Tuesday, 31 March 2015
First day cluck
Shamanic Retreat
Leaving Frome was emotional. My partner and dog I will miss for a few weeks. The workshop, my home of daylight hours sad to say goodbye to Mag and Lisa who have been so supportive and understanding over the years. Driving began well till getting lost as rain fell heavy. Finally arriving I couldn't see much of the site so parked at the top car park. Today it's clearly a valley and cliffs to the sides, overgrown quarry, jackdaws playing on the rock faces. Several caravans and trailers. Trees behind over a green valley. Somerset is a week or two ahead but spring will be opening each day as recovery begins. I'm hoping for a swift clean out but expect to suffer for a while. Money, short and I suppose some way to get by must be sorted before I'm proper sick. I have everything I need so feel positive. Quite easily one of the hardest choices I have made. But the last two days in frome I could feel the window closing as a part of me was u consiously thinking of returning to pattern. Having been on one drug or another for a very long time, though two years of subutex maintenance was as clean as ive known left me happy but sometimes bored. Twelve years of drug treatment, psychologists, key workers, psychiatrists and their various pills never helped. Jumping now in to the unknown is the most responsible act. My biggest disappointment was the talk from a chemist I'd grown to know, like and respect described my actions as "running away" yet in truth, for the first time I am facing up to things. I was offered the option to wait for Turning Point to amass six hopeful candidates. Once found we would spend six weeks with a day in each meeting to talk about rehab. After this the panel, chaired by a drug worker, just graduated and very inexperienced, one who I refused to have as key worker, one I made cry and run to her boss when I said talking to her was like talking to a child. One who I have seen play silly games with clients, desperate people, damaging their lives. After the wait then the six weeks assessment, she would decide if I could be appropriate fo rehab. The chemist described this as trust issues. However, another two months in frome would quite possibly see me dead. And if I got through that period, then be told I want ready for rehab, and I don't think it beyond the childlike worker to be childishly petulant, refuse me a place, that would have ruined me. I would have quite possibly, in rebalious habit, said 'fuck it' and escalated my drug use in protest. Not that these self destructive protests affect anyone but myself, but risking my life under those circumstances would be idiotic. So if that chemist is reading this I hope that you can see I have not taken the easy option, I may have trust issues but in this case well founded. Added to the twelve years that the drug services have failed make any difference, only heald me to a prescription that admittedly, initially was saving my life, but rolled on to a trap and the prevention of any progress. Last year, the good key workers were offered their old jobs at half their old pay. They all found alternative jobs after this insult. They were replaced by inexperienced graduates. My first, a young girl, so un knowledgable, so dangerous she has put three people I alone know back on to drugs. People who were doing well. I refused to risk my recovery and life with her and asked to change worker. This is the right of any patient there. Fortunately, I was given a new worker who though just starting, has all the signs of being excellent at the position. Being a drug keywoeker requires some very delicate skills. An understanding of fragile, invariably mentally I'll people. Small things. Leaving voice messages on mobiles for example. Most haven't the money to listen to voice messages. A text would work. An addict is plagued with calls from dealers, other addicts, debt collectors, hence frequently they wisely turn their phones off. So, this workers voice messages, arranged appointments, never heard, result in a client going to collect their prescription but finding it cancelled by the child drug worker. They may have to ferry their children to school, go to work or any normal human chore. But they will be ill. So, rather than let employers, children down their only option is to score. That one score, even if they manage to regain their script, that one bag can end years of work achieving stability and a period that can be weeks, months or years before they are able to find a way off gear. This type of small mistake can lead to a death. And I strongly believe, before Vicky is recognised as the hazard she is, there will be a death, perhaps more. She told me she was once an addict. Looking at her skin, her teeth, her eyes, her hair, she has never been what I would call an addict. Yet her belief that she has meens she takes decisions based on how she would have reacted during what must have been little more than a breif binge to me or any serious drug user. A little knowledge can be far worse than none.
Monday, 30 March 2015
Last Morning in Frome
Perhaps the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Once well I will come collect my dog and sort out material goods, most given away. Tools, most of all, if my partner has chosen to come on a new adventure. Leaving today is emotional carnage. Last time walking Dook for a while. Take table top to the carvers. Final instructions on desk completion. It is all but done, I would have loved to have completed it. Still, 97% of a decent one to call my last. Take leave of workshop. But most of all get driving and leave this mess of mine. It is too easy to blame events on life's pathway but if I had not met that freind from Leeds one Saturday morning. If the draw of a familiar face and accent an island amongst a sea of different accents, manners and cultures, I doubt I would have fallen in. No one sets out to be an addict. Curiosity, the desire to not stand at the sides of the disco, watching others dance, but to join them, to experience life from within. The ecstasy of being in cautious, sworn to the moment, is a dangerous trait. Jack Londons quote, 'life is to be lived, not preserved at all cost" covers something of the reason. To understand. To take part in the most intense human activity taking place. So once MDMa, clubs, dancing faded, the only other exciting game in town took me. I never had any conception of how long, how deep or how destructive playing out with the heroin boys would be. It never leaves you. Once changed you can stop taking it but your cells remain poised, waiting, hungry.
Sunday, 29 March 2015
Last Night in Frome
All things must pass. Frome is a lovely market town. Fairly priced property. Independent retail outlets, laundrette, garages everything you could need. Low crime rate, safe streets. When I landed in a blur of chaos from another psychotic collapse I was welcomed. The Jesus tail of small town curiosity at new faces welcomed in. Within a week they're crucifying him. I leave, slinking an escape, unpopular, an outsider, but alive. Good times and bad. My girlfreind I moved to be with visitted my father but once, twelve years of regular visits to her parents. I grew up in a dirty house, broken windows, electric regularly off through none paid bills. Richards parents house was the only equal in filth, other than squats, I have come across. Despite the surface grime, Richards parents were intellectuals. My father, though from real poverty, kept a house where fools were not suffered gladly. Intelligence and thought, reflection and never accepting consensus views, always to question authority. These values my home shared with Richards. Meeting approved societal respectability. A consious sideways look and comparrison to ensure one was appropriate were the new values I found. In truth, despite his coming from real poverty, my father got a grammar school place, embraced conservative values, made it to the suburbs and married a middle class woman. His reward for achievement, escape from roots, was the fickle hand of cancer and his wife's death. Until nine my life was idyllic. Parents never fought, we were loved, cleaned, fed well. After chance took my mother my father, seperated from his tribe, no old freinds to support his tragic loss, took to alcohol. Our house never cleaned again. I felt shame being the dirty one. Mrs Wrights history lesson, last lesson on Friday, my single white shirt after five days sported black grime lines at collar and cuff. She brought me before the class, pointed out how dirty I was, held up my hands so the other children could see the dirt under my nails. She then made me sit on the floor, where dirt belonged. This episode still raises my hackles. Once outside I attacked and beat up the first kid I saw. Taken to the headmaster. Not just dirty but an animal. In time I learned to embrace these unavoidable traits. Grew my hair. Having no parents to answer to I went feral. Clearly no homework was possible without light. From being top or second in most subjects I took reverse pride in not giving a shit. Pride in being best at being worst. Enjoyed notoriety and school celebrity. Leaving early without qualifications. But I had found psychedelic transcendence. A brotherhood of like minds. But this window of colour and brightness was all too breif. Our gang seperated. I moved to Cornwall. Left Leeds for new ground. Escaped.
