We’re only gone when we’re forgotten, but when we remember, sometimes they visit us. They still walk among us. You just have to keep your eyes open to notice them.
We’re only gone when we’re forgotten, but when we remember, sometimes they visit us. They still walk among us. You just have to keep your eyes open to notice them.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
While my offline self continues to deal with real-life situations I needn’t trouble the world with, the one who’d like to tell everyone everything was suffering writer’s block. And I’ve been revisiting my favourite science fiction universe in Firefly, the demise of which I mourn daily, just like Sheldon Cooper.
This sci-fi geek modeller is my favourite person right now: He’s made a model of an aircraft carrier and parked Serenity on the deck (Pierre Drolet Sci-Fi Museum)
I read an article recently on hobbies to help with anxiety and depression, and writing wasn’t one of them, which was strange, because it’s been writing that’s helped me most over time. In the beginning, it was all I had.
That was five years ago, when I begged money on the streets to buy exercise books from Poundland (and white cider), and stole some bookies pens. When I used to sit in various warm, dry and light places, I planned to turn my story into a book. Then I got over myself and realised no-one would be interested in a Charles Bukowski fan boy (although I’ve been compared to him since, and many others in fact: some of the greats in the genres I write). In any case, The Paradoxicon was a fair stab at a semi-autobiographical flash fiction novel, allowing me to move on, and I’ve written four other books since.
Much has changed since then, and life has got easier in many respects (somewhere to live helps), but without the constant distraction of life keeping you on your feet, there’s a tendency to get stuck. I’ve never lapsed back to drinking, but I know why I did, when I’d sometimes rather blank something from my mind which won’t sleep. But I’m a writer.
Unless you’re writing for a mass market, it’s a very internal affair, and prevented from writing about much in my real life (the privacy of others), my solitary offline life gave me little else to think about. Well therein lies the paradox I’d created for myself: As a writer, I can write anything. And as a blogger, that can just be a diary entry.
Right now I’m perched on a cushion on my chair, not just because I’m short but because the air canister has emptied itself, so it’s lost its power of levitation. Nevertheless, the dead chair is full of memories that I’ve written while I sat at this desk on many other late nights. I’ll keep my old seat, because I can’t afford another one anyway, but most importantly, it’s where I am now.
I’m aware of the weight distribution in my arse on the cushion, and because I think different to most, I feel speed. Because what I can feel below me – the weight of my backside on the seat – is the feeling of my own gravity in relation to that of the Earth. So in another way of thinking, the pressure I feel is not me bearing down, but the entire planet pushing up beneath me. Like this world and everyone else on it, I’m spinning at 1000 mph and hurtling through space at around fifty times that. These are the things which keep me awake at night, sometimes joyfully.
If I get it right, I can sometimes lucid dream, and within my mind I can explore the universe (there are articles dotted about this blog). It’s getting to sleep that’s the problem, but writing is good for insomnia.
I’ve got sufficient followers to guarantee at least one will be interested in what’s on my mind, because they’ve chosen to follow me and be a part of another virtual life. And in a life cut off from most human contact, for someone like me, that’s a comforting thought.
So even if I am rambling, I know that someone besides me will be reading, then I feel less alone.
This blog was originally that of a writer with depression, like so many others, and yet it was the illness which prevented me dealing with it. Such is the power of the mind when it’s cracked. But other times, living with a Kintsukorai mind (one which is more beautiful for having been broken) is one long lucid dream.
Whenever I question what’s in my head existentially, I’m reminded of a documentary Stephen Fry made about his own brand of depression. At the end, he posed a question: If there were a big red button, and hitting it would just restore you to “Normal”, would you? Same as him, I don’t have to think for long: No.
Paul Auster once said he’s happy with a day’s work if he has 500 words of perfect prose at the end. I’m happier when I’ve pumped out 850 words of pulp thoughts in an hour and cleared my mind for others to read. A problem shared, is one divided or multiplied.
Now Serenity awaits, somewhere in the universe. If I can just dream, I can hitch a ride, with friends, the captain, a shepherd, a doctor, and a companion or more.
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.
