MORE WILL BE REVEALED

Hi, and thanks for being you.  You might 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), and from then on it's the fairly frequent musings of your true author, Benjamin of Turnham Green, or Benjamin Lo-Fi, if you know the musical me.  I've connected this blog to Google+ now, I think, and so am wondering if this will mean more people might see it.  So here goes, with my first experimental post since going Google...

MORE WILL BE REVEALED

So there'd I sit, in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, number 355 or something, wondering when 'it' was going to be revealed, and would it be in time for me to still be walking, non-psychotic, or derelict in a gutter?  But no time is wasted, I guess.  Perhaps if I hadn't sat in several hundred self-absorption sessions in various church cellars and community halls, I would still be doing it now, trying to work out why one apparently had to give up 'everything' just to get 'clean'.  I mean, there were some guys in there who thought you shouldn't take antidepressants from your doctor, and who even had a timetable for you to use when weaning yourself of Methadone.  But there were also some loving, kind people, who, in their varying ways, helped to save a life, or lives.

Even though I was reluctant, resentful, and resistant to the ethos on offer, of 'complete abstinence' (however one measures that), I was at least among other human beings, with a cup of tea or coffee in my clutches, and at least I could speak, if I wanted to, and be heard by at least some of those present.  But often I was simply going through the verbal motions, trying to present a nice, neat speech about how awful crack was, and how I was like 'an ant following a trail of formic acid' around the various sidestreets of Shepherd's Bush, in search of the other naughty insects.  I would even describe with eloquence the comedown, the remorse, the days in bed, the empty cupboard, but nothing happened, by chance, providence, or intention, or a subtle blend of the three.

Then there was residential rehab, where I was also playacting - twenty weeks of sitting in morning groups giving encouraging feedback to peers, whilst occasionally reciting an insightful description of my own dilemma, knowing full well that what I was saying wasn't what I was feeling.

Then back out into the real world, returning to my little studio-flat, where I still am, like a funeral-director seeing his chapel of rest after months away due to subsidence, or small earthquake.

And then, after vague attempt, even vaguer failure, I find I've faltered into 2015, which is just a number, I know.  But more has been revealed, more than I thought would be if/when I ever got off crack.  If there's such a thing as 'recovery', I don't think it means recovery from the much-mentioned 'disease of addiction', but more a recovery of things lost.  And even a discovery of things new.

It's daunting.  Here's footage of me putting up the backdrop of the little comedy evening I do, with a tune by me, awaiting its lyrics...

Thanks for dropping by, and being you.

SHOPLIFTERS OF THE WORLD

Hello, 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).  Since then, it's been the varied ramblings of yours truly, Benjamin of Turnham Green.  So let's go for today's ramble...

SHOPLIFTERS OF THE WORLD

I was sitting behind the till of the charity shop I work in, when two older ladies came in, and began having a good old forage about.  Trudy, a volunteer who's worked there a while, with a firebrand temperament, and heart very much in the right place, suddenly said to one of the others, 'Lock the door...'

The demonic duo had been up to no good in the boots and jewellery, one covering the other, whilst the other slipped things into her waiting, gaping ASDA bag.  'I know what you've done,' said Trudy, seeming fearless, and perhaps familiar with the scenario.  'The police have been called, and the door's locked 'til they get here.'  One of the ladies, in a voice that rang familiar, said, 'We haven't done anything.'  Trudy thought otherwise, though.  'The charity shops down this road are linked up.  We've been told you two are doing the rounds.'  The other lady said, 'Please, let us out, we haven't got anything.'  But then the other one tipped out a pair of boots and some glittering things from her bag, declaring, 'Look, we haven't got anything now, have we?  Please lady, let us out.'

Trudy then decided to let them go, telling them never to come back in the shop again.  As she unlocked the door, the police, who must have been very close by, arrived, and wanted to know what was going on.  Trudy pointed at the ex-contents of the bag, scattered on the floor - but now, because our ladies had no more stolen goods on them, the police could do nothing, and seemed more interested in appeasing Trudy's animated state, which, to my mind, seemed pretty understandable.

