinning, like those ladies in Mikado.  Then, closing the door, multiple Wendys vanished in shade.  Sibling called up the stairs, asking did I want cheese on toast.  Mum and dad were at a parents’ evening for the other one.  I called down yes, and lay on my bed, cos my eyes felt gritty.

Later, when mum and dad were back, I ate some salt’n’vinegar crisps, but they made my mouth sore, and they weren’t even that vinegary.  My eyes had kind of sleepdust on the lids.  Mum took my temperature, and it was a little bit high.  I watched Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em in my pyjamas, and went to bed, but felt hot, even though it was November, and the window slightly open.  I thought about the fires, those orange demons we’d left to their own devices amid municipal plum-trees.

When I woke, something was wrong.  My eyes were all crusted up, wouldn’t open, and my mouth was like paper.  I called out, and mum came, and when she saw me I could tell there was more.  She said I had a rash on my face, and when I swivelled round and put my feet on the floor, there were blisters all over me, like bubblewrap, on the souls of my feet too, and I couldn’t put any pressure on them, for fear they’d burst.

‘I’d better call an ambulance,’ mum said, and used the phone on the landing.  Her voice sounded unfamiliar, like a blackbird singing in a minor key at unrecognised weather.  I’d been in trouble with the ambulance and fire-brigade before, for sending them to fake emergencies, reporting a fire at Lance Baxter’s house, whose dad was a racist, then watching the engine arrive from the end of my road, to no blaze.  Mum sat me up, but I was breathing with a wheeze, and her hand on my forehead felt so cool it almost stang.  She wiped my eyes with a wet tissue, and they opened a little, but were gritty.  The light through the window seemed to glare, and I shrank from it.  I had a glass of Ribena by my bed, but when I tried to swallow it, that hurt too.

It wasn’t long before an ambulance came, and a woman and man took me out on a stretcher.  I couldn’t put my feet down cos of the bubblewrap.  Out on the street, I was slotted into the back of the ambulance, and the siren began, and my mum sat next to me in her red jumper.  It was like being in the womb of a screaming woman.

When I got to the hospital, nurses circled like vultures of altruism, put a thermometer in my armpit, and when a doctor came, he said I should be put in isolation.  Soon I was in a cubicle on a creaking metal bed, with a tube down my throat.  Before me, thick glass, the children’s ward beyond, to my left a window showed the garden, where a man was smoking in the drizzle.

My dad arrived, cos mum had rung him at work, but they were only allowed into my cubicle with masks over their mouths, not because they’d catch what I had, but because their germs might harm me.  Dad looked like stone, his trapezium face rigid, eyes almost crossed with bewilderment.  A nurse said it was best if I was left for a while, and it wasn’t long before I was staring, leaning back on a pile of plumped pillows, at mum, dad, and the siblings, lined up behind the glass, their faces like I’d never seen them, zipmouthed, due to lack of reference points.  I think I’d been given something to make me go to sleep, cos next thing I just woke up with my head hanging down, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Next morning, my eyes were gummed up, and my skin felt so tender.  The Scottish nurse came in, with cream for the inside of my mouth, which was all roughed up with thrush.  The medicine was called Daptharin, and meant to be orange flavour.  She dabbed my eyes with wet cotton-wool, and slowly I pried them open.  She said, ‘Can you see the locum in the garden?’  I looked at the window, asking, ‘Is it foggy?’  She dropped the wool in the bag on my locker, and said the doctor would be in soon.  The orange flavour stang my throat, and I felt like I was lying in leaves.

Feeling down my side, the blisters had mostly burst, but the skin around them had peeled off, and I was lying in flakes, feeling nakeder than naked.  Then I realised it wasn’t foggy outside at all, it was foggy everywhere, a white veil had fallen between me and the world, outside and in.  I held my hand out, but saw little more than a flesh spectre, unsure even as to how many fingers I was holding up, failing a test that I myself had set.

My mum had stayed over in a room for family, and was soon at the end of my bed, her voice kazoo-like, due to the paper mask.  I mentioned my vision, thinking I might need contact lenses like one of the siblings.  I’d never known her so uncertain, so not knowing what to say.  If she couldn’t console me, then something very serious was afoot.  And when the doctor came, they went outside and I could hear them discussing me.  It was his belief that I had something called Stevens Johnsons Syndrome, which was probably due to a toxic reaction, maybe to a medicine, and he asked her what, if anything, I’d taken in the past month.  She told him about a few painkillers, something for a sore throat, then began to cry, in case she’d given me something harmful.

Later, dad arrived.  They were both allowed in, masked.  I was given a portable telly, but I couldn’t see it, and it was too far to reach from the bed.  I wondered if I would get lunch, but that’s what the tube was for, putting liquid goodness down my throat on my behalf, because I couldn’t swallow.  My temperature was now really high.  Mum stayed in the family room for the next few days, as I, peeling and delirious, listened to programmes I wouldn’t normally have watched, or listened to.  Each morning, I was eased sideways onto a waiting stretcher, so my bed could be changed, and I could hear the dead skin falling to the floor, like confetti at a ghoul’s wedding.

News of my demise had got home, and to school, and one morning my mum brought in a get well card from Wendy.  She handed it me, I ripped open the envelope, and pulled out the unreadable card.  I could never see Wendy again, I thought, because of what I’d become, like someone in Doctor Who who gets turned into one of the monsters, and although they have a human mind, they’re now a flailing thing, with pincers and the eyes of an insect.  Mum read Wendy’s words, but I felt like I was in a different universe, and the portal was like a funnel, you could only go one way through.

Days passed, and once my skin begun to heal, and I could swallow again, I was allowed to eat something soft, jelly and blancmange, but I just had the jelly, cos the blancmange had skin, like custard.  It was November 5th, and the hospital was having fireworks, and I was wheeled out into the children’s ward, where I could watch the display.  By now, my temperature was nearly back to normal, but even propped up on four pillows, and pointed at the window, I could still only see fireworks that rose above the level of the windowsill, the top half of a Catherine Wheel, the fizzing tip of a Roman Candle, and other jubilant flourishes.  Then, festivities done, I was wheeled back into my room, where I spent the next few days.

And then, one morning, the doctor said I could go home, but it didn’t feel like me going at all, or at least not the me who’d arrived.  Seems I couldn’t see, and my new skin was shiny and sore.  It hurt just to put clothes on, but off I went in the car in a pair of dark glasses, because daylight was now too bright, and I said to mum I was like a pop-star who didn’t want to be recognised – but there’s a thin line between vanity and paranoia.  At home, one of the siblings gave me a card from both of them.  Dad described it.  It had a TARDIS on, but the words inside sounded awkward and unsure.

Dinner was soft, mashed carrot’n’potato, with melted cheese, and it wasn’t long before David came round.  He’d been walking Morrissey down the municipal.  We went upstairs, and he said our fires had petered out, because it was damp, but there were dark patches where some had nearly taken.  Nextdoor, a dustbin-lid rattled, and David confirmed to me that Wendy was in the garden.  I pictured her little jig with spinning lid, her corrugated selves shifting behind glass, the mouldy Satsuma, and how I’d learned to see, and be seen, in a way I’d not known before.  David read his card, without even handing it me first, and I felt ashamed I could no longer run amok with him, making fires, doing dares.  Had she seen me?
 
