I blew into the breathalyser, like a blade of grass between my thumbs. I didn’t know what animal sound I was making, but whatever beast I’d summoned was now approaching…
I blew into the breathalyser, like a blade of grass between my thumbs. I didn’t know what animal sound I was making, but whatever beast I’d summoned was now approaching…
THE WRITER’S LIFE
The Musical Youth song actually asked us to ‘Pass the kutchie on the left hand side.’ It was a cover of a song originally by The Mighty Diamonds, and quite why ‘Dutchie’ was substituted is anyone’s guess, as it means nothing, whereas ‘kutchie’ is a doobie, a spliff, a reefer.
Last night I was transported back to my own musical youth when I shared a Trans-Atlantic joint with a Canadian friend and we reminisced in ASCII. It’s all very well two people putting the world to rights, but others might be interested in what they said.
My friend is also a writer, whom I’ve never met in organic form but who’s a closer friend than others I know in real life. We’re comrades of a similar age and we got talking about matters of equality, and of how music can be a leveller in some hands and divisive in others. I put on some music and got into character, so we could talk about possible futures.
It started with a video I posted on Facebook about Skinheads. Specifically it focuses on the infiltration of the far right into the skinhead movement, and their adoption of a previously inclusive personal style as a racist one. There was resistance from the old school skins, and the true skinhead ethos remains today, but the look is still copied by fascists. Fascism is only skin deep, but music has roots, with mine in Jamaica where Reggae gave birth to Ska and all its offshoots. The skinhead connection is better covered in Don Lett’s film, The Story of Skinhead, but captured in social media attention-span by this short film:
In the early 80s I discovered Ska music through Two Tone records, and I joined a movement which was so much more than the music. Rude boys, rastas, skins and punks all wanted to change the world but were frustrated by the narrow media spectrum of the time.
Back then was an age of a confused nation thrown together by Thatcherism in ways no-one expected (history does repeat). Those were the days before mobile phones and the internet, and when a fourth TV channel was cause for national celebration (as it should be still in Channel 4, our alternative national broadcaster and anarchist of the airwaves). I look back on the 1980s with the fondness of a teenager who was there, but with the hindsight of one who was there just the same. I hope we’ll still hear music in the future.
Our 21st century connectivity should mean our voices are louder and greater in number, but – perhaps by media manipulation – I only see an overall rise of the right. Those of us on the left need to do more, say more and write more, if we’re to reclaim our planet for our one race. We can still be anarchists and activists, even if we don’t get out so much now, shoulder-mounted sound systems replaced by laptops as our main weapons. The true skins reclaimed their voice, and humans who believe in humanity as one united race can take back the conversation. History repeats again.
In my mid-teens I got into Bowie alongside Ska. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was telling me that it’s okay to be yourself. Ska fashion was a uniform, just like mod, metal, skinhead, punk, reggae (the list goes on) but Bowie was about individualism. That was slightly unnerving as a hormonal boy in a same-sex school, but I realised it was perfectly okay to have a crush on some of your mates.
I wish I’d listened, rather than living my life in the way so many our age were conditioned: aspiring to a life in either an office or a factory (further education was a luxury beyond the means of my family, when I needed to get a job straight out of school), conforming.
Bowie’s connection with Brixton is as famous as either, and later in life I lived near Bromley, where he was born. They say you don’t have to be born in a place to be from there: it’s where you feel at home. After working for five years in Bermondsey, I lived in Catford (in the borough of Lewisham) for more than a decade, and that cultural mix of London lives in my heart. It’s all those old social movements together, making human music which carries my soul back there, to my life of conformity but in a microcosm of what life as one race is like, where colour and status are irrelevant and anyone can find home.
At the end of my working life (aged 42, appropriately enough), I was running companies and swimming in a private pool, when I had my alcoholic breakdown and woke up to real life. I’d never go through it again by choice, but that time on the streets was what changed me for the better. Then I had time to think about things outside the life box I’d made by conditioning, so I decided to climb out and write about it.
Now I’m a pot-smoking lesbian transvestite, a bisexual, asexual anarchist, atheist, alcoholic, bi-polar, manic depressive writer, scraping a living but loving the life which freedom of the spirit gives you. I was born a Man of Kent, but I was made in Catford. It sounds so much better than ‘Managing Director’ of anything other than one’s own life as a conscious, self-determining being, connected to the universal web through quantum entanglement.
I once fell to earth and asked, “Spare a pound?” and members of the public would mainly walk on by. Now as a sci-fi writer, the first question I’d ask a passing extraterrestrial would be, “Do you have music?”
The soundtrack of a cracked actor, it’s all about roots and Two Tone. Within those, stoned science fiction writers can see human salvation.
The more you embrace and engage with a thing, the more it will talk back to you, consolidating you as a component in something greater. We are all made of stars, and as I’ve become more connected with the universe around me, I feel more accepted, not so much by people (I don’t fully understand myself) but by the place in which I live. Yet I still don’t feel at home, despite being as secure as I’ve ever been personally. Medical science and human psychology put this down to my depression, anxiety (mainly social), paranoia, and PTSD by virtue of hangover, but as someone who questions, I wish to know more.
Knowledge is fear for some, but I fear little (heights and formal social occasions mostly, but not the dark, spiders, snakes, nor even death), because of my understanding of quantum physics and the eternal human soul. The only part I fear, is the actual transition, the mode of extinguishing this life. Hopefully, it’ll be quietly in my sleep, but I do worry about a traumatic death, yet I don’t fear what comes after, as I have a pretty good idea of what’s there. It’s just like wakefulness and sleep, with that transitory phase between the two being the one we never recall. Perhaps on the other side, I won’t actually remember how I got there. Quantum physics suggests that it’s simply the continuation of one parallel universe, when another becomes impossible to inhabit in my fleshy human form. In my new, ethereal ‘body’ (my ‘spirit’), I then have eternity to explore the universe, unencumbered by any physical restrictions. To me, that’s heaven. And yet to others – with less enquiring minds – being presented with all of knowledge would be simply overwhelming: It would be a personal hell.
I prefer constructive debate to blind argument, because no matter how opposing or polarising, I seek to understand the reasons for the opinions of others. If I can understand an objection, all the better to deal with it. Through debate comes greater understanding and further discussion. Alas, there are those who are too blinkered in their ingrained (and inbred) prejudices to debate. Deluded they’re right, or scared they’ll be proven wrong, they act rashly, and ignorance causes conflict and war. Our entire planet is teetering on a balance, where all of humankind’s endeavours could be used to discover and explore, if we don’t use them to destroy ourselves first. It’s selfish elitist greed vs. longer-term thinking. Naturally, I’m of the latter camp.
So if I don’t understand something, when learning more about it might help me to do so, I will question, interrogate, read, research, listen and learn. With my depression and anxiety – although those are perfectly good labels for the medical profession – I want to learn more about them, to better understand them, so that we can co-operate rather than fight. Seeing as it’s all going on in my brain, that’s a place where I’d far rather host a party than a riot.