Again I find what began so clean turned darker, then darker, till finally, having messed up and no real social circle of support, a few individuals. Again I am escaping.
Again I find what began so clean turned darker, then darker, till finally, having messed up and no real social circle of support, a few individuals. Again I am escaping.
Saturday, 28 March 2015
Reshamanism Retreat
For those writing me off. For all critics and none believers. Be aware. I will return. More powerful. More Shamanic. With hands tied behind my back I still did well. Unshackled, reborn, I will be the finest version of Skree yet. I will suffer. I will endure pain, insanity, struggles and changes most people never have to face. This will take time. My hardest test yet. But write me off at your peril. I will return. And mighty I will walk.
Frome and how I got trapped here part 3
Throughout my two years of abstinence, the people around me continued. This pressure was of horrendous force. I had grown to hate crack yet each week it shared my space, tortuously insulting me. Driving a wedge between those still engaged who I loved and me and a straight life.
The office was all but complete when out of the blue and sent in innocent generosity, I got a letter. Inside were two large crack rocks and two large heroin bags. After a pipe I drove to london. From this point to now is the reasons I had to escape frome. The reasons I hurt and insulted everyone who made life here tenable. I had to destroy any chance of remaining. I had to stop any chance if further work for Rupert. What had begun as an opportunity to get my workshop underway had taken fifteen years off my creative vision and led to self medication to endure betraying my moral stance, my aesthetic purpose.
On return from London in the cottage I had moved to pipes were on the go. I got in to it for a few weeks. So angered was i by my fall back to crack I took an overdose. Whether this was a real attempt or a shout for help I ca not say. Seventy five times the recreational dose of methoxphenidine failed to kill me but left me unable to talk words, unable to walk.ni crashed about smashing things. Thankfully my partner saved me from section ing. Three weeks of psychosis followed. I travelled far in to the future, my mind entering a super speed computer like world where I travelled at light sped witnessing advanced technologies. Once able to walk I took to the streets where I bomded with Dook, a new husky cross. The townsfolk had formed mobs to chase me down for ritual execution. Crows attached me in flocks calling my name repeatedly, "skree, skree" telling the village lynch mob where I was. As the psychosis calmed I became a veteran from World War One, guilty I felt, too old to fight in this new war, watching spitfires return overhead. A dark period in a trailer park in America of synthetic waste advertising and bath salts and day glo lasted i a horrible I'll shaped room that altered size continually. Three weeks and the hallucinations withered. I spoke to my brother who wrote to Rupert. Unable to find help or understanding I stayed with my brother and built him a porch. Rupert payed me generously further in to debt. Further in to the trap. Further from realising any of my ambitions. His kindness a double edged sword. Money is not real. It can be made. Fifteen years, my strongest were spent making Ruperts furniture. A gradual erosion of my self worth. Straying from my path. This shame buried under drugs, the only way I knew to go against my instinct.
Research chemicals saw my crack habit replaced by the cheaper but far more dangerous ethylphenidate. I still have this habit. A new benzo addiction set in. My madness growing, like a boil. A time bomb.
Debt saw me trapped. This week after epiphany at both Glastonbury and Cley hill, alongside messages from a God I don't believe in. Messages so clearly targeted at me. The water toer eruption told me I had to either stay here and die. Or let rage and madness break any possibility of continueing here. I challenged the landlord after his threats, making counter threats. I told Rupert I could not continue. He took this badly. I became enraged, though owing sone money I had given fifteen years, betrayed my tru quest, suffered so much, nearly died in guilty suicide attempt. But money, bokkcases meant more than all this. It meant more than my life. Unrestricted, psychotic, I was freed of all guilt and responsibility. Perhaps I had let him down, but my life will not be given up for this. I have hurt my partner. Perhaps I am smashing here too. I know afterwards why I am smashing all return routes but I can see no ther way to ensure, for definite, my survival. I will die if I stay. I am not exaggerating for effect. I have to escape. It is not choice but need. Frome is a nice town. I hope one day Rupert understands. I really do. He is a clever man but with great wealth grows blindness and distrust. A suspicion of others motives. Elvis last days are a parable of wealth and its effects on trust. But he was a poor boy. Rupert grew up in this world where an understanding of wealths resulting responsibilities are taught. It isn't easy being rich and having a conscience. How one spends takes great consideration. As Spider-Man said, 'with great power comes great responsibilty'. Rupert was like an angel but I felt I had lost my way. Abandoned my hopes. Betrayed my true beliefs. Art was where my heart lay. Class roots saw joinery as a start. This enabled me to qualify for university despite a lack of school qualifications. I studied furniture but made art. The drift to furniture stopped my purpose. Reclaiming myself is essential. Years run shorter. So little time left and so much to do.
I find myself positive. Happy to be returning to my correct vocation. But guilty at how I have done this. I know illness of duration lies ahead but this price is my penance. My self belief is strong. I will achieve my objectives. So must begin immediately.
The office was all but complete when out of the blue and sent in innocent generosity, I got a letter. Inside were two large crack rocks and two large heroin bags. After a pipe I drove to london. From this point to now is the reasons I had to escape frome. The reasons I hurt and insulted everyone who made life here tenable. I had to destroy any chance of remaining. I had to stop any chance if further work for Rupert. What had begun as an opportunity to get my workshop underway had taken fifteen years off my creative vision and led to self medication to endure betraying my moral stance, my aesthetic purpose.
On return from London in the cottage I had moved to pipes were on the go. I got in to it for a few weeks. So angered was i by my fall back to crack I took an overdose. Whether this was a real attempt or a shout for help I ca not say. Seventy five times the recreational dose of methoxphenidine failed to kill me but left me unable to talk words, unable to walk.ni crashed about smashing things. Thankfully my partner saved me from section ing. Three weeks of psychosis followed. I travelled far in to the future, my mind entering a super speed computer like world where I travelled at light sped witnessing advanced technologies. Once able to walk I took to the streets where I bomded with Dook, a new husky cross. The townsfolk had formed mobs to chase me down for ritual execution. Crows attached me in flocks calling my name repeatedly, "skree, skree" telling the village lynch mob where I was. As the psychosis calmed I became a veteran from World War One, guilty I felt, too old to fight in this new war, watching spitfires return overhead. A dark period in a trailer park in America of synthetic waste advertising and bath salts and day glo lasted i a horrible I'll shaped room that altered size continually. Three weeks and the hallucinations withered. I spoke to my brother who wrote to Rupert. Unable to find help or understanding I stayed with my brother and built him a porch. Rupert payed me generously further in to debt. Further in to the trap. Further from realising any of my ambitions. His kindness a double edged sword. Money is not real. It can be made. Fifteen years, my strongest were spent making Ruperts furniture. A gradual erosion of my self worth. Straying from my path. This shame buried under drugs, the only way I knew to go against my instinct.
