Friday 20 February 2015

HUMAN BEINGS ARE GOOD

Hi, and thank you 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 read here, or buy as an ebook or kindle on amazon, if your morals allow it.  Since then, this blog has been the general musings of me, Benjamin of Turnham Green, an escapee from the grips of a hideous fifteen-year addiction.  The title of the blog might now really reflect the content now, although it is still, as much as ever, part of the narrative that began way back, and I hope you find it vaguely interesting.  I have just made a discovery, which this posting is about.

HUMAN BEINGS ARE GOOD


Yes, after years of research into the darkside, I am coming to realise that some human beings are good.  I guess it's possible that all are, except for the fact that they were got at, damaged, vandalised, misled, abused at some point, and they became infected, like a computer, with various viruses and malware.  Addiction, I feel now, was like a virus in me - time was, only a year or two ago, when I felt predisposed, programmed, compelled, to go and score crack regardless of the situation in the fridge, regardless of whether I had other arrangements, regardless also of whether I could 'afford' it.  It was priority one, whatever else what going on in the world, whatever responsibilities I might've had.  I don't say this with any pride, or glee - now, it seems a bit like a different world, a darker world, like a dream, half-remembered, or rather a nightmare, one that leaves you feeling troubled and unsettled the whole ensuing day.

One can talk about addiction in the same way one lives it (in circles) - what came first the drug or the hole it seems to fill, however fleetingly.  Now, though, I am gradually finding that life is, and has been, going on around me for over a decade.  I've begun writing again, performing a little bit of comedy, and even working in my local charity-shop, which is full of such a broad spectrum of people that I think if it were an actual rainbow, there would be everything from infrared to ultraviolet, and new shades either side.  A dance-tutor, a student from Luxembourg, an ex-Welsh miner, a retired Spanish teacher, and a couple of people who have 'had issues', not unlike my own, it would seem.  All in all, the vibe is good.  My eye condition, which amongst other things, includes very dry eyes, and limited sight, doesn't seem to like the dry, dusty environment, and I've been struggling with this for a few weeks now, but I'm determined to weather it, find a solution, because, already, I'd miss the company and the sense of functionality I get from being there.  Ah, how nice it is to have a sense of functionality - I think everyone should have one.  Also, my problems, although not gone, are getting more and more first-world as the weeks go by - I live in one of the richest countries in the world, and, even with a Conservative government, still find I'm pretty well-catered-for, although I know plenty of people who aren't.  Like many sane people, I hope this current shower (government) are ousted in May, but there's nothing controversial about that.

Even as I write, my eyes are extra-blurry, feel very dry, and I don't know how they will be tomorrow, or in the days ahead, but I want so much to continue at the charity-shop that I'm willing to weather it as long as I can.  Already, I've been to a nice birthday-party, and there's a leaving-do next week, which will be sad, but social, and meaningful.  These people have mostly been working there a few years or more, yards from where I was skulking around trying to score, hoping to score, having scored, not wanting to be seen or known.  Life was ticking along all around me, and I, as if in a darkened cloud, wandered back and forth, perhaps with the odd odd look, but more than likely without making much of an impact at all.  But I'm glad that dark cloud has dissipated, at least so far...

I actually get a sense of satisfaction and 'integration' out of being among people, not all of whom have been scraping around using crack for years - steaming a dress with a hissing snake-neck steamer is quite a satisfying task, as is learning to use a till, and giving the customer the right change, and putting a different CD on when the music stops.  Today, we had Ray Charles on, which a woman commented on, and I think he made for good retail music, as we sold quite a lot this afternoon.  And there I was, on my stool, behind the counter, chatting with my Spanish colleague, and others as they dotted by.  What's more, they seem to like me.  I, in particular in the years of my addiction, was a very unreliable, secretive, thoughtless, and ashamed individual, treading water frantically for no change.  But now, I don't know how, I genuinely feel like I can go forward, without living in terror of relapse, or going back into that trench of an existence, where only slithering things exist, hissing and jeering from cracks in floor (but not like a steamer).  The steamer is a virtuous serpent, a vacuum-like head on a snake-neck, with a tank of boiling water being sensibly dispensed up the tube, to cleanse a garment.

I could try to make out that I have been steamed, cleansed, but that would be crass.  But I don't feel quite so grubby as I did, creased and crumpled.  For years, I didn't think anyone would want to pick me up off the floor, let alone look at me, spend time with me.  Now, I don't feel quite so bad about things, sitting behind the counter, knowing how to use a till, saying hello and goodbye to people, and being as sure as one can be that I'll be there next week, rather than down an alley round the corner.

Bizarre the change from the chaos to the counter in the charity bazaar.

Oh dear, that sounds like a bit of an overambitious attempt at a phrase.  Anyway, I hope you're ok, and if you're not, one thing I can tell you is that if you are somewhere that seems to have no door, no hope of escape, that might not be the case - if you've been told addiction is a disease, or are using this phrase to condemn yourself to a terminal ending, I would like the suggest that addiction is a decision, a set of choices.  I thought, at my worst, that it was happening to me, but I was the author of it all.  I hope that doesn't sound crass, because one thing I'm not is a paragon or saint.  But, for the first time in years, struggling in many ways as I still am, I'm relieved, perhaps even pleased, to have a chance at life.  Even at my worst, I had more than many - now, I feel unburdened, and hope I can be a more altruistic person from now on.

There's more I could say, but won't now.

Thanks for dropping by, and here, as usual is a link to one of my songs on youtube, which I'd be chuffed if you'd like to listen to...just click on the title here...Tarantula

Maybe tomorrow?

Monday 16 February 2015

CAN YOU HELP?