I’ve written before on this blog, of how my alcoholic descent into nothingness (having nothing and being nothing) somehow woke a previously latent lobe in my brain. It wasn’t an epiphany and it was a gradual process, but as I sobered up, I started thinking about the bigger things. With no possessions and nothing to do, there were few distractions. Life on the streets was shit, but it was where I met humanity, when their own humanity is all that people have left. I lived in a world without money, but it was also one without government. And I lived in a squat, where social anarchy prevailed. Seeing life in an orange glow of Sainsbury’s Basics, with all veneer stripped away, allowed me to see life’s roots.
Maybe I was just appreciating life, in a way I never had, but in a way which was the norm for everyone else. But as I became more and more in touch, I saw members of the public (the name homeless people use to describe the superior social classes) for what I’d been before: automata. Freed of responsibility, I also found freedom of expression. Obviously I eventually became a writer.
Since I’ve been friends with the thing in my head, I’ve questioned those labels placed upon it; mental illness, for want of anything better. But that’s such a general and inexact term, for what I’ve found can be used as a gift. I’m disabled through mental health, yet it’s that which has expanded my mind, with all of the self-improvement (or delusion) which comes with it. I recognise my brain, not as unwell, but as something which has things which make it unusual. And because of that, it interests me, so I’ve interrogated it.
Yes, I talk to myself. And yes, I smoke weed. It’s pretty obvious I’m pro-cannabis, because I’ve found it to be so helpful in calming my anxiety and broadening my mind, hopefully improving me as a writer. When I think existentially, I don’t see a world which others have always seen, and which I missed because I was drunk; I see a greater picture now, which the automata most likely never will in their distracted lives.
I try to place myself in some sort of pan-position, because it’s easier to understand that which you can look at from above or outside. It extends to politics, where I’m obviously left-wing, but I see more in social anarchy than conventional liberal socialism. I’m comfortable with my gender alignment (male), and I present as a heterosexual, but I identify differently, in my recognition of five gender types, in line with Native American beliefs, before the invasion and brainwashing of the Pilgrim Fathers. The five genders are male, female, two-spirit male, two-spirit female, and transgender. Although I’m not homosexual, I appreciate the aesthetics of the male human body, just as I do the female (artistically, rather than erotically: I’m a writer). I’m in touch with the feminine side which all humans have within them, but not a transvestite, although I do dress slightly effeminately sometimes. So I identify as two-spirit male, but I have two-spirit female in me as well. As such, I identify personally as pan-sexual (it’s more embracing than asexual, which is contextually inaccurate anyway).
I’ve been called (affectionately, I think) an alien (and many other things, less affectionately) in the past. With this in mind, I set off to find out more about me. I didn’t send off a DNA testing kit, I researched some of my thoughts, feelings and theories, and some of that research was in forums on the dark web. Apparently, I could be a Starseed, which I liked the sound of, so I researched some more. Probably the most accessible article I found, was one called What is a Starseed and how to find out if you could be one, on Learning Mind. Keep a mind as open as mine, and humour me here:
“Star Seeds are beings that have experienced life elsewhere in the Universe on other planets and in non-physical dimensions other than on Earth. Star Seeds may also have had previous life times on earth.”
That comes from the Sirius Centre of Ascension, no less (yeah, I know). But before I dismissed it as the Sirius Centre of assumption and blind faith, or of condescension, I kept an open mind and read further (and the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation is real, after all). And I must admit, I could relate. Obviously, one can apply any old bollocks to human traits, but it’s no more bollocks than the bible or a personality quiz, and fits better with my scientific mind, validating, vindicating and verifying (or at least complementing) my universal appreciation based on quantum physics and maintaining an absorbent mind.
From the Learning Mind article, I learn that Starseeds are highly intelligent beings (I’ve got an IQ of 147: Does that count?) that come from far-flung corners of the universe, when previously I thought I was from Catford. Starseeds are advanced souls (well, I’m in touch with mine) who have wisdoms humans cannot comprehend (which goes some way to me not being able to work myself out fully). Starseeds are not aware of their true identities (pan-gender and pan-political aside) but have come here to help mankind evolve to the next level of higher consciousness. So I figure that’s what I’m supposed to do. And I do already, especially with my ongoing counselling of young people.
The article goes on to say that I didn’t know about my mission until the time of my ‘awakening’ (I’d been drunk). Again, it all sounds a bit quasi religious and spiritual, but there was that slow non-religious dawning I wrote of. These awakenings can range from sudden and intense, to serene and barely noticeable. Seeing as mine was propelled by weed and not fuelled by alcohol in the latter stages, mine would be one of those, if indeed that’s what it was.
Whilst no one really knows where Starseeds come from, their purpose on Earth is clear, the article asserts. Mine wasn’t at all clear to me, before the age of 42, and even now, there are things I remain unsure of. But apparently I’ve come to usher in a new dawn for mankind; a new spiritual awakening, that will raise the consciousness of the whole planet. It sounds a bit grand, but that is what I’d quite like to do.
Starseeds are (apparently) naturally empathic and intuitive, and have a fascination with science and astronomy (true, and many things besides, like what makes those work too). They are naturally drawn to subjects that include the universe, space exploration and discovery, and they believe passionately in life on other planets. Well, I am, and I do.
Then the Learning Mind article offers 30 things to look for:
You have always felt that you don’t belong here.
You have a fascination with images of the Earth.
You believe you have travelled from Earth and may think you have been abducted by aliens.
You feel intrinsically different from everybody else.
You don’t feel at home here and could imagine living on another planet.
You have a deep resonance with the universe and sometimes pray to it to get a wish granted.
You are fascinated with science-fiction and prefer to watch TV programmes or films that feature this subject.
You feel out of place and prefer to spend time alone.
Large gatherings of crowds bother you and make you feel trapped.
You prefer to live somewhere there is plenty of open space.
You often feel as if you have higher morals than other people.
You always see the bigger picture.
You have an innate sense of empathy that can be overwhelming at times.
You feel as if you can fly and often have dreams where you are travelling above the Earth.
You feel trapped in your physical body and feel as if it is holding you back.
You feel as if you are incredibly special and have some sort of mission to perform.
You have had a paranormal experience.
Animals are drawn to you and you understand them intuitively.
Even at a young age you were questioning rules and regulations and may have been rebellious as a teenager.
You instinctively know if someone is lying.
You are spiritual but not in a religious sense.
You are a good listener and people often come to you for your unbiased opinions.
Sometimes you feel overwhelmed by the problems in the world as they make you feel helpless.
You have incredibly vivid dreams that are full of colour and imagery.
Strangers often tell you their deepest secrets and problems.
You have recurring dreams about space travel and aliens.
You suffer from social anxiety.
You might find life a struggle as you try to find your true purpose.
You have always been an old soul.
You feel that the rules of society don’t apply to you.
With one or two exceptions, I can relate to each to varying degrees (I’ve written about some on this blog). I don’t believe I’ve been abducted, but it may be that that’s by design. And I feel younger than I ever did, but Starseeds come in three different flavours anyway:
‘New Starseeds’: Those who just arrived here and not had that many lifetimes on Earth (I don’t remember any: see above).
‘New Age Starseeds’: They’ve been here for many lifetimes and are here to help the planet achieve a higher consciousness.