End.  Thanks for dropping by.  Here's a song...

Monday 13 October 2014

BELONGING

 Hi, thanks for popping across.  I wonder if you know, the first 22 posts on this blog are the text of my ebook thing, called 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read it here, or buy it on amazon if you want.  If you do, please leave a review if you have the time and inclination.  I've sent it to a few agents, and the like, it's at a couple now, and I await their considered musings.  And here are my considered musings...


BELONGING

I wonder if what we call addiction should be called not belonging, and wanting some chemical compensation for this feeling of asideness.

Things make us lonelier than we were before they happened, because they only happened to us.  I guess this is why people feel less alone in groups with a commonly held belief.

Puberty's enough to knock anyone of their rocker, however good their parents, school, or record collection.  Pubic isn't public, though it happens to everyone.  It's the scar we disown.  No hymns to hymens.

Here's a song if you'd like to hear it...I'm Too Tired To Kill You

Thanks for dropping in.  Maybe tomorrow?

Friday 10 October 2014

LUXURY PROBLEMS

Hi, and thanks for passing through.  As you may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my much-acclaimed ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read it here, or buy it on amazon, if your morals allow it.  If you do, please leave a review, as all feedback is appreciated.  As for now, this blog is the sporadic ejaculations of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here is today's emission...


LUXURY PROBLEM

One day, I was in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, feeling disconsolate, dishevelled, and deeply angry at those who'd found a way of life that didn't involve constant scoring, spottiness, and empty cupboards.  But one guy really got my goat.  He was going on about how he couldn't decide whether to sell his Mercedes or not, and was genuinely talking like we should give a damn.  He went on for about ten minutes, making out how humble he felt these days, how he was now there for his family (the unfortunate wretches), and had accessed the magic of a god of his own choosing.  I can't remember if he used the phrase 'luxury problem' - he probably didn't have the grace or intellect, but he was keen to make it clear he wasn't living in a skip anymore, gnawing on chicken bones.

I, too, have some luxury problems nowadays.  In fact, some of the problems I have now I would have called solutions a year or two back.  Now, for example, I try to keep my bank-account in credit, and slightly resent the £6 charge if I go over.  Up until a year ago, my overdraft was constantly hovering around the £2,000 mark, and thoughts of being in credit seemed distant, difficult to achieve, and potentially dangerous, because it wasn't so long ago that I couldn't hold on to £100, let alone £1,000, without squandering it in one or two sittings.  I have a nice little phone now, nothing flashy, but I can take photos and videos with it, and see it better than my old one, and it hasn't fallen into the clutches of a stranger at dawn, never to be seen again.  I've been doing a bit of stand-up most weeks lately, and even though I didn't get through to the final of this competition recently (due to scoring anomalies), a year ago I wouldn't even have turned up for the gig, that's even if I'd organised it in the first place.  I have a rug on the floor, a spotlight, a lovely peace lily, and a big blue wine glass, the image of which is thrown onto the wall by the spotlight, making for quite a nice feature, even if I say so myself.  I find the spotlight's beam a bit narrow, but not so long ago there was no blue wine glass, no spotlight, no rug, and no peace lily adorning that corner of my cabin, which was, as it goes, just dry thin grey carpet and a CD rack.  Yes, and even though I can't see to drive, I can't wait to purchase my first Mercedes, and go ram it down the throat of a captive audience in a local twelve-step fellowship.

And that is all I have to say today, bitter but grateful.  But just in case you want to hear a song by me, here is one for you to click on...The World Is Full Of Whores

Maybe tomorrow?

Wednesday 8 October 2014

MONSTER IN THE VORTEX

Hi, 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' (Jan to April 2013).  Since then, it's become the rambling thoughts of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  So let's go for today's ramble...

 
MONSTER IN THE VORTEX

The rumour-mill of White City is back in business, grinding down dirt to make more dirt, filthy accusations, gossip, lies and envy - and they say we have no manufacturing base anymore.

It's always nice when you hear a name you haven't thought about for a while.  There I was, languishing at the bus-stop, on my way to a comedy spot (five minutes in a pub cellar that smelled of the adjacent gents'), when up pops husky Nelly with a gravelly salutation.  'Ben,' says she, 'you alright?'  I was on the cusp of terror at my forthcoming stand-up, and fury that my life had come to this, doing five minute spots in smelly cellars, when things could've been so very, very different, etc, etc.  But comedy aside, I said a cautious hello, recalling our last meeting, Boxing Day 2013, when Nelly wandered off with my portable telly in the middle of the night.  We'd been using, run dry, and began looking around for things that someone in the minicab office might buy.  The telly was cubic, and quite heavy, being an old-style cathode ray one, and I don't know how she jammed it into my holdall, let alone lumbered down the road with it over her shoulder.

Of course, she said she'd be back in forty minutes or so (you know it's a lie when such a specific length of time is given), and besides, it wouldn't have raised more than a fiver even if she had found a buyer.  Obviously, I didn't see her again...until her greeting woke me from introspection at said bus-stop.  'Have you heard Jacob's back?' she asked.  Her question at least made a change from the usual 'what are you up to?' (translated: do you want to use), or 'you alright though?' (translated: do you want to use), or 'you don't have a cigarette, do you?' (translated: do you have a cigarette, and do you want to use).  Jacob, I thought.  Oh dear, back in White City?  That really wasn't good news.

My last memory of Jacob was hearing the toilet flush as he punished an inexperienced working-girl for not obliging his peccadillo for an amorous liaison in the bathroom - her head was down the toilet at the time, which he proudly disclosed on emerging from that darkened and grimy mezzanine, soon followed by a bedraggled girl with wet'n'lank brown hair, and a face that looked too young to be in such a predicament, although I can't imagine there's actually an ideal age for that sort of thing.

Months later, I heard he'd been accused of, or maybe even charged with, sexual assault.  This didn't surprise me, because I'd once been in the kitchen of a flat he'd appropriated when he was torturing his girlfriend in the bathroom.  That time, he'd emerged with a softly spoken speech regarding his girlfriend's lack of respect, and a complaint that her moans might have been heard by the family below.  It's amazing how inconsiderate torture-victims can be.

There are numerous vignettes I could convey to you regarding the borderline escapades of Jacob.  But now, according to the gospel of Nelly, he was back.  He'd been spotted outside Cash Converters, looking shifty in a too-tight shirt.  Nelly went on to say that Hamish was looking for him, because Hamish was the boyfriend of the girl he's assaulted before his disappearance.  And there was speculation too about where he'd banished himself for that wilderness year...Nelly said Reading, but she'd heard someone else say Slough.  But even back in White City, his old stomping ground, Jacob was still a fugitive, weaving through the market-crowds, laying low in a basement-flat, or brutalising a vulnerable female in a tower-block toilet.  I felt a wave of antique fear swell like a foetus in my gut...would he spot me on my wanderings, accost me outside Costa, bark at me in the market, or hail me outside Halo Cabs?  If so, would I be direct enough to make him go, or would I linger, be just a bit too polite, just a tiny bit too curious and malleable?  Fear used to be a key part of my prelude to using, almost as if, once in that terrified state of paralysis, the only way to offset it, get rid of it, was to use.  Many's the time Jacob would pop up on some gloomy night when I was hanging myself out to dry in the W12 postcode, looking for someone to score through.