Research chemicals saw my crack habit replaced by the cheaper but far more dangerous ethylphenidate. I still have this habit. A new benzo addiction set in. My madness growing, like a boil. A time bomb.
Debt saw me trapped. This week after epiphany at both Glastonbury and Cley hill, alongside messages from a God I don't believe in. Messages so clearly targeted at me. The water toer eruption told me I had to either stay here and die. Or let rage and madness break any possibility of continueing here. I challenged the landlord after his threats, making counter threats. I told Rupert I could not continue. He took this badly. I became enraged, though owing sone money I had given fifteen years, betrayed my tru quest, suffered so much, nearly died in guilty suicide attempt. But money, bokkcases meant more than all this. It meant more than my life. Unrestricted, psychotic, I was freed of all guilt and responsibility. Perhaps I had let him down, but my life will not be given up for this. I have hurt my partner. Perhaps I am smashing here too. I know afterwards why I am smashing all return routes but I can see no ther way to ensure, for definite, my survival. I will die if I stay. I am not exaggerating for effect. I have to escape. It is not choice but need. Frome is a nice town. I hope one day Rupert understands. I really do. He is a clever man but with great wealth grows blindness and distrust. A suspicion of others motives. Elvis last days are a parable of wealth and its effects on trust. But he was a poor boy. Rupert grew up in this world where an understanding of wealths resulting responsibilities are taught. It isn't easy being rich and having a conscience. How one spends takes great consideration. As Spider-Man said, 'with great power comes great responsibilty'. Rupert was like an angel but I felt I had lost my way. Abandoned my hopes. Betrayed my true beliefs. Art was where my heart lay. Class roots saw joinery as a start. This enabled me to qualify for university despite a lack of school qualifications. I studied furniture but made art. The drift to furniture stopped my purpose. Reclaiming myself is essential. Years run shorter. So little time left and so much to do.
I find myself positive. Happy to be returning to my correct vocation. But guilty at how I have done this. I know illness of duration lies ahead but this price is my penance. My self belief is strong. I will achieve my objectives. So must begin immediately.
Frome, how I got trapped there part 2
These times were good. My weekends home were wonderful. I was drug free bar subutex which one grows to forget. But gradually it changes you. It's relative effect when converting from heroin meens a clearer head, uplifted feeling. As if opiates are gone from your life. Only when you find yourself without are you reminded you are still an addict.
Magnus bought a house in frome. We had to move workshops and I couldn't explain how dangerous for me a return to frome might be. He found a shed close to his house which we restored. I moved in with Claire.
Further orders from Rupert for his Manor House in Shropshire found me working with an interior designer so opposite in ethic and taste to me. From here life went downhill. I made four or five four poster beds in mahogany, a timber I had sworn not to use. Drawings would be dismissed as interiors books and magazines of stately conventional country mish mash were pushed on me. My own work had all but gone and now I was making work that I was ashamed of. After some friction I began working with malcolm. Rupert had bought a yacht and a beach side cottage in Porlock weir to renovate and stay in. This first house in Exmoor I had design freedom. Whilst not what I would ideally make I was left to design to please the clients with no pressure from this interiors woman.
Soon Rupert bought another house which malcolm restored. His style is an odd one. A little tim stead but aligned to unrestrained use of multiple timbers. After the mahogany four posters friction it was decided malcolm would send ne sketch ideas. My ego further hurt I redrew some dignity in to his sketches. Some pieces were successfully salvaged from the original ideas.
I had become freinds with some travelkers and developed a benzo habit. Most crackheads balance the hee bee gee bees one gets from crack with heroin. Determined never to succumb to brown I foolishly took benzos never realising these are as bad, if not worse than heroin. More murders are committed on this drug than any other. Withdrawall can take two years. Indeed, the people I got mine from, whilst softening off heroin habit withdrawall using drink and benzos had a fight. I'll not give details but all three got 17, 15 and 12 year sentences for murder under joint enterprise, a law normally used when gang murder happens and those involved go silent to police questioning. Only one person killed Lenny after his machete rampage. Someone had to stop him. Perhaps there were moments when police ar ambulance calls could have been made but being outlaw they all bare some responsibility, even if just for disposing of the body.
Making others designs hurt my dignity and my crack use rose until suicidal thoughts saw me drive to my brothers where I gave up crack. Here I wrote the auto biographical ' How did I get here?' Pieces found on this blog. 2012, somewhere round there. After this I began my benzo with drawl easily the worst experience of my life. I couldn't work for months. I guessed three would see me well and agreed to work on the Cutty sark. Still very unwell it would be a further three months before I receieved an email from Rupert, a cheque and began the completion of this bedroom furniture.
For two years I was clean. Not since nineteen had I been free of all drugs and drink. This period was great. I mastered my feelings of ego in making designs based on Malcolm's sketches making two double beds, two four single beds, several dressing tables, several chests of drawers, many bedside units and vanity units and a set of bunks that turned out ok. From sketches I had somehow produced a top floor of furniture to draw some order to the designs of malcolm. He is a lovely man but design is not something the untrained can successfully do. There is a belief, misguided, that anyone can design furniture. I compare it to saying anyone cab design a motorbike. I could draw one but my understanding of the pipes and forms would be an aesthetic jumble because to design a motorbike you need to understand engineering, this helps form the design. Furniture is much the same. Until you know why things are as such, all you design is pictures. It is a little insulting to be presented with sketches to steer designs but I did it but a growing anger, reduced by my clean life, still rumbled inmy subconscious. A guilt at not making what I ought to be.
Once completed I made the final work I did for Rupert. After the benzo withdrawal I had sworn not to return to furniture.
Rupert bought a new london home in Chelsea. It was for here I designed my best work for him. I designed technically difficult details to reference details in the house. The maple office took a lot of time and I grew a debt from which I could se no end. Losing my love of furniture as its drift from my original manifesto to creating another mans dream home had a profound effect on my dignity. Hours I spent making became less. The office was a success. A compromise of what I could impose of my aesthetic sensibility into another's tastes. Laminated cross glazing brs. You can find pictures on this blog.
I built a fire surround and an arts and crafts bookcase of some quality. Then began what was to be my best price and final piece for Rupert. An elliptical desk in maple. I refused compromise. Kept to style but technically refused more lucrative standards to create a piece with cylindrical legs, vacuum lam inyet panels bête ww the six legs, inlaid into the veneer with stringing lines. The elliptical top is to have a carved detail
Magnus bought a house in frome. We had to move workshops and I couldn't explain how dangerous for me a return to frome might be. He found a shed close to his house which we restored. I moved in with Claire.
