A Christmas stuffed by fascists

THE WRITER’S LIFE

These last couple of weeks, I’ve been trapped in the worst depressive episode I care to remember. The human memory is selective about these things, so I can’t be sure if it’s the worst ever, but it’s a contender. This Christmas will certainly be one of the worst.

christmaswar

I’ve never been a big fan of Christmas, ever since it stopped being fun when I was a kid and I had to start buying presents. Like a wedding, it’s a day when the pressure is on everyone to have a good time, and where most of that responsibility falls to the host. In reality, everyone’s glad when it’s over.

Christmas was fun again for a while as I watched my own kids open presents, then gaze in awe at some new piece of plastic. Then I had my alcoholic breakdown and Christmas 2013 was spent on the streets. The following year I remained estranged from my family, so I went to a church do for the homeless.

I rejoined my parents for Christmas 2015, when the black cat was cautiously welcomed back into the family home, and when I’d been homeless for two years before finding the rooms above the pub. It was like any other Christmas, where everyone was obliged to have a nice time, and with the responsibility for that falling to my mum, while everyone walked on eggshells around the elephant in the room (me).

My sister stayed away that year and I’ve not seen her since mum’s act of courage when she threw me out of the last chance saloon. My sister blames me for the upset it caused our parents, and rightly, except it brought them much closer together. As far as I’m aware, my sister blames me for my dad’s Parkinson’s. He says it’s nice to have me around, that it’s good for him to have some different company to engage his mind. Mum drew a line in the sand a long time ago now, placing the past where it belongs. But my sister can’t find it in herself.

So for the last couple of years I’ve spent Christmas home alone. I get together with my parents at various times in the year, when the pressures of the festive season aren’t upon us. I was hoping to return for a family Christmas this year though. Now that mum has her hands full with looking after dad, I thought it might be nice for my parents to have Christmas dinner cooked for them. Where I’d go without many Christmases past, this might have been the last when dad remembered who I was.

But that Christmas was cancelled, by DWP stripping me of my independence payment. I simply can’t afford one, even with just myself to cater for, and I’m borrowing money just to buy my kids’ presents. With no Christmas dinner, no cheese board, no chocolates or mince pies, and probably no heating, knowing my kids are okay will be a small consolation on the day. The silver lining is I won’t be contributing to the annual excess of human waste, further suffocating our planet.

Christmas will be lonely torture, but the faceless bureaucrats who inflict this suffering in the name of a social cleansing agenda won’t be losing any sleep. They don’t understand what it is to be human, because they’ve had humanity conditioned out of them, so that they can do the will of fascist dictators. They have no feelings or emotions. It’s like dealing with Vogons.

I’ve asked DWP for a mandatory reconsideration and they’ve sent me a 32 page report telling me why I’m not eligible for my money. I have to go through this, highlight and add comments to indicate what I don’t agree with (most of it: It’s as though they’ve sent someone else’s report. Actually, they may have done that deliberately, to further the suffering). Then it goes back to be reassessed, undoubtedly refused again, then I’ll have to go to tribunal. Again. And hopefully win, again.

I’m sick, sick of this pointless process. I’m mentally ill anyway (chronic depression and anxiety, which is why I got PIP for the last four years), sick of this country and its abuse of human rights, and made more unwell by a system designed to kill people.

I know how they’ve made me feel, and what it makes me think. But I won’t give them the satisfaction. Like Christmas, I’ll just be glad when this is all over. If the electric meter permits, perhaps I’ll escape with Jimmy Stewart and a reminder of a Wonderful Life which went before. I need someone, something, to get me out of here. I need an escape.

In any case, I need to write to live. I need to sell stories or hope for donations from readers grateful of my free fiction. £2.99 buys an eBook of Cyrus Song (the price of a coffee, which I’m always grateful for via the ‘Buy me a coffee’ donate button). I wouldn’t want the Department for Work and Pensions to think I got help from socialist propaganda, as it would defeat their self-purpose.

Christmas Donations

I’ll have plenty of time to write over Christmas (probably by candle light, while wearing fingerless gloves), and as a sci-fi writer, I can see a world unfolding around us which was prophesied. The Bible says that The Beast will have many heads (look at the rise of the right and the installation of fascist leaders around the world); The Antichrist will appear as a false prophet (see Trump); then there’ll be war (just look around).