There was another customer in at the time, standing by the till, looking on in mild disquiet, who said, 'How low can you get, stealing from a charity shop?'  I echoed her sentiment, apologising as if the incident were my own doing...I felt vacant and shaken...and this was perhaps because I half-recognised one of the women in question.  I couldn't be sure, but I think she was the very first person who actually, for reasons best known to herself, introduced me to the dubious delights of crack.  Because of my limited sight, I could only tell that the general shape was the same, and the hair looked about right, but the voice was distinct, like sandpaper being dragged along a blackboard, almost like having a filling, just to listen to.  I don't know if she'd noticed me, and, after all, I could be wrong.  But it was a strange and surreal incident, and made me feel like I was in some kind of vortex.

Half an hour later, when things were back to normal, and Ray Charles was crooning quietly from a speaker above the counter, and half a dozen non-thieves were milling about peaceably, the other shoplifter-lady came back, mouthing off, making threats, flailing around, as if happy to hit whoever happened to be within reach.  I thought maybe it was time to man up, but Trudy, terrier-like, verbally discharged her in no uncertain terms, asking her not to come back into the shop, ever.  The woman said, 'I'll get you,' or something, and shuffled off into the midst of seething shoppers.

They say criminals always return to the scene of a crime, but that seemed a little premature by anyone's standards.  And I wish I could be sure if it was her, who, so many years ago, offered me a drug that put pay to the next ten-plus years of my life - but I've a pretty good eye for a voice.  I didn't mention anything - even though Trudy and the others know that aspect of my past, I don't think it would've made any difference to anyone, anyway.

So there you go, I guess shoplifters think charity shops are fair game, less secure, laxly monitored, but it's a pretty cheap trick, all the same.  And if it was her, well, seems not much has changed in her life - but then, as that well-known Renaissance lady said, you never really know another person, until you suddenly don't know them anymore.

Thanks for dropping by.  Oh yeah, and here's a link to one of my tunes on youtube, if you feel inclined:  Revenge Of The Sirens...

OLD FACE, FAMILIAR REQUEST

Hello, and thank you for dropping by.  As 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 you can read here, or buy on amazon if you prefer, for a mere £3 or so, depending on exchange rates.  Nowadays, the blog is things I think might be relevant or of interest to anyone out there in, or not in, addiction.

OLD FACE, FAMILIAR REQUEST

Yesterday, I was putting up the backdrop for a comedy evening I've inherited from Trinity Infinity, the Plutonian prince, who denounced his inheritance, in favour of making mirth on Earth.  It takes place at the Duchess of Cambridge pub, London W6.  If any of you are on Earth, you are welcome to come visit the place, it's a lovely pub, with friendly staff, and a rather good comedy evening in the making, thanks to a lot of hard work from a lot of people.  It's called Duch Ado About Nothing, and is hosted, for want of a better word, by Benjamin of Turnham Green, which is me...

It's a strange thing, but I was on my way back from the printer's with the new backdrop in a tube, when a husky, yet friendly voice called my name.  I stopped, looked back, and it was none other than ruined New Age consultant, Harmony Dryden.  I say 'ruined', because I knew her as the owner of an antick boutique, where many a drape and plenty a joss-stick could be found, and a fire-hazard sign wouldn't have gone amiss - but you can't get them in the right font.

It's an awful truth.  I met her before my own addictions begun, and knew very little that she too was on the edge of that very same precipice.  Because I disappeared, so did she, and many from my life.  I barely recognised her.  Her face seemed hung on the skull, like slack clay, gravity-slaved, jowls enough to store a score, or more.  'It's Harmony,' she said, 'remember me?'