Further orders from Rupert for his Manor House in Shropshire found me working with an interior designer so opposite in ethic and taste to me. From here life went downhill. I made four or five four poster beds in mahogany, a timber I had sworn not to use. Drawings would be dismissed as interiors books and magazines of stately conventional country mish mash were pushed on me. My own work had all but gone and now I was making work that I was ashamed of. After some friction I began working with malcolm. Rupert had bought a yacht and a beach side cottage in Porlock weir to renovate and stay in. This first house in Exmoor I had design freedom. Whilst not what I would ideally make I was left to design to please the clients with no pressure from this interiors woman.
Soon Rupert bought another house which malcolm restored. His style is an odd one. A little tim stead but aligned to unrestrained use of multiple timbers. After the mahogany four posters friction it was decided malcolm would send ne sketch ideas. My ego further hurt I redrew some dignity in to his sketches. Some pieces were successfully salvaged from the original ideas.
I had become freinds with some travelkers and developed a benzo habit. Most crackheads balance the hee bee gee bees one gets from crack with heroin. Determined never to succumb to brown I foolishly took benzos never realising these are as bad, if not worse than heroin. More murders are committed on this drug than any other. Withdrawall can take two years. Indeed, the people I got mine from, whilst softening off heroin habit withdrawall using drink and benzos had a fight. I'll not give details but all three got 17, 15 and 12 year sentences for murder under joint enterprise, a law normally used when gang murder happens and those involved go silent to police questioning. Only one person killed Lenny after his machete rampage. Someone had to stop him. Perhaps there were moments when police ar ambulance calls could have been made but being outlaw they all bare some responsibility, even if just for disposing of the body.
Making others designs hurt my dignity and my crack use rose until suicidal thoughts saw me drive to my brothers where I gave up crack. Here I wrote the auto biographical ' How did I get here?' Pieces found on this blog. 2012, somewhere round there. After this I began my benzo with drawl easily the worst experience of my life. I couldn't work for months. I guessed three would see me well and agreed to work on the Cutty sark. Still very unwell it would be a further three months before I receieved an email from Rupert, a cheque and began the completion of this bedroom furniture.
For two years I was clean. Not since nineteen had I been free of all drugs and drink. This period was great. I mastered my feelings of ego in making designs based on Malcolm's sketches making two double beds, two four single beds, several dressing tables, several chests of drawers, many bedside units and vanity units and a set of bunks that turned out ok. From sketches I had somehow produced a top floor of furniture to draw some order to the designs of malcolm. He is a lovely man but design is not something the untrained can successfully do. There is a belief, misguided, that anyone can design furniture. I compare it to saying anyone cab design a motorbike. I could draw one but my understanding of the pipes and forms would be an aesthetic jumble because to design a motorbike you need to understand engineering, this helps form the design. Furniture is much the same. Until you know why things are as such, all you design is pictures. It is a little insulting to be presented with sketches to steer designs but I did it but a growing anger, reduced by my clean life, still rumbled inmy subconscious. A guilt at not making what I ought to be.
Once completed I made the final work I did for Rupert. After the benzo withdrawal I had sworn not to return to furniture.
Rupert bought a new london home in Chelsea. It was for here I designed my best work for him. I designed technically difficult details to reference details in the house. The maple office took a lot of time and I grew a debt from which I could se no end. Losing my love of furniture as its drift from my original manifesto to creating another mans dream home had a profound effect on my dignity. Hours I spent making became less. The office was a success. A compromise of what I could impose of my aesthetic sensibility into another's tastes. Laminated cross glazing brs. You can find pictures on this blog.
I built a fire surround and an arts and crafts bookcase of some quality. Then began what was to be my best price and final piece for Rupert. An elliptical desk in maple. I refused compromise. Kept to style but technically refused more lucrative standards to create a piece with cylindrical legs, vacuum lam inyet panels bête ww the six legs, inlaid into the veneer with stringing lines. The elliptical top is to have a carved detail
Frome and how it Trapped me part 1
I never imagined frome trapping me as it did. Leaving Shropshire I abandoned teaching jobs but a no life in desolate cottage to join my partner who was learning glass blowing at neil Wilkin, the best studio in the country then. We moved in temporary dives and I stopped drinking and ssris then went to Pewsey, some 45 minute drive to find my college freind Gareth Neal working at Fred Baiers studio. Rachel hutchinson and brian Moxom also shared space and within a day I had a home. I began making Fred's work. Living in frome I had a social life in the two towns that caused alice jealous rages but these peppered our lives together. I drifted in to more of a social life in Pewsey while Alice's social circle remained in frome. She was keen on clubbing, ecstasy, cocaine and our weekends took on a glamorous feel as we would go out dancing in bristol, bath or london. Clive, a designer at kevin mc clouds was of our gang and an idea for a shared studio grew. Finally we found one next to liquid glass. We formed PULL and did a few design jobs together. I, by force of habit built a wood shop. We built a seperate room for design. Leaving Fred's after two years came at a time when Gareth wanted me to share his leap to london. My loyalty to alice prevented this.nso for a short time pull went well. We enjoyed a few triumphs; designs for Liberties, an exhibition stand I desifned won an award. L grew to feel it was my creative ideas alone that were our reasons for success. I under estimated Clive. He was no great designer but he could capture a clients faith. Perhaps if I had recognised that this skill, communication, is what was most important.
Ultimately this crashed. I went to Spain for a month, leaving the house keys with clive, to look after the cat. On return he had moved in all his posessions, lost the cat and pocketed both halves of a payment on drawings which in fact were mine. This meant an end to Pull, and our freindship.
Soon I replaced him with Magnus who was just beginning his woodwork career. We shared rent and became good freinds. We did some jobs together, a kitchen for richard McCormack and jocaste innes. A mezzanine and timber staircase. A posher kitchen in rode.
Alice's father was an architect. On one visit to see her parents we were taken to meet Rupert Lynmouth. Alice was commissioned to make a chandelier. I was asked to design and make a kitchen in London. I had promised myself never to do one again but it was clear further work could well follow. After the kitchen came bookcases, a fire surround, a library, a dining table, a four poster bed, another bed, a large cabinet. Most of the house. A workshop can not sit idle but must earn money to survive. I managed a good piece. A selection for Cheltenham. But my work, my creative journey began to atrophy as I made furniture for Rupert.
My father fell ill so being the childless sibling, I dropped all to be in leeds to be there and visit him as he recovered from a brain operation. Having taken custody of Tex, a husky shepherd cross I was to share with Alice, she never found time to look after him. This meant places to stay were restricted. Hence I stayed with my best freind richard. He was a heroin addict but des proximity I never gave in. Ten months there found me picking up a crack habit which bedevilled me for years. I found work with a company making fittings and fitting out museums and visitor centres. For ten months I worked there. Often away on site. Projects included the Deep in hull, Birmingham museum, Sheffield crucible. Later I would be called to work on bovington tank museum and Plymouth museum. I was on a subutex prescription which I collected fortnightly in frome. One week I found myself short, unable to buy any black market but comitted to work I bought one bag of heroin. This showed up on a screen and I was returned to daily pick up. My father was well on the way to recovery so I returned to frome figuring subutex, my caravan were a better choice than to return to heroin and retain my job. One bag lost all my means to remain in leeds. I needed to get out of Richards. His death spiral had begun, special brew and heroin were all he consumed. He died within a couple of years. This caused a madness in me that saw my crack use continue.