My bus came to convey me to my comedy-spot in the smelly pub-cellar.  'You haven't got a cigarette, have you?' asked Nelly, but I garbled a polite 'sorry, no', and hopped on.  She stayed sitting at the stop as we pulled away.  I find it's always worth practising saying 'no', just to get your mouth used to forming the word.  You never know when you might need it.

And that is all I have to say today.  However, if you would like to hear my recent song, entitled 'Windswept', just click on the title, and your ears will imminently be delighted.  It's angsty and autumnal, and I hope you like it...Windswept

Maybe tomorrow?

Wednesday 23 July 2014

HOW TO SPOT A RELAPSE

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' (Jan to April 2013), which you can also buy on amazon, if you do that kind of thing.  Nowadays, the blog contains the musings and epiphanies of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  So, here is today's inspirational speculation...


HOW TO SPOT A RELAPSE

1. The doormat can't be seen for letters.
2. The washing-up's begun to smell.
3. The game-show channel has been on all day, and the last episode of Family Fortunes seemed too familiar.
4. You're playing incessant Pac-Man online, and actually putting your name in the high-score chart.
5. You haven't seen anyone for a few days, even though you could easily have met a friend.
6. You may get up, but you don't eat until your ravenous, maybe late afternoon, probably at the fridge door.
7. You're entertaining the possibility that a bath with Radox may change your life.
8. You're eyeing up the hoover, wondering how much it might be worth.
9. You're reading the twelve-step book for the first time, in search of loopholes.
9 (a) You find many loopholes.
10. Yes, you definitely saw that episode of Family Fortunes last night, or was it this morning, maybe at dawn?
11. In a bout of virtue, you make it to the shops, but you're walking slowly and obviously, in the hopes you'll be spotted by someone you've used with, which, if it happens, won't be your fault.
11 (a) All you buy is milk, but rather than going home, you start weaving through streets to a place you're sure you once used.
12. You're dialling variations of a number that you think belongs to someone you once used with.
13. You dredge up a grudge that hasn't bothered you for weeks, and dwell on it, from the victim's perspective.
14. You study passers-by to see if they look dishevelled enough to hook up with.
15. You turn down a street you vaguely remember using on, and look for that door, it was red, number seventeen?
16. You're thinking it's as good as fate now, so you may as well just get it over with - upping your game, you go loiter around that tower-block you know is no good.
17.  And my final way to spot a relapse is if none of the above applies to you, ever.

Well there's a few thoughts on what I was like before a relapse, and it's a grim place, torn between wanting to use, but knowing it's wrong, dangerous and damaging.  Many's the hollow afternoon I'd lie there, craving a life, but too impatient to do anything about it.  If I'm honest, I knew as soon as I woke up if I was going to use, but I'd tell myself that it wasn't a forgone conclusion at all, and that a new trajectory might present itself, a life-changing tangent I could fly off on, to love, luck, a new life.  Then, a few hours later, I'd be tortured and torn again, so alone it felt like my head was full of setting clay and, by then, it was like I had to use, just to assuage the desire to use, and all the sorrow it was causing me.

It was like being in a strong current - yes, it was hard to swim against, but that didn't mean there was no point swimming.

Oh, and here is a song of mine, if you'd like a listen...  Masochists Anonymous

Anyway, I think that's all for today.  Maybe tomorrow?

Sunday 20 July 2014

THE RELAPSE

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 read here or buy on amazon, if your morals allow it.  Nowadays, this blog is the fairly frequent musings of your faithful blogger, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  Today's entry is a sorry tale of relapse after a period of freedom from the maelstrom of 'active addiction', as they lovingly call it.  But don't worry, it has a happy ending.


THE RELAPSE

Well, having let my life get even more empty and directionless than usual, I found myself, or should I say lost myself, meandering along the Goldhawk Road of a Tuesday afternoon, officially pleased I was piecing my life back together, secretly seething I'd not been reimbursed for ten blighted years, or awarded a CBE for services to impatience and remorse.  A studious pupil, satchel full of lessons unlearned, I turned the corner by the cheap barber's, to find an old familiar door, in maroon gloss.

I knew I'd made a mistake as soon as I arrived, but I'd come too far, and, as the door swung open, and my pasty hostess saluted me, I stepped over the threshold in dread and desire.  She ushered me in, and after a few words of polite catchup, I once again found myself ensconced in the gnarled wicker chair I knew from the ruined years, with cat-scratches and sunken seat, breathing in the thick, greasy air, made so by years of cheap cigarettes, and assorted fumes, in a place where the only wind was breathing.

You know what a relapse is like.  There's a clue in the name.  If you want to read a gory account of one, well, there are plenty scattered through this blog if you look.  But what made this day especially galling, apart from the almost unwilling, jittery use of crack, and comforter heroin, was the sinuous presence of a mottled cat, and the scant pageant of humans that passed through in various shades of day-centre chic.

The cat, a tortoise-shell with Marlboro Lite lowlights, frequently insisted on springing onto the table, in search of a bag of fishy treats, last spotted by the ashtray.  Rizlas, lighters, and little bits of cling-film would be jostled around before a flapping hand shooed the thing away, lest it caused grievous damage to the wares - but its tail, floating like a comma, punctuated a stained afternoon.  And when other people were scuttling from office-blocks, travelling on the tube, thinking what to have for dinner, our gross reunion tapered away, my hostess mostly engaged in mock-medieval battle, and I, in wicker, dragging on flavoured bleach, with a cat's tail arcing like a slow whip before me.

A guest decked out in drop-in denims sauntered in, keen to make a significant purchase, news of which rendered me a sycophant.  Would he feel sufficiently munificent to grant me a smoke, a couple more hapless stabs at happiness before I wandered home disconsolate?  I'd been clean nearly a year at this point, and things had been so much better...generally...but the casual saboteur sensed it was time to test the rules again, check if the same laws applied...they did...they were way above my pay-grade to dissect.  What's more, our denim companion had no intention of sharing his wares, and he was off just as soon as the haggard delivery-teen placed them in his waiting mitt.

So, it was back to me and my hostess, but she was still clashing swords with hordes, and didn't really feel like talking anymore.  The feline was still skulking around, springing on and off the table in search of ancient treats, but when, maybe it was fumes, or just disillusionment, it was sick on the wicker arm of the chair, it seemed meet to make my excuses, and I ventured a goodbye.  She said how good it had been to see me, I said the same, hating what I'd done, and worrying that she and her boyfriend might think I was back on the beat, ready to be a regular fixture.  The cat followed us out, darting under a car, as I spouted assurances I wouldn't be a stranger, skipped a bin-lid with alacrity...but who's this?  Denim was dropping in again.  He'd been given the wrong amounts, and was down by twenty quid, which is a basic unit of currency in that world.  My hostess paid lip-service to his plight, but she didn't want him going back in, just to phone and hassle the guy to cough up, which he almost certainly wouldn't do.

It was over, and head down, bitter as battery-acid, I began the walk home, feeling like I'd kicked a jigsaw all over the floor, one that had taken me months to complete.  All I could hope for was to go to bed, wake up some time the next day, regroup, recommit, and kind of forgive myself - but it's hard doing any of those things when your brain feels like it's been paved over.

Like a penitent moth, I fluttered lopsidedly home, singed, ready to stick to the wall for a bit, and not get all hung up about that angelpoise down the hall.