‘Old Soul Starseeds’ that have lived hundreds upon hundreds of lives on Earth and are at the end of their journey through space.
Based on what I know, that would make me a noob.
“All Starseeds are here to share their knowledge, wisdom and assist in the ascension of consciousness in individuals and in humanity. Their mission is to help humans understand that earthly problems are immaterial and there are much more important lessons to learn about spirituality and attaining a higher level of consciousness. Whether you believe in Starseeds or not, they are here to shine a light on humanity and are powerful beings that want to propel us to the Golden Age of inspiration, love, creativity and advancement.”
You get me?
It’s a bold claim and one I make light-heartedly, mindful of the ridicule it might attract. But I smoke cannabis and I wear my heart on my sleeve, and this is my blog, my story. It’s said that there’s a fine line between genius and insanity, but I’ve not been sectioned yet.
I don’t place myself alongside other thinkers suspected of being not-of-this-planet: Albert Einstein (IQ upwards of 160), Stephen Hawking (160), Garry Kasparov (190), and I’ve only known my own IQ since I sat an invigilated exam last year (and I have the piece of paper to prove it), so my continued enlightenment feeds that. I’ve been guided most of my life by the Starman himself, the man who fell to earth, and who said that knowledge comes with death’s release. I have no immediate plans for release, but my mind has plenty of capacity for expansion in sobriety and cannabis.
Just a note on the weed:
If ever you’ve been smoking cannabis and you’re doing some dishes, bear this in mind: If you try to move the mixer tap from side to side by holding onto the water coming out of the tap, it will not work. This is not to say cannabis is bad for you, just that you’re in touch with the quantum universe and shouldn’t operate machinery.
THE WRITER’S LIFE | DEAR DIARY
Have you ever bet something on a ball of paper going into a waste basket? Then when it doesn’t go in, made it best of three? Whether consciously or not, we all ask questions – rhetorical and specific – of whom? Who are we speaking to when we ask if a certain person likes us, or whether this too shall end? God? Ourselves? No-one? And sometimes we might notice little things, like a certain thing or person being in a particular place, something someone says on TV, or just a weird coincidence. Could those be the answers to our questions, or at least clues?
Image: Waking Times
Am I off my nut on weed? No, but cannabis does open the mind. It’s a medically proven fact: A cannabinoid is one of a class of diverse chemical compounds that acts on cannabinoid receptors in cells that alter neurotransmitter release in the brain. It was more imaginatively summed up in a recent Lifehacker post:
“Essentially, cannabinoids’ effect on our brains is to keep our neurons firing, magnifying our thoughts and perception and keeping us fixed on them (until another thought takes us on a different tangent). That’s why when you’re high, it’s really not a good time to drive, study for a test, or play sports that require coordination, like tennis or baseball. Like alcohol, caffeine, and sugar, cannabinoids also affect the levels of dopamine in our brain, often resulting in a sense of relaxation and euphoria.”
It’s a subjective thing, but for me it means that I can think much more deeply about things, and for longer, not just when I’m high, but as a regular user of cannabinoids. My own atheism is explained on this blog, most recently in my quasi-religious posts about quantum physics and lucidity. Together with the personal statement on my Typewriter page, these are the means by which I reconcile religion with science. Smoking weed has been helpful in allowing me to consolidate things in my mind, and take on a more spiritual view of life, the universe and everything. Living alone helps too.
So very often, I’ll sit and read, write, question and learn, for many hours. And sometimes, I’ll stare out of the window from my desk, or make a nest on the sofa and listen to some music, and I’ll think aloud (yes, I talk to myself. I live alone). My IQ and my knowledge will only get me so far, and I’m hungry for more, so I ask questions of my heart and my head. I balance my own needs with those of others, but I can’t help but follow a dream, however unscientific that may seem. And if I dream, if I put my mind out there, sometimes I get an answer.
Religious people might call it a message from God, but I believe the universe talks back. I believe there is something out there, and the best term I can think of, is it’s a force (not unlike that in Star Wars), which can be used. I’ve not started practising Voodoo yet, but it’s one of many belief systems based ultimately in spirituality. But I’m no more a spiritualist than I am a Christian: I’m an atheist and I believe in forces greater than us in the universe, which is perfect common sense really.
At an existential level, the universe (The Force, “God”…) can give us huge signs as a wake up call, whether individually or collectively. My personal non-religious epiphany came when I was quite literally in the gutter: Drunk and on the streets, with no-one and nothing. Many agencies conspired to get me better, including a great deal of work on my part, but it was something which made me reflect on things I didn’t understand. It’s obvious to me now, that if I’d been more attentive of the warnings in the first 42 years of my life, I might have avoided a breakdown. But with hindsight, I’m grateful it happened.
Nowadays I’m a writer. I’ve only had the courage to call myself that for almost two years, since I built a portfolio and a track record. But I’ve been writing full-time now for nearly four years, mainly fiction. My stories are imaginative, but I like to think that they’re plausible (they’re researched thoroughly), certainly in the sci-fi genre (where much of the research is scientific). A good story needs to be affecting but believable. As writers, we can’t rely too much on chance, even though wildly coincidental things do happen in the real world.
As someone who’s been accused of relying on coincidence in the past, Paul Auster no less, set out to demonstrate how strange coincidences happen in real life, by asking National Public Radio’s Weekend All Things Considered listeners to submit their own stories. And lots of people had tales to tell, with over 4000 submissions to Auster’s request. My personal favourite was this one, from Linda Elegant in Portland, Oregon:
As I was walking down Station Street early one Sunday morning, I saw a chicken a few yards ahead of me. I was walking faster than the chicken, so I gradually caught up. By the time we approached Eighteenth Avenue, I was close behind. The chicken turned south on Eighteenth. At the fourth house along, it turned in at the walk, hopped up the front steps, and rapped sharply on the metal storm door with its beak. After a moment, the door opened and the chicken went in.
Weird things really do happen, and not just in America. And not many in my fiction writing, but those odd signs and coincidences are there in my real life, like they are in everyone’s, but often unseen or dismissed.
Through learning and practising, I am able to dream lucidly. Essentially, when I’m asleep, I’m aware of being in a dream, and I can interact with whatever that contains. My dreams are still surreal, but I’ve learned how to recognise when I’m actually in them.
Dreams, or the dream scape, are visions of the universe, much of which we don’t understand yet. One day, perhaps we will. For now, dreams are a representation, some of which we understand. That’s what surreal is: Not quite real, but comprehensible. Only with further thought and learning do those things become easier to accept. As Ted Arroway said to Ellie, near the end of Carl Sagan’s Contact, “We thought this might make things easier for you.”
Much has been written (by others) of dream meanings and interpretations. As far as I’m concerned, that’s as subjective as the dreams themselves, and people’s personal interpretations are therefore what they make of their own dreams. But I also believe that three people live within each of us: the person we think we are, the person others think we are, and who we really are. I treat my own dreams as a combination of the three.