Hello, and thank you for passing through.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013).  You can also buy it as an ebook on amazon too, if you do that kind of thing.  If you do, please leave a review.  There are three good ones so far, but I'd like some more, whatever your opinion of the book.  Anyway, today I'm trying to enrol some help.


CAN YOU HELP?

Well, now that the traumas of Christmas, New Year, and Valentine's Day have gone, only Easter and unforeseeable eventualities can harm us.  I hope you survived, and are surviving.  Seems it's the time of year when arguments, relapses, divorces, and gory car-accidents happen.  Let that phase be over now, let a new moon glisten in a velvet vista above ya.

I haven't written for a while, because I've not had anything to say.  I've just been quietly bewildered as to why I haven't used crack in so long.  Time was when I felt like a shirt going round and round in a tumble-drier, with no washerwoman to free me from my fealty.  (There are washermen, too, although spellcheck will try to tell you otherwise.)

Then minutes, just resisting, turned to an hour or so, which, after a long while, turned into a week or two, then a month, six months, and beyond...

There was no epiphany along the way, although the past two years have felt like a slowly unveiling epiphany, a cosmic dove revealed from under a neckerchief.  Like looking at an hour-hand on a clock, it moves, but you don't see it.

I'm no total abstinence from everything kind of person, I won't lie, pretend I am, but somehow, I find myself recognising myself, sometimes with a frightening start.  Seems there's no stranger like self.  But here I am, gradually reassembling myself like self-aware Lego.  And I even find a bonus-box of extra bits, with eagle-eyes and sonic-probe.

But the help I'd really appreciate, perhaps from you, is to get more readers for this blog, which I intend to use more often now, still under the same title, but hopefully with more good news than in the early days.  It would be great if I could get to 10,000 visits - at present, it's around 8,800.  So if you could share this blog with people you think might find it of interest, I'd be really grateful.  I've begun performing comedy again, writing songs, stories, poems, and I'd like to broadcast them, share them, with you and others, on here.  I'll fill you in on more soon, with video, new songs, and other bits.  (I bet you can't wait.)

So, thank you for being there, and thank you for being you.  Here's a little poem I've written lately, and a song to click on below:

ASBO SALLY

She’s good at what she does,
but what she does is bad.

It’s not easy living
this rock-hard life,
one day up,
three in bed,
like concrete’s been laid
in your head,

waking at noon
to a tenement sky
wishing it was easier and cheaper
to die.

Sally was got at,
now it’s her chance to get at,
getting on well at it too,
seeking as she was sought,
clawing as she was clawed,
tearing as she was torn,
teaching as she was taught,

Sally’s in a rage,
can’t turn the page :(
 
Secret Sally,
freelance resurrecter,
turning skin to stone,
at the bottom of a bin-chute
in a postcode near you,

but if she gets paid first
and can run,
she will run…

‘Seen Sally?’
‘No mirror has done.’

That's the end of the poem, and here's the song I mentioned, it's a safe click to youtube on the title here:  The World Is Full Of Whores

See you soon.

Saturday 14 February 2015

WHO WAS I?

Hi, and thanks for dropping by.  You may know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict' (Jan to April 2013), which you can read here, or buy on amazon as an ebook, if you do that kind of thing.  Nowadays, this blog is the sporadic emissions of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  I'm rather tired, but feel, at the close of Valentine's Day, that I should check in with my fan-base...so here is tonight's emission...


WHO WAS I?

Now, looking back on a year or two ago, and beyond, when addiction was as automatic to me as a spin-cycle is for a washing-machine, I wonder if I might have overdisclosed at times, told too many people too much about myself, or at least what seemed to be my self, at the time.

But then, I guess you can't undisclose the disclosed.  Even if one goes about redacting every detail that's out there, what's already known will still be in the memories of previous readers, who may wish to do you down, or use stuff against you, even if it was said or done in the darkest time of your life, wrongheadedly, cruelly, thoughtlessly even.  But, on a more personal level, I wonder who I was back in the day...the day of addiction...the day that only lasted six hours, until the money ran out, swiftly followed by me, home to bed for two days, until more money was poured into my account, when another daytrip to dissolution and despair would ensue...

In my little book, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', I pretty much refer to sexual abuse and prostitutes in the first thousand words, or thereabouts.  Would I tell a stranger at a bus-stop my life-story in such vivid terms as quickly?  Well, time was when I might have, especially if it was the 237 bus, of which there aren't that many.

But what is disclosure?  It is the revealing of a fact.  What is overdisclosure?  It's an opinion.  Truth is, in holding back certain truths, even if only alluded to, I would have made my little book less 'true'.  I guess, in my way, that the job of a writer is to walk the tightrope between what the reader needs to know and what you want them to know.  This can be like pigeon-stepping along a strand of Rapunzel's hair, hung taut above a never-sated gorge of flame and air-crinkling heat - precarious.

Now, do I want people not to know what I did, who I was?  What's the point in rewriting history?  Forensics can always find the original message under the scrawl.

And the truth is, to me, I don't know who I was, or who I am now.  Sometimes, lately, having begun doing some things I love, like comedy, music, writing, reading, even having a social life, I recognise myself, an old self, that needs a dusting off, but is still pretty functional, whereas sometimes I feel unfamiliar, unintentionally airborne, as if walking on blustering updrafts from some zero-gravity simulator for trainee astronauts, treading clown-like on bulbous buffetings from below.

I carry these thoughts, I feel these feelings, I type these words.

I guess it was me all along.

I'll try to check in tomorrow, unless Rapunzel's hair snaps, mid-ravine.

Here's one of my songs, if you'd like to listen.  I'm hoping to write more soon...just click on the name here and it goes safely to youtube...no Rapunzel hair dangers...Windswept

Thank you for dropping by.