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View Results: I have been to the county of Fuckshire, it was ...
Nice? 29 13.18%
Nasty? 30 13.64%
Nasty but nice? 161 73.18%
Voters: 220. You may not vote on this poll

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Old 01-16-2013, 01:20 PM   #3541
pjcr12
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I Haddenham realised that the location you mentioned had at one time held motorcycle races,
but if I'd had £1 for every time I had gone past that old airfield, I would have Haddenham'd a
forking lot of cash .....here's a pic of an old boy, smoking his pipe, reminiscing about his bike
riding days at Haddenham.

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Old 01-16-2013, 02:48 PM   #3542
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"You either love the idea of trying to make a twin-cylinder air-cooled engine that's based on an old 1923 knocker go like the clappers, or you don’t."
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Old 01-16-2013, 02:50 PM   #3543
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Quote:
Originally Posted by pjcr12 View Post
I Haddenham realised that the location you mentioned had at one time held motorcycle races,
but if I'd had £1 for every time I had gone past that old airfield, I would have Haddenham'd a
forking lot of cash .....here's a pic of an old boy, smoking his pipe, reminiscing about his bike
riding days at Haddenham.

This is why it is called Hiddenham.
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Old 01-16-2013, 04:09 PM   #3544
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SOLVATION
D J S

1 - An improvised route-map towards Solvation.

I couldn’t take a picture of it, so you’ll never see what I saw. Instead you’ll just have to synthesize your own apparition of it, but then isn’t that always the best way? I’ll give you a starting point: it’s me lounging on a kerb. Before me the big ugly beautiful dark living thing that is my beloved but aged ratted-up motorsickle. A ham-fisted mechaniconundrum of valueless old metal I’d built from out of oil-stained cardboard boxes using all the wrong spanners, to form a steel substitute for my stolen dignity. It suits my self image – cosmetically knackered yet mechanically sound, and it was about the only possession I had to show after 3 years courting, and 22 days short of 15 years of marriage to my imminently ex-wife. Everything else that was ‘mine’ mine had either been burned, binned or stuffed into the ‘Shed-Quarters’ at the end of the garden at my former family home some weeks ago, when I’d left there to take myself & my madness away to be locked into un-sane sanctuary. The beautifully bodged up bike had spirited me away from said loony bin earlier this evening, carrying all I now retained in the world crowded into a cheap tank-bag and rucksack – a compressed & condensed living kit that was all I needed even had I been able to carry more. I hadn’t left those Palaces of the Broken & the Lame with a destination in my disintegrating mind, however even in such depleted circumstances there is one place we all must go, no matter where we think we are headed, and that’s to a gas station.

So there’s the next element you need to pictorialise, a gas station/convenience store outside the little small tiny time-capsule which is Thime, a strange & backward town in the blandly beauteous Oxfraud English countryside. I’ll shortcut the rest – the usual eponymous sealed tuna sandwich & a chocolate bar, my first food after five weeks in the hospitals that I’d locked myself into, but perhaps more vitally, had locked the detestable world out. Add a bottle of water and a sky-full of red & yellow & blue sunset and you’re just about there right alongside me. You can even leave me out if you prefer. Just comprehend & encompass letting go of everything you spent far too many years building just to lose in a single morning, get the shattered framing and perspective right, and you’ll have your very own self in the picture of where I was at. Hang on, you’ll need to add a local paper, because where I was at was looking for somewhere to be. I still am, and in the meantime I’m living in the woods. But we’ll come to that delight in due time.

Of course none of this life was going to plan, but my outline sketches of planned futures had been based on self-delusion, and everything I thought I’d planned was subsequently unplanned & liquefied with spectacular swiftness, so I’ve been swimming adrift ever since. That’s how I came to be at the gas station you’ve pictured, and what a good job you’ve done, probably.

I had no inkling of a convincing campaign strategy, which I didn’t mind, but I did know I’d need some petrol whatever happened, and wherever that ‘whatever’ happened. We all need something to fuel for our fires no? A little combustion to feed our compunctions.

In the garage I’d had to go to the till three times, completely unable to simultaneously remember the items I needed. Trekking back down the aisle to hand-dabble my meagre funds with my befuddled and broken brane in tow. I’d complete a transaction and only as the till pinged would some other required item find the slot in my one coin only thought-box. This was really no surprise though, as on the ride way the fuck out of town I’d already confused my ‘Me’ to fuck, by pulling up & sitting in a small wood-lette bursting with tangled ivy, carelessly discarded cans candles & condoms, by an unwanted duvet rotting in the dankness. I walked, and stopped to just breathe, and walked, and paused a beat to listen to the ringing tones in my ears form a minor chord. After a short while I found a fitting tree that I could grate & grind my aching back against and right there & then appreciatively received a soothing massage from its gnarled & knotty bark. Does a tree rub, so to speak, count as being unfaithful? In answer to your unspoken query, no, I didn’t shit in those woods. I hadn’t stayed long, as this scale model of a provincial eden was put down right next to the road and so was far too noisy to afford the societal separation which I unthinkingly knew was so overwhelmingly essential to my staying alive. But I could at least park myself there for a pausing flash of temporary touchdown in that leafy rotting landing pad. I smoked all I had, and felt a sense of ‘home dear home’ for but the passing age that it was, which is probably as much as you can ask from a little roadside coppice. Perhaps more than you can ask, depending on who owns it?

Now if you were to ‘own’ your very own withering desiccated copse surely you could do whatever you liked there, put up any form of not-unsafe shelter for any unformulated purpose and/or function you could half-plan or semi devise. But then of course you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be allowed, not even if you ‘owned’ it and all that lay upon or under it. Both here and in the woodland where I would later stay I devised an infant citadel to meet my every need, but under no circumstances could I assemble it module by podule from accumulated salvaged substance & hoarded leftovers - and all because some officious cnut somewhere came up with the idea, the totally stupid idea, of the Town & Country Planning Act to freeze the country somewhere in the mid ‘40s. The consequential artificially hyper-inflated cost of housing, which I myself consider to be a basic human right rather than a privilege (for which any old Jonny Smiffton is locked into bondaged slavery for life), ensures we (they, not I) clock in every Monday morning of our (their) mortgaged lives. And still we (they) don’t even see the chains. I’d have had more land rights in the 15th century… But forgive me, I (by design) digress toward one of the countless reasons why their ‘society’ considers me mad…

Late that Sunday afternoon I’d left the rehabilitation unit at Mandalay House (Nuthouse Minor) of my own volition, departuring the ailing organism of care just as I’d entered. Last Thursday I’d been told I was to be moved back to Nuthouse Major (the acute admissions ward) for the variously stated reason(s) that there was a bed management issue; a medical assessment that I was regressing into crisis; a team decision that I was closest to discharge; or was the patient least benefiting from the therapeutic regime; or some other substitute reason I was given by differing members of staff. Probably it was that my state was effecting the states of others. I was initially deflatedly resigned that what would be done to me would be done, that I had let go of direction of my affairs. So I packed ready for the Friday move (which took about 2 minutes, I’d not unpacked or moved in for a reason) and then that was that. I was up for meds at 8am as was the norm, had an argument in the queue with ‘The Heron’ (he went angling a lot) about trying to allow him to go before me because I knew my meds would take a while to bring together - they’re locked in different cupboards & needed two nurses to sign them off. Apparently he’s not very good at mornings, and I felt he didn’t seem to want to go before me. I got this impression because he went all shouty & squared up to me and bellowed & shook (rpt. daft commotion). I waited for his peculiar attempt at ‘tough’ to subside into its flaccid & futile end and left the queue, then momentarily rejoined behind him. Having had both the last laugh (as if it mattered) & my pills, which true to form took ages, I went upstairs and collected my pre-packed tank-bag & vacated ‘my’ room having stripped the bed & tidied what tiny mess I’d made. That was a room in which I had shivered & cried a lot.

It was a bright warm day, so onwards to the garden, where I took up the role of the waiter, that is having to wait until such time as I would be told to move ‘right now, right now’, as had been the case when being moved from Nmaj. to Nmin. in the first place. Some thirteen hours later I was informed the move was ‘unlikely to happen tonight’. There’d been very little communication throughout the day* but though I’d sat calmly, I’d naturally become increasingly internally perturbed. The 0.001% of confidence I’d generously gifted to what I knew to be a car-crash of a mental health system had now understandably evaporated in the white heat of no progress. So I resolved not to follow along with a return to Nmaj., and instead to initiate the process of self-discharge, as was my right. This is one of the reasons I’d self-admitted, as I might explain later, it makes the ‘out’ end of the process so much simpler, not least because the other ‘sectioned’ way means the convening of panels & the drawing up of discharge plans & all sorts that will never get done. Appearing before panels is not an activity I dislike as it’s always good to stretch a muscle one has built up thru years of recalcitrant argumentation. Apparently it’s called ‘Oppositional Defiant Disorder’ and is real & written down and everything, so seeing off panels & hearings is something I’ve proven to be quite good at when I’ve had no option, & indeed I’ve enjoyed parts of it, in a sense. However that all takes time & energy I didn’t have, & though I’d have preferred to linger a little longer there, under the imposed impending conditions of return to Nmaj. I just wanted to book out of Nmin., rather than go back to an acute & disturbed environment. This would of course be a retrograde step, as I explained in my probably charming process-triggering four page letter to staff, which I’d presented first thing Saturday. But still it took ‘till late afternoon Sunday to get the redundant & elongated procedure completed, though that’s understandable given how all society doesn’t work & everything. But as my dear Lusean once suggested I say at the conclusion of an inconsequential short performance – ‘And there’s more, but not yet…’

* Which is mostly because whatever they tell you will be changed in 15 minutes by a contradictory phonecall or similar, and then back again, and then to another variant etc. It seemed to me that they sought to keep the patient out of that chaotic loop until the outcome was ‘finally final’ out of good intentions, but I’d rather know what’s cooking.

So, in this early evening at the gas station I’d gone and gotten to know the sales clerk much more than I’d meant to, though she didn’t seem to mind. Of course, I had entirely honourable intentions towards her, though I’m not wholly sure such chivalry was reciprocated, and I doubt her father would have approved. I had, don’t forget, by now verified myself to be horribly meagre son-in-law material thru recently completed rigorous long-term practical experimentalism. But then for either of us it was no more than a moments diversion & illusory dalliance and fleeting flash of confidence inducing flippant tittery, though I suspect it was just my make-believe ‘props’ for my battered, tattered & besieged self-esteem. I doubt she even remembered me for more than a minute, and I’m pretty sure she only wanted me for my money anyway.

Having consumed protein of a sort I was engaged in a meaningless but agreeable tête-à-tête by a pausing van man, wherein he (true to form) listed his own two-wheeled mechanical pigs of past possession & pleasure, being enchanted and inspired by my tattered but tight transportational tool. It looks like a black mountain of crumbling scrap at first sight, but for those in the imaginary ‘know’, it rewards further examination with unanticipated delights of depraved engineering abuse, away from the yardstick BMW Airhead toward something far more intriguing. My forename initial is D, and so I’ve insolently ground out the middle bar of the B on the starter cover casings to read DMW, for it is mine and there’s no other like it - it’s my MeMW.

In the same ruptured vein as the residue of my misshapen self, it’s de-manufacturing is premeditated to evince the simple but satisfying rejoinder of ‘What the fuck have you done there then boy?’. I’m 45 at the time of first writing this, but the moniker ‘boy’ is the vernacular hereabouts for anyone devoid of a vagina. It was an agreeable enough trafficking of untitled tattle chatter, twixt he & me, and he waved as he went by on his pre-defined wayward route, bringing a smile to my thinned fizzog. I had yet to determine which way my way would be. But do you know?, that self-authenticated reality was a glee-inducing mishap of fortune and had set in motion within me a mounting consciousness of an entirely natural & enchanting sovereignty over my own essence, such as my soul was, is, and will ever, or could ever be made to be.

As that precious & discriminating companion (and one time thought-consort) Lusean had formerly declared toward my slow, crow-black brain: to salve is not to solve, and I was not in need of salvation - I most definitely & undeniably required solvation…

For the next couple of hours I just rode to nowhere at all, listening to an iPod-touch full of loud Fela Anikulapo Kuti, and wreck-lessly pitching my brutal & battered 1000cc ratty old one-seated packhorse headshaking & backend-bucking into an unending series of winding on-camber turns and rapidly looming twists & rises as though held stationary while a whole world full of previously un-travelled roads unrolled themselves beneath me - I levitated and had the globe rotate itself below, landing me somewhere else entirely better.

I was thinking about the interminable inescapable truth of Solvation, and, if you get what I mean by this, I just ‘was’. For 16 or so years I’d worked for Fuckinemshite Cunty Cuncil, and therein struggled & strived to do my own small part in what I’d (stupidly) thought was a co-ordinated & achievable attempt to in some way ‘modify’ society for the betterment of us all. But I’d finally been irreparably forced to accept that such change is totally & eternally impossible: for possible means not what we may picture in our imagination, but what can actually be made to exist and last. The overall solutions are themselves a simplicity, but the will toward change is entirely absent, and I was left feeling that even if you produced a utopia of sorts from out of thin air, then it’d be perverted & corrupt within five years, if not five days, five hours, or in five seconds, three, two, one - gone. To control and be controlled appears endemic within human nature, has always been, and will always be. An eternal tomfoolery of self repression induced & endured by involuntary reactionism.