There are no great messages or revelations in my dreams, but they fuel my active mind. Others may recommend keeping a dream diary. All of my thoughts (both wakeful and dreamed, as the two become virtually indistinguishable sometimes in lucidity) are in notebooks, my short stories, my novels, and on this blog. This is my universe as I see it. If I can get all of that, just by keeping an open mind and dreaming, it gives you an idea of how much is out there. Again, none of my dreams contain neon signs, but now that I look back over four years of writing, I can see that I’ve been somehow guided.
Dead people do exist in the dream scape, but they’re not always the cast of a nightmare. I’ve written before of how quantum physics allows ghosts to exist, and I wrote a story – Cardboard sky – about exactly that. People in dreams are real people, alive or dead, who are able to be there: The living who imagine and dream, and the dead who now live in a different physical form. Dreams are our way to meet them, out in the universe, where they now live. Lucidity in dreaming took me months to achieve, but it’s ultimately easiest to get there (eventually) by repeating, before sleep:
“Tonight I will receive and remember the messages of the dream world.”
Look out for synchronicity, those strange little coincidences. A call from someone you were thinking of; suddenly seeing something which suggests a third way, when we’d already considered two competing ones; a book falling open, a snippet of information, a number popping up. These are coincidences, but we know that those are common outside the realms of fiction. They seem more common than they actually are, because coincidences are more memorable than anything less subtle. It’s the way of the force, to guide us gently. So conversely, when things are a bit shit, that’s because we didn’t notice the more subtle signs. I’m living proof of this. Now I’ve learned to not live blindly thrashing around, but with a greater awareness of all around me. I opened my eyes and my mind.
There are those who believe that physical health can be improved with spiritual healing. Not being a practitioner of anything particularly physically strenuous, I’m not qualified to have an opinion. But what I do know, is that my mental well-being has improved over the last four years. Now with a permanent base, I feel secure enough to question my mind, rather than fear it. My depression and anxiety are chronic, and I have medication to help, but my questioning and exploring mind keeps the dark dog to heel most of the time.
By questioning and examining even the small things, I can play devil’s advocate with myself. If I have any kind of internal or external conflict, I’ll always try to understand my opposer’s point of view, so that I might better understand it. I much prefer debate to argument, because the latter always breaks down by definition, never leading to a solution. If you try to see things from another perspective (how others see you), that viewpoint becomes easier to understand. And it can be applied to bad things happening too, and how those could just be one of many subtle signs from the universe. To use an example:
Some unspecified time ago (many, in fact), I was involved in a relationship. For whatever reason, that partnership ended. In one particular case, I was very deeply affected. Essentially, I’d lost a life, and I was trying to hang on to it. I treasured a particular bracelet: Just a cheap, leather strap, but it had an emotional connection. So when that bracelet was stolen, I was distraught. I’d lost my one and only link to a person who’d been a part of my life. I was upset, and I was angry, at whomever had taken it from me. But then I realised there was no point. With that last connection gone, so was she. And the thief was the one who’d facilitated that. That was a whole different way to look at it. And just like my breakdown, as time went on, I realised it was for the best. And like my breakdown, it was of my own making. But unlike that, it’s as though I had a guide. Some would say, a guardian angel. From an atheist point of view, given the science behind my own atheism, angels do exist. Like the ancient gods and aliens of theorists, angels in religious texts are one scribe’s interpretation of a witness statement, or of their own vision. So mine are of my own dreams and imaginings.
Problems and delays can often be overcome if you think differently. Where there are two obvious but conflicting routes, there is often a third, less obvious one. If you’re stuck somewhere, use the time to think. As I myself once said: “Imagine you’re in a room, with no visible means of exit: how do you get out? You could stop imagining. Or you could use your imagination.” If I’m ever delayed by trains, unable to leave a train station, I’ll find somewhere to sit and write.
If you pay attention to things around you, it will inevitably lead to further discovery. Something you see while you’re out and about in the world, something on TV, in a book, or in a newspaper: Look it up and learn more about it. This works especially well for me when I’m adding to my film collection. If I like a film’s direction, production, camera work, costumes, or whatever, I’ll make a note of the crew credits and look up more of that person’s work. If I watch a documentary, I’ll often look into a subject further, inevitably leading me into a day-long Wikipedia session. And from all that learning, sometimes a question will pop up in conversation that I’m able to give a qualified answer to. It’s nice to be informed. Another recent personal example, from nature:
One of the many avian visitors to the flat roof outside my studio, is a wagtail. The window in front of my desk looks out on the flat roof, so I see the little chap quite a lot. So I decided to learn more about him. He wasn’t pissing me off, but I wanted to know more, and as well as wagtails’ characteristics and taxonomy, I looked into their spiritual meanings (because I was writing):
“Seeing a Wagtail is a reminder to stay cheerful. It is a healthy practice to make ourselves feel light and happy. Being cheerful and gregarious to others will earn us the same treatment which in turn makes our lives happy and worth living.”
I live a life of discovery and exploration, not of conflict and blinkered belief. Whether you’re awake or dreaming, smoking weed or not, the universe is out there.
My books are available on Amazon.
DEAR DIARY | THE WRITER’S LIFE
Last night, I sat up talking to a dead person. It would be a good opening line for a story, but it’s fact. I don’t know if my friend heard me, but I like to think she did. I may be branded a loony (I’m pretty much medically diagnosed as one anyway) but I got something from that meeting, as though I’d heard something. This is not a religious epiphany.
I’ll confess that I’d been smoking a bit of weed, but no-one should judge that until they’ve tried it themselves. My friend smoked too. For her, it was pain relief from sickle cell disease, which took her from us last year. It’s her birthday today, so we kind of sat up, passing a reefer between us. For me, cannabis relieves my anxiety, relaxes me and opens my mind. It’s a very agreeable self-prescribed therapy. But just because I was a bit stoned, doesn’t mean I was tripping, or out of it. Like pretty much all weed smokers, I’m compos mentis (despite the medical diagnoses) when I’m on it, more chatty, articulate and enquiring. I get clarity of deeper thought, and I’m able to interrogate my own brain, which has allowed us to become good friends.
As an atheist, I deny God in man’s image. I don’t deny that there could be superior or technically advanced beings in the universe. I believe it may be possible that our planet was visited by ancient aliens, and that these events were recorded by scribes in the terms which they understood. My objection is to the white-haired man created by Christianity, in its own image, and religion based on worshipping an idol. But I accept that for some, it’s a belief system and a comfort.
I have my own set of beliefs. Having got my head around quantum mechanics a couple of years ago, I believe that life as we know it is merely one part of an ongoing existence, the greatness of which we don’t yet understand. And of course, like Christianity, my belief has to be based on a faith that I’m right. But my beliefs do at least have a grounding in science. Put simply, I believe that the soul continues to live, after the physical body has broken. Then, we take on a different physical form, which gives us freedom from the restraints of the living human body. Some may think of ghosts or spirits, and that’s perhaps what those phenomena are.
My short story, Cardboard Sky, explains the various kinds of ghosts:
“The ‘Crisis Apparition’ is normally a one-time event for those experiencing it. It’s when a ghost is seen at the time of it’s predecessor’s passing, as a way of saying farewell to family and friends. It would be like going about your daily business, then suddenly seeing your mum outside of normal contexts. Minutes later, you receive a call to tell you that she’s passed away. With practice, the deceased may be able to visit you more than once, to reassure you. If they do that, you might have a guardian angel. In my case, a fallen one with broken wings.
