Tag Archives: life

Escaping Reality, Emotionally Retarded

6 Jan

Pain isn’t something I am skilled at dealing with. Escaping pain, however, I am as good at as an Irish traveller is at fighting. Shrooms being my route of choice these days. It’s where the love lives. When life gets too ugly for me to be able to look at it, I discreetly slip away from the world and pay a visit to the realm of contentedness. These past few weeks I’ve been going there more regularly than I would usually need to. I am feeling emptier than I have in years. My spirit has been extinguished. An ache that won’t shift. A constant nausea. Too many shit things all taking place at the same time. A friend, one of life’s good humans, is lying in a hospital bed while her young kids and husband can only sit and put their faith in doctors and medical technology. Christmas. New Year. And not to mention the rejection dealt to me by a woman, – well, two rejections. Just one woman. But I was fool enough to climb back into her bed the moment she let me and then in the morning deja vu – who has, although not intentionally, absolutely crushed any confidence or feeling of self-worth that I had in myself before I met her. Destroyed. Man, I was in such a good place before that girl came into my life and turned it upside down. These things combined have knocked me on my arse. Not that anyone will know it. I am not a talker. Friends trying to engage me in conversation about what’s going on in my life just make me recoil. They meet a brick wall. It is not my way. Nor am I a social user of anything. I don’t like to have company when I’m feeling the benefits of whatever it is that my body has ingested. I fly solo. A bit of Me Time. I wait until I know I have the flat to myself for a night, and if that situation doesn’t arrive I take a bus out to my mum’s house in the sticks. No city, no cars, no street lights, no noise, and most importantly no people. A retreat. A place where I can get under the covers, drink tea, get as stoned as I want without being disturbed, and float away with the aid of some shrooms and some psytrance. It gives me perspective. Helps me to remember, even if only for a short while, that I have been prescribed an extreme dose of good fortune and managed to escape the poverty by being given the opportunity to work again, after a few years of sitting in a damp corner, occasionally having food gifted me by charities, shoplifting at times, and at other times just going without nutrition. Makes me realise that surely that was a far less desirable situation to be in than the current one of emotional trauma over a woman. Emotion is forgotten when you’re starving. These days I can eat when I’m hungry. I can drink when I’m thirsty. And I can smoke weed when I’m…….. awake. Basically. This time last year I couldn’t do any of those things. Well, as my dad used to say to me as a kid, “There’s plenty of water in the tap.” So I could drink. But you get the point. Things have been worse. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

A week or so ago when I didn’t have any work the next day, I travelled out to my mum’s with everything I needed to be able to chill out. In the evening I laid down on the settee in the living room, ate some shrooms, wrapped myself in a blanket, got comfortable, pulled my hood up over my head, put my music in my ears and closed my eyes to block out the telly in the corner of the room that my mum was sat on the other settee watching. She knew to leave me in peace to enjoy my trip. And then the usual vivid memories started to come over me. The ones where I am actually back there, experiencing it again but at the same time detached, like Scrooge stood next to the ghost of Christmas past. If that makes sense. I went back to a night almost 20 years ago.

In that happy place

In that happy place

Continue reading

Enter Here. Exit Here. Thanks For Coming.

1 Dec

‘It’s like the film Being John Malkovich, innit?’ he said to the man standing over him. And then he remembered that the man didn’t speak his language. So he asked it again, this time in the man’s national tongue. The man’s response was ‘What?’ except it wasn’t exactly ‘What?’ because it wasn’t said in English. But it meant ‘What?’

‘You wouldn’t get it,’ he said, reaching down into the side pocket of his bag that sat between his feet and pulling out his ticket, which he handed to the man. The man took it, crossed it with a biro, handed it back, and carried on down the carriage. He turned his head to the left to stare out of the window, to lose himself on the distant horizon, to be taken there by the current and left to float over the edge, peacefully on his back, he imagined a bottomless waterfall, perpetual motion, the eternal drop. Would it be noisy, he wondered. What did it matter? He’d get used to it. That’s what you do; you get used to stuff. He had forgotten that it was past ten at night, that the sun had long since set, that the window at his side now only served as a mirror, revealing his surroundings, bright under the train’s lightbulbs, as it rolled along the tracks that hugged the shore line. He fought the temptation to check his reflection, he knew what he looked like; tired. And empty. But mostly tired. He didn’t need reminding. His eyes looked older than they were. As luck would have it, the rest of him didn’t. Not that it mattered. There were people, about eight in total, sharing the carriage with him. Eight other humans, possibly nine, and not a sound to be heard. Not a voice. Not a laugh. Not a sniff. Not a shuffling of papers. Not an itchy arse being scratched on a seat. Just faces looking at mobile screens. Or in the case of one lady, looking at the backs of eyelids. She was asleep. But she wasn’t resting her head on anything. She sat upright. And she dozed peacefully. He thought this must have taken training.

