PictorIIum

PictorIIum

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Etcetera

23.03.14 (Day 91)

12.42

McDonald’s. Lunchtime. Coffee. Etcetera.

Repetitive? It’s been said. Isn’t life? Mine is short-term but longer-term it’s been anything but. It’s been far from predictable lately with my place getting trashed: have I mentioned that?

There’ll hopefully be less repetition soon as next week I have a meeting with CAB (have I mentioned?) Also, I’m thinking of moving on (did I mention?)

I’ve obviously been in a “positive rut” that I’d created for myself, as some have accused me of doing (did I mention?) But I was treading water, or wading through treacle, thanks to all the help I’ve received. But I suppose the trashing of Gilbert House will be seen by some as a catalyst. It is: my signal to move on. My move has been forced, much like as in a game of chess. Have I mentioned that I play chess? Against Andrea? My Android? That I have a rating of around 1800? An IQ of 152?

Have I mentioned that I’ve taken on a role of kitchen tutor for the under-privileged in the churches in Tunbridge Wells? Have I mentioned that this may be because I’m just nice? Some think so, including the other volunteers and those whom we’re teaching to cook creatively with limited resources and ingredients in the lives they live.

I’m good at using whatever is available and rustling something up (have I mentioned that?). Have I mentioned that my ex-fiance, ex-girlfriend and my mum all told me when I left that they’d miss my cooking? And that they asked for my recipes? They couldn’t have them as I simply make things up as I go along.

(Did I mention that one of the many things that winds me up is an upward voice inflection, with a question mark placed after each sentence?)

15.42

I’m still in McDonald’s with the second one of my young friends who wished to speak to me. To talk to. I do that (have I mentioned?) Have I mentioned that I spend time in McDonald’s daily to make use of the free wi-fi? To work and research? And that the youngsters hang around me, rather than me hanging around with them? And that they gravitate towards me because I talk to them as many others wouldn’t? I afford them respect. And that I provide some sort of counselling; the sort that box-tickers can’t?

Have I mentioned that when I have things, I share them? And I don’t expect anything in return? That I buy food for the homeless? That I take people in? To my home? Then they steal from me and smash my home up but I forgive? That I go to church regularly?

Have I mentioned that I feel unappreciated, taken advantage of, abused, stamped on and beaten? But that I just smile and worry about others instead? That hoops and hurdles are placed in front of me, when I’d often be more grateful of some sand or a brick wall for my head?

Have I mentioned that I don’t sleep much? And that’s because I’m prevented from doing so, or I simply can’t? That often I lay awake at night and dwell on what I’ve lost? What I let go? How I beat myself up over all things lost? How my dis-functional brain just sometimes doesn’t work as most people’s do?

Have I mentioned the things I miss? The loves of my life and all of the things we had and did together? The lives I led, places I lived, people I shared them with and lost them all? The personal possessions stolen from me?

Have I mentioned that I’ve done work for charity? And received nothing? Have I mentioned that I’m going to do it again anyway? Last time it was Marie Curie and as I’d lost a friend to throat cancer, it seemed appropriate to lose my voice for a day. The next one is Hospice in The Weald for another friend: what to do that’s appropriate? Die?

Have I mentioned that the reason I’m often repetitive is that when I’m avoiding the friends I’m accused of conducting inappropriate relationships with (even though the police phone me as a known associate and I help to locate these people), it’s because I have time to myself and just jot down my repetitive thoughts.

Have I mentioned how many people who’ve come to know me are very kind and like me a lot? They help me out with small gestures of kindness. These are people who’ve got to know me recently. People who used to know me as I was don’t know me as I am now. I’m changing.

I’m moving on. Again.

 
And have I mentioned my holiday? I’ve chosen a city: watch this space where I’ll not be for a while.

On a coach or a train, then on and on.

Etcetera.

On and On

22.03.14 (Day 90)

09.42

I’m in the library having brunch: ham (not green) and eggs, reading the Saturday Guardian (there’s a lot of it) and planning computer time with the limited resources available (I can charge the netbook in the library but have limited web browsing. In McDonald’s it’s the opposite). The ideal solution would be Wetherspoons, where there’s one particular table next to a power point and ‘Spoons have free Wi-Fi. I pay my way and am not a total leech but upon visiting last night I found that they’ve moved the fucking table. Fortunately my friendly newsagent has offered to charge the netbook when required, provided I’m using it for things which are productive (I am and they are).

The removal of the table is just like most food establishments throwing out left over food and locking their bins, with the exception of Benjy’s, Pret, Marks and Spencer and Waitrose. Perfectly good food which someone like me could use to rustle something up given a means of cooking it. I realise that’s simplistic but it seems such a waste. My love of cooking and my ability to cook up something using whatever is available means that I could benefit my brethren given the resources. Spanish omelette, bubble & squeak and cottage / shepherd’s pie are specialities of mine. I don’t have recipes as I use what’s available. As well as so many other things (Dan and the kids being top of the list), cooking is what I miss the most, especially cooking for the kids and Dan. There’s so much else I miss about that life but I fucked it. I’ve said it before but I have to write as I think (or rather while I think). Although hindsight has its place (in the past), there’s little point in dwelling on it and it’s much better to look forward, or at least try to do so. When you’ve suffered my luck over the last three months and years though, looking forward is a big ask.

A wonderful lady from CAB who I met in church when I helped out said she’s happened upon (so much nicer a term than “come across”) very few people who’ve suffered as much as I have. But I’m just self-pitying of course. Not bitter (much).

I’m looking forward. Not to much but I still harbour the faintest glint of hope that one day I may get one of the lives I destroyed back. The one I want the most is that which I shared with Dan, in our beautiful flat in Sidcup, after she’d rescued me. I need rescuing again my Bunkey! The things we did; the things we had (material things which she still has and is looking after). We’ve moved on (and apart: coping mechanisms) but if I can keep hold of a little hope, that keeps me going; as does the hope that I may see my children before the six-month sentence imposed upon me by their mum is up. Few people realise that restrictions such as that imposed upon me are counter-productive.

Few (if any) in fact can appreciate how hard this process is and has been but I’m honest enough to admit that I largely brought it upon myself. A little more understanding would have been appreciated and helpful though, rather than the dismissals, misunderstanding, mistrust heaped upon me. I haven’t deserved anything like half of what I’ve had to deal with. But by cutting me off, people cope. And so do I.

Abuse, fear and fatigue are the main things. The list goes on – and so do I – and I’m at a point where I’m wondering if Tonbridge is perhaps not the best place for me at the moment. Bexley and Sidcup have obvious appeal, although my reception at either may be quite cool. I have connections in various parts of London and elsewhere that I could go to, so I might; even if just for a short break whilst I’m in limbo.

Last night, despite not being able to stay at Gilbert House, I somehow managed the relative luxury of six hours’ sleep, albeit broken, compared to the usual three. When you’re as tired as I am though, you just sleep and hope. Hope that you wake up but if you don’t, maybe that’s better.

I’m considering modes of transport for getting away.

And on…

Every Picture…

These are the sketches and messages from Volume One of my journals, by people I met on my travels. Volumes Two and Three remain missing by theft. Despite having  lost around £500 worth of belongings to thieves, all I really want back are those journals. This was when it started in any case:

DropShots.com/stevelaker.