One table wa all I had in orders. My workshop was a luxury I couldn't afford while in leeds so Magnus returned to his old space in rode. I sold my dimension saw to Gareth and finished the table at mags.
Out of the blue an email from Rupert came ordering at least two years work. Again I dropped my own art pieces to take this opportunity of security. Two four poster beds, six chests of drawers, two single beds, several bedside units, six dressing tables, a Welsh dresser, a table in elm, a oval kitchen table, tv table, bookcases, a deal with leather top and a chair, the one I am photographed with on the cover of some woodwork magazine.
My crack habit continued. Being paid up front in large cheques was difficult to manage with such a habit. But somehow I did.
No one with my substance issues or severity of mental health issues has accomplished anything close to what I did. This boast may seem odd but no one to my knowledge has done anything of that scale from that position.
I grew to hate the stuff. To hate myself. Working away for six months my new partner Claire so selflessly looked after Tex. Sled dogs are hard work. They are not far from wolves. One time I tied Rtex to a metal bin in leeds. The old classic design, heavy full of rubbish. In the chip shop I heard a clang and saw the queue watch ing a dog running at full speed, his lead tied to a metal binthat crashed around behind him. He Ran between two parked cars smashing light clusters, denting panels. Alarms rang out as I chased him. Once unattached from bin we ran so the car owners would not catch us.
Claire grew to love Tex. Looking after him ensured she rise each morning. On my weekly returns I could see colour and health growing in her, depression from which she suffers severely lifting. She looked so beautiful. That is the last times I remember before long term subutex use took my emotional sensibility.
Ultimately this crashed. I went to Spain for a month, leaving the house keys with clive, to look after the cat. On return he had moved in all his posessions, lost the cat and pocketed both halves of a payment on drawings which in fact were mine. This meant an end to Pull, and our freindship.
Soon I replaced him with Magnus who was just beginning his woodwork career. We shared rent and became good freinds. We did some jobs together, a kitchen for richard McCormack and jocaste innes. A mezzanine and timber staircase. A posher kitchen in rode.
Alice's father was an architect. On one visit to see her parents we were taken to meet Rupert Lynmouth. Alice was commissioned to make a chandelier. I was asked to design and make a kitchen in London. I had promised myself never to do one again but it was clear further work could well follow. After the kitchen came bookcases, a fire surround, a library, a dining table, a four poster bed, another bed, a large cabinet. Most of the house. A workshop can not sit idle but must earn money to survive. I managed a good piece. A selection for Cheltenham. But my work, my creative journey began to atrophy as I made furniture for Rupert.
My father fell ill so being the childless sibling, I dropped all to be in leeds to be there and visit him as he recovered from a brain operation. Having taken custody of Tex, a husky shepherd cross I was to share with Alice, she never found time to look after him. This meant places to stay were restricted. Hence I stayed with my best freind richard. He was a heroin addict but des proximity I never gave in. Ten months there found me picking up a crack habit which bedevilled me for years. I found work with a company making fittings and fitting out museums and visitor centres. For ten months I worked there. Often away on site. Projects included the Deep in hull, Birmingham museum, Sheffield crucible. Later I would be called to work on bovington tank museum and Plymouth museum. I was on a subutex prescription which I collected fortnightly in frome. One week I found myself short, unable to buy any black market but comitted to work I bought one bag of heroin. This showed up on a screen and I was returned to daily pick up. My father was well on the way to recovery so I returned to frome figuring subutex, my caravan were a better choice than to return to heroin and retain my job. One bag lost all my means to remain in leeds. I needed to get out of Richards. His death spiral had begun, special brew and heroin were all he consumed. He died within a couple of years. This caused a madness in me that saw my crack use continue.
One table wa all I had in orders. My workshop was a luxury I couldn't afford while in leeds so Magnus returned to his old space in rode. I sold my dimension saw to Gareth and finished the table at mags.
Out of the blue an email from Rupert came ordering at least two years work. Again I dropped my own art pieces to take this opportunity of security. Two four poster beds, six chests of drawers, two single beds, several bedside units, six dressing tables, a Welsh dresser, a table in elm, a oval kitchen table, tv table, bookcases, a deal with leather top and a chair, the one I am photographed with on the cover of some woodwork magazine.
My crack habit continued. Being paid up front in large cheques was difficult to manage with such a habit. But somehow I did.
No one with my substance issues or severity of mental health issues has accomplished anything close to what I did. This boast may seem odd but no one to my knowledge has done anything of that scale from that position.
I grew to hate the stuff. To hate myself. Working away for six months my new partner Claire so selflessly looked after Tex. Sled dogs are hard work. They are not far from wolves. One time I tied Rtex to a metal bin in leeds. The old classic design, heavy full of rubbish. In the chip shop I heard a clang and saw the queue watch ing a dog running at full speed, his lead tied to a metal binthat crashed around behind him. He Ran between two parked cars smashing light clusters, denting panels. Alarms rang out as I chased him. Once unattached from bin we ran so the car owners would not catch us.
Claire grew to love Tex. Looking after him ensured she rise each morning. On my weekly returns I could see colour and health growing in her, depression from which she suffers severely lifting. She looked so beautiful. That is the last times I remember before long term subutex use took my emotional sensibility.
Thursday, 26 March 2015
Wednesday, 25 March 2015
The Lost Art of Den Building
Many have spoken of den building being a lost art. This is clearly nonsense and reflects more on the person suggesting so. Adulthood sees many leave the edgelands exploration. This nostalgic view is a failure on their part. Our brownfield sites, habitat for many rare butterflies is under constant threat by developers. The duty of the Edgeland explorer is to keep abreast of dens.
