The Effervescent Death Of Lithium Lovers

Once
I dreamed you had cancer
Sick but true
Or maybe just amusing
Like a blow job
From a mouth full of alka-seltzer
Or that time I dreamed
It rained lithium
And we fizzed to death.

The Mekon Must Die!

I woke up much earlier than usual this morning. The sun was shining directly into my window and through the curtains I'd neglected to close, almost blinding me as I clutched my churning stomach and tried to ignore the pain in my head.

My leaving party was last night. Too much to drink. Vague memories of being driven home by Vanessa and making her stop on the motorway because I needed to piss.

My first words, spoken in the old man croak of the chain-smoker: "What the fuck?"

Directly beneath the window, resting ominously on my computer chair, was a large papier mache sculpture of The Mekon's head. I vaguely remembered being presented with this as one of my gifts, along with a scythe (an honest-to-God SCYTHE, ladies and gentlemen) and a T-shirt that read "We are the pod people from Gaddesden Row" that I wore with pride.

I suppose I should explain these bizarre presents. The job I just quit was as assistant manager in a country pub called The Old Chequers. Working there was a strange and evil time in my life, and my days were filled with all manner of weird country folk who looked with disapproval and horror on my city-boy ways.

I hated a lot of the customers. Hated them with a passion. In fact, I was often heard voicing the opinion that I was trapped in the village from Invasion Of The Body Snatchers, and that I had to get out before they finally got to me and I was turned into a Pod Person (That'd be the T-shirt explained).

I dealt with these fears by requesting weapons to keep behind the bar. Every time my boss went to cash and carry on a Saturday morning, he would ask me if I wanted anything.

"A machine gun to mount on the counter," I would cheerfully reply.
"A broadsword."
"A baseball bat."
"A taser."
And, "A scythe."

For some reason, the scythe thing bashed a gong in my mind and I began to ask for one repeatedly, adding that I would also like a hooded cape so that I could serve the customers dressed as Death. I never believed they would actually comply with these lunatic requests, but last night, I was presented with the bar-weapon of my dreams. Which ruled.

As for The Mekon, well, if you're not familiar with the chap, here's a visual aid...

In May of this year, I hadn't taken a sick day for over four years. I rarely get ill, and when I do it's usually minor and passes quickly. But when I came down with the flu last month, I got hit hard, so hard that I could barely get out of bed. I was living in at the pub, so all I had to do was stagger downstairs and let one of the managers know I wasn't feeling up to working.

When the pub closed that night, I went downstairs to talk to Chris and Vanessa (the couple that run The Chequers). Vanessa casually remarked that, when I'd come down and told her I wasn't feeling well, my head had actually looked swollen. Chris, being a big fan of comics, immediately seized on this and began calling me The Mekon. For some odd reason, this caught on, and I toyed with the idea of writing online under that name. Clearly overjoyed at this prospect, Chris began leaving pictures of the saucer-riding alien in various locations around the bar. This artistic stalking obviously reached its nadir last night, when he presented me with the giant papier mache head.

Genius.

Back to the main thrust of this post, which is the fact that - when I woke up this morning - The Darkened Room stank so strongly of paint that it was making me feel ill. This same paint, I quickly realised, was on my hands and even my face, and had stained both my clothes and my blankets. I had clearly been attacked by The Mekon while I slept, and there was only one thing left to do...

Which, in a nutshell, is how I came to slay that big-headed xenophobe fuck with a scythe.

Hi, My Name's Michael, And My Future Is Cancer-Ridden Alcoholism

Christ. Suddenly it's 6:30 in the morning and another day has slipped past without any sleep. I'll be listing clinical insomnia on my CV soon, as a practiced talent and qualification.

The hair monster was supposed to be slain today, only I lacked the necessary energy to stagger down to the hairdressers, so I cancelled my appointment. I did, however, find the stamina to nip over to the off-license and grab a bottle of Jack and a couple of packets of cigarettes. These are gone already, and the thought worries me.

Hi, my name's Michael, and my future is cancer-ridden alcoholism.

This is the problem with the early mornings. They're just an all-around fucking downer for me. My body's aching but my brain is just coming back up to speed after the dead time between midnight and five or so. If I'd forced myself into bed then, I might have had a chance of crashing, of finding oblivion and hanging out there for a day or so. That's what tends to happen to me if I can get myself in a position to sleep when my system finally gets itself into a state of synchronised exhaustion. I just crash out for something like fifteen hours.

Still, at least I got a lot of work done today, most of it on a surreal piece of science fiction lunacy entitled Deliria. When not working on that and drinking heavily, I was surfing vaguely around and chatting to friends. I also took the time to tidy up and streamline my profile at Everyone's Connected, one of many sites I'm a member of. You can find my funky words and pictures here.

That'll do for today, I think. I'm off to read for a bit and see if I can trick my brain into thinking I'm staying up while secretly plotting to go to bed.

Shhhhh.

Your Life, Ours

Baritone screaming,
Necessary gear change,
Uphill labours
don’t bother that suit too much,
Down now,
An endless path,
Opaque borders,
An occasional glimpse
to the sea,
Depth concealed
in sunshine
jewellery box infinity,
Life presented
in a box complete with
promotional material,
Silence crowned king
of our awkward parade
until eulogy forces
comparison
for ego to usurp,
Like always
I could scream.