Perhaps a new star will rise in the east, an extraterrestrial craft to unite our attention to a greater intelligence. Or maybe the aliens will kill the fascists.

Scroll down for free fiction…

Crosswords and headwinds

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Among my sideline interests, I compile cryptic crosswords. Some of my favourite past clues for flavour:

1. Powered flight? (9)
2. GESG (9, 4)
3. DIM (5, 8)
4. (4,3,3,1,4)

The answers are in this meandering post…

dirty_scrabble

Today is nine weeks since I had my PIP assessment, and still I’ve had nothing in writing. I eventually got to speak to someone at DWP last week, only to be told that my application was still being processed. At least I haven’t been forgotten. Still I’m on a statutory benefit, sans a payment which permitted me some independence with my special needs. One of the freedoms taken from me is the ability to visit my parents, where PIP used to cover the train fares.

Dad says it’s good to have me around, and I know that contact with others can help with dementia and other degenerative conditions (he has Parkinson’s). So if I’m denied my independence, the system has already made me much more unwell, and quite possibly my dad too. If I’m declined, I’ll be unable to spend Christmas with family (and it could always be the last for my parents or me), no gifts for my kids, and unable to see my dad while he still remembers who I am.

I borrowed money to make the monthly visit to see the kids yesterday, but without my PIP payment, those trips may have to be reduced in frequency. A life is not a singular thing and there are people denied (or spared) my company. Despite winter approaching, I’m eating less and heating less.

The day with the children was very much as usual: lunch and interesting conversation, then shopping and further debate on matters of the world, of nature, medicine and science. We question things, and yesterday I wondered how the Romans did maths, if they only had Roman numerals. An interesting aside too, as we noted that as well as having alliterative names, my eldest is taller than me (not difficult) and therefore the longest Laker; the youngest is just a little shorter than my mum, and the littlest Laker for now.

It was a day punctuated by escalators. The first was one I’d ridden hundreds of times before, and its brothers and sisters around the London Underground estate, possibly millions. And yet, after more than 30 years of working, living and just being in London, something occurred to me for the very first time: ‘Dogs must be carried’. I don’t have a dog. It’s a terrible sentence, implying that carrying a dog is compulsory for riding the moving stairs, and it will haunt this pedant for the rest of my days and every time I see it.

Back at Euston later, ‘Stand on the right’ is the first on the list of London Underground’s levitation instructions, and invariably some people don’t. I tend to walk down and float up, but I was anxious of time and chose to walk up the left of the escalator, to be greeted by a backside, talking to her friend on the right. “Excuse me,” I said, perhaps impatiently with someone too ignorant and arrogant to read signs. “How rude,” I was told.

I apologised for having excused myself so that I could travel freely and not hinder the transit of those behind me, but apparently that was rude and I should be more patient. I passed this down the line behind me, asked if she’d rather have my blood, and told her to get over herself, which elicited a tut. Finally I pointed to the signs at regular intervals on the way up: “Stand on the right,” I read aloud, and added “like fascists”. I was tired of walking by now, so I stood on the right of the escalator, in front of my verbal assailant. As I rose to ground level, I let one go silently and shared the scrambled eggs I’d had for breakfast.

I can only hope that more than nine weeks of stressing and growing more anxious by the day is enough for the dehumanising machine, that nine weeks is considered sufficient suffering, and now I can be returned to an independent life with sufficient funds to live it. If not, if I’m found undeserving for some reason (even though I’ve been on PIP for the last four years), that’s a pretty sick trick to play on someone. Those days out with my kids are about all I have now, and that may be denied by the Tory government’s social cleansing machine.

Life has changed over the last few months, ever since this benefit reapplication process started. Even if I am forced through the tribunal process again, knowing where I stand would be better than where I am at the moment. Right now I have not got a clue what the answers are.

Did you find them all?