The woman sat opposite him was also surveying the scene via the reflection in the window. Their eyes met in the glass. She had nice hair, he thought, and pretty eyes, hooded, deep. No make-up. None needed. She didn’t smile, she wasn’t a smiler. He used to be. She just looked into his reflected eyes. The glass a bulldozer to the social No No wall that existed in the physical. Without the glass to act as a filter, this kind of behavior would not be acceptable. You do not stare at strangers on public transport. It’s bad form. She had started it, though.

Continue reading

Attention to Detail

9 Nov

‘Don’t you eat?’ she meant nothing by it, but it cut. Of all the times he didn’t want to hear it, now, her wrapped round him, fingertips pulsating down his back, clothes discarded carelessly across the floor, humans glowing, sweat, saliva, now was definitely one of those times. Normally the next words to leave the offending female’s lips were, ‘I’ll have to cook for you.’ And he always clammed up. And he didn’t see that woman again. But tonight she didn’t say, ‘I’ll have to cook for you,’ in fact she made no unfounded assumptions about his future, she invited herself to no parties. Instead, as she felt the backward shift in his comfort, she said, ‘It’s just that you’re so thin!’

Continue reading

When You Meet Your Childhood Hero And Find Out He’s A Drunk

25 May

‘Put your gloves on, it’s cold outside. And hurry up, or you’ll miss Father Christmas!’

‘But what about Dad?’

‘He must’ve missed his train home from work. We’ll have to go without him. He knew what time we were leaving. Now come on, the pair of you!’

Disappointed as we both were that Dad was gonna miss out on a few mince pies and the chance to meet Father Christmas, who, by some incredible feat of persuasion my school had managed to book for a personal meet and greet session, for one evening only, and just a week or so before the busiest night of his year – I heard a rumour many years later that this was down to the school secretary of the time Ms. X, who had had an abortion on the quiet fifteen years earlier at the aggressive insistance of the unwilling father, and had never uttered a word of it to anyone since. Not until the day the Chuckle Brothers had cancelled at short notice the appearance they had been booked to make at my school for what seemed like forever. Everyone had been devastated by the news. Some kids reported that their parents had taken down the Christmas trees they’d only just put up a day or two before. It looked to some like Christmas 1989 was going to be cancelled. Ms. X couldn’t just stand by and watch helplessly. She knew what she had to do. She made the phonecall. Sure, getting the real Father Christmas to turn up at our Christmas fair would never fully fill the collective gap that existed in all of us as a result of missing out on meeting Barry and Paul Chuckle (Some of us kids had had a bet on who would be the first to say ‘To me, to you’ to them), but it would at least go some way to restoring Christmas – my sister and I both knew not to dilly dally. We were out the door with Mum and breathing in the crisp air, under the clear sky, illuminated with bright stars, walking down the hill to where the magic was to take place: our primary school.

*I feel I should point out that since hearing that rumour about Ms. X, I now know it to be false; made up by a couple of urchins that I shared detention with one afternoon. Well, I shared detention with them (and many others) almost every afternoon for four years. But that’s not my point. My point is the rumour was bullshit. While we’re clearing the air like this, I also want to get it off my chest that Ms. X wasn’t her real name.

My school (which seemed massive to 6-year old me, but looks no bigger than a few sunday league changing rooms joined together when observed through my grown-up eyes) was buzzing with energy, excitement and festive cheer as we walked through the main door and were greeted by a few of our teachers, who were dressed as elves. ‘Nice touch,’ I thought to myself. All the grown-ups did the ‘Merry Christmas! Here, you must try one of these mince pies!’ thing, while I entertained myself by sliding around on my knees on the polished floor. ‘Oh look, mine does that as well. Little buggers, ain’t they?’ one of the grown-up ladies said to my mum. My mum ignored her to march over and pick me up off of the floor by my collar. I stayed up.