‘The reluctant dead’ are ghosts who are unaware they’re deceased. They go about their lives as if they were still living, oblivious to their passing. This innocence (or denial), can be so severe that the ghost can’t see the living but can nonetheless feel their presence: A kind of role reversal. This can be stressful, for both the haunter and the haunted. In films, it’s usually someone moving into the home of a recently deceased person. Perhaps they lived and died alone in their twilight years. To them, the living might be invaders. These are not ghosts which need to be exorcised: Simply talking to them about their death can help them to cross over and leave your home.
Then there are ghosts who are trapped or lost: They know they’re dead but for one reason or another, they can’t cross over yet. Cross over into what? Some may fear moving on because of the person they were in life, or they might fear leaving what’s familiar to them.
There are ghosts with ‘unfinished business”’broadly split into two categories: A parent might return to make sure their children are okay. Or a lover might hang around, making sure their partner finds happiness and moves on. But there’s also the ‘vengeful ghost’; perhaps a murder victim, back to haunt their killer.
‘Residual ghosts’ usually live out their final hours over and over again. They often show no intelligence or self-awareness, and will walk straight by (or through) you. Many think that these types of ghosts left an imprint or a recording of themselves in our space time.
Finally, the ‘intelligent ghost’: Where the entity interacts with the living and shows a form of intelligence. I certainly wanted to communicate with George. In fact, to lesser and greater extents, I fitted parts of the descriptions of all types of ghosts. I’d not long been dead and already I had a multiple personality disorder…”
That was fiction. But in fact, I do believe in ghosts I suppose.
By extension to all of this, I can see how heaven and hell might exist, in a personal sense. When the time comes for my calling, I imagine I’ll be faced with an entire universe to explore, perhaps for eternity. To my mind, that would be a personal utopia: All the answers I’ve always sought. ‘Knowledge comes with death’s release’ (David Bowie). But to others, knowledge represents fear. So faced with a universal knowledge of all things, some people may be terrified, and find themselves in a personal hell. Intelligence and ignorance may experience an eternal karma on the other side.
I believe that as we continue to exist and move freely after our physical death, we can visit the living. It may be that they don’t know we’re there, but I’m comforted by a belief that the dead still walk among us. In death, the world is without borders. I have written and I believe, that if we speak to the dead, if they’re listening, sometimes they may hear us. I imagine a sleeping soul being stirred from slumber, because someone is thinking of them. I believe that our thoughts can be heard: An ethereal, telepathic connection, with an afterlife without physical form, replaces the audible speech we’d have had with them in this life.
It wasn’t a long conversation. I told my friend that everyone said hi, including my kids, who went to school with her son. I asked her how it was out there, and how I imagine it was nice to escape the pain of her illness. But of course, she had to leave a family behind. I shared with her, my belief that she can hear me, and others who think of her. I wished there was a way she could have told me everything’s okay, and that she could hear us. Even though that’s down to my own atheist scientific faith, I felt at ease. I was relaxed, of course: we were smoking a joint. But it was a comforting feeling I had. The kind I get when I’ve just finished a story I’ve written while I’ve been a bit mind-expanded, and knowing it’s good. I read her the poem I wrote for her after she’d left us. To Catford’s sleeping Queenie:
A wave from a plane
If you’re ever stuck;
If you ever wonder;
It’s the simple things,
that make a life:
Sunday roast: Jerk chicken
Sandy coast: Jamaica
Bonfire nights, Christmas lights
All these things
Birthday gifts, healing rifts
Friendly smile, extra mile
All these things
City walks; Kids’ school
Family talks; Black and white
London years, happy tears
All these things
Moonlit night; Security lights
Morning haze; Happy days
All these things
Dogs and rats; Welcome mats
Catford: Life rhymes with that
Dancing queen, evergreen
All these things
All these things are true
50 Cent makes music
while Dana sings:
“All kinds of everything
remind me of you.”
It’s good to talk. Talk to the dead, if you believe they can hear you. I believe that it’s nice for someone out there to know that they’re being remembered.
I hope people still talk to me when I’m gone.
Valdin Millette (1983 – 2016)
POLITICS | OPINION
I like to think that my liberal and social mindset transcends politics, certainly insofar as no UK political party represents all of my views, which is pretty much social liberal anarchism (as opposed to communism): I think a lot. But even someone with a polar position to mine (at least one who was prepared to listen and debate), would see the truths in the post below, and maybe begin to question as much as I always do.
While I’m stuck with contemporary liberal socialism, the Labour Party is the one I support in UK politics. Having said that I wouldn’t politicise this blog, it is my blog nonetheless and it represents me. And while the UK parliament has been on Summer recess, and most people have put everything which went before to the backs of their minds, I’ve still been ferreting around, reading and thinking.
I’m a member of The Labour Party and as such, I get emails about campaigns: I know that the party hasn’t rested during the Summer break. Meanwhile, the Tories will continue the path of destruction they started before they all went on holiday and many of us didn’t. But even putting my hard left stance aside, a recent post on Facebook by Chris Renwick, before the last general election – even though he’s a Labour supporter – ought to strike a note with left and right alike, seeing is it is essentially the truth. Here’s the post in full:
Here’s what I’m really struggling to understand. All I’ve ever heard from people, for years, is:
“Bloody bankers and their bonuses”
“Bloody rich and their offshore tax havens “
“Bloody politicians with their lying and second homes”
“Bloody corporations paying less tax than me”
“Bloody Establishment, they’re all in it together”
“It’ll never change, there’s no point in voting”
And quite rightly so, I said all the same things. But then someone comes along that’s different. He upsets the bankers and the rich. The Tory politicians hate him along with most of the labour politicians. The corporations throw more money at the politicians to keep him quiet. And the Establishment is visibly shaken. I’ve never seen the Establishment so genuinely scared of a single person.
So the media arm of the establishment gets involved. Theresa phones Rupert asking what he can do, and he tells her to keep her mouth shut, don’t do the live debate, he’ll sort this out. So the media goes into overdrive with:
“She’s strong and stable”
“He’s a clown”
“He’s not a leader”
“Look he can’t even control his own party”
“He’ll ruin the economy”
“How’s he gonna pay for it all?!”
“He’s a terrorist sympathiser, burn him, burn the terrorist sympathiser”
And what do we do? We’ve waited forever for an honest politician to come along but instead of getting behind him we bow to the establishment like good little workers. They whistle and we do a little dance for them. We run around like hypnotised robots repeating headlines we’ve read, all nodding and agreeing. Feeling really proud of ourselves because we think we’ve come up with our very own first political opinion. But we haven’t, we haven’t come up with anything. This is how you tell. No matter where someone lives in the country, they’re repeating the same headlines, word for word. From Cornwall to Newcastle people are saying:
“He’s a clown”
“He’s a threat to the country”
“She’s strong and stable”
“He’ll take us back to the 70s”
And there’s nothing else, there’s no further opinion. There’s no evidence apart from one radio 5 interview that isn’t even concrete evidence, he actually condemns the violence of both sides in the interview. There’s no data or studies or official reports to back anything up. Try and think really hard why you think he’s a clown, other than the fact he looks like a geography teacher (no offence geography teachers) because he hasn’t done anything clownish from what I’ve seen.
