8. Drunken Delirium

Steve

Elsie paid the bill for Abel’s hospital stay, of course. Once he was out he took up residence in her flat. He had no job now so couldn’t pay any rent. Elsie lived round the corner from me, I saw Abel hanging about Barons Court and West Kensington, there was something lost about him. He made friends with my neighbour Steve, the transvestite I told you about, I think it was their shared love of alcohol. Abel started to spend his nights and days round Steve’s flat in drunken delirium. Occasionally they ventured out to the Coop, Steve dressed in high heels and furs. They made a strange couple, brought alcohol and intimidated customers.

One day, after Elsie hadn’t seen Abel for five nights running she went round there at 2pm and knocked on the door. She waited, she knocked again. A howl came from within, then the sound of locks being unfastened, eventually she was confronted by a man in a stained white lace blouse, and a pair of grey pants one size too big, which he was partially hanging out of. He had long greasy hair hanging down in rats tails, he was so thin and so waisted one touch and he’d have fallen like a leaf. It was Steve. He’d obviously been asleep and she’d woken him.

“Where is Abel?” she asked

“Wha?”

“Abel”

“Da?”

He beckoned her in. She was reluctant, the place stank of rot and seemed covered with newspaper, but she was worried about Abel. She stepped through the doorway and into the house.

“Tea!” cried Steve, who seemed to be coming round a bit

“Er, no thanks”

Steve put the kettle on, swigged from a bottle of gin and placed two teabags in two dirty mugs.

“Where is Abel?” She tried again.

“Who?…Oa…”

Then slowly “I’ve seen im, I’ve ad im round here.”

The kettle boiled, he tried to pour it but missed. Tried again with more success and handed Elsie half a cup of black tea with teabag still in it and a spiders web decorating the rim.

“Is he here now?”

“Na, gone, gone”

“Gone where?”

There. Needed his tablets”

“What tablets?”

“His tablets, yer can get em there, they can get anyfing for yer there. it’s the tunnels see. But they’ll charge, not money, other stuff”

Elsie had two contradicting thoughts simultaneously:

1. “Oh no, what’s happened to him? I must find him!”

2. “Bloody idiot, why am I running after him? I’m not his mother!”

She stood there in the slime covered kitchen, her dark blonde hair covering half her face, a frown appearing over the top of her large brown eyes.

” I’m a lesbian you know” said Steve

Elsie took this as a sign to leave.

7. Hallucinari

6. Dread

5. Slapdash

4.Eyes in the Machines

3. Underlondon

2. Abel

1. What YOU Need!

7. Hallucinari

A sick dog and a doctor  oil painting
The Patient, 12ft x 8ft Oil Painting

Sometimes to pretend that everything is alright when it quite obviously isn’t is the most logical thing to do. Sometimes it is the only thing to do. When the carpet has turned into snakes that are curling round your legs, when the patterns on the wallpaper are growing wings and flying off, when there’s a goat in your bath and David Cameron’s head is emerging from your toilet, it is often best just to take a deep breath and carry on. In fact to the experienced hallucinator this becomes the habitual practice, life would not seem quite right if one wasn’t continually ignoring things and pretending. Life has its rules, if you experience something that logically can’t be there then pretending it is not there is the logical thing to do. Of course this can get tricky, especially to the new comer, I have read many an account of  an acid victim whose mind gets lost  in the “what to ignore and what to take note of” reality whirlpool. Yet riding the whirlpool can be so addictive!

Abel, despite being a newcomer, was a talented pretender. Perhaps this was one of the reasons for his slide downwards, he was too good too quickly. Where as an experienced hallucinator has often learnt to ride through the descending waters out of sheer necessity, over the years, sink or swim, Abel had an option, he could have turned back.

He could have asked Elsie for help. She would have helped him, she could have guessed what was about to happen. But Elsie loved him just a bit too much for him to ever love her back. He kept his distance, he could see  every problem he ever told her instantly become her personal problem. This closeness made a bubble of nauseau pink enclose him and steal his breath.

So it was that at 2am on February 8th 2020, Abel was  found unconscious on the floor of the factory. Stuffed in his pockets they found 18 bottles of Spletzer-Martin 5, and one empty. The hospital pumped his stomach. The company, who had noticed increasing amounts of  Spletzer-Martin tablets going missing from their pharmacy, made no statement  but deleted him from the payroll instantly.

6. Dread

5. Slapdash

4. Eyes in the Machines

3. Underlondon

2. Abel

1. What YOU need!

Brain Porn 2 -The Grand Plan

Miss Roberts in a wedding dress and crownSo finally, after tearing my hair out over it for a whole year, I was brave and said yes to the operations to have the Alien removed from my brain (Brain Porn- Notes to Self) I was terribly pleased with myself for getting up the courage to do that. Then the hospital tell me if they start the operations but find they can only make the Alien smaller, not get rid of it all, then it may be more dangerous than if they’d just left it alone. Oh.

So I may just be left to rot.

Good news is it is unlikely to be causing dementia, bad news is it is likely to be cutting the link between my brain and my words.

But brains can adapt can’t they? I’m sure someone told me that black cab drivers brains actually physically enlarge when they do the knowledge (though that could have been my uncle John boasting). A doctor once told me that I was probably meant to be right handed but because the left side of the brain was damaged it decided to swap over and use the other side. So if I can do that with my dexterity I’m sure I could do it with words. If I just write and write and write, and read and read, and perform, and just keep going it’ll find a way to adapt, surely.  (It is compulsory that you agree with me here, the alternative is me screaming AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!  which may never end )

So there is a plan. There must always be a plan. It doesn’t matter how ludicrous having a plan is to my circumstances, no matter what the chances of completing it, it has to be there and it has to be grand. And capable of being rehashed and re-presented as and when required.