Continue reading

Gently Poking Fun At A German’s Name

24 Apr

You know how some things are funny because they’re not meant to be, and that if they had intended to be funny then they actually wouldn’t be? Like some time a couple of years ago I was sat at home watching athletics on the telly when this distance runner’s face came up on the screen, and underneath his face was written his name, and at the exact same time that I looked down to read it, the commentator said it out loud, as if my subconscious had the exact same voice as whoever it was that was commentating that day, and as I simultaneously read and heard the two words I realised that it was the greatest name belonging to anyone on the planet. Gaylord Silly. It’s fucking genius, isn’t it? Course it is! Gaylord Silly. Gaylord. Silly. Do you reckon he ever introduces himself in the style of 007? The name’s Silly, Gaylord Silly. The name is silly. But it isn’t meant to be. I truly believe it was an honest mistake on the part of Gaylord’s parents. The Sillys. Or maybe they pluralise their name to the Sillies. No, that would make no sense. But anyway, before I lose my trail of thought, I am stoned by the way, if that name Gaylord Silly had been made up by someone trying to be funny, it wouldn’t actually be that funny. Like if I said ‘Oi John, quick, come up with a funny name for a bloke on the spot,’ and he blurted out ‘Gaylord Silly,’ it wouldn’t be as funny would it? Actually whatever way you look at it, it’s always going to be a funny name. But if me and John had had that conversation a year ago, the one where I told him to come up with a funny name on the spot and he said Gaylord Silly, if we had had that conversation a year ago, I am almost certain that I wouldn’t remember it now. The name would have popped up, made me laugh, and then gone away to die somewhere. Because it would have been made up with the intention of being funny. Which would make it not as funny. Whereas Gaylord Silly’s name is not meant to be funny. So it is. In case you were wondering, me and John didn’t have that conversation about funny names a year ago. There is no John. I am rambling. Big time. I may have lost a couple of readers along the way there. Which means that I am now only left with the one.

The reason for that pointless introductory paragraph was that a couple of days ago I encountered my own Gaylord Silly. In a metaphorical sort of way. And it made me laugh enough that earlier this morning I had to go out walking for two hours just to find it again, this time with a borrowed camera in my pocket, as I am one of those weird people who don’t own a camera-phone, nor a camera, nor a phone. Which is annoying when you come across something that you either want to photograph or tell someone about. But I would say the positives of not owning a phone outweigh the negatives. I digress. Yea anyway, my metaphorical Gaylord Silly. I was out in the Spanish countryside, but could see the blue sea over the hills, which meant that I had wandered closer to the coast than usual, which also meant that I was in an area home to British, Dutch and German retirees, and before anyone accuses me of showing favouritism to any of those countries, you will notice I listed them alphabetically, and I came across this house, and as I passed it I couldn’t help but notice that the name of the occupants was engraved into a plaque by their gate. My initial reaction was to think ‘Oh look, a novelty name plaque, and not an overly funny one at that. What was the point in buying that? I bet the bloke who lives here is a riiiiiiiiiight laugh. I was being sarcastic there, that was what all the iiiiiiiiiiis were meant to convey. Basically I wasn’t impressed with this attempt at humour, and was convinced that it was the work of a dull Englishman, the kind who calls himself the office joker and who owns a mobile disco. I was just about to walk on, when I noticed that although the male’s name was an attempt at comedy, the woman’s name underneath wasn’t. At least, it didn’t strike me as such. The woman’s name was Uta Fischer. That would only be funny if an uta was something you could go fishing for. And even then it wouldn’t be very funny. It wouldn’t be funny at all. When I read the name Uta Fischer I didn’t think comedy attempt, I thought German. It was just a standard German name. And then it clicked that Uta Fischer’s companion’s name was almost definitely also just a Standard German name, and not a crap attempt at being funny. Which now made it fucking funny. In fact, my first reaction was to blurt out ‘Good grief, that’s his real name!’