Lifestyles of the disposable people

THE WRITER’S LIFE

It’s now eight weeks since my reassessment for PIP and I’ve still heard nothing. It could be that the Department for Work and Pensions are still processing me, but my money was cut to a statutory amount a month ago, when my last two-year benefit period expired. I’m surviving without the money I used to live an independent life (the whole purpose of the benefit), but I have nothing beyond essentials. Everything else, I can no longer afford. I’m disabled, dehumanised, and it feels, disposable.

Broken Dolls Heads

The timing couldn’t be more cruel. If I’m forced through the tribunals machine, the process could drag on for another 4-6 months. During that time there’s Christmas and my kids’ and parents’ birthdays. I can’t afford anything more than token gifts. I have just about enough money to maintain my monthly visits with the children, but little else. I’d like to visit my parents more, but I can’t afford to.

My dad’s diagnosis has changed. For the last six months, doctors thought he had hydrocephalus. He had fluid on his brain, which was drained, and everyone hoped he’d get better. But he got worse for a while. His condition was complicated by a serious neural infection requiring powerful intravenous antibiotics, and a fall resulting in three cracked ribs. All of which seemed to explain his long recovery. But although he’s better, he’s nothing like he was before this all started, when he got lost driving at night and I reported him missing and vulnerable to the police.

The latest prognosis is that dad probably has Parkinson’s, and I’d like to visit him while he still remembers who I am. But with my independence payment taken away, I can’t afford to. What a shame, that the UK benefits system is designed that way, to deny quality of life (independence), to aggravate mental illness with all this anxiety, and take away what was left of a life. A life is not a singularity, and each affects many others.

Shame on some of my so-called friends, who I loaned money in their times of need, but who never repaid me. I hope they enjoy their family Christmas, but that it’s marred by the prickly guilt of knowing they denied a friend what might have been his last. If a house is exorcised and you don’t pay the priest, will your home be repossessed? Karma can be a bitch of a haunting, but exorcism is easily arranged by settling debts (There’s a ‘Donate’ button on this blog).

Like most social tenants, my electricity is on a key meter, so like most poor people, I pay more for electricity and have to pay in advance. I won’t be troubling the meter too much, just putting on extra layers of clothing. A cynic might call it another social cleansing measure, by a fascist Tory government intent on population reduction by writing off costs, like disposable people.

I’m struggling, but I’m still here, hoping to find some humanity in the Department of Waste and Recycling that’s the benefits system. I’ll keep fighting to get what I’m entitled to, and hopefully regain my independence. Don’t forget me dad.

I’d rather be writing hard-fi sci-fi

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I’m into week seven since my PIP assessment, and none the wiser still. But having spoken to a friend (after being given a glimmer of hope by the mothership), I’m managing to reverse a paradigm. Rather than fear the unknown, I’m making the most of it. I’m still anxious, but I can multi-task while worrying.

Octopus MotherfuckerPatricia Correl’s Writing Blog

My friend (we’ll call him Jacques, because my friend is neither a man nor French) has just been through the initial dehumanising stage of the DWP and Tory government social cleansing machinery. Jacques only got his Personal Independence Payment decision after eight weeks of waiting for the self-appointed powers to decide if he was worthy of a continued oxygen supply. They found in his favour, so now Jacques is a character in a story I’m writing.

What’s the point of waiting on the phone for 20 minutes to speak to someone, only to be hung up on when you ask the wrong question, or to be told my case is still being reviewed? Better to make use of time I can do nothing other with, to write.

After committing myself to finish this story in my last post, it’s developed. It now has a tentative working title of ‘The Plastic Population’, which actually doesn’t give too much away, and I don’t think anyone will see the ending coming anyway. As far as I’m aware, it’s a completely original idea, or at least a different plot device.

The story has a plausibility in science, and it pulls together a few recent phenomena: Plastic pollutants in the oceans have been found to be breeding grounds for new kinds of bacteria; Micro-plastics in every living organism on Earth could have carcinogenic properties we don’t know of yet; and humans have been attempting to find evidence of extraterrestrial life in cosmic radio waves. But maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place. The story begins roughly (first draft) like this:

What if all of life, with its meandering trails, high rises and deep slopes, was the path leading us to something, somewhere we’d once wished for? We might have forgotten what that was, or it might be buried deep within our species’ subconscious, but still, dreams can come true.