Me, Mr. Jack, And The NHS

Meh. Just gone 6pm and I'm feeling like an oxymoron.

Yeah...exhausted and angry make for strange bedfellows. I'm pissed off, but I can't actually summon up the necessary energy to work myself into a proper rage. So I'm having a drink instead. Presenting Mr. Jack, the solution to all of life's problems.

Back to the saga of my grandfather, if I may. He's still alive, though the old bastard appears to be running on little more than rage at this point. That isn't as inspiring as it may sound...

I'll explain: On Monday night, we were told that grandad was going to die, that it was just a matter of time. At the hospital, they asked my mother if she'd prefer that this happen at the hospital or the nursing home. She chose the hospital, believing that they'd offer the best in palliative care.

This was before the sick realities of the NHS were brought home to us.

My grandad's problems are numerous and make for pretty uncomfortable reading. Aside from the three strokes that have destroyed his physical and mental capability, he has bedsores that have been so neglected by the staff of the nursing home that they have become huge and infected. He also has a urinary infection. He cannot eat or drink. He isn't at all coherent. I have a sneaking suspicion that he may not be able to see either. When you talk to him, his eyes don't focus on you. He always seems to be looking in your general direction rather than straight at you.

All of these things, combined with his age and his various ailments, should have killed him by now. They should have killed him on Monday. Yet, for some reason, the hospital took it upon themselves to keep him alive via a drip and a course of antibiotics. I am not totally against this, as I appreciate the fact that they're legally obliged to try and keep him alive if the means are there.

What bothers me is this: The treatment he has received has marginally improved his condition. He is no longer critical. Still in pain, still close to death, yet no longer critical. When the course of antibiotics ends early next week, they intend to send him back to the nursing home. Drips are not allowed in a nursing home and he will no longer be on any medication. They will neglect him again and he will not eat or drink. It'll be a matter of time before he collapses again, becomes critical, and they send him back to the hospital...and so on, and so on...

And there you have the reality of the NHS. An eighty-nine year old man on the verge of death and clearly suffering is being treated like a collection of symptoms instead of a person. The NHS has no human reality. It's all about freeing up beds and treating illnesses rather than people.

What a genuinely fucked-up and tragic state of affairs.

Come On You...Death?

Odd day today. I got up late and lay around vegetating, listening to Maroon 5 and Something Corporate whilst making a few phonecalls and just generally making no effort to do anything constructive whatsoever.

Then I decided to stay in and watch the football rather than hit the pub. More in-depth stuff on football in another blog whenever. It was a good game. England won 4-2, which means we qualify from our group and go on to face Portugal in the quarter finals, a game I think we might lose. It was weird, though. I tend to get caught up in football, but I was vaguely aware of several phonecalls going on downstairs and of my parents going out. Later, my stepdad came back alone, which is pretty unusual. They go everywhere together when they're not working.

So England's fourth goal has just gone in, and I'm cheering because it was Frank Lampard and he plays for my team (Chelsea). My Stepdad calls his appreciation for the goal up the stairs and then there's this long silence. I sort of know that he's still there, that he's going to say something else.

And he does. My mum's rushed off because my grandad's just had another stroke...and it looks like this one will be his third and last. The guy's ninety and he's totally done in. Death would, at this point, be a mercy. My mother would rather I stay here than go to the hospital, and that's fine with me. I don't want to see him suffering and I hope it doesn't go on much longer. He's never going to recover and live a normal life, even if he gets through this one. It seems pointless to drag it out for him now.

I spoke to my mum on the phone a little while ago, which wasn't pleasant. She was pretty choked up, and my mum isn't one for tears. This can only mean the worst I think. But in a way, I hope the next phonecall is the one that says he's gone. No-one should ever have to suffer so much for so long.

More later, I suppose, when I know what's going on and feel like dredging all this awful death stuff up from the depths of my psyche...

Twisted Sunshine Dreams

Nearly 6am and time's passing in slow motion. This computer screen is burning itself into my retinas. I dream of it sometimes. Write and surf the 'net all night and then have nightmares about doing it when I actually get to sleep.

And I sleep rarely these days. My insomnia's getting worse. Sometimes I just sit up all night and then don't go to bed at all. I hide under my blankets as the sun comes up and lie there thinking about the stuff I would do today if I didn't sleep through it. This bugs me. I like my dark existence, but not many services cater for the casual insomniac. Sometimes I need to get my hair cut or pay some money into the bank or buy CDs or whatever. Can't do this stuff at night. I get to thinking about how my hair is developing a life of its own. I get to thinking about just how much I want to buy some old Fiona Apple CD. Finally, I get out of bed and go out.

Any insomniacs out there ever do that? It's a fucked up thing. The daylight world takes on a whole new look when painted in shades of insomnia. It's too bright. Everything seems to move too slowly. You stare at things like you're stoned. You have to concentrate to understand, and just when you think you've grasped it, you realise that your brain's run on ahead of you and you've actually unconsciously analysed and processed the thing already. A simple thing like a McDonald's logo suddenly becomes something to be feared, a focus for some hate you lack the coherence to define.