Message to Skreeworld Followers
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
Change
Rattling does get easier in some respects. The knowing what it is and what to expect are valuable tools. Understanding what is happening to you makes what first time seems madness become the knowledge of what neurotransmitters are re growing. Opiate withdrawal, after the first month of nightmare and illness a condition where no emotional shielding protects you. There are moments of utter transcendence, the raw beauty we can not see under normal conditions is there. You cry at dew on grass, butterflies, nature in all it's fantastic wonder is revealed. Yet this is utterly overwhelming. Many find God. Many have no choice. I can think of no other change a human can go through that is so deep. The core of ones being is open to everything. Pain, of course, has no endorphin shield. Often people fall in love with ridiculously inappropriate people. You see reality unprotected by any buffer. These moments of beauty are minority to the realisation of mans true evil acts. Television news has to be avoided, all horror frequently leaves individuals with PTSD. Benzodiazepenes mimic the GABA family of receptors. These are there to relax you, to return to stability after a shock. A near crash may send an adrenaline surge but once danger passes GABA resettles you to appropriate reactivity to the event. Benzo withdrawal, because of this, can be worse than heroin withdrawal. That adrenaline can remain unchecked for three days. It is complete madness. Sleep comes rarely and viciously crammed with nightmares beyond any possible to a normal person. Each night after two or three hours I would wake, head in hands, crying in terror. Yet waking brings little relief from the nightmares. Traffic noises slither and grate unabated and torturously. Kettles climb to boiling can utterly terrify. Derealisation is a word used to describe a condition that lasts months where nothing is real but still there. Madness, hallucinations, wind blows buildings dangerously close to crushing you. Driving becomes impossible. Paranoia. The timescale so long it feels unendurable. Sleep won't relieve, nothing lets up. I daren't see a doctor for three months. Depersonalisation is the other word used in benzo withdrawal description. At least opiate withdrawal it's the raw you. Benzos are instrumental in constructing personality. You are not yourself. The first three months of utter hell lessen, six months in some developement and progress is attained, a year in you may or may not be able to work, eighteen months and most are through it. For two or more years, episodes will return, unpredictably. Some never return. Most stay medicated for life. Prescribed benzos and opiates till they die, such is the magnitude of repair. The year at least required to get well is beyond people's meens if they have children or no goal or purpose in mind. I am terrified at what lays ahead. I'm scared of telling my clients and freinds this week before I go. Because they will not understand. They will feel betrayed, let down, many things. But if I don't do this I will be forever nullified and die young. So I accept all insults and anger. It is nothing to what I must face. Most of them couldn't do it. Few ever have to make changes on this scale. Most live a lie. A story of themselves, never having to look at who or what they are. Right to the grave their lives a self deceptive narrative. I envy their fantasy, I envy their blindness. No one wants to see their true animal in all its corruption, in all its denials and self deception.
Monday I drive away from here leaving everything behind. I am frightened beyond words.
Monday I drive away from here leaving everything behind. I am frightened beyond words.
Monday, 23 March 2015
Sunday, 22 March 2015
Wilderness Rattle
Though rehabs are built on the breaking down of the narrative structure of justification the addict creates. They take a person down to a condition where they can be restructured from. Hence a home or solitary withdrawal can run a risk of leaving just the habits active state, not remove the patterns that return the addict to familiarity. Abuse victims often search out further abusers as the system is one they know. One would think return would never happen yet it is often the case victims follow a path of serial abuse. The addict may need reprogramming to change. However, unless one has money, NHS places are hard won. First six candidates must be found. This group must spend six weeks preparation with weekly meetings. Once this has been run a panel judge who is suitable. Most of the six can be found wanting in some detail. If fortunate, a series of visits to differing rehabs, some Christian, some psychology based. Time is used by talking, one to ones, and group meetings. Some find it quite life changing. Many return with a familiar brainwashed manner, others return religious. Many relapse. Many relapse immediately on release. One could wait three weeks for the group stage to begin, six more weeks, then be told they aren't ready or have attitude issues. The girl who heads my panel has history with me. She is fresh from college and very inexperienced to be taking life or death decisions. Our first meeting was as my new keywoeker. Government cuts meant the experienced staff were offered their old jobs at half their previous wage. Highly insulted all left. Turning Point in frome replaced these respected and experienced councelors with college graduates. I had made a recent visit to my GP after a profound period of depression with suicidal thoughts. I assumed she would have read up on my case. Yet her opening gambit was a suggestion to lower my prescription without reason. I said with such little discussion and your lack of knowledge on my case, increasing my script would be just as logical. It felt as though I was talking to a child. I have read widely on addiction and drugs for over 35 years. I wasn't trying to insult her, just help her understand how the situation felt. She ran off to her boss in tears, like a child would. He defended his employee selection but after raging a while began to listen and finally accepted my point. I asked for a different worker as is my right. She continued her carrot and stick approach, leaving voice messages on clients with no credit. If they failed to respond they would find their prescription stopped causing relapse to heroin, crime to fund it. Stablished addicts lives disrupted. It is a matter of time before some one dies from her petulant responses when a text would have succeeded. So I got my new worker who, though inexperienced appears to have a genuine aptitude for this kind of work. The child validates her position by having had a heroin habit. Looking at her skin, teeth etc clearly it was breif. Ex addict co cellars tend to refer to their experience, assuming you are like them. They have a tendency to assume they know more than a well trained and experienced councelor. Once I heard my fate lay in her hands I knew she would be unlikely to be professional. Revenge could kill me. So my plan B. is now taking shape. I will upset many people, let down others, already my days are filled with insults from my partner. From waking till sleep.
But I will die if I don't put myself first. I must be selfish. Each time before I have struggled through, feeling obligated to complete work. Fifteen years and still no space to recover. A year is ideal, six months ok, and three months a chance. So, tomorrow I begin an intense session completing a desk. Assembling what I will need. Then I shall drive to some lonely part of this island and be very ill. My partner says I am abandoning her. Yet to stay as I am will not fix anything. To do this I have to be self-centred. Ignore debtors and clients. I will die soon if I continue. A madness of such self destruction has overtaken me. A suicidal spiral. I am not sane. I can think of no other course of action. Yes, it is extreme. However I will live. This is what I am trying to communicate. This reflects only on me. It is not a critisism of anyone. I will have to recover then repay people. I have lost all self perception and awareness. The ethylphenidate will kill me if I don't stop. My addiction to opiates has left me unemotional, deadened, cold, thoughtless, unable to love. At first these tablets were a godsend. They cured my heroin addiction. Fifteen years on im still dependent on them. For a few years they caused little change but as time has gone on I can't feel love, I can't fall in love, sexual mechanics function but no p,ensure or love accompanies it. This is my biggest worry. I was of the first generation prescribed subutex. I am the first long term study. There are no referal papers or greater experience than my own. My life once revolved around romantic attractions, I loved romantically. I lived for this. But it has gone. I need to withdraw from these to know what remains. If this is a permanent change or just saturation of a partial agonist synthetic opiate.
Finally, benzodiazepenes returned. The withdrawal from these is long, arduous, frightening. Most suggest a long taper, at least a year. More recent studies suggest a swifter withdrawal. Once a benzo habit forms, the brain stops producing its own GABA. This family of neurotransmitters do many things. One example is, say a shock, a car just misses hitting you. Adrenaline surges through you, once danger is passed GABA returns to normality and calm. But when they aren't there, this shock, this adrenaline rush stays for up to three days. Terror remains with no reparative functioning system. Sleep is difficult. I would wake screaming from terrifying dreams. Never sleeping past four. Then I would walk the dark empty streets. A kettle boiling terrifying volume as the intensity grows as thw water comes closer to boil. Panic is constant. Post traumatic stress disorder frequent. De realisation, the feeling that reality is false stays for months. Depersonalisation, something in this system makes you who you are. Constant panic, constant fear. A body saturated will not feel much for a few days. Then a trip like quality takes over. This increases as the saturated body rejects the chemical from wherever it gathers. A full four weeks of increasing daily terror. At four week one reaches the peak. Return of ones own GABA takes several months. You go insane with fear. Any sleep managed is flooded with nightmares from wich waking is a relief. Undoubtedly harder than heroin withdrawal by some distance. Some suffer hallucinations, others seizures. It is possible to die. So some taper is always advisable.