I’d therefore concluded that the only possible option is to limit ‘their’ societies influence over ‘you and yours’. To remove oneself and the ones you love from the malevolent authority of ‘Power Men’. Now of course the vast mass of the populace believes it’s possible to do this by gathering enough ‘imaginary money’ to buy their way out, but I’d not managed even this, and had never believed it possible to purchase ones freedom from modern serfdom anyway. This, my dear indulgent patient reader, is why I’d vainly searched for an abandoned wooden palace in former Southern Russian states, or wished beyond reasonable rationality that I could spirit away my so beloved family to live in an abandoned holiday resort we’d once helicoptered over on the northeast coast of Barbados, or any of the other innumerable futile & ludicrous attempts at imagineering a true independence from what I think you call ‘The Man’. But, predictably given my non-millionaire status (GAH!) & general buffoonery, none of these ‘plans’ had proved to be even remotely possible. This entirely cuntish circumstance culminated in my re-collapse into an overwhelming depressive illness, born out of eugenic ‘faulty brain chemistry’; and into the inexorable frustration at my total failure to fulfil the caveman provider imperative that’s manifestly programmed into all us poor penis owning saps. Am I anything more than a series of programmed neurochemical responses? No.

The drawn out snaking roadway continued to inscribe itself beneath my high rolling wheels, scuffing my ever more heated round rubber feet, and a sizzling engine burpled & beat beneath me like an expectant bull, smelling richly of high revs & boiling oil, and pinging contentedly as it briefly cooled at T junctions, roundabouts & traffic lights. It behaved as if elated at the healthy benefit of having the occasion to at last stretch its legs as like a long constrained steed, chewing up the aimless dash & rush to wherever I ended up, though unfortunately wherever it was it wouldn’t be the northeast shore of Barbados.

My inherent (& inherited) sickness and ultra-minus self esteem and the consequential maaaaaaaaad conduct had naturally, logically & quite rightly led eventually to my ejection from my family home; seemingly to my deletion from the beautiful hearts of my closest & dearest loves. One erstwhile wife & three glorious kid-lettes remained, but there was no ‘me’ there anymore & it deserved to be so. I accept she had no other choice and I respect her reasoning, & her bravery, I didn’t like it in the least, but I couldn’t in good faith disagree with it, and the resultant cavernous melancholy at the collapse of my enduring dream amply fuelled my stopover at the mad-land that is the Acute Admissions Ward at the local psycho hotel (Nmaj., remember?), and the subsequent destination-less travails I here relay in this barely credible & ultimately unmemorable me-moir.

Whilst furiously riding 50-mile loops, and feeling all this stream intrusively & uncontrollably through what is derisorily described as my mind, well, I have to admit that I didn’t really observe the speed limits, but then I never do, unless a misfire makes me. They tell me it’s all part of my ODD and who am I to disagree? I’ll avoid the obvious joke… Having zigged about, zagged around, and zoomed across the (for once) gloriously sun blasted countryside for around 300 kilometres (186 miles in old money), whilst endlessly running these big thoughts through my little brain searching for unsophisticated solutions for complicatedly barbed issues (& vice versa), I eventually found myself in the broad vicinity of the home of an ex-colleague (& pretend younger sister) from back in the now distant existence when I used to go out into the world & do things, have a job, and be capable ‘n’ting.

I’d never been into her flat before (would you let me in?), and she kept apologising for the mess, but frankly, having recently booked myself out of a mental hospital it all seemed really quite nice & well-ordered to me - at least no one had shat on the floor, well not recently that I could make out anyhow. She made me a tea devoid of milk but with masses of sugar, as requested, and just as I’d become used to drinking in the mad-house. I’d come to the habit of black tea as the milk there was delivered up in half pint/568ml bottles that my fellow muttering nutters habitually gulped deep from and placed back in the communal fridge, or more often carelessly left on the worktop of the small triangular kitchen-ette grudgingly provided for we poor patients by our semi-benevolent keepers. Tell me, you wouldn’t want to be drinking the milky splash-back of the insane internees of that decaying theatre of the absurd & disgusting would you? I’ve done many things, but I couldn’t do that.

The tea I now sought to sip scalded my mouth as, during my self imposed incarceration, I’d completely forgotten that people on the outside are allowed to actually boil their water just like grown ups. In Nmaj., we’d been thoughtfully protected from ourselves & each other (& the staff protected from us I guess) by having the water temperature in the urn limited to 74 degrees C, or to 79C in the rehabilitation centre (Nmin.) as there we were obviously slightly more un-insane, and therefore further able to manage the very slightly higher temperatures. Such is the nature of ‘getting better’ by degrees. Ha.Ha ha. I let the sweet steaming nectar cool a little (76.5C?) & we casually swapped chitter-chatter about absolutely nothing & absolutely everything, along with speculation that whole departments (mostly) full of bastards should be culled (ha ha haha, ha - oh yes, oh yes indeed!). It was restful & gratifying to see someone I knew & who knew me, and to talk about something other than my disgusting infirmities & malfunctions.

She’d first flitted into my existence when in late in 2001 I advertised for a PA at the Youth Music project I initiated & built, for which I’d secured (on 11th Sept. to be obtusely precise) £143,857.43 of external funding toward expansion of successful pilot work, and she spent the entire interview chattering away & grabbing her ankles. I might well have chosen another of the candidates, however I was quietly advised by the head of admin (who was a wonderful & wise woman) that this was by far the strongest & best of the bunch, and so she proved to be - We should at all times listen to the advice of those who, however grossly unfair it is, earn far less than us. Over the period of our productive & prolific work together my new PA was a truly extraordinary & precious asset, and I was able to keep her aboard through the next £600k or so of funding that I tugged & teased out of various sources with the closing skills I’d learnt in previous work in advertising telesales, liberally mixed with a few lucky ricochets and a healthy dollop of attempted ‘charisma/charm’, which never fails. Almost never fails. Yes, has recently failed but usually didn’t.

When in due course I moved on from that self-created job-dom to try commencing another venture (a video & electronic visual arts version of the previously successful model) I did everything I could to ensure she was raised to Project Director, and an exceptionally outstanding job she’s done of it. I had to move on because I like initiating projects but itch at the confines of intrusive policy & formalisation that encroach once you’ve got the thing running. The original project was nested within a local authority and, against the majority of my ‘superior’ officers wishes, it had reached truly astounding levels of success locally, nationally & internationally as I built it from my own sweat & intuition, along with a shining team of workers I assembled, who brilliantly delivered the organisational values & work programmes I set for them. As an estimate of a formula for success, I simply did the opposite of what the omnipresent uber-hated ‘they’ would do… There was one example, Mike Padmore. If I did the opposite of what Sadbore would do it was bound to work.

However, then, just as I was internally glowing from my self-devised/self-driven actual success, I had the entirely undesired & inopportune experience of being selected as ‘Employee of the Year’ out of 5,000 odd Cunty Cuncil staff. Odd in the sense of ‘around 5k’, but mostly in the obvious & frequently demonstrated sense of just odd. Though, in the main they may be pleasant & well intentioned individual humanzees, as a conjoined organism they (& any structure for which they work) are quite patently the core of the reason why ‘humanity’ doesn’t work. I can’t help but think its funded by you with the sole purpose of saying no to you, and the behemothic officialdom quite visibly expends more time & energy finding reasons to say no than is required to solve any given issue. Over here on this septic little isle I know as the Former United Commonwealth Kingdoms you can’t vote out council officers or senior education/justice/health/other workers, you can’t vote out the civil service mentality. It’s been permanent, eternal, unshakable & self-replicating since Mesopotamia, through Machiavelli & Ibn Khaldun, to all that is now, and while diversity of race, ethnic background, sexuality or gender may perhaps have made miniature inroads, diversity of thought & methodology most surely hasn’t. Everyone now has an equal opportunity to be just the same as ‘them’, as long as nothing changes.

Three or four insiders from the ‘Achieving Top Performance’ selection panel had called me in departures as I jetted off on a family summer holiday to tell me I was the ‘winner’ (but then just this sort of neat networking was one aspect of exactly what had supported making my work a success in the first place), so at the ‘surprise’ announcement event some months later there was little or no anticipation in it for me. I just waited uncomplainingly until I was called up last as overall winner of the ATP programme (‘Gosh! I’m so surprised!’) to receive my cheap engraved plaque from Moira Stewart (a hired in celebrity ex news-reader) & the Chief Exec - my work having apparently coincidentally embodied the ‘nine organisational values for change’ or some such. I’ve sometimes reflected on the notion that the world should get more in-step with me rather than the inverse… I took no great pleasure or self delusion from ‘the award’. I received the commemoratively inscribed plaque, poorly framed certificate & flowers from dear strange Moira, and as we chatted during the photo op I quietly mentioned to her that it was clearly no vast impressive achievement to be the foremost donkey in a Grand National full of goats.

Now, I’ve heard it said that the second Chinese curse (after ‘May you live in interesting times’) is ‘May you come to the attention of those in authority’ (apparently followed by ‘May you find what you are looking for’). If this apocrypha turns out to be so, then I can undoubtedly vouch for the truth of this fabled observation directly from my own excruciating personal experience. The following years became a misery of typically English workplace bullying & bile toward the seemingly ‘successful’, leading to a clumsy redundancy which reeked of constructive dismissal, ostensibly because I just didn’t ‘fit’ - a turtle in a tortoise farm… Now, I have to declare that I’m probably not really allowed to describe this in any great depth due in no small part to the amusing detail of being constrained by the 14 page gag-greement I had to sign to unlock the unfeasibly large severance/shut up pay-off I levered them to grudgingly pay me to acquire the right to say no wrongs had been perpetrated, oh no, everything was fine and no mistake, all delivered exactly according to policy, no-one was to blame etc.

I represented myself at the tribunals because I have no faith at all in solicitors & lawyers or unions, and out of all I best knew the breadth & detail of circumstances to be able to counter their inept presentation of fabricated misproofs. Plus, why pay for the legal fuckers if you don’t have to, no? Plus you’ve seen ‘My Cousin Vinnie’ right? So I greatly enjoyed beating the unholy crap out of managements case by (as with The Gorgons and particularly Medusa) reflecting their own policies back against them. It’s the biggest weakness they have as, to my miniature mind, middle ranking civil service administrators know way beyond nothing of policy frameworks they bungle within, and very rapidly realise that on the ‘happy’ event of their promotion they should (must) gently drop their little used moral compass and quietly crush it beneath their new Cuban heels. They learn to keep their empty crania beneath the parapet, because it strikes them that if there’s no scandal or provable diversion from the undeliverable policies they’re endowed with, then they’re untouchably ensconced in their comfy-cushy-cashed up jobs for life, or at least until they take their final salary pensions at early retirement, from which they are surprisingly hired back in as consultants to send forth approximately the same twittle-twattle as before, at a very much improved rate, of course. Sorry, I know that’s all ‘I Hate Local Democratic Structures 1.01’, but it’s stated here more to exemplify my operating analysis of my idio-antagonist than to tell us something we already know. That the obduracy of the civil servant is well within the neighbourhood of the root of all societal iniquity. You knew that, right? :-D

In the redundancy hearings my overarching (‘Keep It Simple Stoopid’) line of attack was as follows: ‘Remember – never engage your enemy on the ground of their strengths, but instead always use their weaknesses against them’. That is: If they have superiority in heavy armour, decline to fight on ground where heavy armour can be successfully or usefully deployed; if they can effortlessly marshal their troops in invincible formations (i.e. the Roman Testudo or Triplex Acies) then fight them in the swampy depths of the fetid forest where they’re rendered thoroughly incapable of forming up – Forgive the aside, however the disparate Germanic tribes of Armin son of Segimer did just this against the three Legions, auxiliaries & cavalry of Publius Quinctilius Varus (‘Where Are My Eagles!?!’) in the Tuetoburg Forest around 2000 years ago (he says, making himself appear awfully clevered up when in fact he was merely a jobless loutish autodidact with a libery kard, and an aforementioned good friend & consort with a wheelbarrow with which we’d snuck masses of books out the back of the warehouse of a closing bookshop - Sergeant Bertrand, where are you now?).

Diminishing your enemies strengths is a simple methodology which rang true from ancient times, and still does through recent history to Right Here Right Now & in the from now on forever ever-after. If the truth be told I can’t say I can really quarrel with having your vanquished (senior mange-ment) adversary stuffed in a wicker cage & burned alive as Armin did, the further I reflect on it the more I believe I really should have had that written into the severance agreement... For my simple (bitter) tastes, the institutional reluctance to do anything in order to assiduously avoid doing something wrong is one of the prime reasons ‘their’ humanity doesn’t work. Because, for the class of societal administrators which Plato described (through his voicing of Socrates in ‘The Republic’) as ‘Guardians’, it’s far better to do absolutely nothing than to risk doing absolutely anything for which they could be held to account i.e. not having followed policies & procedures they don’t understand, or haven’t even read. But this can be their flaw. Again, please do be kind enough to forgive me for the inclusion of kindergarten breakdowns of the process of administration, but these issues underlay my dysfunctions within it & downfall, and so are perhaps a germane diversion into the entrails of how a life falls apart.