Yes, I did, although what I remembered was not this person, had not these eyes, bagged and scant of hope, those puffy cheeks, tight, red, sinuous mouth.  'Hi,' I said, both pleased and appalled to see her, and I didn't know which to privilege.
  'You alright, love?' she asked.  'You look well.'  And I wanted to say the same.  But she saved me the quandary.
  'I dipped my toe in a bit too deep,' as you can see,' she said, eyes staring into the darkness of the corner-shop door.
  'Yeah, it can be a bit of a bottomless whirlpool,' I uselessly said.
  'You're telling me.  Love, you don't have a couple of quid on you, do you?'
  In a kind of mild social shock, like a novelty mannequin, I thrust a conscientious and efficient hand into the pocket of my too-loose jeans.  My fingers found a two-pound coin, which, with technical precision, Guardian shot for anyone looking, friend responding to friend for the unphotographable space between.  'Ah, it's good to see you though,' Harmony crooned, almost like the old voice I recalled, but now in a different key, lower, throatier, minor.
  'Nice to see you too,' I said.  I may as well have said 'carry on killing yourself, you've a few years yet.'
  Then, gesturing in the general direction of somewhere that looked like a destination, I said I hope our paths cross again.
  And that's all I know of Harmony Dryden, to date.
  Dipping toes, whirlpools - very aquatic, addiction.

  ________________________________________


  And, as usual here's one of my tunes...it's a youtube link...Tales Of Harmony Dryden

  Thank you for dropping by.

ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

Thank you for dropping by.

I have developed a condition,

which I swore I'd never contract,

known as an

Attitude of Gratitude...

 



ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

It's amazing the things I can resent.

I would even begrudge a favour, because I was in the position of needing a favour.  But it was the favour-giver who got the brunt of it - I just got the bag of food, the money in the bank, the lift home, the counselling, etc, etc...

But, again the surreal journey ploughs on.  A couple of years ago, my flat was a shell, with no rug, no telly, no plants, no piano, in fact not much at all that would count as soft furnishings, or 'nice items'.  Now, though, I am sitting here listening to the criciet on the radio, Australia vs Afghanistan, with Australia crashing many a ball to, and over, the boundary.  It's a bit like addiction, isn't it children...?

Not so long ago, I was that poor cricket-ball, being dented, scuffed, and generally contorted by the brutal onslaught of the Aussie-batsman of addiction.  It was as if I had no say in where I'd be sent next, into the crowd, into the ice-cream kiosk, up onto the pavilion balcony.  And then, game over, I'd be discarded by the umpire as just another dented, misshapen, withered bundle of leather.  Even my counsellors, friends, and colleagues in twelve-step fellowships, were the poor Afghani bowlers, trying to put my in the right position, so as not to get dispatched to the boundary, but to limited avail.  They sometimes helped me get the odd dot ball, i.e. a delivery that's not scored off, or maybe sometimes I'd just be nurdled round the corner to backward square-leg for a single, but can you imagine being smashed around for a whole day by an Aussie wielding a willow club?

New paragraph, and I think I'd better dispense with the cricketing analogy.  But somehow, in the past two years, crack, my primary addiction, compulsion, drug of utter defeat, doesn't seem to come into my thoughts very much, or, if it does, it's like a prompt that's more easily ignored, put aside, for a variety of reasons.  Firstly, and I guess most importantly, I just don't seem to desire it as much as I did.  Of course, with a few blank days in my calendar, a low, pent-up, angry mood, and I could, no, probably would be at risk, but I like to think that now I'd follow that wise line I heard in NA, when one is feeling so sexually caged that it's agony, that line being 'when in doubt, knock one out'.  Because, for me, and I know for other men, and I think some women too, crack replaced the sex-life I wasn't having.  I was introduced to it in a sexual setting, me and a working-girl in Westbourne Park, and it was as if the inner-orgasm that crack gave me, at least in the early days, trumped the actual act of sex, the climax itself.  Although it prompted me to want to get sexual, five minutes in I'd want another pipe, and that would usually put pay to any progress in the field of physical intimacy.  What's more, the other person would usually be mad as a hatter, and something crazy would happen to postpone proceedings, like there'd be a mad knock at the door, a voice would be heard through the wall, that would be the cue for a bout of paranoia and curtain-twitching.  Either way, crack became my surrogate sexual partner, quick, intense, and intensely disappointing.