Before I enter hell I must explain why I am going. My partner is fuming at my selfish choice to get well. My main client will be disappointed, nay take legal action. Other freinds, family, will all be let down. No ammount of explaining that this is addiction. Ones behaviour is out of your control. Free will is not there. I say this to explain, not to avoid taking responsibility. But no one would choose this. And if I am to be of use to anyone I must get well. Last chance. Only writing this now has the magnitude of my decision begun to sink in. I will be very ill for three months, fairly I'll for three more, and I'll for much longer.
Once on the mend I cannot return to anywhere I know. Relocation is paramount. Career change advisable. A severing of all my past. Triggers of relapse take a thousand forms. From a road curve to a litter piece. Drugs will ensure nightmares, depression for a year.
Finally, when rebirth begins, a transcendent freshness to every experience is overwhelming. Tears at beauty in a flower. Opened eyes, babies eyes. Babies security too. A rebirth but slow, painful, lonely, cold and seemingly endless.
I have managed to make great things whilst having serious substance problems. I know of no one else who has done this. With my hands untied I will be very, very powerful. I have never lacked faith in my abilities or felt less inteligent than anyone. Freed I should be able to produce quality work. It may not be furniture though. I've spent the best years of my life creating dreamworlds for others. Now it's my time to show how things should be.
But I will die if I don't put myself first. I must be selfish. Each time before I have struggled through, feeling obligated to complete work. Fifteen years and still no space to recover. A year is ideal, six months ok, and three months a chance. So, tomorrow I begin an intense session completing a desk. Assembling what I will need. Then I shall drive to some lonely part of this island and be very ill. My partner says I am abandoning her. Yet to stay as I am will not fix anything. To do this I have to be self-centred. Ignore debtors and clients. I will die soon if I continue. A madness of such self destruction has overtaken me. A suicidal spiral. I am not sane. I can think of no other course of action. Yes, it is extreme. However I will live. This is what I am trying to communicate. This reflects only on me. It is not a critisism of anyone. I will have to recover then repay people. I have lost all self perception and awareness. The ethylphenidate will kill me if I don't stop. My addiction to opiates has left me unemotional, deadened, cold, thoughtless, unable to love. At first these tablets were a godsend. They cured my heroin addiction. Fifteen years on im still dependent on them. For a few years they caused little change but as time has gone on I can't feel love, I can't fall in love, sexual mechanics function but no p,ensure or love accompanies it. This is my biggest worry. I was of the first generation prescribed subutex. I am the first long term study. There are no referal papers or greater experience than my own. My life once revolved around romantic attractions, I loved romantically. I lived for this. But it has gone. I need to withdraw from these to know what remains. If this is a permanent change or just saturation of a partial agonist synthetic opiate.
Finally, benzodiazepenes returned. The withdrawal from these is long, arduous, frightening. Most suggest a long taper, at least a year. More recent studies suggest a swifter withdrawal. Once a benzo habit forms, the brain stops producing its own GABA. This family of neurotransmitters do many things. One example is, say a shock, a car just misses hitting you. Adrenaline surges through you, once danger is passed GABA returns to normality and calm. But when they aren't there, this shock, this adrenaline rush stays for up to three days. Terror remains with no reparative functioning system. Sleep is difficult. I would wake screaming from terrifying dreams. Never sleeping past four. Then I would walk the dark empty streets. A kettle boiling terrifying volume as the intensity grows as thw water comes closer to boil. Panic is constant. Post traumatic stress disorder frequent. De realisation, the feeling that reality is false stays for months. Depersonalisation, something in this system makes you who you are. Constant panic, constant fear. A body saturated will not feel much for a few days. Then a trip like quality takes over. This increases as the saturated body rejects the chemical from wherever it gathers. A full four weeks of increasing daily terror. At four week one reaches the peak. Return of ones own GABA takes several months. You go insane with fear. Any sleep managed is flooded with nightmares from wich waking is a relief. Undoubtedly harder than heroin withdrawal by some distance. Some suffer hallucinations, others seizures. It is possible to die. So some taper is always advisable.
Before I enter hell I must explain why I am going. My partner is fuming at my selfish choice to get well. My main client will be disappointed, nay take legal action. Other freinds, family, will all be let down. No ammount of explaining that this is addiction. Ones behaviour is out of your control. Free will is not there. I say this to explain, not to avoid taking responsibility. But no one would choose this. And if I am to be of use to anyone I must get well. Last chance. Only writing this now has the magnitude of my decision begun to sink in. I will be very ill for three months, fairly I'll for three more, and I'll for much longer.
Once on the mend I cannot return to anywhere I know. Relocation is paramount. Career change advisable. A severing of all my past. Triggers of relapse take a thousand forms. From a road curve to a litter piece. Drugs will ensure nightmares, depression for a year.
Finally, when rebirth begins, a transcendent freshness to every experience is overwhelming. Tears at beauty in a flower. Opened eyes, babies eyes. Babies security too. A rebirth but slow, painful, lonely, cold and seemingly endless.
I have managed to make great things whilst having serious substance problems. I know of no one else who has done this. With my hands untied I will be very, very powerful. I have never lacked faith in my abilities or felt less inteligent than anyone. Freed I should be able to produce quality work. It may not be furniture though. I've spent the best years of my life creating dreamworlds for others. Now it's my time to show how things should be.
Eclipse Videos
Cloud Eclipse
With the attitude I have long grown weary of, both closest people said cloud cover would stop seeing it possible. Where they see clouds, I see Constable. Cloud enhanced this partial eclipse also removed any need for eye protection.
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Eclipse 2
We stayed awake waiting for dawn. Once the earliest of tonal change could be seen i gathered our tackle, popped a 1p- Lsd, a boost and we were off. At the Cley hill car park two vehicles and a couple of crusty Mystics wandered ahead. Cley Hill is the site of more UFO sightings than any other place in the country. It has been used variously by many peoples through the years. It's most obvious detailing is much like an Iron Age hill fort, similar to the patterns seen at bury ditches and others. Behind the hill a slope leads down to another mound. Chalk chunks speckle the green and a few desperate wind sculpted hawthorns cling on. Small dug out wind breaks, man side rabbit scrapes. Cloud obscured sun. But we were early and positive.
By nine some 200 people from families to single hippies, Mystics to students, astronomers to shamen, all drawn by this transcendent moment. I looked, all were scattered, but, unlike virtually any other event, it was knobhead free.