There’s such a great deal more that had brought me to this current directionless motorised dash towards the distant & indefinite horizon type situation than the simplistic nonsense laid out above: there’s all of my life; what I’ve done to myself; what’s been done to me; what wasn’t done that should have been, plus of course the befouled spring of supplied sickeningly faulty DNA & upbringing that made me the broken mess that I am, was, and perhaps always will be - But you’ll only see that if I’m brave enough to write it down & you’re so otherwise-unengaged to have the time or tendency to read it… During my induction into Psychoville Number One I’d had to recite the whole soiled narrative to a motley assortment of staff some twenty or so times within the first three days, so I won’t go through it all again right now... Suffice to say that everything I do just turns to MUD.

As an aside, at least partially relative to the above, I’ll mention that it’s sometimes very difficult to communicate with the majority of psychiatric staff by way of any sense of the droll side of ‘madness’ – Peter, one of the dorm-mates who was on my ‘Not Wanker’ list reported that on ward induction a Consultant asked what had brought him to be there in the ward. “A police car” he replied with his impish sense of jesting… The staff expressionlessly recorded his comedic reply in his notes. It’s been my experience that most psych staff are unquestionably floating further from shore than the patients, not least of course because they fully believe their version of this sorry carbon based reality within inside the inner innards of which we unaccountably stumble on ourselves in, within, inside inexplicably. I’m sorry, I’m once more wasting time telling you things you know already – and if you don’t know them how the fuck did you get this far? :-D

With new arrivals on the ward we used to engage in the recreation of ‘spot the staff’, it’s not as easy as it might seem, with the only real distinguishing factors being ownership of a door swipe-card & access to the separate staff lavatory. They expected me to sit on a repugnant concoction of lunatics piss & fluidic psycho-shit, so strong a liquor it stained the vinyl floor on which it was untimely spilt, but they wouldn’t countenance it themselves of course, and keep the disabled toilet locked for their own dump domain. As another self-evident general observation I have to say that it really looked to me as though psychiatric nursing practice must have transformed significantly in the years since I was last subject to it, some 20 years before. Empathy & compassion look, in the main, to have been removed from the training syllabus, and on a number of occasions I observed instances of professional performance which seemed to my lay perspective to plainly indicate that the behavioural expressions of a patients ‘illness’ were but little more than a bothersome incommodious annoyance to staff, to which they often responded in a gratuitously belligerent manner, that’s if my observation is anything to go by anyway. I can’t say this of all workers, as some gave the impression they genuinely understood that patients problematic conduct was the result of many & various an illness, but on many more occasions than I felt fitting I watched workers treat patients symptoms as nothing more than a vexatious inconvenience. I watched one senior nurse repeatedly cause patients to rupture mentally, apparently intentionally, or at the very most generous reading for a therapeutic rationale I couldn’t fathom, what with ‘Dr. Me’ being a nutter too. Maybe she was in a job she really ought to (be) move(d) on from? I only ever saw patients jabbed into chemically induced compliance & ham fistedly bundled into the seclusion room when she was in charge of shifts, and she looked to my laypersons eye to have but two practised modus operandi – antagonistic/aggressive or passive/aggressive. This is all self-evidently exceedingly subjective as I may of course be projecting onto her, you know I don’t have any certificates on my wall at all, and am of course ‘mad’, so only modest credence should be given to my humble dupe observations. Especially by any hearing or tribunal… Can you show me a complaints procedure anywhere that actually works, but rather elaborately constructs a clean reason why they are right & you are wrong and writes it down & sends you a copy & files it and everything is ok. Oh Yes. Sorry, again with the societal simplism. But these are the thoughts that have brought me to madness.

I really ought to refrain from revealing further aspects of the unpleasant Cunty Cuncil employment disputes which illuminate the wholly unfortunate series of work-based malicious mismanagements and out-and-out dim-witted proceedings that led me to be so broken & lame, as, if I don’t shut up the Cuncil will no doubt ask for the money back in a very legal fashion… However the wholly regrettable reality was that during the period covered by the unfeasibly large payoff I secured I had been entirely unable to recover my health from this ridiculous & un-required four year battle with ineffective & unproductive authority; that I’d entirely lost all self confidence, and that this had ultimately led to the collapse of my entire ‘life’ (again); to being lodged in the asylums which I had just left to come to this coppice; this gas station; and thence to this friends home and so on… Its true to say that, to my mind, this whole grubby & incompetent mess was a major part of what had brought me to where I was at this very point in time, which was to be once more preparing to ride around on my stubby non-stainless steel steed fashioned in the twisted spirit of sheer bloody mindedness.

You see I was in a sense, sorry to have bothered her, it was around 7PM & I thought the time had come to let my ex-colleague get on with her half-completed packing for tomorrows impending visit to Ibiza-land. She’s always jetting off all over the shop, having just returned from Portugal, and off again now to the Mediterranean, she’d then be toddling onward to some other lush pan-European destination for work the following week. I really don’t know how she does it, but I’m proud that she does, and wish I could have. In every sense I envied her pert purposefulness, but for me the ‘now’ I had just been in was a dense purposeless wandering toward aimless outcomes, and I’ve got to tell you that after all the recent tumult & turmoil that maybe suited me just fine. I kitted up, hobbled off & rode away, but this time I had a destination, but it’d need to take quite a while to get there…
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Old 01-16-2013, 04:37 PM   #3545
danedg
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Joined: May 2008
Location: U-puku-ipi-sing
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Quote:
Originally Posted by planktonnn View Post
SOLVATION
D J S

1 - An improvised route-map towards Solvation.

I couldn’t take a picture of it, so you’ll never see what I saw. Instead you’ll just have to synthesize your own apparition of it, but then isn’t that always the best way? I’ll give you a starting point: it’s me lounging on a kerb. Before me the big ugly beautiful dark living thing that is my beloved but aged ratted-up motorsickle. A ham-fisted mechaniconundrum of valueless old metal I’d built from out of oil-stained cardboard boxes using all the wrong spanners, to form a steel substitute for my stolen dignity. It suits my self image – cosmetically knackered yet mechanically sound, and it was about the only possession I had to show after 3 years courting, and 22 days short of 15 years of marriage to my imminently ex-wife. Everything else that was ‘mine’ mine had either been burned, binned or stuffed into the ‘Shed-Quarters’ at the end of the garden at my former family home some weeks ago, when I’d left there to take myself & my madness away to be locked into un-sane sanctuary. The beautifully bodged up bike had spirited me away from said loony bin earlier this evening, carrying all I now retained in the world crowded into a cheap tank-bag and rucksack – a compressed & condensed living kit that was all I needed even had I been able to carry more. I hadn’t left those Palaces of the Broken & the Lame with a destination in my disintegrating mind, however even in such depleted circumstances there is one place we all must go, no matter where we think we are headed, and that’s to a gas station.

So there’s the next element you need to pictorialise, a gas station/convenience store outside the little small tiny time-capsule which is Thime, a strange & backward town in the blandly beauteous Oxfraud English countryside. I’ll shortcut the rest – the usual eponymous sealed tuna sandwich & a chocolate bar, my first food after five weeks in the hospitals that I’d locked myself into, but perhaps more vitally, had locked the detestable world out. Add a bottle of water and a sky-full of red & yellow & blue sunset and you’re just about there right alongside me. You can even leave me out if you prefer. Just comprehend & encompass letting go of everything you spent far too many years building just to lose in a single morning, get the shattered framing and perspective right, and you’ll have your very own self in the picture of where I was at. Hang on, you’ll need to add a local paper, because where I was at was looking for somewhere to be. I still am, and in the meantime I’m living in the woods. But we’ll come to that delight in due time.

Of course none of this life was going to plan, but my outline sketches of planned futures had been based on self-delusion, and everything I thought I’d planned was subsequently unplanned & liquefied with spectacular swiftness, so I’ve been swimming adrift ever since. That’s how I came to be at the gas station you’ve pictured, and what a good job you’ve done, probably.

I had no inkling of a convincing campaign strategy, which I didn’t mind, but I did know I’d need some petrol whatever happened, and wherever that ‘whatever’ happened. We all need something to fuel for our fires no? A little combustion to feed our compunctions.

In the garage I’d had to go to the till three times, completely unable to simultaneously remember the items I needed. Trekking back down the aisle to hand-dabble my meagre funds with my befuddled and broken brane in tow. I’d complete a transaction and only as the till pinged would some other required item find the slot in my one coin only thought-box. This was really no surprise though, as on the ride way the fuck out of town I’d already confused my ‘Me’ to fuck, by pulling up & sitting in a small wood-lette bursting with tangled ivy, carelessly discarded cans candles & condoms, by an unwanted duvet rotting in the dankness. I walked, and stopped to just breathe, and walked, and paused a beat to listen to the ringing tones in my ears form a minor chord. After a short while I found a fitting tree that I could grate & grind my aching back against and right there & then appreciatively received a soothing massage from its gnarled & knotty bark. Does a tree rub, so to speak, count as being unfaithful? In answer to your unspoken query, no, I didn’t shit in those woods. I hadn’t stayed long, as this scale model of a provincial eden was put down right next to the road and so was far too noisy to afford the societal separation which I unthinkingly knew was so overwhelmingly essential to my staying alive. But I could at least park myself there for a pausing flash of temporary touchdown in that leafy rotting landing pad. I smoked all I had, and felt a sense of ‘home dear home’ for but the passing age that it was, which is probably as much as you can ask from a little roadside coppice. Perhaps more than you can ask, depending on who owns it?

Now if you were to ‘own’ your very own withering desiccated copse surely you could do whatever you liked there, put up any form of not-unsafe shelter for any unformulated purpose and/or function you could half-plan or semi devise. But then of course you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be allowed, not even if you ‘owned’ it and all that lay upon or under it. Both here and in the woodland where I would later stay I devised an infant citadel to meet my every need, but under no circumstances could I assemble it module by podule from accumulated salvaged substance & hoarded leftovers - and all because some officious cnut somewhere came up with the idea, the totally stupid idea, of the Town & Country Planning Act to freeze the country somewhere in the mid ‘40s. The consequential artificially hyper-inflated cost of housing, which I myself consider to be a basic human right rather than a privilege (for which any old Jonny Smiffton is locked into bondaged slavery for life), ensures we (they, not I) clock in every Monday morning of our (their) mortgaged lives. And still we (they) don’t even see the chains. I’d have had more land rights in the 15th century… But forgive me, I (by design) digress toward one of the countless reasons why their ‘society’ considers me mad…

Late that Sunday afternoon I’d left the rehabilitation unit at Mandalay House (Nuthouse Minor) of my own volition, departuring the ailing organism of care just as I’d entered. Last Thursday I’d been told I was to be moved back to Nuthouse Major (the acute admissions ward) for the variously stated reason(s) that there was a bed management issue; a medical assessment that I was regressing into crisis; a team decision that I was closest to discharge; or was the patient least benefiting from the therapeutic regime; or some other substitute reason I was given by differing members of staff. Probably it was that my state was effecting the states of others. I was initially deflatedly resigned that what would be done to me would be done, that I had let go of direction of my affairs. So I packed ready for the Friday move (which took about 2 minutes, I’d not unpacked or moved in for a reason) and then that was that. I was up for meds at 8am as was the norm, had an argument in the queue with ‘The Heron’ (he went angling a lot) about trying to allow him to go before me because I knew my meds would take a while to bring together - they’re locked in different cupboards & needed two nurses to sign them off. Apparently he’s not very good at mornings, and I felt he didn’t seem to want to go before me. I got this impression because he went all shouty & squared up to me and bellowed & shook (rpt. daft commotion). I waited for his peculiar attempt at ‘tough’ to subside into its flaccid & futile end and left the queue, then momentarily rejoined behind him. Having had both the last laugh (as if it mattered) & my pills, which true to form took ages, I went upstairs and collected my pre-packed tank-bag & vacated ‘my’ room having stripped the bed & tidied what tiny mess I’d made. That was a room in which I had shivered & cried a lot.

It was a bright warm day, so onwards to the garden, where I took up the role of the waiter, that is having to wait until such time as I would be told to move ‘right now, right now’, as had been the case when being moved from Nmaj. to Nmin. in the first place. Some thirteen hours later I was informed the move was ‘unlikely to happen tonight’. There’d been very little communication throughout the day* but though I’d sat calmly, I’d naturally become increasingly internally perturbed. The 0.001% of confidence I’d generously gifted to what I knew to be a car-crash of a mental health system had now understandably evaporated in the white heat of no progress. So I resolved not to follow along with a return to Nmaj., and instead to initiate the process of self-discharge, as was my right. This is one of the reasons I’d self-admitted, as I might explain later, it makes the ‘out’ end of the process so much simpler, not least because the other ‘sectioned’ way means the convening of panels & the drawing up of discharge plans & all sorts that will never get done. Appearing before panels is not an activity I dislike as it’s always good to stretch a muscle one has built up thru years of recalcitrant argumentation. Apparently it’s called ‘Oppositional Defiant Disorder’ and is real & written down and everything, so seeing off panels & hearings is something I’ve proven to be quite good at when I’ve had no option, & indeed I’ve enjoyed parts of it, in a sense. However that all takes time & energy I didn’t have, & though I’d have preferred to linger a little longer there, under the imposed impending conditions of return to Nmaj. I just wanted to book out of Nmin., rather than go back to an acute & disturbed environment. This would of course be a retrograde step, as I explained in my probably charming process-triggering four page letter to staff, which I’d presented first thing Saturday. But still it took ‘till late afternoon Sunday to get the redundant & elongated procedure completed, though that’s understandable given how all society doesn’t work & everything. But as my dear Lusean once suggested I say at the conclusion of an inconsequential short performance – ‘And there’s more, but not yet…’

* Which is mostly because whatever they tell you will be changed in 15 minutes by a contradictory phonecall or similar, and then back again, and then to another variant etc. It seemed to me that they sought to keep the patient out of that chaotic loop until the outcome was ‘finally final’ out of good intentions, but I’d rather know what’s cooking.