Patricia 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.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
Although I’m (not over but) dealing with a few issues in my real life, I’ve still been struggling to write. The real world issues are the ongoing personal lives of loved ones (friends and family), those of the world at large, and the ones in my head. With so much to write about, I’ve struggled to know where to start, or started writing and found myself in a land of digression. But I digress. I’ve found a solution. It’s something I’ve had for ages, but which I’d forgotten about.
Pinhead (centre): Head like a sieve
Salvation came indirectly from a kindred spirit, another blogger commenting on my last post. I felt empathy, as I was reminded how the universe can answer you if you ask for something, and I read Annother Voice | Unsilenced. That moment of quantum entanglement was what reminded me of the thing I’d lost: Not empathy or universal connectivity, but a book.
Like other writers, that blogger often uses writing prompts, an exercise I’ve rarely undertaken since I first got into writing on a home study course. I’ve always preferred writing freehand, in a notebook always about my person, or at my desk, just seeing what comes out. That’s where most of my fiction starts life, but writing about life can be difficult: It’s that paradox of having too much to say in my head.
I’ve had to compartmentalise my mind (again), so that all I can’t easily write about (the complicated and the not finished), I’ll think about some more first. What’s left is fiction ideas, plots and outlines in one pile, and other freehand notes in another. Then, like my mental health labels, I’ll pin those memos in my head and try to make sense of it all (like Hellraiser with Post-Its).
Still though, I find there’s so much from my mind in those notes that it’s hard to know where to start. That’s where the book came in.
I first noticed 642 Things to Write About in a book store when I was out with my children, and immediately I dismissed it. As the name suggests, it’s 642 ideas about things to write. But I can come up with ideas from my own imagination; that’s where my stories come from. I thought The San Francisco Writers’ Grotto had quite some front, publishing a book of mainly blank pages, with suggestions for things to write about at the top of each. They were charging people money to write their book. So I bought a copy.
The impulse to buy came with a simple thought: 42, which always gives rise to other thoughts. These may be just 642 ideas, but they’re those of other writers. There are only a finite number of plots, but an infinite number of stories which can be written. Each copy of 642 Things sold – if filled by writing freehand – would be a unique volume. I thought I could get quite into that.
Even though I have a fertile imagination, there’s something challenging and refreshing about writing something suggested by someone else. I liked to think those writers at the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto might be interested to see what others made of their ideas (in fact, I’ve been tempted in the past to ask another writer to take one of my ideas, then for us to write two completely different stories). Then I forgot about it.
The book and the beginning of my 642 Things got lost in my real life, just as I was lost in my inner third world and my thoughts, so that I forgot my virtual life and writing. It was the perfect storm. And then that other voice came along, reminding me of writing prompts, and that I had a whole book of them. I guess that prompted me to write a blog post about writing prompts, a foreword to my own 642 Things, some of which I’ll share and a few may become stories.
The best prompt came from another writer and blogger, a kindred spirit who connected the dots without realising, when I didn’t know what to write. Sometimes we wonder if anyone’s reading us, and I’m glad I read that other voice.
I’m the cracked actor with much on my mind, wishing to escape. Blessed are the cracked, for they let in the light, like umbrellas in the night: Full of holes where the rain gets in, but the holes are small so the rain is thin.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
There’s little fictional about the roles I play in the real lives of others, but there’s little I can write about the private affairs of other people’s hearts. The many parts of me which play those roles and tend to others’ wishes, all sometimes wish for something else.
Dystopian art by Alex Andreev
With so many other people’s lives piled on top of my own in my mind, parts of me sometimes wish I could escape, perhaps to not be needed enough (when I should find it flattering), or to not be taken advantage of.
I’m friend and confidante, surrogate parent and sibling; I’m banker, counsellor, lawyer, and psychologist; I’m an empath, a guide, and a guardian; yet I have none of these things myself, despite a human need.
Humans thrive on contact with each another, but I often resist, because of the humans I know. When loneliness makes me crave another human, I attract the wrong kind. I can rarely rest for any prolonged period, because I’m always expecting an interruption from the needy. And I wouldn’t mind, if I got something back.
I don’t have much myself, but I manage what I have, then others ask for it when they themselves run out: Money, tobacco, and even food. Much of it is lent in a time of apparent need but never returned.