Moth cannot live on light alone.

And that's all I have to say today, apart from here is one of my songs, which you're welcome to listen to by clicking...  Revenge Of The Sirens

See you tomorrow, perhaps.

Friday 18 July 2014

RECOVERING RECOVERY

Hi, and thank you for passing through.  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 read here, or purchase on amazon, if your morals allow that kind of multinational collusion.  So anyway, here is today's little entry for you.  It's a few ponderings about recovering a lost recovery.


RECOVERING RECOVERY

Firstly, I don't much like the language of addiction and recovery, including the words 'addiction' and 'recovery'.  They seem to smother, in the former, a set of choices we come to regret, and come to call addiction, perhaps as a disclaimer, or a mantle we're glad enough to wear if it gives us an identity, or gets us out of trouble, or both.  In the case of the word 'recovery', what is it that's being recovered from, a disease?  Oh yeah, that disease of addiction we hear so much about, that disease of bad choice after bad choice, attempt after attempt to reach, and stay on, that plateau of whatever kind of euphoria it is you're striving for.  The disease that twelve-step groups and various support agencies call a disease because it sounds a bit medical, psychiatric, psychological, a bit of a sociological dis-ease.  You know you're on a losing wicket when you're adding a hyphen to a word to bolster your case.  But, being a whore, I use the words 'addiction' and 'recovery' because I want people to stumble on this blog, find succour and solace herein, and possibly entertainment - and, linguistic skirmishes aside, I don't want to wake up in the gutter, or worse, not wake up in the gutter.

In recent months, like a soothing priest, with illegal proclivities, someone has been skulking, cowled, in my hall, whispering stuff.  A few months ago, he quietly mentioned that I wouldn't be seeing my music partner anymore, thus freeing me from the weekly commitment of learning a new song.  She was moving on to do new things.  It's amazing what a hole in your diary can do - an empty Wednesday can have the charm of a picked boil, and the same scope for infection.

Then he congratulated me on a period of fiscal prudence.  I'd managed to save up to go away with a friend and, this achieved, I could now relax the reins a touch - even though I was still £1,500 overdrawn.  He commended me for having applied to work in my local Oxfam, but when they didn't get back to me for a few weeks, he suggested they might not want me.  My days and weeks got emptier and emptier, until old feelings of failure and stasis began weighing me down.  One friend moved to Cornwall, another just got bored of me - then, after days of toying with the thought of using, and how it might 'be ok this time', I found myself on the road to relapse.

I was scared as I meandered down the road to an old familiar house, containing two old familiars, but even when I rang the bell, a part of me hoped there'd be no answer, and I could wander home and make good of the day, or at least save it from disaster.  But, bell pressed, I heard movement within, the front door opened, and there, welcoming me, was the ashen-faced ghoul I'd come to call a friend.

Invited in, and a few nice words exchanged, I soon asked if we could 'get something', and she knew I didn't mean a takeaway.  Still apprehensive, my innards felt like an abandoned hearth, and I thought I might die if I had crack again...maybe my body and brain couldn't take anymore...perhaps the long gap since the last time would mean my tolerance was low.  Rationalising our qualms away, she rang a local vendor, who, as chance would have it, was only based a few doors away, and it wasn't long before a preteen with a mouthful of cling-film was tapping on the window, and our brains were a storm of anticipation and denial.  In he shuffled, politely spat the tiny, glistening packages into his hand, and my hostess placed them on the ash-clad coffee-table.

I'll fill you in on the relapse, and its consequences, in tomorrow's entry, because I'm a little tired right now.  But please be assured, things didn't pan out too great.  And here, if you're not already in a coma, is a song I wrote, which I would be chuffed if you'd like to hear...  My song, 'The World Is Full Of Whores'

Hope to see you again, maybe tomorrow?

Friday 11 July 2014

BRIEF ENCOUNTER

Hello, thank you for dropping by.  As you might know, the first 22 posts 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 do that kind of thing.  Nowadays, this blog is the fairly frequent musings of me, Benjamin of Turnham Green, along with some of my artwork and music.  So, here is today's musing...


BRIEF ENCOUNTER

I met myself on the 94 bus.  I got on at the usual stop, on my way to the coffee-shop I frequent.  Two stops along the way, I got on again, but I didn't look so great, bit shabby and stooped, pasty-looking I'd say.  I sat down in front of myself, not having noticed myself in the seat behind.  And I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I introduced myself to myself, which I then dared to do.  'Hello,' I said, 'it's Ben, isn't it?'  He turned politely, I'm relieved to say, but there was a steeliness in his eyes, like the shutters that come down when the chemist's shut.  His cheeks were  mottled, there was a spot by his mouth, and a slight flakiness to the tip of his nose.  'Been out and about?'

I knew I was teasing him a touch, but he graced me with a reply all the same.  'I haven't had a particularly good time of it lately,' he murmured discreetly, and I knew the tone, I felt it, as if my own throat was still moulded to recite the phrase without resistance.  'Have you been using?' I enquired.  I knew I'd hate this question because, when I've been using, I hate being asked if I've been using.  'What do you think?' he snarled, and even I was surprised at the acidity in his tone.  'Well, I'm guessing you have been,' I surmised, trying to self-counsel, 'but don't despair, because I haven't used for some months now, somehow, and I can only guess that if I can do that, you can too.'

'Yes, I guess so,' he agreed, trying to give off an air of one who's listening, and may even have just had a small epiphany.  We fell quiet for a second or two, and he pressed the bell for the next stop, one before the coffee-shop, where I was to alight.  I was tempted to get off too, but, apart from the fact it would have looked a bit strange to onlookers, I knew that I would be tempted to go where he was going, and where he was going, I knew, might kill him, and therefore me.

And I didn't want a suicide and a murder on my conscience.

And that is all I have to say today, apart from here is my most recent song, which you may or may not enjoy...  The World Is Full Of Whores

Thanks for dropping by.

Saturday 14 June 2014

ANOTHER DAY DOWN THE SEWER

Hello, and thank you for popping by.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog (Jan to April 2013), are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which, even if I say so myself, is a riveting read.  It's also available on amazon as an ebook, for a mere three quid or so, and you can buy it there too if you like.  If you do, I would love a review, because there are only three, so far, all good, but I'd like more.  So thanks.

Here is a song I wrote.  It would be great if you'd take a listen.  It's quite good...  The World Is Full Of Whores




ANOTHER DAY DOWN THE SEWER

I was just watching Channel 4 News, about Romanian sewer-kids, that's to say Romanian children who'd taken haven in their local sewer network.  Quite how you go about this, I'm not sure, but it seems to begin by being in an orphanage, probably getting abused, and then wandering the streets until you fall in with likeminded lost souls, get addicted to something, and then, when you're properly initiated, opens up before you a manhole cover, leading you down, down into your new life.

It looked quite cosy down there, although lacking in most of the facilities we tend to take for granted.  About ten kids were clustered in a tunnel, seemingly not knee-high in sewage, presumably because there are tunnels down there used as access points for those whose task it is to keep the shit flowing properly under Bucharest streets.  There they were, blotchy and deeply bewildered, hangin' out in the underworld, with occasional visits from some guy, their dealer and apparent chief, who dished out the wares, so long as the relevant notes were placed in his waiting palm.  He had the look and air of a disaffected Billy Idol fan, black leather waistcoat, chains'n'such, and hair made silver by some aerosol he was also selling as a stimulant.