My sleeping troubles make me drink. It balances me out, chemically speaking. Jack Daniel is my best friend when I'm all fucked up and spun out. He shows me the way back to synchronicity, gets my head to where my body is so that I can feel whole again.

Tired now. Really tired. No rest last night and a long day on top of it. I think I might even sleep. Hooray. More twisted sunshine dreams of darkness and monitor-light.

Or maybe not. The hair monster is raging out of control and may devour me while I sleep. This would be bad, I think. Maybe I should take a zombie shuffle over to the hairdressers before the sun steals the last of my sense.

Then again, maybe I should just get some fucking sleep.

Right.

Superhero Blues

Superhero Blues
She calls at four
feeling fat
He offers amphetamines,
maybe Jane Fonda
So she asks about love
and he offers half an hour
Hangs up

London streets alive
with night, dead
with fashion,
of passion
Every body conforms
to tomorrow’s ideal
and yesterday’s culture

He’s all pinstripe trousers,
aquamarine,
black T-shirt proclaims
‘Alphonse Karr was right’
Scattershot double-takes
feel good,
‘cause he still shines

While she watches MTV
Manufactured children
Likes those boys with the hair,
sound like MC5
And somewhere, sure,
a Ramone blank-smiles,
counts needle tracks

So he delivers
and they get gone
Fuck, maybe
She watches the mirror,
asks about love
And he wants to save her
but left his cape at home.

Mr. Whippy's Lament

It seems fitting to begin with a day spent outside The Darkened Room, on a weird expedition with my parents and my stepsister to the wilds of East London, where we 'did lunch' with my proper sister, walked about in the rain a lot, and generally spent more time on the tube than we did actually doing anything.

All this was, apparently, to celebrate my 25th birthday. Which was appropriate, I think. Nothing like seeing in your quarter century with a belated celebration that mainly involved stumbling around the drab, rainswept streets of East London. Especially when the day as a whole was basically an exercise in gritting my teeth and trying not to say what I was thinking. After all, everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. Or at least trying to. Who am I to begrudge my kin these moments of togetherness?

Woah...hold on there just a second. This isn't going to be one of those 'alienated loner' blogs. Fuck all that. I like my family sometimes. Occasionally, I even love them. They just make me want to chew my thumbs off.

All of which is neither here nor there as far as my debut blog entry is concerned. No, this was going to be a little introduction to my world and to the mind that's actually sitting here typing this stuff. Only now that I think about it, that'd be pretty bland, too. Better to let the thing evolve, let the stories come as seems appropriate. This is my space. No-one else is going to be editing it or checking I'm following the correct structure, so I guess I can just cut loose, and consequences be damned.

It's all about the birthday, friends. It's all about reaching the grand age of twenty-five and realising with a clear and perfect horror that - amongst my circle of friends and acquaintances - I'm the only one that can't check a single box in the "Things You're Supposed To Be Achieving As An Adult In The Year Of Our Lord 2004" column of the Big Questionnaire.

I'm single, and have been for nearly a year at the time of writing. As of last Thursday, I am unemployed. I have no desire to either own or rent property of any kind, unless we count The Darkened Room, which is not so much a place to live as a nest to retreat to, like some kind of injured mongoose hissing at the predators outside...

Shit, do mongooses nest? Do they hiss? Is it mongooses or mongeese? And why did I choose such a stupid fucking metaphor?

Whatever. Back to my quarter-life crisis and back to the strange and horrible visions I've been having, visions where my friends shake their heads sadly and say things like "When are you going to get a job, Mike?" and "My wife has this cousin. Maybe you two should go out or something. You might hit it off".

Terrifying. People starting to believe that you are incapable of planning your own life...then starting to plan it for you, to offer what they think is helpful advice, little realising that all their example is doing is feeding the flames.

I'd best add a disclaimer to that section, too, seeing as I'm not planning on gunning down my happy friends, nor setting fire to them, their loved ones, and their possessions. I think about it sometimes, but only when I'm in a really good mood.

I want to be a writer. No, really. The comedy stopped just a second ago. That's how I came to be here. I keep quitting jobs and have a total inability to hold down a steady relationship because these things aren't, right now, my number one priority. I've written a bunch of screenplays and short stories and even poetry. I finished a novel last summer and I'm currently working on a second. None of these things have been published, as far as I know, but I'm getting to the point where I may just be able to write something saleable and cool.

Which is what I most want from my life and what I've been planning with a surety and structure that would terrify my parents and my happy friends if they could see and understand it. I mean, if I applied the same determination and passion to, say, becoming an ice cream man, you'd be looking at Mr. Whippy by now. But they don't see that because the process of honing an artistic talent into something worthwhile takes an awful lot of the kind of practice that produces no concrete result. Hence, many people around me believe that I'm actually doing nothing at all except wasting away in a series of bar jobs and dumping every promising ladyfriend I ever meet for no good reason.

Which is true, in a way. But fuck them. They are wrong and I am right. It is necessary that things be this way.