So, in this early evening at the gas station I’d gone and gotten to know the sales clerk much more than I’d meant to, though she didn’t seem to mind. Of course, I had entirely honourable intentions towards her, though I’m not wholly sure such chivalry was reciprocated, and I doubt her father would have approved. I had, don’t forget, by now verified myself to be horribly meagre son-in-law material thru recently completed rigorous long-term practical experimentalism. But then for either of us it was no more than a moments diversion & illusory dalliance and fleeting flash of confidence inducing flippant tittery, though I suspect it was just my make-believe ‘props’ for my battered, tattered & besieged self-esteem. I doubt she even remembered me for more than a minute, and I’m pretty sure she only wanted me for my money anyway.

Having consumed protein of a sort I was engaged in a meaningless but agreeable tête-à-tête by a pausing van man, wherein he (true to form) listed his own two-wheeled mechanical pigs of past possession & pleasure, being enchanted and inspired by my tattered but tight transportational tool. It looks like a black mountain of crumbling scrap at first sight, but for those in the imaginary ‘know’, it rewards further examination with unanticipated delights of depraved engineering abuse, away from the yardstick BMW Airhead toward something far more intriguing. My forename initial is D, and so I’ve insolently ground out the middle bar of the B on the starter cover casings to read DMW, for it is mine and there’s no other like it - it’s my MeMW.

In the same ruptured vein as the residue of my misshapen self, it’s de-manufacturing is premeditated to evince the simple but satisfying rejoinder of ‘What the fuck have you done there then boy?’. I’m 45 at the time of first writing this, but the moniker ‘boy’ is the vernacular hereabouts for anyone devoid of a vagina. It was an agreeable enough trafficking of untitled tattle chatter, twixt he & me, and he waved as he went by on his pre-defined wayward route, bringing a smile to my thinned fizzog. I had yet to determine which way my way would be. But do you know?, that self-authenticated reality was a glee-inducing mishap of fortune and had set in motion within me a mounting consciousness of an entirely natural & enchanting sovereignty over my own essence, such as my soul was, is, and will ever, or could ever be made to be.

As that precious & discriminating companion (and one time thought-consort) Lusean had formerly declared toward my slow, crow-black brain: to salve is not to solve, and I was not in need of salvation - I most definitely & undeniably required solvation…

For the next couple of hours I just rode to nowhere at all, listening to an iPod-touch full of loud Fela Anikulapo Kuti, and wreck-lessly pitching my brutal & battered 1000cc ratty old one-seated packhorse headshaking & backend-bucking into an unending series of winding on-camber turns and rapidly looming twists & rises as though held stationary while a whole world full of previously un-travelled roads unrolled themselves beneath me - I levitated and had the globe rotate itself below, landing me somewhere else entirely better.

I was thinking about the interminable inescapable truth of Solvation, and, if you get what I mean by this, I just ‘was’. For 16 or so years I’d worked for Fuckinemshite Cunty Cuncil, and therein struggled & strived to do my own small part in what I’d (stupidly) thought was a co-ordinated & achievable attempt to in some way ‘modify’ society for the betterment of us all. But I’d finally been irreparably forced to accept that such change is totally & eternally impossible: for possible means not what we may picture in our imagination, but what can actually be made to exist and last. The overall solutions are themselves a simplicity, but the will toward change is entirely absent, and I was left feeling that even if you produced a utopia of sorts from out of thin air, then it’d be perverted & corrupt within five years, if not five days, five hours, or in five seconds, three, two, one - gone. To control and be controlled appears endemic within human nature, has always been, and will always be. An eternal tomfoolery of self repression induced & endured by involuntary reactionism.

I’d therefore concluded that the only possible option is to limit ‘their’ societies influence over ‘you and yours’. To remove oneself and the ones you love from the malevolent authority of ‘Power Men’. Now of course the vast mass of the populace believes it’s possible to do this by gathering enough ‘imaginary money’ to buy their way out, but I’d not managed even this, and had never believed it possible to purchase ones freedom from modern serfdom anyway. This, my dear indulgent patient reader, is why I’d vainly searched for an abandoned wooden palace in former Southern Russian states, or wished beyond reasonable rationality that I could spirit away my so beloved family to live in an abandoned holiday resort we’d once helicoptered over on the northeast coast of Barbados, or any of the other innumerable futile & ludicrous attempts at imagineering a true independence from what I think you call ‘The Man’. But, predictably given my non-millionaire status (GAH!) & general buffoonery, none of these ‘plans’ had proved to be even remotely possible. This entirely cuntish circumstance culminated in my re-collapse into an overwhelming depressive illness, born out of eugenic ‘faulty brain chemistry’; and into the inexorable frustration at my total failure to fulfil the caveman provider imperative that’s manifestly programmed into all us poor penis owning saps. Am I anything more than a series of programmed neurochemical responses? No.

The drawn out snaking roadway continued to inscribe itself beneath my high rolling wheels, scuffing my ever more heated round rubber feet, and a sizzling engine burpled & beat beneath me like an expectant bull, smelling richly of high revs & boiling oil, and pinging contentedly as it briefly cooled at T junctions, roundabouts & traffic lights. It behaved as if elated at the healthy benefit of having the occasion to at last stretch its legs as like a long constrained steed, chewing up the aimless dash & rush to wherever I ended up, though unfortunately wherever it was it wouldn’t be the northeast shore of Barbados.

My inherent (& inherited) sickness and ultra-minus self esteem and the consequential maaaaaaaaad conduct had naturally, logically & quite rightly led eventually to my ejection from my family home; seemingly to my deletion from the beautiful hearts of my closest & dearest loves. One erstwhile wife & three glorious kid-lettes remained, but there was no ‘me’ there anymore & it deserved to be so. I accept she had no other choice and I respect her reasoning, & her bravery, I didn’t like it in the least, but I couldn’t in good faith disagree with it, and the resultant cavernous melancholy at the collapse of my enduring dream amply fuelled my stopover at the mad-land that is the Acute Admissions Ward at the local psycho hotel (Nmaj., remember?), and the subsequent destination-less travails I here relay in this barely credible & ultimately unmemorable me-moir.

Whilst furiously riding 50-mile loops, and feeling all this stream intrusively & uncontrollably through what is derisorily described as my mind, well, I have to admit that I didn’t really observe the speed limits, but then I never do, unless a misfire makes me. They tell me it’s all part of my ODD and who am I to disagree? I’ll avoid the obvious joke… Having zigged about, zagged around, and zoomed across the (for once) gloriously sun blasted countryside for around 300 kilometres (186 miles in old money), whilst endlessly running these big thoughts through my little brain searching for unsophisticated solutions for complicatedly barbed issues (& vice versa), I eventually found myself in the broad vicinity of the home of an ex-colleague (& pretend younger sister) from back in the now distant existence when I used to go out into the world & do things, have a job, and be capable ‘n’ting.

I’d never been into her flat before (would you let me in?), and she kept apologising for the mess, but frankly, having recently booked myself out of a mental hospital it all seemed really quite nice & well-ordered to me - at least no one had shat on the floor, well not recently that I could make out anyhow. She made me a tea devoid of milk but with masses of sugar, as requested, and just as I’d become used to drinking in the mad-house. I’d come to the habit of black tea as the milk there was delivered up in half pint/568ml bottles that my fellow muttering nutters habitually gulped deep from and placed back in the communal fridge, or more often carelessly left on the worktop of the small triangular kitchen-ette grudgingly provided for we poor patients by our semi-benevolent keepers. Tell me, you wouldn’t want to be drinking the milky splash-back of the insane internees of that decaying theatre of the absurd & disgusting would you? I’ve done many things, but I couldn’t do that.

The tea I now sought to sip scalded my mouth as, during my self imposed incarceration, I’d completely forgotten that people on the outside are allowed to actually boil their water just like grown ups. In Nmaj., we’d been thoughtfully protected from ourselves & each other (& the staff protected from us I guess) by having the water temperature in the urn limited to 74 degrees C, or to 79C in the rehabilitation centre (Nmin.) as there we were obviously slightly more un-insane, and therefore further able to manage the very slightly higher temperatures. Such is the nature of ‘getting better’ by degrees. Ha.Ha ha. I let the sweet steaming nectar cool a little (76.5C?) & we casually swapped chitter-chatter about absolutely nothing & absolutely everything, along with speculation that whole departments (mostly) full of bastards should be culled (ha ha haha, ha - oh yes, oh yes indeed!). It was restful & gratifying to see someone I knew & who knew me, and to talk about something other than my disgusting infirmities & malfunctions.

She’d first flitted into my existence when in late in 2001 I advertised for a PA at the Youth Music project I initiated & built, for which I’d secured (on 11th Sept. to be obtusely precise) £143,857.43 of external funding toward expansion of successful pilot work, and she spent the entire interview chattering away & grabbing her ankles. I might well have chosen another of the candidates, however I was quietly advised by the head of admin (who was a wonderful & wise woman) that this was by far the strongest & best of the bunch, and so she proved to be - We should at all times listen to the advice of those who, however grossly unfair it is, earn far less than us. Over the period of our productive & prolific work together my new PA was a truly extraordinary & precious asset, and I was able to keep her aboard through the next £600k or so of funding that I tugged & teased out of various sources with the closing skills I’d learnt in previous work in advertising telesales, liberally mixed with a few lucky ricochets and a healthy dollop of attempted ‘charisma/charm’, which never fails. Almost never fails. Yes, has recently failed but usually didn’t.

When in due course I moved on from that self-created job-dom to try commencing another venture (a video & electronic visual arts version of the previously successful model) I did everything I could to ensure she was raised to Project Director, and an exceptionally outstanding job she’s done of it. I had to move on because I like initiating projects but itch at the confines of intrusive policy & formalisation that encroach once you’ve got the thing running. The original project was nested within a local authority and, against the majority of my ‘superior’ officers wishes, it had reached truly astounding levels of success locally, nationally & internationally as I built it from my own sweat & intuition, along with a shining team of workers I assembled, who brilliantly delivered the organisational values & work programmes I set for them. As an estimate of a formula for success, I simply did the opposite of what the omnipresent uber-hated ‘they’ would do… There was one example, Mike Padmore. If I did the opposite of what Sadbore would do it was bound to work.

However, then, just as I was internally glowing from my self-devised/self-driven actual success, I had the entirely undesired & inopportune experience of being selected as ‘Employee of the Year’ out of 5,000 odd Cunty Cuncil staff. Odd in the sense of ‘around 5k’, but mostly in the obvious & frequently demonstrated sense of just odd. Though, in the main they may be pleasant & well intentioned individual humanzees, as a conjoined organism they (& any structure for which they work) are quite patently the core of the reason why ‘humanity’ doesn’t work. I can’t help but think its funded by you with the sole purpose of saying no to you, and the behemothic officialdom quite visibly expends more time & energy finding reasons to say no than is required to solve any given issue. Over here on this septic little isle I know as the Former United Commonwealth Kingdoms you can’t vote out council officers or senior education/justice/health/other workers, you can’t vote out the civil service mentality. It’s been permanent, eternal, unshakable & self-replicating since Mesopotamia, through Machiavelli & Ibn Khaldun, to all that is now, and while diversity of race, ethnic background, sexuality or gender may perhaps have made miniature inroads, diversity of thought & methodology most surely hasn’t. Everyone now has an equal opportunity to be just the same as ‘them’, as long as nothing changes.

Three or four insiders from the ‘Achieving Top Performance’ selection panel had called me in departures as I jetted off on a family summer holiday to tell me I was the ‘winner’ (but then just this sort of neat networking was one aspect of exactly what had supported making my work a success in the first place), so at the ‘surprise’ announcement event some months later there was little or no anticipation in it for me. I just waited uncomplainingly until I was called up last as overall winner of the ATP programme (‘Gosh! I’m so surprised!’) to receive my cheap engraved plaque from Moira Stewart (a hired in celebrity ex news-reader) & the Chief Exec - my work having apparently coincidentally embodied the ‘nine organisational values for change’ or some such. I’ve sometimes reflected on the notion that the world should get more in-step with me rather than the inverse… I took no great pleasure or self delusion from ‘the award’. I received the commemoratively inscribed plaque, poorly framed certificate & flowers from dear strange Moira, and as we chatted during the photo op I quietly mentioned to her that it was clearly no vast impressive achievement to be the foremost donkey in a Grand National full of goats.