I can only imagine the bonding and sense of collective bondage these forlorn high-schoolers must have known, too young to truly hate each other, too young to have lost all hope, even though no hope had ever really been offered them, too young even to think 'this is no good, it's time for a change...'  No, it was a kind of waiting-room, coming-and-going-room down there in the service-duct of your Bucharest sewer, and if you were lucky enough to have a few minutes high, it didn't matter where you were, what your T-cell count was, who came to you in dreams, a near-silhouette in a care-home dormitory, reassuring, rationalising.  When you're high, however low the starting point, the aim is just to feel ok...not indulgence, or luxury, or sensual overload...no, just ok will do.  Wouldn't you go down a manhole cover if you thought that's where your friends were, your future was, a passing peace of mind might be?

They only really came overground for funerals.

And that is all I have to say today.

Saturday 31 May 2014

PEOPLE, PLACES, AND THINGS

Hello, and thank you for dropping by.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can read here, or buy on amazon, if your conscience allows.  Nowadays, this blog is the sporadic musings of yours truly, your faithful blogger, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here is today's sporadic muesli...
 
 
PEOPLE, PLACES, AND THINGS
 
Like a church in scaffolding, I can feel my serenity crumbling.  Those self-sufficient arches that awe the tourists are beginning to buckle, with such profound subtlety that no fracture-lines are visible yet, to cause a cordoning off, or an out-of-season refurb.
 
And my lack of stability and gothic serenity showed today, as I took a stroll, for the purposes of a haircut, down the old Goldhawk Road, where much of my using and general dysfunction took place.  For months now, since getting some meaningful 'cleantime', I've exited my building and turned right, to the salubrious sector of the local neighbourhood, which, for all intents and purposes, may as well be on a different planet from the old haunts of Goldhawk Road, which requires a left turn on exiting my building.
 
But it was a left turn I took today, and as I glided along on the 94 bus down towards the hostel I used to use in, many a memory came trickling back, like so much treacle through the holes in a lump of Swiss cheese.  Some of them were of dead people, which still seemed to hold a lure, even though I'd have to hook up with one of their living counterparts to get up to any mischief this time round.  And I suppose it's a testimony to my progress that I felt strangely outside many of the other memories that came to me - rushing through the market with a working-girl and a very jumpy guy called Carlos, on a mission to catch Irish Kevin before he ran out of crack - who was that person, allegedly me, head down, darting through the marketplace like a shamed schoolboy hurrying to the toilets to cry.  What was he?  Equally, who was that person, apparently me, who was crouching in a bin-room with Faith, smoking crack from a miniature brandy bottle, then thinking he was king of the world, as he got vaguely sexual with Faith, until someone opened the door to chuck in a bin-bag, prompting a mock-search for a ring on our parts, and swift exit.
 
There was many phantoms swimming before me as I crossed the road to the barber's.  It was a real a haircut I was aiming for, not the metaphorical one you hear about in Narcotics Anonymous meetings, often referred to by someone fond of the various phrases that float around the rooms, 'if you go to the hairdressers often enough, you'll probably end up getting a haircut'.  It's a warning against aimlessly putting yourself out there, wandering down a risky street, telling yourself you're just going for a stroll, getting some fresh air, when actually you're intentionally flirting the scissors and the clippers.
 
But, fortunately, I've felt quite resilient lately, and crossed the road by the market, away from the hostel, semi-hoping that no old familiar would emerge from the shadows, but semi-wondering what I might do if they did.  In the barber's, a tiny cupboard with a big red £6 in the window, there was barely room to move.  The guy welcomed me real friendly, and when I noticed two blokes and a couple of kids waiting, I asked if there was likely to be a wait.  He said there probably would be, as his mate wasn't working that day either.  I said I'd come back in half an hour, but went home instead, thinking it wise to quit while I was still ahead.
 
So it is possible to go to the hairdressers and not get a haircut, both metaphorically and literally.  I'll probably pop back Monday morning, when it's quiet, and everyone's still in bed.
 
Thanks for listening.  That's all I have to say today, apart from a song of mine you might like to click on...Autumn Blues
 


Wednesday 30 April 2014

NEARLY

Hi, and thank you for flying into my web.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  You can read that here, or buy it on amazon for about £3, if you're into that kind of thing.  If you do, I would love a review - there are three already, and a fourth would be spiffing.  As for now, this blog is the fairly frequent thoughts and conclusions of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green (that's me).  And here is today's helping of thought...


NEARLY

It's very short what I have to say today, because I feel quite sad, and blocked up, if I'm honest.  I've got Newsnight on, and Clannad on youtube, but ultraloud adverts between their Celtic bouts of mellowness are kinda spoiling the vibe.  I've had quite an isolated few days, and it's beginning to depress me, drive me mad, and there's no real need for it.  Today, at least, I got up, and didn't go straight to my computer...instead, I went straight to the TV, and watched the snooker, which is an improvement.  I had a cup of tea in my new Cancer Research mug, originally from those exclusive purveyors of coffee, Whittards.  I don't think I've been happy in about twenty years, and that was only for about ten minutes.

I've been retail-therapying lately, although all in a good cause.  A year ago, my little cabin/studio-flat was a husk, evidence of ten+ years of addiction, days in bed, malnutrition, and despond.  A year ago, and for years beyond, there was no lush blue rug, mottled and sweeping like a sea beneath my naked feet, no candleholders whatsoever, and now I'm spoiled for choice when I want to light a candle.  And this, if anything, is surely a sign of recovery...?

And because you stumbled into my web, here is a song about webs...by me, for you...

A Song Called Cobwebs

And that seems to be all I've got to say today.  I'll try to be back tomorrow, though.  Bet you're glad about that.  Oh, and the reason I called this post 'Nearly' is because I came close to using today, or at least close to going 'for a walk'...somehow I didn't, even though I've never felt more emotionally critical in years...but I'm working on it.  Thanks for being there.  Honestly, thanks.  Maybe our paths will cross again.

Friday 18 April 2014

KISSER OF PAVEMENTS


Hello.  Thank you for visiting.  The first thing I have to say today is this song, if that's ok:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RB2hPgBh6s

It's just a link to youtube, written and 'filmed' around the time I got a webcam, hence the wafting around and self-conscious pixilation.  But that said, I may as well also confide in you, if I may...?

KISSER OF PAVEMENTS

Coiled on tarmac, I'm the White City Serpent - the white line in the middle of the road that won't straighten out.  There are a few roads I'm to be found on, curled when I should be straight.  B-roads, high-streets, I once appeared in a GCSE geography project.

I don't have much to say these days.  Seems I've been silent for years anyway.  And me and my friends, most of whom I hurt, intelligent failures, falter like ghouls in search of a line that curves when it should be straight.  I was listening to a-ha on youtube, and I was halfway through a bad track, The Sun Always Shines On TV to follow, but I couldn't be bothered to forward, cos I'm just not in that much of a hurry.  That's how relaxed I am these days.

I do hope I don't miss anything important.

Thanks for listening.