And you’re not on this planet if you think the establishment and the media aren’t all in it together.
You think Richard Branson, who’s quietly winning NHS contracts, wants Corbyn in?
You think Rupert Murdoch, who’s currently trying to widen his media monopoly by buying sky outright, wants Jeremy in?
You think the Barclay brothers, with their offshore residencies, want him in?
You think Philip Green, who stole all the pensions from BHS workers and claims his wife owns Top Shop because she lives in Monaco, wants Corbyn in?
You think the politicians, both Labour and Tory, with their second homes and alcohol paid for by us, want him in?
You think Starbucks, paying near zero tax, wants him in?
You think bankers, with their multi million pound bonuses, want him in?
And do you think they don’t have contact with May? Or with the media? You honestly think that these millionaires and billionaires are the sort of people that go “ah well, easy come easy go, it was nice while it lasted”?? I wouldn’t be if my personal fortune was at risk, I’d be straight on the phone to Theresa May or Rupert Murdoch demanding this gets sorted immediately.
Because here’s a man, a politician that doesn’t lie and can’t lie. He could have said whatever would get him votes anytime he wanted but he hasn’t. He lives in a normal house like us and uses the bus just like us. He’s fought for justice and peace for nearly 40 years. He has no career ambitions. And his seat is untouchable. That’s one of the greatest testimonies. No one comes close to removing him from his constituency, election after election.
His Manifesto is fully costed. It all adds up, yes there’s some borrowing but that’s just to renationalise the railway, you know we already subsidise them and they make profit yeah? One more time… WE subsidise the railway companies and they walk away with a profit, just try and grasp the level of piss taking going on there.
Unlike the Tory manifesto with a £9 billion hole, their figures don’t even add up. And it benefits all of us, young, old, working, disabled, everyone. The only people it hurts are the establishment, the rich, the bankers, the top 5% highest earners.
Couldn’t have put it much differently myself. I read The Guardian, the only truly independent UK newspaper. I’ve said before that at first, I didn’t trust Corbyn: Because I didn’t see him as a politician. But then I realised I’d been conditioned to what a politician was and that Corbyn was just different. I can relate to that. He’s a long-game thinker, like me; he sees a bigger picture, a future vision.
When parliament returns from Summer recess, I predict the further meltdown of the Tory party in its own cauldron. I see Kim-Jong May walking away from the EU with no deal. I hope I continue to see the lifting of the national veil I saw a couple of months ago, where the public realise they’ve been lied to. And then, if there isn’t a leadership challenge or some other trigger for a general election, I predict civil unrest: We’ve already seen it, as this country has begun to sunk.
And the only way I see to make things better, is to vote Corbyn into No10. To get there, I hope Chris Renwick’s Facebook rant resonates with as big an audience as possible. Then we might see the disruption this country needs before it sinks.
(I also predict that in a second parliamentary term, a Labour government would legalise the recreational use of cannabis, correctly licensed and taxed).
“If a plant cannot live according to its nature, it dies; and so a man.”
– Henry David Thoreau, Civil Disobedience and Other Essays
THE WRITER’S LIFE
Cyrus Song (the novel): due early 2018
My recent depressive episode ended as unexpectedly as it had started, such is the nature of those things. It was a relatively short one, lasting barely a week. As usual, my coping mechanism has been writing. Smoking weed and having a dear friend along for the ride helped too (thanks).
I despair of the world around me at the moment; The wider world, not my personal planet. While I can talk and write about the former, hoping to make some sense of it, sometimes it’s easier to escape to the latter. And so it’s been this week.
Encouraged by a test reader (my own, personal ninja), I’ve committed myself to Cyrus Song, the novel. This was originally planned for publication after Infana Kolonia, my sci-fi epic, but such is the scale of that book that it’s a long way off. So Cyrus Song (the book) is scheduled for release sometime early next year. The original short story which spawned the new book is in The Perpetuity of Memory, along with the sequel, The Cyrus Choir. For the financially challenged, original versions of both stories are still on this blog. The third in that series of shorts, The Babel Fish, will be online this weekend. Meanwhile, I’m adapting them to become chapters in the novel. Here’s a synopsis:
For millions of years, mankind lived just like the animals. Then something happened which unleashed the power of our imagination. We learned to talk…
Simon Fry is convinced that the answer to life, the universe and everything, is in the earth itself. Specifically, he believes that if he could talk with the animals, he’d find the answers. Or at least, the questions which need to be asked for the answer to make any kind of sense. Doctor Hannah Jones, a veterinary surgeon, has a quantum computer, running a program called The Babel Fish: Like its fictitious namesake, the Babel Fish can translate any language to and from any other. Elsewhere, Mr Fry considers what might be possible if historical scientists were able to make use of all that would be new to them in the 21st century. Having watched Jurassic Park, he is fairly sure he can make this a reality. So begins one man’s quest to find answers to questions he doesn’t know yet.
Cyrus Song is the story of Mr Fry’s voyage to find answers and love in the world. What could possibly go wrong?
It’s pretty obvious that it’s in part a tribute to Douglas Adams and the first stories have been praised as such. Like all fiction, there’s a part of the writer in it and it was during conversations with my test reader this week that I finalised the overall plot in my mind. If I’d been talking to a different reader, the book might have taken an alternative route, but others were unavailable and wrapped up in personal affairs. It was handy to have my Ninja one as she provides a personal as well as a creative kick, and that’s what I needed this week. Every writer should have a personal ninja, especially one who humours one when one has been on the weed. Cyrus Song has its own Facebook page, where it’ll post updates on itself.
I’m churning out more short stories for publication online and elsewhere, some of which will end up in my second anthology, due out later next year. With my short stories now tending toward the longer end of the spectrum, there will be fewer, more in-depth stories in the second volume, provisionally entitled Reflections of Tomorrow. By happy coincidence, it looks like there’ll be 17 stories in the next collection: There are 25 in The Perpetuity of Memory, so that’s 42 in total, which is nice.
It took me three years to write and publish my first three books and it will be a similar timescale before these next three are out. If I manage it, I’ll have six books to my name, when (or if) I turn 50.
Just so long as I can make it to 49, then I’ll have reached the same age as Douglas.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
A cow, quite far away
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (January, on this blog), I posted some insights into a possible future, 100 years from now. It was based on predictions made by the American civil engineer, John Elfreth Watkins in 1900, with others submitted to a BBC poll which asked what the world might be like 100 years from now and judged by an expert panel to be likely.
As a science fiction writer, I read a lot of science fact, theories and research. As such, like most sci-fi writers, I have ideas about what could happen in the future worlds I write about. Anyone with the time and resources to do their own research would conclude that sci-fi writers are pretty good at predicting the future.