Now, I’ve heard it said that the second Chinese curse (after ‘May you live in interesting times’) is ‘May you come to the attention of those in authority’ (apparently followed by ‘May you find what you are looking for’). If this apocrypha turns out to be so, then I can undoubtedly vouch for the truth of this fabled observation directly from my own excruciating personal experience. The following years became a misery of typically English workplace bullying & bile toward the seemingly ‘successful’, leading to a clumsy redundancy which reeked of constructive dismissal, ostensibly because I just didn’t ‘fit’ - a turtle in a tortoise farm… Now, I have to declare that I’m probably not really allowed to describe this in any great depth due in no small part to the amusing detail of being constrained by the 14 page gag-greement I had to sign to unlock the unfeasibly large severance/shut up pay-off I levered them to grudgingly pay me to acquire the right to say no wrongs had been perpetrated, oh no, everything was fine and no mistake, all delivered exactly according to policy, no-one was to blame etc.

I represented myself at the tribunals because I have no faith at all in solicitors & lawyers or unions, and out of all I best knew the breadth & detail of circumstances to be able to counter their inept presentation of fabricated misproofs. Plus, why pay for the legal fuckers if you don’t have to, no? Plus you’ve seen ‘My Cousin Vinnie’ right? So I greatly enjoyed beating the unholy crap out of managements case by (as with The Gorgons and particularly Medusa) reflecting their own policies back against them. It’s the biggest weakness they have as, to my miniature mind, middle ranking civil service administrators know way beyond nothing of policy frameworks they bungle within, and very rapidly realise that on the ‘happy’ event of their promotion they should (must) gently drop their little used moral compass and quietly crush it beneath their new Cuban heels. They learn to keep their empty crania beneath the parapet, because it strikes them that if there’s no scandal or provable diversion from the undeliverable policies they’re endowed with, then they’re untouchably ensconced in their comfy-cushy-cashed up jobs for life, or at least until they take their final salary pensions at early retirement, from which they are surprisingly hired back in as consultants to send forth approximately the same twittle-twattle as before, at a very much improved rate, of course. Sorry, I know that’s all ‘I Hate Local Democratic Structures 1.01’, but it’s stated here more to exemplify my operating analysis of my idio-antagonist than to tell us something we already know. That the obduracy of the civil servant is well within the neighbourhood of the root of all societal iniquity. You knew that, right? :-D

In the redundancy hearings my overarching (‘Keep It Simple Stoopid’) line of attack was as follows: ‘Remember – never engage your enemy on the ground of their strengths, but instead always use their weaknesses against them’. That is: If they have superiority in heavy armour, decline to fight on ground where heavy armour can be successfully or usefully deployed; if they can effortlessly marshal their troops in invincible formations (i.e. the Roman Testudo or Triplex Acies) then fight them in the swampy depths of the fetid forest where they’re rendered thoroughly incapable of forming up – Forgive the aside, however the disparate Germanic tribes of Armin son of Segimer did just this against the three Legions, auxiliaries & cavalry of Publius Quinctilius Varus (‘Where Are My Eagles!?!’) in the Tuetoburg Forest around 2000 years ago (he says, making himself appear awfully clevered up when in fact he was merely a jobless loutish autodidact with a libery kard, and an aforementioned good friend & consort with a wheelbarrow with which we’d snuck masses of books out the back of the warehouse of a closing bookshop - Sergeant Bertrand, where are you now?).

Diminishing your enemies strengths is a simple methodology which rang true from ancient times, and still does through recent history to Right Here Right Now & in the from now on forever ever-after. If the truth be told I can’t say I can really quarrel with having your vanquished (senior mange-ment) adversary stuffed in a wicker cage & burned alive as Armin did, the further I reflect on it the more I believe I really should have had that written into the severance agreement... For my simple (bitter) tastes, the institutional reluctance to do anything in order to assiduously avoid doing something wrong is one of the prime reasons ‘their’ humanity doesn’t work. Because, for the class of societal administrators which Plato described (through his voicing of Socrates in ‘The Republic’) as ‘Guardians’, it’s far better to do absolutely nothing than to risk doing absolutely anything for which they could be held to account i.e. not having followed policies & procedures they don’t understand, or haven’t even read. But this can be their flaw. Again, please do be kind enough to forgive me for the inclusion of kindergarten breakdowns of the process of administration, but these issues underlay my dysfunctions within it & downfall, and so are perhaps a germane diversion into the entrails of how a life falls apart.

There’s such a great deal more that had brought me to this current directionless motorised dash towards the distant & indefinite horizon type situation than the simplistic nonsense laid out above: there’s all of my life; what I’ve done to myself; what’s been done to me; what wasn’t done that should have been, plus of course the befouled spring of supplied sickeningly faulty DNA & upbringing that made me the broken mess that I am, was, and perhaps always will be - But you’ll only see that if I’m brave enough to write it down & you’re so otherwise-unengaged to have the time or tendency to read it… During my induction into Psychoville Number One I’d had to recite the whole soiled narrative to a motley assortment of staff some twenty or so times within the first three days, so I won’t go through it all again right now... Suffice to say that everything I do just turns to MUD.

As an aside, at least partially relative to the above, I’ll mention that it’s sometimes very difficult to communicate with the majority of psychiatric staff by way of any sense of the droll side of ‘madness’ – Peter, one of the dorm-mates who was on my ‘Not Wanker’ list reported that on ward induction a Consultant asked what had brought him to be there in the ward. “A police car” he replied with his impish sense of jesting… The staff expressionlessly recorded his comedic reply in his notes. It’s been my experience that most psych staff are unquestionably floating further from shore than the patients, not least of course because they fully believe their version of this sorry carbon based reality within inside the inner innards of which we unaccountably stumble on ourselves in, within, inside inexplicably. I’m sorry, I’m once more wasting time telling you things you know already – and if you don’t know them how the fuck did you get this far? :-D

With new arrivals on the ward we used to engage in the recreation of ‘spot the staff’, it’s not as easy as it might seem, with the only real distinguishing factors being ownership of a door swipe-card & access to the separate staff lavatory. They expected me to sit on a repugnant concoction of lunatics piss & fluidic psycho-shit, so strong a liquor it stained the vinyl floor on which it was untimely spilt, but they wouldn’t countenance it themselves of course, and keep the disabled toilet locked for their own dump domain. As another self-evident general observation I have to say that it really looked to me as though psychiatric nursing practice must have transformed significantly in the years since I was last subject to it, some 20 years before. Empathy & compassion look, in the main, to have been removed from the training syllabus, and on a number of occasions I observed instances of professional performance which seemed to my lay perspective to plainly indicate that the behavioural expressions of a patients ‘illness’ were but little more than a bothersome incommodious annoyance to staff, to which they often responded in a gratuitously belligerent manner, that’s if my observation is anything to go by anyway. I can’t say this of all workers, as some gave the impression they genuinely understood that patients problematic conduct was the result of many & various an illness, but on many more occasions than I felt fitting I watched workers treat patients symptoms as nothing more than a vexatious inconvenience. I watched one senior nurse repeatedly cause patients to rupture mentally, apparently intentionally, or at the very most generous reading for a therapeutic rationale I couldn’t fathom, what with ‘Dr. Me’ being a nutter too. Maybe she was in a job she really ought to (be) move(d) on from? I only ever saw patients jabbed into chemically induced compliance & ham fistedly bundled into the seclusion room when she was in charge of shifts, and she looked to my laypersons eye to have but two practised modus operandi – antagonistic/aggressive or passive/aggressive. This is all self-evidently exceedingly subjective as I may of course be projecting onto her, you know I don’t have any certificates on my wall at all, and am of course ‘mad’, so only modest credence should be given to my humble dupe observations. Especially by any hearing or tribunal… Can you show me a complaints procedure anywhere that actually works, but rather elaborately constructs a clean reason why they are right & you are wrong and writes it down & sends you a copy & files it and everything is ok. Oh Yes. Sorry, again with the societal simplism. But these are the thoughts that have brought me to madness.

I really ought to refrain from revealing further aspects of the unpleasant Cunty Cuncil employment disputes which illuminate the wholly unfortunate series of work-based malicious mismanagements and out-and-out dim-witted proceedings that led me to be so broken & lame, as, if I don’t shut up the Cuncil will no doubt ask for the money back in a very legal fashion… However the wholly regrettable reality was that during the period covered by the unfeasibly large payoff I secured I had been entirely unable to recover my health from this ridiculous & un-required four year battle with ineffective & unproductive authority; that I’d entirely lost all self confidence, and that this had ultimately led to the collapse of my entire ‘life’ (again); to being lodged in the asylums which I had just left to come to this coppice; this gas station; and thence to this friends home and so on… Its true to say that, to my mind, this whole grubby & incompetent mess was a major part of what had brought me to where I was at this very point in time, which was to be once more preparing to ride around on my stubby non-stainless steel steed fashioned in the twisted spirit of sheer bloody mindedness.

You see I was in a sense, sorry to have bothered her, it was around 7PM & I thought the time had come to let my ex-colleague get on with her half-completed packing for tomorrows impending visit to Ibiza-land. She’s always jetting off all over the shop, having just returned from Portugal, and off again now to the Mediterranean, she’d then be toddling onward to some other lush pan-European destination for work the following week. I really don’t know how she does it, but I’m proud that she does, and wish I could have. In every sense I envied her pert purposefulness, but for me the ‘now’ I had just been in was a dense purposeless wandering toward aimless outcomes, and I’ve got to tell you that after all the recent tumult & turmoil that maybe suited me just fine. I kitted up, hobbled off & rode away, but this time I had a destination, but it’d need to take quite a while to get there…
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Old 01-17-2013, 07:48 AM   #3546
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Old 01-17-2013, 09:56 AM   #3547
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SOLVATION
D J S

2 -To shed ones former self.
Pt1.

It’s some-when around 11PM as I near the startlingly mild-mannered village of Hiddenham, an excruciatingly amiable little place where a preponderance of ‘old ways’ still stand and the locals have always been, are still, and will probably always remain pretty much all at the pink end of the human spectrum, especially as in the main they no longer have to work the land and tan their commoners hides. As is usual in such places locals can’t buy houses unless they’re lotto winners and that’s seen the accustomed growth of the cankerous wart that is ‘incomers’. It’s a universal story & you’ll see this sort of place dotted across the despoiled façade of the south British countryside that’s been trapped somewhere between the early ‘50s & the 70’s by the aforementioned planning laws. I could be in any one of those putrid mini-townships, but right now I’m back in inglorious Hiddenham.

I’d long known of the existence of the place, and of those partially legendary & generally loathsome creatures ‘The Hiddenham Boys’ by having been schooled with far more of them than I might have liked; and in no particular order: By becoming briefly embroiled with the ‘Hiddenham punks’, who were in the main (except for the queerly renowned Fitz) a motley bunch of cat kickers (well Jed once kicked a cat, I think that’s why we fell out); by attending divine parties at divine middle class girls divine houses and getting thrown out as a divine young lout but still landing the divine girls divine friend; years on from then but years ago from now, by passing thru the village on the winding bus route to Oxfraud with the beyond divine woman who became my way beyond divine wife, from whom I’d so recently been wrenched by the evil yield of my own unfortunate personality; by house sitting with the said beyond divine woman years ago, inadvertently locking the TV on day 1 so we had to find other things to do (er…) and sharing many things including luscious muffins, and pursuing her bus back to town on my pushbike for the fun of it, though I can’t help but think she impishly dinged the bell at each & every stop just to give me a fighting chance; by sleeping in a shed 5 metres away from her sleeping in the sitting room when, in the earliest epoch in our inevitable & indivisible connection, we were both invited to a small gathering without being told that the other would be there by Caro in a purposeful performance as the prototypical Cute Cupid, with her visiting Floridian friends as a bemused amused audience; by furiously riding round & around the locale with the Hiddenham Moped Boys desperately trying to reach over 43 miles p/hour; by getting ejected from a pub there for simply being not from there, and maybe for just looking 15; by once having a pair of 2nd user Dunlop proddy race tyres (KR124 front, something KR-wise matching rear) planted onto my Suzuki GT250X7, the front fitted facing the wrong way - a fact I only became aware of when recently scanning a pic of the bike and I noticed the rotation arrow (which I’d painted) was facing the wrong way, which now makes sense of why I kept losing the front end in the wet; by being the only person that was prepared to try to ‘sing’ in the tiny room of the charming (& recently re-met) Tony Rudd (in Rudds Lane), and so becoming the singer in ‘the band’ with no name (that I recall), but wimping out when it came to doing a gig, because I knew I/we were brilliant but shite but brilliant but actually shite; and lots of other stuff etc.

So, mindful of the time of day, and of the overwhelmingly sleepy nature of the place even during the ‘fervour & bustle’ of peak commotion during the high point of the daylight hours, I cut my barely-baffled engine and roll the last third of mile to the edge of the village, which is handily right about where the home I’m headed to is anyhow. Of course I had to build up quite a bit of momentum to coast that far, but then I know how to do that. Well both in fact.