Like a homeless drunk on the streets, there because it’s where the path he’d chosen led, what humanity needed was a new player in the game of life, one which would fundamentally change the way we look at ourselves and our understanding of the universe.

It wasn’t a common foe to unite previously warring factions, although in a way it was. It wasn’t an alien invasion, but in some ways it was that too. It was a cure for cancer, which ironically arrived like a message in a plastic water bottle…

Those are the bricks, and the cure for cancer is more analogy than literal spoiler. It’s a large tower to build, but it’s one to a kind of Babel. I’d much rather be writing and finding answers over the next couple of weeks in limbo, than staring at the walls not knowing, and counting the days in notches.

Barring a shit sandwich in the mail from DWP withdrawing my oxygen supply, The Plastic Population should be out in the length of a piece of string.

Computer says no, you must die

THE WRITER’S LIFE

After keeping me waiting for five weeks, throwing petrol on my depression and anxiety, The Department for Work and Pensions (DWP) have refused my re-application for PIP (Personal Independence Payment). They didn’t even have the decency to send a letter, and I found out when much less money than normal went into my account. No doubt the shit sandwich will arrive in the mail soon, after it’s gone through further bureaucracy.

VogonA relative and employee of Theresa May at DWP, yesterday

I’ve been in receipt of the independence benefit for the last four years, and at my last assessment I must have seemed in worse health (because I am), but some appointed worthy who’s never met me, sitting self-importantly at a computer, has made a life-changing decision, to deny me what I’ve been entitled to for the last four years, and which I used to live an independent life. I can’t do that any more.

I may not be able to visit my kids or parents so often or at all. But what does DWP care? They know I’ve failed to kill myself before, as it’s on my hospital records. It couldn’t be that they wish me more success next time, surely? I hope they sleep well at night (and one day, don’t wake up).

Now I face the appeals process through to tribunal. I’ve done it twice before and won. This was a re-application, for a benefit I’ve been paid for the last four years. It all begs the question, why do this? Why incur all the extra expense and waste their time (and mine)? Because they want to wear people down so that they give up, roll over and die (it’s the Vogon way). But like a bad smell, I won’t go away.

With about £5 a day to spend now, I’ll have to be very creative with meals. And as the appeal process takes around three months, that’s Christmas nicely fucked up, possibly the last one I spend with my parents, thanks to the DWP and the Tory government’s social cleansing project. The last five weeks have made me ill but it didn’t kill me, and I won’t be swept from society by fascists. Apart from the roof over my head, the next few months will be like it was on the streets, and I survived that.

The singular, only, sole, lone, individual good thing I might be able to salvage in all of this, is that with nothing to do (eat, drink, or smoke), I might as well spend some time at the keyboard. If I can’t afford heating, I’ll get some fingerless gloves.

I have a tribunal process to document in fiction. I need to write, of the psychological horror this has been, of poverty, of the perverse torture by sick and twisted Nazis, and of exacting, violent and bloody revenge. The story of an impoverished writer, an irritant irritating, and literally (in literature) fisting some arseholes and scratching around inside.

Going forward (can’t find reverse)

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I’m somewhat in limbo at the moment, part way through the dehumanisation process which is the biannual re-application for Personal Independence Payment (Daily Living Component only) on the grounds of having crippling depression and anxiety. I’ve been called for an assessment, a one-to-one consultation with an out-sourced medical professional (my last one was a midwife) to determine if I’m mental enough to be paid to stay out of society’s way.

oneflewovercuckoosnest-ratched-mcmurphy-700x330

I’ve not been writing much because my mind is focussed on the short-term. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything else when you’re fighting to keep the money you need to have any quality of life. I decided to take a trip to find ideas.

My favourite time to be alive was when I was 14, in 1984. Apart from being 14, it was an era which introduced me to the emergence of home computing, Steve Barron’s Electric Dreams, and aspirations of having a room like David Lightman’s in John Badham’s WarGames. He had a lock on his door and could connect to the early internet via dial-up and an acoustic coupler. Aged 48, I’ve managed to acquire more or less the same, but with more internet.