Saturday 12 April 2014

ASTRONAUT ADRIFT

Hello, and thank you for coming.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read that here if you wish, or buy the ebook for about £.3.35 or so on amazon.  If you do, I would really appreciate a review, because it has three positive ones to date, but all feedback is appreciated, and helps get the book a better profile, or whatever the technical term is.  Nowadays, this blog is the fairly frequent musings of myself, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here are today's cosmic conjurings...


ASTRONAUT ADRIFT

In addiction, I was like an astronaut, cocooned in my capsule, either getting high, or rueing the consequences of it.  Once in a while, I'd go for a little spacewalk, still lashed to the craft, floating just far enough to meet the evil alien that was delivering the craved-for goods.  There, against the blackness of space, we'd exchange our compatible currencies, and I'd reel myself back in, and the alien would go off to the nearest trainer-shop and buy some more footwear.  There, floating about in zero gravity, zero hope, I'd spark up my space-pipe, and get high for anything up to a few hours, at the end of which I'd use another drug to combat the comedown of the first, then try, and fail, to sleep, as the world span below like a slow, distraught parent, overseeing impotently my dismal mission.

Nowadays, however, for reasons almost beyond my ken, I'm not contacting that evil alien anymore, and I seem, if not quite happy, at least less sad to be pottering about my capsule, occasionally going outside to repair a panel, or polish the portholes.  But more and more I feel unfamiliar to myself, as do my circumstances.  When I dream, there in my slumber-tube, I often feel I'm floating serenely, though helplessly, away from my ship, and out into the dark, star-pocked void of space.  The sun, white and irresistible, blinds and warms, but still, when I rotate to face away from it, the infinite potential of the universe presents itself, and I wonder where, if anywhere, I'm going to end up.  I try to swim, but my efforts do nothing in terms of changing my trajectory, and I float like a discarded puppet towards I know not where.  I see a planet, a shifting disc, almost seeming within arm's reach, but in reality a lifetime or more away.  Where am I going?  Will I have the air to get there?

Yes, this life outside the capsule is new, unfamiliar, and I'm wary of it, but getting back to the cocoon isn't an option.  Sometimes I think I see the evil alien's ship, a grain of light darting across the blackness, on its way to serve up some spacedust to another gullible traveller.  I, meanwhile, drift, at the mercy of forces beyond my control, happy to least to be a prisoner of infinity, rather than a trapped soul in a tin can.

This is a song I wrote, if you would like to hear it:  Broken

And that is all I have to say today.

Wednesday 9 April 2014

THE STATUE MOVES

Good day, and thank you for dropping by.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  You can read it here, or buy it on amazon as an ebook.  If you do buy it, for a mere three quid or so, then please do leave a review, because all feedback is appreciated.  Meanwhile, this blog is now the pretty frequent thoughts and musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here is today's selection of profound thoughts...


THE STATUE MOVES

I'm quite depressed today, but in a good way.  As you may know, I spent twelve or so years smoking crack, and not really prospering at all, to understate things a little.  And even though I'm some months clean from that insidious substance, I can still feel torn within, half wanting to slowly, cautiously progress, day by day, week by week, to where I might have been, or perhaps to somewhere completely unprepared for.  But the other half of me, tangled and tied, tries, with velvet fist, to drag me down into the mire, where only appetite and remorse prevail.

I feel a bit like Ukraine, you'll be thrilled to know.  Part of me wants calm, consensus, patience, tolerance, but the other bit, mesmerised by the Putin within, wants force, appetite, autocracy, no dissent.  This inner-Vladimir still crows and cajoles from the dark Parliament inside.  If only I could just get along and live peaceably with myself.

The addict runs, hurtles even, to that point where ecstasy has faded before you've even registered it.  It's an amazingly static life for someone forever on the run.  It taunts the new, slower, more patient me, claiming I need to speed up, turn to it occasionally, if only as a reward for having proved I can live without it.  Ah, that beckoning Putin within, blocking my internet searches, flooding all the screens with propaganda, still likes to grandstand in the dark, whispering a message of hope, seductive, sinister, like a bullet with your name on that never gets fired.

And I think that's all I've got to say today, apart from here is one of my songs, which perhaps you'd like to hear:  I'm Too Tired To Kill You

See you tomorrow?

Sunday 6 April 2014

WOULD YOU LIKE CHOCOLATE ON YOUR CAPPUCCINO?

Hello again, or for the first time.  Just in case you're not aware, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can read here, or buy for three quid or so on amazon, in the form of an ebook, or for a kindle.  Nowadays, this blog is the fairly frequent musings of me, and I am Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here is today's helping of Benjamin of Turnham Green, that's me...


 


WOULD YOU LIKE CHOCOLATE ON YOUR CAPPUCCINO?
 
Time was when this was the most important question I'd be asked.  Now, although it's not the most important, it is the most regular.  I used to go to my local coffee-shop (a well-known chain) on money-days, hoping that somehow I'd be able to hold the day together, and not go and use crack.  The theory was that if I could at least look bookish midmorning, something might kick in and make the rest of the day bookish too.  Or maybe I'd have a really good idea, go home and begin a book, or some extraordinary piece of art, a song, anything but crack, with its inevitable, agonising comedown.

It rarely succeeded.  Some days I'd haunt the coffee-shop when I was broke, usually because I'd used crack a day or two before.  Without money, as you know, it's hard to get anything.  I used to fake the stamps on my loyalty-card, to get a free cappuccino - a faint red felt-tip crescent usually passed as a feeble stamping from a previous, perhaps puny barista.  Then, innocent as you like, I'd receive a free drink of my choosing, would sit down, read my braille book, and hope, pray even, for that special idea that would change my life, get me out of addiction, and despair.  Or maybe I'd pray for that watershed meeting, made sweeter by coincidence, with whoever happened to be at the next table...a woman who, due to knowing nothing about me, found me interesting...or would it be a publisher, who, by my general loquaciousness, would sign me up there and then, begging for the rights to my drugs hell, which I'd already disclosed, a few sentences into our chat.

But, more often than not, I'd just sit there, reluctantly reading something in braille, like Beowulf, or Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse, neither that uplifting, resenting the fact that I'd come to a point in my life where I was faking stamps on my loyalty-card, peering blurrily at the world which seemed another dimension from the one I inhabited.

But now, I hope you'll agree, I've changed, been reconfigured, am trying, striving for something I don't even care much if I reach, because now I'm so serene that I know it's the travelling that matters, not the arriving.  Oh, how I hate the cult of arrival.

And at least, on my caffeine-pocked pilgrimage, I don't stamp my card anymore for a fake cappuccino.  I pay may way now.  I'm transfigured.

Please come back, because I have abandonment issues.

And please hear my song, which is here:  Cappuccino Morning

And that is all I have to say today.

Tuesday 1 April 2014

LUXURY PROBLEM

Good day, and thank you for coming.  You might already know that the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (from Jan to April 2013).  You can also buy it for a modest fee on amazon, which I heartily encourage, and, if you do, please do leave a review, whatever you think of it, as all feedback is precious to me.  Meanwhile, here is today's scintillating entry of the blog, and a link to a song of mine on youtube at the end, if you're still awake...


LUXURY PROBLEM

One of my favourite clichés from the months, nay, years I spent haunting the rooms of Narcotics Anonymous, and other twelve-step congregations.  But today I had one...a luxury problem, that is.