Though it was only a few miles between my starting point & destination I’d taken a massively circuitous & pleasantly relaxing route encompassing three counties to reach the home of Caro & Rick, dear friends of something towards 20 years, so I’d spent a considerable & enjoyable time meandering across the countryside, down one side of humble wooded valleys and up the other and back again, my raucous boxer exhaust note pulsing around & about the heaving hills. I deftly rode the broad span of leafy lanes and tree shaded byways, pootling across the uninspiring Shires taking all the turnings I’d previously passed by and never explored – Where, had I somewhere to specifically be at a particular time, then I might have habitually taken a left, at this purposeless moment I took a right; where usually I’d probably have turned right I went straight on, and I rambled almost eternally without purpose just to kill time. Can you kill time? It seems to me that this is precisely what time is for at times such as these. Nigel, another time, said this was wasting life, I replied it was no great prize to keep hold of at any cost

Probably the only constraint on such broad, roving, galloping explorations was having enough fuel in my thoroughly untidy but soundly sealed petrol tank. I’ve noticed it seems to drain empty all by itself. I’ve scrupulously examined it’s decrepit carcass indented centimetre by dilapidated inch, and can’t find any leaks, except the two great big ones at the bottom with the taps on. Ha. Ha ha. It’s almost as though when I fire up the grand apparatus of the animate steel & alloy instrument below, the beastly contraption heartily guzzles the costly & capricious liquid down through its pair of 40mm Bing carburettors, ingests great gulps of air, spitting fuel into it and thereafter shipping the consequential collective combustible concoction into the conflagration at its revolving core. I park myself on its barely padded saddle and my unruly mount impatiently munches away at the miles, kilometres, yards & millimetres - impelling me to the fore, urgently lifting my ragged personage until I heave on the modified & enhanced anchors to fetch it to a reluctant low speed hovering-near-standstill at intersections & junctions. I fully embrace the all encompassing feeling of the mythical & much discussed freedom of riding a metal horse, which actually really does generate a sense of auto-autonomy, but sooner or later this has to stop.

I hadn’t wanted to arrive too early in order not to selfishly eat up the entire evening of my as yet un-notified hosts, because they weren’t expecting me as such, but then they sort of were. I’d had a kind visit from Caro at Nmin. the day before, and amongst general conversation regarding my everlasting folly & madness she’d made passing comment that I could crash out & collapse there should the need arise. It had.

Though it was selfish of me.

I could have taken up another couple of options, but during my self-driven exit route from the Barmy Bin I chose to engage with their discharge process rather than just signing myself out, and so I’d had to meet with a nervous & overly officious junior Doctor, who ‘advised’ me not to ride the motorbike on my current meds. I reported I’d had no problems with balance, co-ordination or reaction times and hence was fully capable to operate the heavy machinery in question. He persisted & I mentioned staff were aware I’d been riding all the time. I asked if he was telling me not to ride, he finally acceded, signed me off & fucked off. I then waited a further three or four hours to meet with two members of the (no doubt understaffed) Crisis Team, so that both staff & Health Authority could divest themselves of any legal accountability for what might happen to me next by having ‘gone by the book’ and asked all the right questions. I knew what I had to say to them all, and that in such situations procedure is all. With the most agreeable of intentions you could declare they’re all like drinks machines – press the right buttons and you get the outcome you’re looking for. Just don’t press the button marked ‘vegetable soup’ or you’ll never get out and end up interminably held in that vile broth of revolving door sickness which makes people perpetually reside there or thereabouts. I’d been what’s described as an informal patient, which basically means I’d booked myself in rather than being made subject to an imposed residency through the activation of one of the many varied & hateful sections of an assortment of mental health acts. Patients would swap notes on what sections they were on & how you could get off their particular section. To bring my delightful stay at that ‘Hotel of the Failed & Foolish’ to a happy ending I just needed to give staff a sensible discharge destination, and so Caro had the ‘honour’ of being the most level-headed option I could offer up. Though it was selfish of me.

So I’m rolling to a silent stop at the edge of the village, and I lock the bike up to a lamp-post across the road from their cottage, the innermost of a little row of three, and proceed to undo all my good work by clanking heavy chains against the resonant metal post. I detach the tank bag, aware that I’m being watched from adjacent houses as nothing much goes on around here after… well, after the 17th Century. I stroll across towards their door, and see there’s a downstairs light on. If there hadn’t been I’d have gone straight to the shed round the back, but as I approach the front door I can see through its small puckered window that Rick is sitting there with guitar & laptop, noodling. I gently tap on the door and he turns in mock surprise, disentangles himself from whatever he’s doing, rises & lets me in. I book into the Hiddenham Hilton.

Rick tells me Caro is asleep, and that he’s recently returned from an audition in South London as guitarist in some band or another with some people in it, and that the bass & drums were playing together for the first time but were tight immediately, which is always the essence of any good sounding live act, he enjoyed playing with them. I’d worked Rick in a number of musical circumstances, and he was always a pleasure to play with, so to speak. As usual I meander on, speaking for far, far too long, and Rick comments at some point that he was aware of the possibility of my arrival as Caro had mentioned it may happen. This comforts & relieves me greatly, but I then go ahead and bore him to a level that would probably be considered torture under the Geneva Convention, by unleashing unceasing chatter of no doubt wholly self-centred guff in his direction. He’s kind enough to engage with me over a cup of sweet tea containing far more sugar than he seemingly approves of, or did I just drink water? The details fade away now. Once I go through a series of endless comma spattered sentences in an extremely elongated paragraph chronicling my ludicrous circumstance & experiences, and when I finally hit my first full stop Rick replies ‘Well, it’s probably for the best…’ & swiftly offers me the sofa cushions on the floor in a fully reasonable bid to break out from my ramblings, both meant & conveyed with kindly intent. But I am resolute that I’d much rather sleep in their shed. It makes me feel as though I’m imposing less, as I’ve a need to feel that I’m not beholden to anyone, not loading my issues onto others more than I always & inevitably do, though I am. Not that it’s in any way for sure my hosts might perceive it as debt incurring or burdensome, but I very much feel less intrusive being in the shed. I’d previously slept on the lounge floor while house/son sitting for them a little while back, and had slumbered in their shed once a very long time before as I’ve said, or will say, I lose track…

I write Caro a letter for the morning:

‘Dear Caro,

I met a woman in a mental hospital who said I could crash in your shed. She seemed to know what she was saying and looked very convincing, so thus I am in your shed. Your delightful butler did offer the front room, but I’ve always liked camping out, and in a funny way it reminds me of sleeping there before. Seriously, it’s warm enough and it felt kind of happy. Just call me ‘Catweazle’. Also, I may have bored poor Rick with my jabber. Sorry.

For info: they let me stay in Ma(n)d(alay) House last night after I forced their hand somewhat, and the duty Doctor wasn’t able to come over that late, though I suspect they simply wanted to transact a more complete discharge process. So I saw a Doctor today and he was made happy, then I waited to see the (seemingly tardy but probably simply overloaded) Crisis Team, and though they had no desire, reason or right to hold me they needed a sensible initial discharge address. I’m afraid you beat Asstrall (veggie man) what with you actually being sensible & things. I left there at 6pm, sat in a coppice and threw a few switches in my head, had a sedate ride and a meal of sorts, and then quietly rolled up here. I hope that’s ok?

I’m going to rate your shed highly for the ‘Index of good Shed & Breakfasts’. In the morning I’ll be booking out though, and combining attending ward round at the delightful Kimmeridge Arms, and getting a pay as you go mobile, for which I’ll give you the number. Sleeping pills are kicking in so my writing is getting illegible. Thanks for the landing pad, I’ll be making a small tour of sheds in the local area, and will be proactively making contact with my care co-ordinator and other services as part of my hospital exit package & further work etc. They’re all happy and see me ‘taking charge’ as a sign of ‘getting better’.

Finally, just to scribble (in this longer than intended missive) that I’ll drop the contact number with my dearest erstwhile wife, probably via a letter, but I’ll keep her in the loop as she’s stated she wants to be aware of what’s happening. The end.

Toodle pip!?! - d xx.’

I left this in what I thought was an obvious ‘couldn’t miss it’ position in the house and, reacquainting myself with the solid brick shed, I roll out two or three smallish rugs that lay on the pile of bits in front of the seemingly un-used workbench. I fold a couple to form an improvised mattress, and the other over me, I start to wander through my broken mind… I begin to ‘land’ again for the fourth time today. I’m thinking through just a couple of the (to me & my little life) momentous events surrounding me, & endeavour to work the broken brane boxed in my cracked cranium toward even temporary resolution as my dear ‘happy happy joy joy’ paper-based chum Nietzsche once recommended i.e. ‘Solve ten truths before you sleep’. And so I begin the mental retching.

This assists me to start to mimic the action of incompletely settling down. I go back to the kitchen to grab more water, and leave the light on (as I thought I had found it) because what with being a townie from wot’s there where that crime stuff occurs I wasn’t sure of the ‘house protocol’. I should realise I’m in the country and that countryside conventions apply. In the area of what had until so very recently been my actual home we had a little bit of a loitering and opportunistic burglary problem, so, being the resident insomniac & consequently always the last to bed I’d always lock the doors & windows and leave illumination on every night to comfort the children in the otherwise darkened dark darkness, as well as to ward off any unsolicited guests that may aspire to snatch our mightily scant possessions.

As an aside, one of my favourite diversions on the insipid hole of a council estate where I’d most recently lived was a frivolous little game I dubbed ‘Crack-head or Retard’. Now hang on. Brain chemistry/eugenics wise I myself am a certified retard and so I’m allowed to use that word, but you my dear readers should remember to be much more sensitive & modern, and the right-minded amongst you should obviously consider such a word as inappropriate & unusable, right? We’re not in the 1970s are we. The same rules apply to the ‘N’ word, that’s right, Nutter. So anyway, the point of the game was simply to agree on whether any passing stranger was a Crack-head or a Retard, on balance they were all one or the other or both, that’s how they’d (I’d) ended up living there…

I return ‘home’ to the exquisitely dilapidated shed I currently inhabit and excavate a dependable pen from my condensed possessions, by means of which I heave & vomit uncoordinated words into meaningless semi-expressions of absolute nothingness onto the lined notepad I’d shoplifted some weeks before. I write that during my first post asylum stop off at the crappy little roadside copse (that had so very briefly been my first home) before the visit to the garage (that was so very briefly my second home), I’d sat next to my cooling motorised-bicycle as it popped, purred & pinged. I thus embraced the newly recovered infinitesimal moment of the facsimile of some tiny semblance of a small portion of a minor percentage of a pathetic snippet of a feeling similar to relaxation. There in the coppice, because it was placed there before me by random circumstance I predictably looked through an open gateway that lay directly opposite in the assorted parade of various species of trees over the road. There, suffused in the yellow & pinking light, my dead beat eyes saw a field of verdant half-grown wheat, with the uniformly cultivated level countryside segmented by hedgerows reaching off toward the distant low hills that formed a section of the despicable geographic bowl that contained nearly every single bloody stupid thing I’d ever done. The only mountains round these parts are those in me. There & then I ditheringly embarked on becoming acquainted with what might be described as ‘release’ – in that my every thought was no longer steeped in injurious wakefulness of my comprehensive & unreserved failure as a husband, lover & father. The total removal of all these combined roles was of course a massive fucking failure in itself, however I can’t say I didn’t wholly deserve it, and I didn’t project even the slightest culpability onto any part of my erstwhile family other than directly onto me/myself/I.

Right there & then the thing that struck me was that the immediate cues that being constantly surrounded by incontrovertible proof of continually failing in those roles had been lifted from me. Granted, it was only because it’d all been taken away from me on the basis that I’d become so deeply incapable of delivering any of the roles, and because I was an immense pissed off scowling pain in the arse sitting slumped in the corner, internally whining & grumbling about anything & everything - about the disgusting default state of humanity and my complete lack of power to do anything about any of it; about being stuck in a shit town in a shit country; about being totally unqualified yet completely capable; about how their society doesn’t work; about not loving it when none of my plans come together etc. ad. inf.

My removal was undoubtedly best for all involved as I’d totally bungled my functions within the family, but through this much deserved deletion the tyrannical & oppressive internal cargo of being persistently reminded of my appalling blunder had been lifted, however unfortunate the circumstances that’d caused that to come about, and for the first time in years I didn’t feel like a total failure. Can you fail at being nothing? Nothing cannot be destroyed…

Nothing whatever at all, blank, void, vacant, without a particle.
None?
Absent, non‑resident, empty, nobody.
Not a soul?
Truant, missing, deserted, the bird has flown.
None?
Nothing.
Tenantless, devoid, minus, removed, exiled, elsewhere.
Transferred?
Misplaced, stayed away, nowhere to be found.
Lost?
Rejected, discharged, omitted, forgotten.
Nothing.
Evicted?
Rooted out.
Weeded out.
Sent to Coventry.
Brushed aside, bundled away, struck off the roll.
Murdered whilst sleeping.
Spat out.
Blasted out.
Flung out.
Gone.
Plucked from beneath our very noses.
Bereft of life.
A beggarly account of empty boxes.
Incomplete.
Ill furnished.
Impoverished.
Empty handed.
Starved.
Under fed.
Under nourished.
Undesired.
Old mother Hubbards famous empty cupboards.
Scarce, cast off.
Trash, inoperative.
Inadequate, superfluous.
Aborted.
Terminated.
Sterile.
Impotent.
Good for nowt.
No, not here.
Never.
Nothing.