Continue reading

Meditation Fart

31 Mar

I’m out again, walking, stoned as a motherfucker, not to mention woozy from inhaling the fumes of the mosquito repellent my body is covered in. I’m basically just fucking with the mosquitos, saying ‘I’m not gonna kill you, I’m just gonna repel you instead.’ And that, for a mosquito, is much more annoying. I’m being a nuisance to the mosquito, fucking up his day, because no matter how much he is repelled he just can’t fight the urge to keep coming back for another attempt. He is convinced that eventually he’ll find a gap in the forcefield and get his tongue into my bloodstream. They all think it. I just get to watch them growing increasingly pissed off. Buzzing loudly and at speed past my ear before getting a whiff of the repellent and running away. Flying away, I mean, not running. And they’re getting hungrier, which means they’re getting the ‘ump more, but rather than go and find an open buffet that is a human not sprayed from head to toe in repellent, they’re intent on gatecrashing the picnic that flows through my veins. The pest has become the pestered, and the pestered has become the pest. This is my non violent protest against the mosquito regime.

How good a word is woozy? Brilliant. Woozy. Woozy. It even looks good in written form. Now say it in a French accent. Je suis woozy. You sound like Pepé Le Pew. Say it in a German accent, however, and it loses its charm and playfulness somewhat. Ich bin voozi! Not the same is it? For woozy to elicit the appropriate feeling the W has to be pronounced correctly.

It’s probably a good thing that I write these inner monologues down in this notebook rather than sharing them with a shrink. This notebook is my shrink, but one without the necessary powers to have me sent to the funny farm. If I did turn up at a mental hospital and told a member of staff on reception that I was there because my notebook had sectioned me, clearly I would be in the right place. “Oh, your notebook sent you here, you say?  Right, well come this way please. Doctoooooor!”

Just now when I wrote ‘this notebook is my shrink’ I had to fight the urge to write ‘you are my shrink,’ you know, personifying the notebook. I don’t want to be that guy. It’s just a notebook. It’s not a diary, it’s not a journal, it’s not my mate! It’s just a notebook that I write shit down in. I am no Anne Frank and this is no Kitty.

After spending those last few paragraphs talking about fucking with a mosquito’s day and then comparing the impact of the word woozy when said in different national accents, it was kinda already implied that I am no Anne Frank, I think.

Last night I realised that I haven’t grown as much spiritually as I would have hoped. It was late and I was listening to a guided Vipassana meditation I’d ripped from Youtube. I try to meditate every night, and more often than not the effects are positive. This particular guided meditation, though, was one that I hadn’t listened to before. Not fully anyway. But we got off to a good start last night and I was lying in the dark, earphones in, completely relaxed, on my way to that nice place as the voice of this woman gently led me. The meditation was a group one, and every now and then the quiet was interrupted by the sound of a cough, or someone clearing their throat, or just someone shuffling about a bit. Fair enough, we are all only human after all. I blocked it out. Then I heard a sound of a different nature. The sound of a fart being let out by someone sitting on a floor. A fart done on the floor sounds different to a fart done standing up or lying down. It’s just a funnier sound. We all know that already, I’m not writing anything pioneering here. But yea, someone had farted loudly mid meditation. Mid group meditation!  And that spelt the end of my meditation, because as many times as I managed to clear my thoughts I could not stop laughing. Hysterically. At 30 years old. At a fart. The passing of excess gas, by a human, through his or her anus. I pissed myself giggling for hours. I imagine I even laughed in my sleep through the night. The thing that tickled me the most was that no one at the meditation so much as snickered. Or sniggered? I don’t know which word is the right one. Sniggered, I think. No one! These people are on a higher level than me, clearly. My quest for spiritual peace and enlightenment can easily be derailed by the sound of a fart. I have a long way to go, man, a long way to go.

The friendly south American waitress in this bar keeps watching me as I laugh to myself whilst writing about a fart. I think she mistakes me for a deep and profound thinker and writer. I come in here every now and then, perspiring from the walk, so stoned I can’t shift the smile plastered across my mug, I ask her for an orange juice, we exchange smiles and a few words, and then I disappear to the little table in the dark corner to ponder and write in my notebook. The mysterious foreigner! El gringo misterioso! Ha! Is that really how I imagine she imagines me? Really? Fuck off, man! She sees you for what you are, the dopey stoned bloke whose terrible Spanish she entertains. Either way, I bet if you asked her what I was sitting here writing, her first stab in the dark wouldn’t be a meditation fart. Or maybe it would. Maybe I am that transparent. I see transparency as a virtue. Transparency is good. If this piece of writing had to have a title, it would be Meditation Fart. I want to write a book called Meditation Fart. It could be about anything. I can’t read my own handwriting any more. This notebook is looking less and less like it was written by me, and more and more like it was written by Michael J Fox. I like to think that Michael J Fox wouldn’t be offended by that flippant comment. It wasn’t even funny.