I was in Nero, a well-known coffee-shop near to my exclusive pad, when I realised I needed the loo (possibly brought on by my Americano (which I'd nearly finished)).  Was I to go toilet, and return to my drink?  Or should I finish it, and then go?  I had to factor in the fact that the drink, about half an hour old, had been bathing in strong sunlight, as shone through the southwest-facing window (it was around four in the afternoon (for optimum shine)).  Feeling torn, perplexed, and peeved, I felt it was best to take my toilet, and return to enjoy the last inch of my Americano without the nagging from below hampering my enjoyment of it.  And so I did.  On my return, I savoured another ten to fifteen minutes at table, reading my braille Old Curiosity Shop, and sipping with a newfound nonchalance my still-warm Americano.  And I didn't even feel that guilty about spending someone else's holiday, possibly yours, for the thousandth day of this peculiar sabbatical.

And, to return to my theme, this was indeed a luxury problem.  In the thick of my using, I probably wouldn't have even got to Nero, that well-known coffee-shop near my bijou cabin, nor would I have been reading in braille my Dickens, nor would I have even been thankful of the sun's beams tweaking through the glass, warming both me and my beverage.

And the people who work there are so friendly, and I didn't really mind that I'd been in there virtually every day of the year, so far.  They do a chocolate bear now, you know, called Bruno.

And here is a song in tribute to coffee-shops and cappuccinos everywhere...
The Coffee Shop Of Dreams

And that's all I have to say today, if that's ok.  Tomorrow?

Sunday 30 March 2014

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE



Hello, and thanks for dropping by.  You might already know that the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can also buy this as an ebook by searching the title on amazon.  If you do, I would be really grateful for a review - there are three already, and another would be good.  As for now, this blog is the frequent musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green, your loyal blogger, and ex-drug-addict, or something like that.  And here is today's helping...

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE

Possibly one of my favourite clichés, though I don't have many.

I find it hard to believe that some people are more intrinsically impatient than others.  I'm pretty sure that I have been, at different times in my life, both very patient, and utterly impulsive.  I can remember, for example, studying hard and long for my exams at school, knowing that each rereading of my notes would only perhaps instil another small fact, or half-fact, into my mind, and that perhaps only for a few hours or so.  But I plugged away, doggedly some might say, hoping that something would come of this repeated behaviour, over the months ahead.  Equally, I can remember, with scary recentness, my inability to abstain from crack for, literally, minutes, let alone hours or days and beyond.  Now, I see both these states of being as choices, at some level, rather than expressions of 'who I was'.

If it wasn't me choosing to score crack, regardless of the consequences, then who was it, what was it?  It certainly wasn't, in my view, a 'disease' that dictated my conduct until such time that I 'surrendered' to it, and followed the 'suggestions' in my twelve-step guide.  Yes, there is wisdom in such books, I do believe, but there is also fantasy, perhaps born of the early 20th-century American form of Christianity that informed, and still informs, the books of AA, NA, and the other 'anonymous fellowships'.  I chose to study, and continue styding for my exams, I chose to score crack, and smoke it, knowing how I would feel after.

I guess it's important, for me at least, right now, to express and acknowledge this, because I can look back on my using as a 'special time', i.e. a time where normal rules didn't apply, like when the laws of physics go awry on the event horizon of a black hole.  No, they were not special in any sense other than they were a time when I was using, against my better judgment, maybe, but using because I chose to - because, if I didn't chose, who, or what, did?  And there's this Ockham's Law thing, isn't there, which promotes the notion of choosing the most likely answer to any conundrum, until such time that something else becomes the most likely answer.

Perhaps this sounds like waffle, but at least I know now that I can't blame anything much for that fact, apart from the fact that I have chosen to write this, chosen not to reread it, and chosen to risk the fact that you, and even I, at a later date, might call it waffle.  If it is, then at least I've only wasted ten minutes of my time, compared with ten-plus years wasted on crack, and its consequences.  How much of your time have I wasted?  I choose not to answer that.

And that is all I have to say today.  Thank you for reading.  See you soon, I hope.

Oh, and this is a song I chose to write:  I'm Too Tired To Kill You

Tuesday 25 March 2014

BEWILDERNESS

Hi, thanks for dropping in.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog (Jan to April 2013) are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict'.  You can read it here, or buy the ebook on amazon if you prefer.  If you do, please leave a review, because all feedback is appreciated.  From then on, this blog is the frequent musings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  And here is today's muesli...


 
 
BEWILDERNESS

Some months clean from crack, and in reasonable mental health (as far as I can tell), I find myself as bewildered now as I was in the depths of my addiction.

Only two years ago, roughly to the day, I was using as compulsively, and dangerously as ever I did.  I can clearly remember a day when my mum came to visit, and I contrived to squeeze a tenner out of her by the most outlandish means.  I already had fifteen, but wanted twenty-five, so I could, on her departure, go round the corner and get two bits of crack and a poxy five-pound bit of heroin.  There was I, and my mum, when I went into the bathroom, texted a using associate, asking her to ring me in a minute and ask for a tenner that I 'owe' her.  I did this so as when I returned into the living-room, where my mum was, my phone would go, I'd pick it up, and have the live call from Kashka, requesting the tenner.  It was such a childish, petty, and contrived deception that when I think about it now, I wonder if I'm still that person, if I would still do such a thing.  I like to think I wouldn't (unless I was using, of course, and then all bets would probably be off).  But the call came, I pretended in front of my mum that Kashka was asking for the money, even putting her on to my mum, to confirm the request, adding that her partner, Gregory, hadn't been working for a bit, and so the money was needed.

My mum, about 80 at this point, gave me the tenner, checking with concern that I would take it round to them as soon as she left, and wouldn't misappropriate it.  I assured her I'd take it safely round.  Then, when she left, as soon as her train pulled out of the station, I almost raced to Kashka's place to spend my twenty-five quid.  This felt as compulsory, as natural, considering the context, as breathing.  My stomach was churning about for about an hour before she left, and I had to go to the loo once or twice, and then, when she left, I couldn't get away quick enough.  Needless to say, my twenty-five quid lasted me about half an hour, with an inadequate cushioning provided by the smudge of heroin to follow.

Now, after months of faltering progress, I'm in the fortunate position of not feeling, or behaving like that.  But I'm as bewildered about this as I was about being in such a state.  Years passed, with me using compulsively at the very moment money dropped into my account, regardless of the danger, or consequences.  I might struggle a bit, as an overture to using, but my head would be an agonising haze, my gut in turmoil, and I knew I was going to use, whether it was in one hour, or two.  Now, by no means 'out of the wood', I am beginning to get up in the morning, not even thinking about whether it's a 'money day' or not, without having to hope against hope that, somehow, I wouldn't use that day (knowing, however, that I would).  I no longer am at the cashpoint at two in the morning, literally waiting for the cash to drop into my account.  I no longer have my guts fall out as soon as it's a possibility that I could use.  I might have told you (if not, I'll tell you now), I was once on my way to a twelve-step meeting, on the bus down the road, and the urge to go and score was so strong, so physically insistent, that I actually shat myself on the bus, and had to go into MacDonald's and chuck my shit-filled pants in the tampon-bin in the disabled toilet.  Yes, that's how cutting-edge my using got.  I then went a scored round the corner, still smelling faintly of shit.  Needless to say, I didn't make it to the twelve-step meeting that day.