Now let’s be clear, the mere fact that I was right there right then and wasn’t experiencing the crushing emotion of my acute deficiency in all those roles and others was in itself a massive dichotomous falsity, because I’d botched those precious responsibilities in the worst possible way and had, quite rightly, been cut off, which was the only reason I wasn’t feeling the throbbing ache I’d felt for so long - However at that very moment I didn’t suffer the burden of being repeatedly reminded of my unwavering failure by seeing it directly in front of me, and so I was able, just for that fleeting instant, to hoodwink my fools-wits into a temporary sense of escape from my intense & eternal internal displeasure at my unremitting chronic under-performance. Whichever way it’d been achieved the pressure was lifted now & I could breathe again.

It wasn’t that the family were gone, and certainly not that I was gone from them - more that the stifling airless pre-monsoon tension of the intemperate emotional humidity we’d all felt had, at long-last, broken from the persistent & unrelenting clamminess of undeclared discomfort into the essential reprieve of a torrent of reality, actuality & transformation. Weird how the human brane works isn’t it? Extraordinary how it will blatantly lie to itself just to create even the thinnest illusionary veneer of a piece of ‘peace of mind’ in order to protect itself & the ‘soul’ that inhabits it. Is this how the vanilla norms maintain themselves each & every day? I think it could well be how they achieve it… The poor inhibited & constrained mother-fuckers.

Because, at something towards 3am, I’m scratching surplus thoughts onto stolen paper I naturally have the shed light on, Caro (who seems not to have seen the letter I left in such an ‘obvious’ place) comes down wrapped in just her duvet, and looking thru the small shed window she sees a figure squatting down wrapped in rugs & cheap army surplus clothes furiously scribbling rubbish onto a pad (for which he doesn’t appear to have a receipt), and though she doesn’t know precisely what’s going on it seems to her that most burglars don’t take old carpets & leave thank-you notes, so guesses it must be me - She unexpectedly opens the shed door and bounds in. Now, I’m wearing earphones (soundtrack to Sweeney Todd, there’re 8 good bars in it) and absorbed as I am in my self-indulgent illegible screaming scrawl she surprises the living shit out of me - ‘Most burglars don’t wear just duvets’ I hurriedly think yet still it takes me a moment (or very slightly less than or more than a moment) to get what’s going on here. Caro says she noticed the kitchen light was left on, which it usually isn’t wot wiv dis bein’ dat thar out in the countryside and all. Then she saw the shed light so came to investigate, safe from harm in a duvet. Rather brave I thought… She, as always, naturally presents as sincerely kind and welcoming but she doesn’t feel my bedding arrangements are sufficient, though they do suit me fine, and, despite my protestations, dear Caro begins to make off and get something a little more comfortable. I stop her and explain that I very much have a preference for the modest monkish arrangements I’ve made in my impermanent hermitage, that I’ve sought to ensconce myself in the shed rather than the house so as to be less intrusive. This is where one of the great things about Caro comes out, she hears me, accepts it & understands. Not everybody does that do they? How ‘bout you? However she does insist on bringing a sleeping bag & shifting one of the two bicycles from the shed to give me a little more room, and it occurs to me that perhaps it’s needed in the morning so I don’t put up a fight – I try to hear, accept & understand.

And so at last I make myself a simulacrum of ‘settled’ and submerge into my default state of self-hate yet again. If only I were able to hear, accept & understand my own self, but this has proven forever impossible. For far too long now I’ve deluded myself that there was something in me worth preserving, that there might be some great work here within to be teased or scratched out that could say everything I meant & could ever mean. That I could effect a difference in the ever surrounding non-functionality. That I could be a better parent than my own were. But I’m unavoidably obliged to arrive at jam-packed acknowledgment that it's a vanity for a tomato to think it can ever be anything more than a collection of its constituent parts, with the resultant characteristics of a tomato. Or that said sad tomato could ever reasonably aspire to reach beyond its beyond and conjure itself into the steak it sits beside. And if the constrained fruit could not come to comfort with being a simple berry it must then be the cause of its own withering n ting.

I never even mastered the pencil for fucks sake, couldn’t draw beyond childish scrawls. I mimicked the actions of a person who played music, but never actually had it come out of me. I tried video ‘art’ and just ended up making unsightly discontinuous dishevelment that pointedly left the audience feeling inwardly unfathomably soiled, whilst not knowing quite why they did. I had to stop trying to be something. It's never easy to explain without dull repetition, and no simpler to comprehend without pity, but it's not a sad thing, the sad thing was continually lying to myself that it could be any other way because the outcomes of hanging around have shown that it couldn't, and all things have become as they always were & so will be. After dreaming of unattainable possibilities I’m right back down to earth, back down to me, and in this ‘now’ I do nought but fashion pain for other people, which was irresponsible of me. It would have been better for me to have stopped this l life before it harmed those around me, way waaaay back then on the railway line, but instead I listened to the reasoning of others (and parts of me) who were themselves already perpetuating their own useless lives. No-one needs to stop me stopping me, unless they want me to continue in this inescapable discomfort - or perhaps they draw some strength or power from my continued torment? Can one have a run of indiscriminate negative probability outcomes?, & would such a sample of sorry ass kicks be entirely random, or directed by some unidentified force? Can a patterned stream of repeatedly negative life events be considered directly analogous to the statistical likelihood of repeatedly not winning the lottery, or does a tainted river of bad luck indicate the existence & action of something like a directed negative energy? Is there ‘A Picture of Dorian Brandt’* in some loft, basement, shed or lock up somewhere?, and which one of you Bastiches sold my ‘soul’ such as it was, and now reaps the parasitic dividend at my expense?

* A stage name I once worked under. Also used Doreen Bryant on & off.

Were one to sound out The Golden Bough by Sir James George Frazer one might ponder as to how such a wide variety of anthropological expressions of such similar cultural concepts could come to be without there being some foundation as to a generic belief in some form of conducting vigour of some unidentified variety or shape.

I can sustain no spiritual belief system I’ve yet come across, tho/ough it's possible to say that in its time stamped world view the book repeatedly demonstrates and describes the vast accumulation & assortment of cultural settings which have seen the concurrent establishment & replication of parallel or comparable taboos & proscribed or inviolable beliefs as seen gathered in their mythologies & comparative religions. Parallel beliefs built up in societies from across the world that at the time of founding had no opportunity of contact or cross pollination. Might this perhaps be considered something slightly other than quirky happenstance? But I can sustain no spiritual belief system I’ve yet come across, so I can only imagine that all fools get fooled the same... In me there's no reserve left to rebuild with, and all doors are shut. Now I just need to dispose of my remaining clutter and wait for events to provide a suitable circumstance for my end. Don't feel bad about it. I will be happy. I struggle to maintain fragile constructed justifications to not cease this unending piffle that is the 'blessing' of 'life' that's repeatedly brought me back to this inescapable shit. I write…

.i cannot sleep
.i cannot sex
.i cannot think
.i cannot stop thinking
.i cannot stop intrusive flashing remembrances, none of them pleasant
.or reflecting well on me
.or my choices and the utter failures they lead to
.failed as a 'creative'
.failed as a friend or husband/lover
.failed as a father
.failed as a son
.failed as a personality
.failed as a revolutionary
.failed as a 'citizen'
.failed as an income generator
.failed ...

Events have consistently proved all this to be true (no really :-D) and above all I do not need to argue against reality or truth. 18 years or so ago I lay on the railway line touched on above, full of pop and pills waiting for a train to crush my skull. I thought then there might be another way for it to be, that life didn't have to be the way it was & had been, that I could make it something else. I thereafter struggled in alien worlds to build something I thought might make a difference to ‘society’ & to me, but here & now I know I could not change me - My root DNA fault, the neurochemical mis-design. I could not un-remember me, what was done to me or what I did. Here & now I know there is no change for humanity or myself. I profoundly regret not staying on the train line, I was right to be there, my self persuasion was a lie. I have not been able to make it different, nor ever could I have, it was a vanity to think it would be any other way and now it isn't –


.am not
.never was
.never will be

At this point I was reminded of a letter I wrote a friend some time ago:




Cont.
in ext post due to character limits.
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Old 01-17-2013, 09:58 AM   #3548
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SOLVATION
D J S

2 -To shed ones former self.
Pt2.


‘Dear Nigel,

Yes. I hate the remembrance of it. You seemed very surprised I feel bad about ‘then’? I’m not able to find anything in it that doesn’t cause me angst & desolate ggggrrrrrrrrrr. It doesn’t help that I wasted my time recording these tapes in the first place, and now I‘m wasting the same time all over again rubbing my own nose in my own shit. 278 archive tapes digitised so far, 50 odd cassettes and 300 open reels left. Even if I stopped dubbing & binned the lot it doesn’t stop me knowing myself.

What are we if we don’t attempt to be self aware? Should I ignore what events & reality keep proving to me about me?....

I have a very clear picture of then, and can recall precisely at will, or perhaps more precisely, against my will. I know the events, their order, and their outcomes. I’ve got it taped. Ha, haha… I know how shit I am, and was then. Let’s face it. It hasn’t really gone according to plan has it? By now I was supposed to be living on the far side of the moon with the other retired World Presidents. So much ‘could be’ and so little ‘is’.

I don’t intend to whine, though I do, but this is why I hate the remembrance of it. It brings extensive regret, and is hateful. This isn’t directed at others, and what they did or didn’t do, mostly… I am the one constant amid my bad experiences. Sooner or later, that had to become plain to me, and it did. The same distaste permeates all aspects of my life and is inescapable. All that effort to break my pattern with Soundstudio, but here I am again. It’s enough to make me distrust myself.

I didn’t have your inherent musicality or Johns mood capturing fluency or Lees outward go-get talentless blind faith, or Luseans ear to the divine. I understand I have no innate pitch, tone or rhythamum-num-chooka-wooka-pa-pa. No ability to grasp theory to any substantial degree. No phrase memory. Incapable of reading score in more than stuttered judders, let alone sight reading. No lyrical insight & nothing to say. Fingers made from turnips. Only really ever found my way around one modal scale so only really ever had one solo, thus I spent endless time noodling variations of chord on the 5th to chordal 4th & back again, bawling in a voice that was only ever good enough for b vox, and twiddling said 5th modal over the top. No interval recognition. Unable to hear sounds internally. Unable to picture images internally. Not able to play in another way than that I could play, i.e. unable to translate direction into modified performance i.e. it’s this shit or silence. Never got genuinely intimate with minor keys, which is where the sound I was looking for lived, or perhaps more correctly in the minor & diminished relationships within major diatonic settings? I mimicked what a person would do if they were playing music, and the lack of technical aptitude was not compensated for by inept charm or even intuitive, natural capability. Sometimes it is, which is nice, but it wasn’t for me.

Unsurprisingly I never got ‘picked’ up, I wouldn’t have minded being patronised, but then I had nothing to offer & never put myself where that would happen. My entire life has been one long stress attack. I was constantly verging on agoraphobic recluse, still am, not exactly suited to ligging, the fundamental way you get on in that stupid business they call ‘show’. When people don’t enjoy your company they don’t seek it, and not being immersed the world your consumer sloshes around in doesn’t lead to well targeted or successful product. My brittle & jarring experience of ‘going out’ was not enjoyable to the point of repetition, what with me being far too unpleasant & prattish to function at all well amongst people, due to my inborn capacity to do the opposite of the obviously required or desired. I am an incomplete person that couldn’t successfully associate with others. Should have been part of a unit. Not enough alone. Couldn’t be together.

I was too late for a fully band based environment, too early for accessible audio equipment & software, which would have been my instrument. Just shit kit & shit material. Period wise I landed in amongst the least of taste. In those decades, what passed for was most certainly not, and in any case was well away from me.

During dubbing there are moments where a moment moves my mentality momentarily. Snippets of sound that don’t not work. But what noise I did manage to stumble or fumble on that doesn’t fail by default has been lost among bad choices & endless mistakes that meant nothing would ever be done with it. It didn’t come off did it? And where the fuck am I now? What had already happened to produce a person that was that far off the map? Am I cursed? Yes - Many times over for sure. Do I need confirmation or contradiction for any of this?

No.’

Amidst all this expert self ruin (I’ve got awards in it you know) I’m dragged into inescapable & manifestly vital sleep, flopped right down there on top of pad & biro by the irresistibly efficacious Quetiapine. And I’m dreaming vividly, amongst all the usual flying & nudity, of sleeping in this exact same shed those many years past after the cupid style set-up party. She & I were on a little ‘break’ during the very early stages and I remember my darling sort-of-semi-ex-girlfriend (and as yet unknown wife-to-be and then ex-wife) was graceful, svelte & delightful that night. It’s a long past event in our ongoing relationship, which over the last decade and a half+ has been the most fulfilling period in all my time on this appalling little ball of mud.

But during this particular tonight here & now I have the best sleep had for a considerable time, at least in all the time since she left me. In Nmaj. I’d had to ask for an extra pillow so at least in my stupor I could fool myself into imagining she was there enfolded next to me. I couldn’t fall asleep without that image & stand-in sleep sharer, not after all those years... One dense headed morning on the ward I thought I heard her shower running, as I most often had in those thousands of mornings before. This time however I mustered enough focus toward wakefulness enough to find the dorm door right by my bed open, the shower directly opposite running & door open, and an unsightly apology for a man dropping his towel to hop in & close that big white ass away from view. I couldn’t go back to sleep with that image, not after all those years...