All the local workers have just come in to have their lunch before nipping off home for a siesta before resuming their work later on. Loud bunch, the Spanish. Just naturally. I try not to generalise too much, but this one is unavoidable. The Spanish are loud. It used to annoy me a bit. It doesn’t any more. But man do the Spanish seem happier than the English. Again I’m generalising. People interact with one another here. It’s how it should be. It’s warm. I wouldn’t mind being born Spanish. You can only be born once though, despite what poor brainwashed evangelical Christians may tell you, and I’ve already had my go, 30 years ago. Ah well, no point thinking about it then. So I won’t.

One of 'em farted, not one of 'em laughed. What's that all about then?

One of ’em farted, not one of ’em laughed. How’s that work then?

Looking Back On The Mid 90s (with the help of my school yearbook) (Part 1)

5 Mar

A couple of weeks ago my mum gave me something I had totally forgotten she’d kept. Something I had totally forgotten even existed. My school yearbook from 1996-97, the year I started secondary school. I was 13. I spent the next week or so taking a trip down memory lane each night, hours and hours of reminiscing. Whilst smoking a lot of weed. And writing down whatever memories and thoughts were conjured up in my mind by the pictures. Here’s some of the shit I wrote in the notebook:

Sitting in the front row of her class photo is the first girl I ever fell in love with. I remember when she moved to our school. I was 11. She was 12. An older woman. Way out of my league. Was never interested. But we would walk home from school together sometimes. She lived round the corner on the estate. Either in the grey block of flats or the house opposite it. I can’t remember exactly. I used to see her knocking about with boyfriends older than me. Hated it. Until I just looked at this picture I hadn’t seen her face in about fifteen years. I remember vividly her South African accent. Strong it was. At first, anyway.

I’m pretty sure that girl, my first love, ha! settled down almost straight after finishing school and started a family. I seem to recall seeing her pushing a pram. That first child she had can’t be too far off the age that we are in these photos. Man, time just disappears. Blink. Gone.

—–

On page 54 there’s the kid who I had my first fight of secondary school with. And who I continued to fight with about once every three months in the middle of the field at lunch time for the next few years. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The whole school’s formed a circle around the action. Better fight like you mean it! In about our third tear-up that kid gave me my first ever pummelling. He was in the year above, but for our first two fights he was near enough the same size as me. Then he had a growth spurt. I could be heard gulping, cartoon style. Fight three toughened me up for fight four, though, so it wasn’t a bad thing. We were sworn enemies for three years, constantly throwing punches at each other. It must have been over something fucking important. Must’ve been, right? Yea. One day a mate of mine threw an apple core in the direction of his group of mates on the field at lunchtime. It hit him in the head. He mistakenly took me for the culprit. He shoved me. Then he shoved me again. I threw a punch. In my mind that would be the end of it. He’d go down like a sack of spuds. Like on the telly. But my mind overestimated my power. He punched me back. We exchanged blows. He threw a lot more than me but didn’t land a single one. By that time I was into my third year of Korean martial art Tang Soo Do. Fuck yea! Who’s laughing?? I was a blocking machine! Wax on, wax off. Too busy blocking to remember to throw many, though. The kids in my year shouted for me. The kids in his year shouted for him. Two teachers dragged us by our collars inside. Detention after school.

Continue reading

an aimless hitchhiker...

a diary of a vagabond woman

Apropos of Nothing

for writing out loud

Projecting the Void

Random scribblings from the diaphanous inner mind of a neon cat

Atheisting

religion, politics, & sexuality from a feminist freethinker.

dinsanga11

Stoner's Story

FLOCKZINE

Childhood | Adulthood

Kryssie's Blog

I listen, I think, I speak.

The Girl with the Mousy Hair

The Day-to-Day Musings of a British, Bowie-loving University Student

elizabethburgess15

A PhD student's thoughts on all things Spanish and Sociolinguistics

A long way to justice: A route to the Roma grassroots

Vicente and Rebekah drive Spain to India.

Pinkjumpers

The corner of the internet where you should probably turn around.

Express Me, Then Depress Me

Suffers from instant need to flash breasts and yell at strangers. People think it's my inner feminist, but no, I'm just crazy, and not always in a fun way.

myothervoices

Human, animal and other voices not my own