Sometimes my patience is tried, and I’m tired. I’m able to deal with the needy things on a daily and individual basis, thanks to my venomous mouth, but like most snakes, I prefer not to bite unless necessary, and avoid conflict until it brings itself to me. Like when I was recently asked if I could lend someone some money:
After explaining that I had no money until I received my own benefits the following week (which I didn’t have to do), then that I needed the money, I was asked why? I further explained that this was none of their fucking business, but that I was visiting my parents, to help get my dad to a hospital appointment in London. I was further interrogated on when I’d be leaving, then a suggestion was made: that I could draw out some money before I left. Although I’ll help people in genuine need, I don’t respond calmly and quietly to passive aggression.
The part of me with OCD would rather not have to tidy up behind people; the paranoid, anxious one who suffers PTSD would rather sleep well at night, knowing there’ll be no interruptions or early morning calls; and the real-life one with chronic depression would just like to be asked how I am sometimes, by those who make those parts of me worse.
I don’t mind helping people, but it would be nice if others sometimes helped me. They wouldn’t have time, but I could at least let them know I need less from them. I don’t like being alone, but sometimes I’m forced to shut myself away, to head off the tide of people pushing towards me, in this life which often seems a one-way street. It affects my ability to sleep, perchance to dream lucidly and escape for a while.
I’m resolutely single, because I travel with my own atmosphere, but also because of my mistrust of the human race, based on the subjects who’ve demonstrated their human empathy so poorly. I want attention, but not the kind of unwanted attention I attract. I crave contact, but only with those who understand me, the paradoxical enigma. I need to see a shrink.
I’m socially anxious, so I can’t deal with multiple diagnoses requiring me to travel for treatment. The waiting list for psychiatric treatment (I need weekly sessions with a psychologist) is so long, that I daren’t bother it, when others might need it more. When it comes to my next fitness-for-work assessment, it’ll most likely go to tribunal (my third) because there’s little on my medical file, further dehumanising me.
One day, other people might just push a part of me too far. Then if there’s no-one there to catch me – like I have so many others – they’ll have no banker, adviser or friend. Guardianship by angel will then be my own choice, of those I wish to haunt.
A small part of me sometimes wishes everything would just leave me alone, or that I could escape the social inequality of this planet, but it’s only one of many small parts.
Life on the streets was somehow easier, when there were no ties and humans helped their fellow kind. Life was two-way traffic there. Like way back when, it’s why I have to write it all down here.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
Far be it from me to post a restaurant review, because I never have. I’ve dined at the odd fictional place I made up because I don’t get out much, so what good would it do to post an opinion on a real place? It’d probably get as many more visitors to a Chinese takeaway as I might expect sales of a book if a restaurant were to review one of mine.
SlashFilm article, on Asian cultures and characters
In the interests of reporting all which needn’t trouble the world outside my own, and in supporting local business, this week I visited a China just up the road.
It’s rare that I get out, let alone as far as the Asian continent. I went to France once on a family holiday, and happened to be in Chicago on a business trip when the world’s political axis was tipped on 9/11. I don’t fear the wider world any more than I do the planet in my head, which still makes travelling a challenge.
At the most recent surveilance of the horizons in my mind’s world, it was a narrow perspective. Rather than gazing and wondering outward, I was looking in; kind of like having a telescope round the wrong way.
The limited stocks of food I had wouldn’t go to waste, but my miscomprehension of why I eat told me I didn’t fancy what I had to hand: Such a first world problem. As I contemplated what to think about cooking and eating, the paradigm was shifted by a neighbour.
The kind of guy who’d offer you unsolicited advice at a pub fruit machine, my friend is harmless if humoured, and a social tenant like me with a past. Nevertheless, when I had no instant coffee which he’d forgotten to buy in the morning, he asked me if I’d make him one of my nice filter ones (which I did).
Like me, my neighbour doesn’t get out much. So I decided to save both me and him further bother by going out to buy him some instant coffee. Then I wondered why I was out on my own in the dark. To solve problems, I guessed: Those of others, which might alleviate my own. As fresh as the coffee I’d just bought from Tesco Metro, the air drew my attention to my local Chinese takeaway.
I’ve lived here for two years, but I’ve never troubled the local cuisine. I’m happier instead to buy food to look at (and sometimes not cook) from the supermarket. So I crossed the road.