The plan is to produce an album/Sci-fi detective novel. I had previously been planning to do a solo album on RIM Records, and a musical with the Rude Mechanicals. Then when I thought I was going in for the operations it was an album come novel in 8 parts linked to the operations. Now it is floating. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m going to start it. Had a chat with the mysterious Erreth Sondabeng, borrowed some equipment and am going round recording sounds. I need sounds from underground, tunnels, underground water.

I think I want a rhythm tapped out on a table, that gets repeated at various points, on various different objects. Altered, distorted, transformed, lost, and brought back again. And the sounds of those objects should be tasted. In any single note there seems to be many many sounds so I ‘d like to explore the different sounds without worrying so much about key. Though I imagine its like colour and the possibilities are endless so you have to pin it down to a readymade system in the end, but I’m going to start with found noises and the tapping of objects and see where it takes me.

And it is still vaguely based on The Time Machine.

Note To the gentleman who read the  first Brain Porn blog and accused me of washing my undies in public:
Too right I am! Waving them in your face I am! Dirty no good private brain porn. Why? Why not? Because it doesn’t fit well into polite conversation, and if I write it here you don’t have to read it.

Derek part 5. Pink and Naked

Derek crouched painfully in my loft

Derek is a big man, he must be he’d been making such a lot of noise up there in my loft. I could picture him as I lay naked and shivering under my duvet, still drying off from the bath. I could picture him naked like me, and vulnerable, a big man crouched painfully in the tiny corners of my loft.

What did he eat? How could he survive up in my loft with nothing to eat? Well he eats the dust and bugs to survive of course, and drinks the water from the hot water tank. I breath in deeply remembering the smell of sweat in the loft, that was the smell of Derek. I imagine his pink bulky body filling that dark space above my head.

But then I think to myself, what if Derek were to come down from my loft to live with me in my flat? What then?

To be continued… Part 6.

Derek part 3. Above the Bath

Eye looking through a peek hole
An eye looking through the hole above the bath

After that I noticed lots of tiny little holes in my ceiling. Whoever or whatever was up there was obviously spying on me. Watching me eat, watching me sleep , watching me get dressed, watching me…

One evening I was lying in the bath and noticed a hole in the ceiling directly above me. I was sure I could see an eye staring down. I tried to get out of the bath but couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, naked, lying there in the bath.

For just a moment it was fascinating, everything suddenly made sense. The bath water and I had a deep, intense love for each other as we swapped atoms, and everything was going to be wonderful.

Then snap – the sound of the radio playing in the next room. I didn’t have the radio on. No it wasn’t the radio, it was people in my flat talking about me, I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Suddenly the walls came alive and were walking towards me. The ceiling started collapsing,  crumbling into the bath. Then the part with the eye came to float just above my head. I was staring directly into the eye. It was reading my mind. It knew my  guilt.

The walls were laughing at me now, almost deafening laughs, the people’s voices had turned into a huge black raven, swirling around in the sky above.

“Remember me remember me remember me” came the voices

White white white bathroom walls, holes and cracks and yellow stains, breathing, everything breathing, all seeing, all knowing, remembering everything ever.

Not me, I’m , I am,  I, I, i, i. NO!

Nothing.

“Drown drown drown drown”

To be continued…

Part 4.

Dissecting frogs and other childhood pursuits

Frog Painting
Frog painting on handmade paper recycled from a Jeffrey Archer novel.

Placed the pond in the garden this lunch time. I say pond, it’s more of a plant pot, round and flat and plastic. But I read in an article somewhere that any pond, no matter how small, is good for helping frogs and toads. As I mentioned in my bones blog amphibians are becoming extinct rapidly, due to pollution, loss of habitat and the devastating effects of a fungus that grows on the frogs skin preventing it from being able to breath – http://www.amphibianark.org/.

Frogs are going extinct! I repeat this because my head has trouble taking it in – no more frogs! Whole childhoods absent of frogs. Sounds (have a listen) that were ancient by the time the first dinosaurs evolved are now to be silenced. I can’t imagine a childhood without frogs, they were a defining feature of mine; water coming over the tops of wellingtons as we waded knee deep at Footscray meadows in search of frog spawn; Mum digging the pond; me refusing to believe that tadpoles turned into frogs (well it is weird). Then the huge plague of minute baby frogs covering the lawn, the whole garden leaping about, Mum’s lawn mower chopping them up into tiny pieces (accidently), frog blood and guts everywhere.

Then the dissections. We didn’t catch the frogs ourselves, didn’t need to, our cat was fond of delivering half dead frogs to the kitchen floor. Dad, trained in anatomy and medicine, would whisk the frog from the floor and place it on the kitchen table. Us four excited children would gather round the table in anticipation as Dad went to get his scalpel. A moment of heavy silence passed before the first incision. The skin would split and the creature would deflate like a tiny green beach ball. Dad fished around the inside, taking out bits to show us, explaining what did what. There was a tiny little bubble inside the frog that facsinated me, I played with it turning it over and over, can’t remember what it was though.

My memories of the intellectual aspects of these dissections are vague, for a 12 year old the grotesque splendour of frog body fluids and bone on the kitchen table was too delightful to be educational.

“Right!” Mum would shout in an authorative manner, “clear the table its time for dinner”. Dad would sweep away the frog remains, leaving them outside for our dog to contemplate. We’d reluctantly go off to wash our hands for dinner, somehow feeling more grown up because we knew what the insides of a frog looked like.

A childhood without frogs? Real riggling, leaping, croaking frogs? Without watching tadpoles grow legs? Just computer frogs with no body fluids, no mess, no temptation for the cat and Dad?

Now that would be cruel to children.