Now I don't go through this.  I can think to use, about using, muse on the subject sometimes a little too dangerously, a little too in a spirit of euphoric recall, or euphoric projection, imagining how a use-up might be now, after some months clean.  Could I, as I've seen a few people do, use responsibly now, once a month or so, do it right, get a pipe, rather than wander around Shepherd's Bush until I meet someone I can score through.  Maybe I could just buy a couple of bits of crack and a bit of heroin, come home, watch a shopping-channel and/or some porn, and have a safe little session on my own.  And I do believe I probably could do that.  But, I don't really want to risk it, and nor do I want to wake up the next day with the compulsory hangover that even a couple of bits of crack gives me.  I must have spent tens of thousands of pounds of my own, and other people's money, on all that, and I'm not sure I really want to line the pockets of my local vendors anymore.  So, even despite myself, I'm holding a line, not going there, being 'vigilant'.  And yes, I'm still having a tumbler of red wine some nights, eating a bit of weed, playing the odd 80s arcade game, writing a bit, tinkling on my keyboard (a gift of recovery, as they say), and leading a relatively normal life, without empty cupboards, without constant money worries, depression, remorse, rage and fear of the telephone ringing.

Even though I hate the clichés, in particular if they rhyme, I'm trying to adopt an 'attitude of gratitude', rather than snipe against all I've lost, still mourn, and miss.  Yes, I sit here with my relatively new computer, nice blue rug beside me, denim armchair and beanbag awaiting, and food in the cupboard, enough for a doomsday-prepper, as it goes.  I still have an overdraft, but at least I have a choice of trousers to put on in the morning, a few nice liquid-soaps in the bathroom, and a nice laminated Audrey Hepburn above the bath, too.

Perhaps Audrey is my higher power.  If so, then I'm an Audreyist, an occasionally content, bewildered, better-nourished 'addict', sorry, 'functioning addict', sorry, person.

And this is a song I wrote, if you'd like to listen...
Tarantula

And that's all for today, thank.  See you tomorrow?

Tuesday 11 March 2014

LOVE AMONG THE WHEELYBINS

Hi, 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' (Jan to April 2013).  You can read it here, or buy the ebook on amazon, if you prefer.  If you do, I would really, really appreciate a review, because there are three positive ones so far, but all feedback is craved, and appreciated.  I've got a friend coming round in a bit, so here is a quick story I wrote a few years ago, entitled 'Love Among The Wheelybins'.  At the bottom, there is a song of the same name, which you can listen to on youtube if you click on the link.  It's by me, obviously...it's quite dark...


LOVE AMONG THE WHEELYBINS

At the end of an alleyway behind the Shepherd’s Bush branch of Superdrug, we find Kenny, the illegal alien, a Carribean beanpole with mashed-up teeth and a tendency to take too long to score.  We find Tom, middleclass emotional cripple, who’s finding his job in counselling increasingly hard to hold down, having been introduced to crack by a working-girl he visited one night when lonely, angry, and all pent up.  Picture also Faith, toothless nightgirl, skinny as only years of chasing crack can make you, saved from the grave by an almost-daily diet of chicken and Snickers.

Tom was skulking around for over an hour looking for someone to score through when, about to lose hope, he stumbled on Kenny and Faith exiting Costcutters.  Kenny offered him a blaze on a ‘try some, buy some’ basis, and within moments they were out of sight, down that narrow alleyway they all three knew from previous times when gagging for a pipe.  There they lurked by a cluster of grimy wheelybins, metal sentries at the base of a fire-escape leading up into a tarry black sky - a discreet little spot, a tiny white shard in your latest A to Z, where mainstream eyes don’t pry.

Kenny and Faith are old hands at their respective roles now.  He wants a favour, a sexual one, of course, accompanied by a good old lash on the pipe.  But Faith hasn’t stayed alive for thirty years, dishing out favours in bathrooms, bin-chutes and basements, without learning the rules of that infernal and eternal game of ‘gissa blowjob, gissa pipe, gissa blowjob, gissa pipe…’  She gives nothing away for nothing.

Kenny takes a lash, and down goes Faith, unzips his paltry jeans, reaches in, and there’s his ghastly dick on display in the dinge, wrinkled and limp.  She’s really got her work cut out tonight.  And after a minute or two it’s clear the coke has played its insidious trick again – however Faith toils, Kenny’s cumming in his head, but things are just not happening down below.  ‘Are you finding it hard to get hard, love?’ she asks, like some darkside Samaritan.  ‘It’s the white,’ claims Kenny, taking matters into his own hands.  He’ll get a hard-on if it kills him – which it might – his heart’s pounding around 120 a minute.  He still craves that meeting of ecstasies, that point where two rivers of dark treacle coalesce, foam into rapids, and smash torrentially down the rocks of death-defying delight.  Yes, he still hankers after that unholy grail, where the high of the orgasm tallies with the high of the white.

‘Gissa pipe,’ says Faith, looking up like the gargoyle of seduction she knows he longs to see.  He loads up a big one with a cruel nonchalance, then licks it himself.  But Faith’s far from defeated, for she knows he’s now at his weakest.  ‘Gissa pipe darling,’ she pines.  He sets one up, offers it her, lights it, and watches her suck hungrily on the smashed-up biro that juts from the Evian bottle in his greasy maulers.  She leans back, takes her buzz, lets out the smoke.  He eases her back into position, and abnormal service is resumed.

Tom, marginal in a marginal world, gazes jealously on, still waiting for his intro.  ‘Sorry to ask, but could you do me a pipe when you’re free?’ he enquires with flaccid politeness.  He can’t let go of his passive realworld etiquette, even in this amoral nook, where mainstream eyes don’t pry.  ‘Gimme five minutes with my woman,’ lords Kenny, knowing that his favourite cashcow won’t be going anywhere when there’s still a rock on offer.  So, resentfully patient, Tom sits down at the bottom of the fire-escape, and waits.  A sliver of him wishes he had the guts to get up and go, but the rest of him whispers, ‘it won’t be long, it won’t be long…’

But take away the pipe and this trio would probably never have met.  And soon their separate existences are to resume.  After a night of back-and-forthing to score, via Tom’s cashpoint, of course, the party finally grinds to a halt, and our brave threesome come scuttling from the shadows into the sharp light of the morning rush-hour, and resume their disparate lives.

Stooped and gloomy, our hapless middleclass hero paces home along heavily peopled pavements, feeling like an alien on his own planet.  In ten minutes he’ll be staring angrily at porn on his laptop, until crashing into bed and praying for sleep, and to wake up unscathed at some point later in the day.

Kenny, meanwhile, striding down some unsalubrious sidestreet, feels in his pocket for the twenty stone he saw fit to hold hostage.  A couple of tenners console him further that he’s probably got another couple of hours smoking in him.  Who can he go to who won’t be on him for pipe after pipe?  The alley’s out of bounds now – Superdrug uses those bins during waking hours.

Faith, bleary-eyed and beaten, returns to her pitch near Costcutters, which she violently protects, lays out her coat for coins to be thrown on, falls asleep, and dreams.

Perchance our three travellers will meet again, round the back of Superdrug perhaps, where the steely wheelies loom, where the fire-escape zigzags up into an oil-black sky, where mainstream eyes don’t pry.

And here is the song, 'Love Among The Wheelybins'...

Love Among The Wheelybins

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