When you don’t go out much and you’re stuck for something to do, you can do far worse than take a wander around the entire universe which is online, beyond your bookmarks. Anything and everything is there to be discovered, away from the well-trodden paths.

Here’s a few I’ve happened upon today, starting with some personal exploration by way of translating my words into pictures with AI art: Type in some text and it will interpret it as art. It’s pretty shit, but it can be quite inspired (and disturbing). For starters I just typed in what I was, then what I was doing and what I wanted:

Writer sitting at desk   Writing science fiction   Dying to be heard
Left to right: “A writer sitting at a desk”, “Writing science fiction”, “Dying to be heard”

As I staggered from that virtual gallery, I found someone who’d stumbled upon a hidden computer museum. This little-known place hosts exhibits which were fundamental to the evolution of the computer, from 4000-year-old Mesopotamian tablets to computers of yesteryear, and the kind David Lightman and Miles Harding found so much life in:

Mesopetanian tablets         Computer Museum

I finished my little trip by taking in some more art. With OCD among my many labels, there are some sights which disturb me (Alphabetti running out of letters I need to make words on toast), and antidotes to erase memories of such things. There are video compilations of these little CGI perpetual motion machines on YouTube, and the dude who makes them is one Andreas Wannerstedt. He has an Instagram page, filled with dozens of examples of things like this:

After that brief stumble up the internet corridor, I’d have liked someone to hug when I got home. I once lived on the streets, where love and fear are never far apart. I was ready to laugh at this guy, because I’ve become (in some ways) reconditioned to life with a roof. How quickly we forget not to be too quick to judge, as Catfish Cooley tells us so eloquently:

If I’m judged unfit for work in the upcoming PIP assessment, I’ll be able to get on with life again. I just wonder who’s fit to judge. The process is designed to reduce one’s will to live, but I won’t be a statistic in a government’s social cleansing exercise. While I can’t go out, I still have a virtual universe to traverse.

 

Home of silent propaganda

COMMENT | SATIRE

propaganda-e1498947894270The Department for Work and Pensions’ definition of each benefits claim

A 47-year-old, able-bodied, straight white British man, has begun a campaign against himself, because what he stands for is different to what his appearance represents. With diagnoses of PTSD, depression, anxiety and personality disorders, the man’s protest aims to highlight invisible disabilities to those who make fitness-for-work assessments in benefit claims.

Lee Verstak (not his real name), a little-read left-wing writer, explained: “Everyone thought I was jumping on bandwagons, supporting everything I’m not: BAME, LGBT, and everyone else who’s discriminated against. I tried inventing minorities, transcending them even. But when I made a case for pan-sexuality being someone who understands, even if they don’t take part, people got confused. How are you supposed to participate in a debate if you try to think for everyone?

“So to prove everyone wrong, I’ve started this protest against me doing that sort of thing. I’ve always been capable of actually walking a short distance, but I never enjoyed doing it anyway, because of my paranoia and anxiety.

I handed out some leaflets locally, with me on them, telling people what I was doing. Before long, people stopped taking them, and eventually ignored me altogether, saying I should be in a home or something. So I sent myself home.

I found out that technically, you can arrest yourself, in a logical extension of the powers of citizens arrest available to us all, to prevent a further breach of myself. I’d encourage others to do this, to help the system so that we may be more easily dealt with and ignored.

I’ve told the authorities where I’m holding myself, but even the departments for indifference and ignorance can’t help, so I’m just sweating it out. I’m on strike from being me, sort of like a hunger strike, but without anyone to force feed me. I might have wasted away in a few months: Problem solved.

Meanwhile, it’s an opportunity to reflect on how others see you. For me, it’s going well: I fucking hate myself. Hopefully I’ll get through it, like I did the last two tribunals, and I’ll feel even more dehumanised and with an even lower opinion of myself.

“Yeah, it’s quite life-affirming really. Then I might write a book or something, about finding a way out when life traps you: Imagine you’re in a room, with no visible means of exit: how do you get out? Well, you could stop imagining, or you could use your imagination.”

My critically-acclaimed, Douglas Adams tribute sci-fi novel is also now an eBook. My latest anthology is available in paperback.