But there are other reasons why it doesn't appeal anymore.  Maybe it's also that I've simply 'had enough'.  Maybe my brain, my heart and mind, are 'rinsed out', can't actually respond like they did to the chemical commandments of crack.  A counsellor, an ex-addict himself, suggested this might be the case, and used himself as an example.  Also, I've managed to slot a few commitments into my week - the picture above is of a purse, currently for sale in the charity-shop I now volunteer in.  I thought the words were appropriate.  There is such a broad spectrum of people there, from middleclass ladies with an spare afternoon from motherhood or jam-making, a guy who lives in a hostel, who smokes a lot, and may well have been, or even still be, a user himself - and everything in between.  But I do genuinely feel lucky, privileged even, to be among them, and to have a humble function in mainstream society.  And it doesn't feel like things have changed much since I was 20 or so, back in the late 80s - people have pretty similar views on things, race, gayness, politics in general, music is still most tripe, but with some good stuff worth unearthing, and the general rhythm of life seems the same, rush-hour in the morning, and then at five, and people congregating in All Bar Ones to get vaguely plastered and shout at each other across long tables.  Waterstones still exists, as does M&S, ASDA, and all the family favourites.  I guess Liddell and Aldi are new, and Woolworths has gone, but Poundland is the new Woolworths, they say, and I think that's a fair comparison.  It's not like I fell out of life before the second world war, to return in the 60s, which I'm sure would have been quite a culture-shock.  No, life now seems pretty similar to 20 years ago - mobile phones are smaller, and the internet's better, but otherwise, people seem pretty much how they were.  And this makes me relieved, but also said, because I often reflect now on how I've been a marginal figure, merely observing, in a blurred way (due to my sight), the mainstream world fizz by, in cars, on bikes, swerving on the pavement out my way when they spot the white cane, or pacing along looking at their phone, and often bumping into me with copious apologies, on spotting the cane.  The world is still treating me well, and seems to like me, on the whole.

I said and did some confusing and hurtful things during my using, and some bridges may never be repaired, and there is sadness, a true sense of mourning for lost friends, opportunities (mostly romantic), and a sense that I now need to hurry up to the point of frenzy to 'catch up' to where I would have been if fifteen years had not gone down the pan because of addiction.  My life is still in the early stages of reconstruction, and I'm trying not to rush, because I've noticed it gets me nowhere.  I have a nice group-therapy group I go to, which is proving helpful, especially seeing that I'm not bolting for crack between sessions, I even organise a comedy-night in the pub opposite my flat, which is a dream come true, albeit a terrifying one, at times.  I even have a few coffee-shop chums who I chat to, and sometimes do the crossword with.  I'm writing, going to a poetry group, meeting new people, and, as it was in the past, they seem to like me - but I hope I'm a better version of what I was even before the drugs came along, and know I'm an upgrade of the addicted, addled, virus-ridden me.  And, in short, I find myself more than relieved, but actually grateful (a word I barely type, even now).  I played my part in this transition, of course, but I do feel that other 'forces' were behind me, either side of me, leading me forward, like a quartet of angels flanking, protecting me, guiding me on - and I hope they continue to do so.  And, as ever, wherever, whoever you are, I say again, if it can happen for me, it can happen for you.  I think desire, and doggedness, and the ability to get up after a knockback, are important, and a little faith, in whatever you choose to believe in, and however you chose to understand that word.  There's no one-size-fits-all exit from addiction, but there is an exit for everyone, I'm sure of it, if they want it.

So there we go, that's my little contribution for today.  And, as usual, here is one of my songs on youtube, if you would like to have a listen...just click on the title...Windswept.

Thanks for letting me share.