It was about ten years ago (before I was a writer) that I predicted that some gadgets would most likely be consolidated to some extent: Mobile phones, computers, music listening devices, TV, the internet… And of course, we not only have smart TVs but all kinds of other smart devices as well. As a sci-fi horror writer, I see the many potential dangers of the latter: devices which are connected to the internet but not secure in the same way that our computers and smart phones are; Smart devices which are prone to hacking attacks, which the owner may be oblivious to. Because these attacks won’t be against an individual device, but rather, using it and millions of others as slaves for many dark cyber scenarios.
As I write stories for my second collection (I may have mentioned that the first is available from all good book stores), I’m looking more at the very near future, especially as the world is changing so rapidly at present. We may well be witnessing the beginning of World War 3, a conflict which would always be fought differently to our conventional understanding of such things. It doesn’t take a sci-fi writer to see that: Anyone even vaguely aware of the stories behind the headlines, and with an interest in geopolitics, can see that the current uneasy state of the world could collapse towards an extinction event alarmingly quickly. But before that happens (or while it’s going on), there are positive things within our grasp.
I and many others have said before that if as much had been spent on science and exploration, as has on religion and war, the human race could be an exciting one to be a member of. Unless something changes, we could all be fucked. There is already a growing groundswell of previously silent voices. The current state of the world has at least made us think: We let this happen. We can change it, if we think differently. (Incidentally, it’s a fact that every article on Wikipedia eventually links back to philosophy, if one clicks on the first hyperlink in any Wiki entry. It’s a degrees of separation thing, a little like Kevin Bacon. The article with the most clicks required to eventually get to that philosophy segment, is 42 clicks away. I don’t need to explain the significance of 42).
These little (very) near future predictions came about during a conversation with some friends and some good weed:
Living where I do, some of my friends have to undertake a two- or three-legged journey to visit and return home. Wouldn’t it be cool if all they had to do was use an app on their smart phone to have an electric, driver-less cab pick them up on-demand? I predict that this will be the norm in 5-10 years from now.
To qualify this, I’d refer to recent advances in both electric and driver-less vehicles. Through my research, I know that Uber are investing millions in research into exactly this. Of course, humans will become redundant, which is exactly what Uber and other technology companies want. Gradually, humans are being made redundant by technology, just as the industrial age replaced many humans with machines. Eventually, we will need to look at quite radical new ways of running economies, as there are gradually becoming fewer jobs which only a human possesses the ability to be more efficient in than an AI. When we reach a point where a government benefit like JSA becomes redundant, because there are no jobs for job seekers to seek, we will have to look at models like a Universal, or Basic Income scheme, and all the advantages it could represent, if properly managed: With everyone paid a living wage, they will be free of the main challenge in life: Food and shelter. Thereafter, they can better concentrate on improvement, with a view to employment in the remaining professions, or simply to be creative; to be thinkers. The argument for legalising cannabis for recreational use then slots into this beautifully.
In the same time frame, we will be able to order pretty much any goods, on-demand. Most online orders are already delivered on the same or next day, and drone deliveries are being tested. If we look at the air transport industry and familiarise ourselves with current airship technology, we can see that it’s not too much stretching of the imagination to see that we’ll have floating warehouses in strategic locations (something Amazon has already patented). From these, drones would collect goods and deliver them to us within minutes.
Around 20 years from now, we’ll quite probably have built a space elevator, providing a cheap, sustainable means of staging space exploration projects. In space itself, the ongoing development of the RF resonant cavity thruster (EMDrive) will vastly reduce transit times in outer space. Mars would be a mere 60-70 days away, and our nearest stellar neighbour, just a generation.
So, in a few years, based on progress in existing technologies, we will live in a largely driver-less society, and “Car bots” will ferry us around. Transport, leisure and shopping will evolve, saving us time, making us more efficient and allowing us to have more quality time as humans with our fellow human folk. We will have evolved, become more intelligent, and better off. Mark my words, for I am a sci-fi writer and I have seen this future world.
I’m not a conservative, in politics, nor in a wish to conserve things, as some thought Brexit would return the “United Kingdom” to some glorious bygone age. So the thing to consider is, all this technology is available but at a hidden cost. It’s going to rely on smart people and the erosion of ignorance.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
When I look at the world around me, and when I consider the world in which I live, I realise I am incredibly fortunate. It came at a price and it costs me daily in pain but the spiritual awakening which my breakdown has led to is something which isn’t ceasing to cause me wonder.
The current state of the world is somewhat depressing, the UK in particular. But we might be seeing the start of something new, by sheer virtue of the fuck up we recently made. It was a prediction I made in a recent post, or rather, I laid down a hope. That hope was for warring factions to unite against a common foe. Well, the Richmond Park by-election wasn’t quite so dramatic but it’s a longed-for tremor in British politics. In that other blog post, I said that we needed a new, centrist political movement: A progressive, inclusive coalition. My fellow learned atheist Richard Dawkins wrote eloquently of what’s needed next, in a letter in this Saturday’s Guardian:
Following its victory in the Richmond byelection (Report, theguardian.com), I write to suggest that the Liberal Democratic party should change its name to The European Party. We of the forgotten 48% are surely more numerous today, now that Brexit’s rudderless fiasco is becoming as obvious as the shameless lies earlier told by its advocates. Even the lead rat of the leavers has signalled his inclination to leave the sinking ship and become a migrant to America.
Today, we of the swelling 48% are cheering the Lib Dem victory in the byelection. This was a genuinely democratic, constitutional victory (Britain is a parliamentary democracy not the mob-rule “democracy” conjured up by David Cameron for the purposes of internal Tory politics). And it is widely agreed that the byelection was fought mainly on the issue of Brexit.
The Lib Dems, along with the SNP, are the only major party with the courage to stand, unequivocally, against Brexit. Unfortunately, as anyone in marketing will attest, their brand is tarnished by association with the first Cameron government. The Lib Dems need to change their name. And the obvious name is The European Party. No need to change policies. Just the name. And no long-winded “Liberal Democratic and European Party” stuff. Just “The European Party”, plain and simple.
I venture that huge numbers of the growing 48 percenters would flock to join, in a great revival of party fortunes. Probably some Labour MPs threatened with deselection, too. Maybe even some principled Tories. And I’m sure I’m not the only former supporter of the Liberal Democrats who would gladly make a generous donation to help the newly named European Party on its way.
So, there’s a glimmer of hope. If we get it right, I envy the next generation. With so much technological advancement in my lifetime, my kids could see some really exciting things, in all fields: Science, space exploration, entertainment, gaming and communication. If we get it wrong, there are some truly terrifying scenarios which we can’t begin to imagine. The trouble is, I can. And that’s why it helps to be a writer.
There simply isn’t time in this life to write it all but I’m confident that there’ll be a way of writing from the next life, made possible by some future technology. That world will be one in which one never loses one’s deceased relatives. They continue to send mail. There’s at least a long short story in that idea and possibly a book but I don’t know if I’ll have time to write the latter, with everything else which is bursting to escape me.