My present hosts had, in my long experience, been deeply kind people, far kinder than I might ever have deserved. I met Caro when she was trying to work in support of resolving established problems prevalent inside a Disability Theatre Company, wherein (I felt, don’t sue) it was apparently ok for the Diffabled (differently-abled) to discriminate against other differently Disabled Diffabled people therein and that was just fine, oh yes... Later, whilst working on a panto elsewhere she and my love had sewn up the sleeves of my lovely proper-not-poxy big BIG seafarers duffle coat, which did indeed bring me to the requisite heights of flummoxation, much to their wanton delight. I’d been asked by my love to stay with her when she house-sat for Caro & Rick early in our relationship, some many years before. We’d all shared the mystery of the whereabouts of the third bush, and jointly shouldered the silent scorn for having the temerity to have raised it. I played various times in various settings with Rick – and on one occasion we’d (practically) played alongside the Bee Gees :-D A bit of keyboards, which I can’t play, a bit of percussion & vocal, of which I can’t do either. We recorded a few times, holidayed a few times, but no-one ever flew us to the moon. Rick managed to get me sessions tutoring audio recording & sequencing summer-schools at the college he worked at, and I once played a childs mini-drum-kit along with his band. It seemed to disjoint some of the group out of full musical articulation, but nevertheless it made me happy, and sat well with my general desire to always use such little kit that you could get to the venue on a public bus. It’s far simpler than all that ELP 3 juggernauts thing, and in the end someone (you, the ‘artiste’) has to pay for all that shit. Do you not know that’s how the ‘music’ ‘business’ works, ten tatty-twatty men ripping off any available uncomplicated, vain, opulence coveting attention seekers, that are all queuing up to be the ‘Cunts at the Front’. I always knew to start in on formulating procedures to proficiently scarper when the ragged & impecunious band sees their manager get a spanking new Bentley but no-one asks how it was paid for… Really, the only way to make any coin from the ‘music’ ‘industry’ is to hang around during load out, divert a few choice flight-cases into your van and scarper before anyone notices (they don’t). That’s the way it’s always been, don’t judge me you mo-fuckers :-D

I hadn’t had much proactive contact with Caro & Rick for a while, or indeed with pretty much anybody, because as part of my badly selected & unfortunate current persona I never felt entirely sociable, comfortable or capable in any general human interactions like ‘friendliness’, even with long term friends, or even people I’d never even see again. I had, a while back, spent a week house/son sitting for them as mentioned, & I hoped I’d helped in some small way for all the friendship & kindness they’ve given little old me & mine over time. They’re two of only a handful of people I know who are actually awake. Caro is godparent to our oldest son, though how we (or at least I) managed to stand before the Nonexistent Big ‘G’ that day & promise to raise the child within the church I’ll never know. Personally I don’t have an enormous imaginary friend in the sky, and no ‘magic book’ to guide me regarding bumming, or tell me what meats don’t keep well in a hot climate, or how this one is the one true one really it is and all the others are wrong oh yes. ‘Believers’ might (and indeed do) say that’s why I came to be where I am, but then they can fuck right off. One Mr. Richard Keith Herring BA (pending) has a fine sequence of routines/shows wherein he refers to ideas in the above, and outlines christianity as being that its basic belief is that ’A big man in the sky had created you to have certain instincts & emotions, but was watching everything you did, and if you ever acted on those instincts that he’d given you he would burn you in a big fire, forever, because he loves you! And if you didn’t and were good, he’d reward you by making you drink his sons blood…’ He’s specifically using it in comparison to criticism of importation of halloween imagery, product now available etc., but when applied to wider religion I can’t say I disagree with Mr. Herring or his Graduant observances. It was my brother that had been baptised, not me. Was he absolved of all his transgressions and abuses?, his attempted rape of me?, or purely rendered incapable of ever having been able to have ‘sinned’? Mmmm. Deeeeeeeeep. Believe me - You don’t want to hear it… My ‘parental units’ certainly hadn’t anyway, and still don’t, I don’t care if they never do.

Back to the current, I did things the next day? (Monday) What? I don’t know, I was landing & not fixing things precisely to memory, but there were certain practicalities I had to set off and overcome as my main concerns. Money & meds & smokes being tri-mary on the list. My meagre sickness benefit (due after years of taxpaying) is paid into Patient Affairs, a centralised system wherein the hospital receives it, and allows it to be withdrawn at an onsite cash desk. So, I’d recently heard ESA had been awarded at the initial assessment rate, I’m told it was thru in double quick time, which the patient welfare worker was apparently very pleased with himself about. Secondly, on discharge the previous day I’d been issued with a one day meds pack, so I rode the hardly any but some miles into the Shitsville that is Nailsburgh to collect the few pounds that millions of peasant deaths in the 20th century industrialised wars had bought me, and used a little of it to buy smokes & a pay as you go mobile. Though I’d booked out of the mad mansion rather than step further back into it, I didn’t intend to disconnect from them with undue haste, and maintaining communication with ‘Head Headquarters’ would be beneficial to all involved. I had a consultants meeting that afternoon, and explained my reluctance to return to the acute ward. They had no reason or grounds to delay me, so they asked for the requisite assurances (as per obviation of liability as before) and issued a 7 day discharge pack of meds. I suck on that afternoons smarties & fill up with fuel to enable a medium length doodling mid-meander back toward the Hermits Hilton of Hiddenham. I learn from Caro that her aged father has been taken to hospital as part of what appears to be the concluding stages of a long undefeated illness, and Rick has taken her mother to be with him. After some talk wherein I endeavour to focus on something other than my own selfish me (thru which I make me disgusted), she lovingly describes a highly active man who’d always been doing or making something, who seems now perhaps a limp soul, hardly talking, barely recognising their presence, sort of gone already she said. There are no words. Being self obsessed I can do nothing but silently face the incongruity of my petulant response to my little problems vs. a lively much loved life near lost. With this sadistic dichotomy to hand I attempt to settle down in shed again, thinking thru, or trying to think thru what was the best way forward at this exact moment in time.

Caro had talked about ‘attachment’ and how I ought to ‘let it go’. But ‘settle’ isn’t something I can achieve right now, so I take a late night walk and attempt to clear the remains of my mind & calm my overheated heels. Roughly opposite the cottage there’s a hardcore roadway & public right of way that leads up to an interesting metal yard of some sort. Just entirely the kind of place I’d like to have for the set-up site for ‘Martha Farquar Motorcycles’, the wholly make-believe manufacturer of imaginary bespoke motorised heavy-bicycles for the imaginary discerning gentleman, which my dear Peter & I played with. At that point the improvised road melds to an unpaved tractor-way & right of way giving access to farm fields to either side, and further on becomes a single track footpath.

To take a tiny time to ones-self is little more than one could ever reasonably expect, but to stroll along a rural track-way with a roll up, to pause to listen past the nights stillness to the minor chord of my three part tinnitus, and to begin to wonder if I hallucinate hearing the distant but distinct far off bleeping of what seemed like a very loud heart monitor coming from deep out of the dark night, well that might raise concerns in anyone, right? A remote but ongoing loop of bleep-beep-bleep-blip-bleep coming out of somewhere clear on from the edge of obscurity ahead of me, ostensibly from outside my head, from way down that dark path. I worked my brane into order and reach out (sort of) educated ears to rake over the difference between the sound and the distortions of it introduced by the surrounding dark air & environment. Between the source and its multiple refractions. I chose a response and progressed along the track-way, toward rather than away. As is usual in such circumstances my senses immediately split up and search in different directions for a considerable distance. Once I’d reached almost as far as the reduction to footpath, the sound was really quite massively loud, and as I tentatively progressed in the dense dark of a country footpath there emerged the indistinct shape of a light coloured saloon car ‘parked’ right front corner first into the surrounding hedge & brush as though abandoned crashed. The high tone burst was coming from the car, but not from the horn, or apparently from a separate alarm playback, but from the audio system in the seemingly dormant vehicle itself, hard repeating blared out patterns of bleep-bleep-blip-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-blip-bleep… incongruous in a rural footpath setting, mesmerizing yet mystifying.

I naturally assumed it had been dumped and while I kept my distance across the track for sensibles sake all seemed deserted, but no, some form of indistinct inhabitant signalled his disgust at my passing of his little fortress at the end of a lane where no-one went or was wanted, and he muttered while turning to the hedge behind the car. As I walked I perchanced to glance at equipment perched inside on which a red light blips in time with the audio, and my eye is drawn the blue glow of a camping-gaz two hob stove just like the one we used to take to motor sport weekends in the late ‘70s & ‘80s. I wasn’t allowed to go to Silverstone for what would have been my first Grand Prix (’79 British Regazzoni home for Williams first victory) as I’d been caught out having played hooky off school for the previous three or so years. It was the kind of stove I’d been given hot knives from at the ’86 GP at Brands Hatch by Papa Bernie. On this night, on this purposeless stroll, I caught a glance whilst passing past of the shadow-man moving toward the back of the car to be there when I reached that broad area.

He judders to a stop of sorts, one hand grasping the rear quarter panel of his car to let the rest of him catch up or come back to him, & in the other hand?, fortunately not his penis but simply a mug. The indefinite figure of a man obviously on the run from something or everything, perhaps not entirely different from my own circumstance, perhaps entirely different, maybe with a bit more murder and stuff? He stared at me, with either menace, or what I took to be him trying to get focus on me in what I also took to be his drunk state. ‘Is this a public footpath?’ I asked in my best ‘don’t kill me Mr.’ type tone. I was peripherally aware he might be a landowner or agent thereof, furious at my intrusion ‘onna hees laaaarrrrn’. No reply save the continued glaring and swaying. I asked again and received a blurted indecipherable reply in addition to the previous glaring/swaying routine. My only presently functioning superpower ‘PervySense’tm tingled and hollered ‘move on’, so stepping back and raising my hands in the internationally recognised sign of ‘Now look here fella, we’s all don’t wants no troubles here no eh? We’s all seen Deliverance uh uhh eh?. Yesssss well there I’ll just be on my way aways yessir etc.’ I did just that, being only slightly mindful of an impending hammer in the back of the head - to tell you the truth I wouldn’t have minded, given the year I was having. I retired to a safe distance & carried on another safe distance or three for good measure.

At this belated point it dawned on my impaired mental ‘powers’ that I’d made something of a not insignificant mini-miscalculation, in that as you can see I was carrying on in the direction I’d been heading. Again with the base inability to hold coexisting thoughts already. It took me a way aways alright, though I’d now either have to a) sleep in a hedge further up, b) make my way round via the fields whilst being entirely bereft of even the slightest of stealth skills, or 3) very noticeably come back past the it & its living arrangements at some point. Second meetings can frequently be so awkward can’t they? After what seemed like a decent pause in which I smoked everything I had, followed by a just about tolerable period of vacillation in which I wished I had more smokes, I began to work back toward the amply adequate improvised bolthole (see, if you have a car you don’t need to buy a tent) & its drunk and/or dodgy dweller. There he was in the blue flicker boiling something (the blood of his last victim?), and muttering to his broken self. I didn’t stop as he may have killed me. I can’t in all good faith say I wished he wouldn’t.

My next morning is the end of two nights in the shed of my dreams (no really, I’d worked out where I’d put the pillar drill and vapour blasting unit, the build bench, the hammock and everything), and I can’t help but come to the right-mind that I am taking more than I had ever given, and though there is no suggestion or indication of a feeling of nuisance or burden that my highly un-tuned sense of reading people wot I have not gotten can discern, still my innate ‘TwattySense’
tm tingles and I’ve no difficulty in deciding that I and my piffling needs are the least important thing in the startlingly present unpleasant picture, & as you would expect I resolved to move on - to diminish the mass of the yoke they were already lugging during such a difficult time, by about the equivalent of the full attenuation of me & my mess. I clearly have to be somewhere else, and there’s quite plainly only one sensible option…
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Old 01-17-2013, 10:12 AM   #3549
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I'm waiting for the paperback version. Hardbacks cost too much. But it's not the money, it's the principal.
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Old 01-17-2013, 10:17 AM   #3550
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Old 01-17-2013, 10:19 AM   #3551
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Originally Posted by disston View Post
I'm waiting for the paperback version. Hardbacks cost too much. But it's not the money, it's the principal.
You got a long wait coming
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Old 01-17-2013, 10:36 AM   #3552
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You got a long wait coming
Thanks for the reply. I'm OK with waiting. I was waiting before I knew what I was waiting for.
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Old 01-17-2013, 02:13 PM   #3553
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Kop Hill 2012 review...


http://www.sportscardigest.com/kop-h...JrZau5P1uus.C0

"The Kop Hill Climb was held 22-23 September 2012 in Buckinghamshire, England, with 14,000 spectators enjoying the more than 400 cars and motorcycles that challenged the historic hill in Princes Risborough."

Direct site @ www.kophillclimb.info.
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Old 01-17-2013, 10:29 PM   #3554
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Don't expect it to carry on as it starts...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pa5oWGWWVf4

http://www.youtube.com/results?searc....1.NQnW9W0eAps
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Old 01-17-2013, 10:54 PM   #3555
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8f8wAXDZ9D0
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