I wasn’t particularly hungry and neither did I want to eat, but both were down to my own inaction. I forced myself to eat by buying a takeaway, from a place not unlike many whose windows I’d gaze through longingly when I was homeless.
For all of twenty minutes, I was back on the streets again, but now looking out on a world in which I had a home to return to. It brought back memories, so I reverted to type and ordered what I always used to: sweet and sour king prawn balls, with rice vermicelli, Singapore style. The walk home was less eventful than the paranoid mind imagines, and nothing happened.
The words “Fresh” rest uneasily in my mind with Chinese takeaway, but my king prawns were somehow new in their batter, the sauce not like that I remember from artificiality, and the noodles disguising nothing but the sweetness of fresh chillis from that other continent, just outside my door.
It’s a place called “Lovely”, it’s right on my doorstep and it helped me find my way, by way of Chinese takeaway. It also served well as a day-after snack, where the measure is now less of a hangover cure and more about preserving food inside the body.
Once upon a time, I shared many meals from China and around the world with others, without actually going there. This week, I fed myself with a breath of outside air. I don’t go out much, and it’s no wonder when I’m let loose for a few minutes and all this happens. It’s a reminder of why I’m not allowed to roam free-range and why I just write about it. Anyone passing through and who can’t be arsed to cook, should call into a lovely place not a million miles from me.
I guess I just used this post to write.
THE WRITER’S LIFE
Just as humans seem to be waking up to the crimes they’ve committed on our home world, I’m dealing with the self-harm I’ve recently inflicted upon myself. Being one of the many, prompted the individual. While humans have a moral responsibility to clear up their own mess, I owed it to myself to address mine: The fall of the wall.
We’ve been here before, and it’ll happen again, when I’ve taken a mental knock in life and fallen into a ditch. With my brand of depression, it’s difficult to get over things which others might shrug off. When I’m personally invested in something and it goes wrong, I have a tendency to blame myself and dwell in a pool of guilt and self-doubt.
It’s an irrational internal brain blame culture, which extends to the problems of my fellow species on Earth. When I look around at what we’ve done, I wonder if I could have done more to prevent it. But could I have stopped Brexit, or the election of Trump? No more than I could make my dad better, or promise my kid sister she’ll live happily ever after as a matriarch.
Forces beyond my control are frustrating, just as all that we don’t understand is the greatest human fear. Unseen agents wresting control from me, have been the roots of past medical diagnoses of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD): being robbed at knifepoint, triggering an alcoholic decline to the end of a marriage, and another PTSD diagnosis.
Further trauma followed in the years I was homeless, and they all carry memories and regrets which fester in the repentant mind. At the last count, I had five or six entries for PTSD on my medical file, each compounding its predecessor. My dad’s health and my sister’s life hereafter are holding, but each could lead to a further dive into my own sense of self-worth, as I wonder if there was more I could have done.
I realise that if I’m to be in any way effective as a carer, helper, adviser and counsel, I need to get over myself; I have to keep going for other people’s sake despite myself, yet the only person I have to speak to about that is in the mirror, or on this page.
There was much in life which was outside my control, and no individual human can be held personally responsible for their species’ misdeeds, but we can work together to repair the damage. When I was still in London, I had an excellent psychologist who’d let me spill my thoughts on the floor, then go through them with me. All I can do now is spew up on a screen. Not all of this might make sense, but it helps to write it.
I’d forgotten I’m a writer and became more myself, and I don’t like that. It was writing which saved me from myself and pulled me back from the gutter, and it’s been self-help for the solitary anxious depressive ever since. Once the words are flowing, nothing else matters so much. The feel of keys beneath my fingers is my pulse. Even if I’m churning out pulp, eventually I’ll find decent prose, like the infinite monkeys writing Shakespeare.
I think I’ve done enough now, to apologise and make good all that I can. To dwell further is to hold others back, and myself. I gave up apologising to those who can’t find it in themselves to forgive. I prefer resolutory debate over conflict or a simple refusal to engage, but I’d rather walk away from a wall I can’t get over than talk to it. I only had myself to talk to, and I got over it.
Guilt is a wall as high as you build it. It will always be there as a constant reminder, but provided you’ve paid it sufficient moral respect, you can climb over it, walk around it, or simply go through it, rather than keep bumping into it and having to talk to it. When the lights go out at night and I’m writing, walls come tumbling down.
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