Yet I’m creating worlds around me: Declaring an independent state (pending with the UN), just so that I have somewhere I can always call my own and have a place to think. I’ve come to accept that in my position, any home is unlikely to be permanent. The Studio is perfect and I wish it were forever but there are no guarantees. But I also have another world which travels around with me: The typewriter (my pimped laptop), my Filofax and pens. And wherever I am, I’m a citizen of my own non-nation state. Just as I’ve created a private page for my old Pink Hearts family on Facebook, I may create another for my province. It’s another place to belong.
The way I order my brain is really no different to one of my other passions: computer gaming (albeit I’m a retro-gamer). But in the Second Life universe, in online RPGs, in No Man’s Sky and any other game, we are creating a place for ourselves in another universe. My way of living life (of coping) is just an extension of VR into my own world; a kind of imaginary reverse engineering. Somewhere to belong. I write it all around me.
VR is going to be huge. 3D TV was a failed venture but the two will combine soon. As a sci-fi writer and futurologist, I’m really looking forward to AV entertainment five years from now. The great thing about my life is that I can imagine it and create it in the present. Of course, there is a theory that everything we see is merely an illusion and that we’re part of a computer simulation. It’s more fuel for the writer, the fans flamed by the cannabis I smoke to deal with anxiety.
And then there’s the fuel from my Savage Cinema. My slightly idiosyncratic movie collection grows and evolves as I happen upon new titles. I’m approaching 1000 DVDs: A mixture of the extreme, affecting, cult and downright WTF. Feature films, TV series, documentaries…It’s quite a mix. Rarely does an acquisition for the collection call for it’s own announcement, but Sharktopus Vs. Pteracuda is one such title.
My selection criteria when acquiring titles: Roughly speaking, above 7.0 or below 3.0 on IMDB will qualify. There’ll never be time to watch them all, as the collection keeps growing. But there is a place: I wrote about it in The Paradoxicon, when I was recovering from my breakdown and I realised what life is really about.
Not long ago, I found myself in a situation. It was around about then that I realised something: Like most writers, I struggle. Many writers have mental health issues. More people with mental health issues should be writers. It helps.
Right now, I’m a pot-smoking, liberal anarchist who subscribes to democracy as being the best way for now. I’m an atheist, in that I don’t believe in God as a human construct. I believe that the soul continues to exist, long after the human body breaks down. I’ve got a load of holes in my face, including a safety pin through my ear: a symbol of safety, welcome and inclusion, and a nod to punk. I’m a rude boy with ska and reggae in my blood. I’m a spaceman, with David Bowie as the soundtrack to my life. This is me, and I quite like it.
I bucked the system and fucked people up, including myself. I live with regrets like the life sentences they are. I’m alcohol dependent. I have depression, anxiety and PTSD many times over.
And I’ve learned to love that too. It feeds my writing.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
It’s all come flooding back this week; Everything’s come home to roost. My studio might as well have been the old squat on a couple of occasions: Not because it was untidy; I’m so house proud and OCD that I even kept the squat clean and tidy when I was living there.
The police were round, a bit like they used to visit the squat. Back then, when it was a gathering ground for teenagers, the police would occasionally pop in to see who was there. If anyone had gone AWOL from school, the police would go to the squat. On the occasions when one of the young adults was reported missing, the police would check at the squat and ask me to keep my ears open. There were no drugs or underage sex at the squat and we enjoyed a community spirit with the law. The nick was quite literally next door.
This time, one of the Pink Hearts – the family which formed in that squat, mostly teenagers to whom I owe my life – had got into a spot of bother and needed somewhere to stay the night. For whatever reason, I’m the person this young lady felt safe with, so she asked the police to bring her to my place. So at three o’clock on Thursday morning, I had a Battenberg cake drop off a passenger in the mill yard outside my studio. One of the other Pink Hearts had to crash the night when her lift home forgot her.
And what do I get up to when these teenage girls stay for the night? Sit with them, talk, smoke weed and binge on DVDs. I don’t see them like others might. I see suffragettes. I see friends. I see family. Those “kids” who used to congregate at the squat, saved my life. They made me realise that life’s worth living, even when you have fuck all. My role there became an advisory one and a few of those young adults came under my wing. We remain close and the ethos of the Pink Hearts family lives on always.
There’s another Pink Heart adult: The mum of one of the girls and now my right-hand. When you’re left-handed, it’s handy (sorry) to have a right-hand and a same-age sounding board as we deal with some of the younger ones in the family.
All the signs are that this week will be similar to last. But where once I resisted company, any company is improved if there’s a supply of weed. And so has my life been by cannabis, helping me to overcome the worst of my anxiety.
It should be no surprise that I smoke weed. After all, Bob Marley’s son is named Ziggy, after Ziggy Stardust. I’m a Bowie fan with my musical roots in the birthplace of Ska: Kingston, Jamaica. I like reggae. This is what I am, but I’m only now putting the whole puzzle together. Part of me simply refused to grow up.
I’ve been less than prolific on the writing front. I’ve fitted freelance work around everything else and my personal output is concentrated on pre-publication projects: The Perpetuity of Memory mainly, as it’s still due out next month. It’s difficult to work when there are two teenage girls around. Not because I might be expected to be distracted by such a presence; I’m not like that. No, because at least one of them talks a lot and they’re both pleasant company. Although there were times when I might once have screamed, now I just look at them and I have to smile. Because in those young people, I see myself at that age; Because those girls and their friends gave me a reason to live; and because when they’re around, I don’t want to stop the world and get off any more.
I spent a long time finding out what I wanted to do with my life. An autobiography-ette; Born 1970, not dead yet:
I “grew up”, got married, had kids. I was sales director for a group of companies. I earned £75k a year and I had a decent car. Then I ran my own company, banked about £10k a month and got drunk. Then my marriage failed and I lost my home and family. I got a flat in Bexley. I had a swimming pool. I’d got into poker when I was still married. There was a massive live poker scene around Bexley. Eventually, I was running the company in the morning, then going to The Empire on Leicester Square to play poker through the night. The whole thing was fuelled by Coke up my nose. Cocaine and drink took over. I gradually lost everything and had to hand over my poker bankroll (£6000) to save my legs.
The rest was a downward spiral into the gutter. And that’s where all those young adults met me.
And now I’m poor but I’m doing what I love: I’m a writer.
But just as I can’t forget how my life fell apart, neither can I forget those kids; the Pink Hearts: Never a gang, always family.
Those kids were born between AIDS and 9/11: That’s quite a thought to take on board. Many of them have had troubled lives and some have mental health issues: That’s the other tie which binds us as a family. Like me, some have made attempts to take their own lives. Now that I know them, I’m glad I failed. And hopefully, I might have played some small part in getting them through some issues.
There are times when I remember life on the streets quite fondly: I’m perhaps part-tramp. Because yes, I was a “tramp” once. But just as blacks and gays reclaimed words, so tramps can be proud. Call me a tramp as an insult and I’ll wish I could show you how it’s a term which makes me proud to be a part of a humanist crowd. Most wouldn’t make it through.
I’ve come to terms with my mental illness(es). And I wonder, which was it? Did the entire world change, or did I realise I had a psychological condition? This is my internal dialogue as I come to terms with things and try to finally relax in amongst everything that’s grown around me.
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