As things progressed, cloud thinnings meant a layer prevented eye protection. Like an oil painting, or a constable sky, bruised and moody. Blues, greys and golds formed patterns that would open for a minute or a few seconds, revealing the alignment. Using the sacrament I channelled all power to Leeds.
It amazes me how many new shamen think they can miss out the backy. Tobacco ensures a whole bunch of evil demons and spirits are kept at bay. England's PC smoking laws has seen some new shamen, all hip with the crowd, letting all and sundry through because they're scared to smoke. Us serious shamen are endlessly clearing up after there loose ceremonies.
In Leeds, a team of a few golden agers but largely the new break throught from Leeds achademy looked very covincing. The Wigan youths are a young bunch of talent and perhaps it's the Burrow and McGuire presence that seperates. Leeds were glorious and, most remarkable was Sinfield did not play yet Leeds looked very organised. For several years, if sir Kev was injured, they would lose, such was the magnitude of his game reading and vision. From 2012s cup Wigan victory till there first grand final win under macdermott, Sinfield was godlike. For that window he was the greatest player on the planet. Not great in all skills but he understood a game, where to tighten, when to fire the boys up. 2013 he was still godlike, that grand final he was smashed down after every kick with the intent of putting out for the game. Twice he was knocked out and twice he rose to lead Leeds again to a sixth Grand Final win. Two nights. First I missed due to illness. Second I was determined after Warringtons win I drove down for. Again won from fifth. The greatest Leeds side ever.
By nine some 200 people from families to single hippies, Mystics to students, astronomers to shamen, all drawn by this transcendent moment. I looked, all were scattered, but, unlike virtually any other event, it was knobhead free.
As things progressed, cloud thinnings meant a layer prevented eye protection. Like an oil painting, or a constable sky, bruised and moody. Blues, greys and golds formed patterns that would open for a minute or a few seconds, revealing the alignment. Using the sacrament I channelled all power to Leeds.
It amazes me how many new shamen think they can miss out the backy. Tobacco ensures a whole bunch of evil demons and spirits are kept at bay. England's PC smoking laws has seen some new shamen, all hip with the crowd, letting all and sundry through because they're scared to smoke. Us serious shamen are endlessly clearing up after there loose ceremonies.
In Leeds, a team of a few golden agers but largely the new break throught from Leeds achademy looked very covincing. The Wigan youths are a young bunch of talent and perhaps it's the Burrow and McGuire presence that seperates. Leeds were glorious and, most remarkable was Sinfield did not play yet Leeds looked very organised. For several years, if sir Kev was injured, they would lose, such was the magnitude of his game reading and vision. From 2012s cup Wigan victory till there first grand final win under macdermott, Sinfield was godlike. For that window he was the greatest player on the planet. Not great in all skills but he understood a game, where to tighten, when to fire the boys up. 2013 he was still godlike, that grand final he was smashed down after every kick with the intent of putting out for the game. Twice he was knocked out and twice he rose to lead Leeds again to a sixth Grand Final win. Two nights. First I missed due to illness. Second I was determined after Warringtons win I drove down for. Again won from fifth. The greatest Leeds side ever.
Thursday, 19 March 2015
Eclipse
tomorrows partial eclipse begins at 8 am and peaks for us around 9.30. I hope for clear sky. I hope o make it to Cleeve Hill and climb to the top to view this rare sight. I recall just after moving here, fifteen years ago a similar partial but fairly covered sun. The cows lay down, birdsong stopped. These strange moments don't feel good. The eclipse at christs execution comes to mind. But I hope to gather from it what I can.
My mind has been positive but I am running down. My work is behind. I spend time on film and photography. Shamanic research. I am hoping for a three month rehab to free me of the chemicals my body became dependent on. Benzos and bupronorphine the two hardest. Ethylphenidate has crept in and a mania grips me. All money is gone. I need a cash injection but can't see one coming. Whether I explain I need to take this three month retreat to everyone or not. My addictions are the tailends of replacement addictions. These medicines stopped the chaos of my life but left me numbed. Emotionally I am so turned down it is not possibly to love, certainly not fall under a clamour, fall in love. I have made a terrible mistake in speaking out. This will return to sever my life. I know it. I ought not to have trusted my partners parents. The issues are not within their understanding. They can not help but worry but their understanding is too small. I should have said nothing. They will come in with the delicacy of elephants. Everybody thinks they understand things but unless you have been addicted to each drug, your knowledge is worse than nothing. Experience of heroin will confuse any attempt to grasp crack, alcoholics have no incite into heroin. They are not transferable knowledge. I fell in to benzodiazepines. Having been a heroin addict in the past I assumed I had knowledge. The differences are vast.
GABA receptors and that family of neurotransmitters calm us, they are a large part of our reality perception and personality construction. Withdrawal is far worse than opiate withdrawal.. Opiates, endorphins keep pain at bay and balance emotions. Withdrawal sees returning emotions in torrential downpour. Discomfort of all types. Much like a baby, unable to understand emotion, you cry.
I am killing myself behind this blanket of opiates and benzos with ethylphenidate. More corrosive than anything I have touched. How I went from two years of complete sobriety to this kamikaze lifestyle I can't say. Explaining is impossible. To get even a hold on any of it you need understand that addiction meens you, the self, has no control over your use. Your behaviour is not consious nor acts of volition. That is what addict meens. You have lost any free will. Yet still people speak to you of intentions, aims, goals, as though choice existed. There is no control. If I could see myself, if I could choose what to do, I would be well already.
Addiction is so little understood. Ideas grow fashionable then wither. New visions take over. But none so far nail it at all. As with other mental illnesses it seems unless we figure out a biology of consiousness we will continue these superstitious rituals where we have no science. Or is it a new thing altogether. A dis function of the soul.
Certainly, addiction confirmed for me free will is an illusion. Agency is desperately clung to by those grown up on religious foundations. A belief in choice is hard to shake off. They will resort to the language of philosophy. Determinism. The truth is more likely to lie in acceptance that we are animals. We can spin a yarn but our stories, our personalities bare no relationship to our actions. Our skill is lieing. Deceit and self deceit. We describe or narrative constructs, explaining as story of who we would be. But our actions, the truth, has little or no connection. We believe ourselves. But consiousness, so prized and considered, is of no real value. This tip of the iceberg above water, so tiny to the mass beneath. We are not in control. We act first. Cognitive decision making can never be fast enough. We have acted before we know it. The reason is constructed to rationalise an animal impulse.
I just wish to retrain in order to survive. Like a dangerous dog. We can be trained the same way. But consious effort is no use. A foolish idea. No one is to blame. No one asked to be what they are. I can take no pride in not killing children because I have no desire to. Drug takers did not choose to be so. Any more than homosexuality being a choice. Non addicts can take no pride in abstinence from something they don't desire. Morality. Criminality. Everything we are must be reassessed. I don't steal cars, but not because I am good, I just don't wamt to.
The next person to talk as if it's a choice will have this explained to them.
My mind has been positive but I am running down. My work is behind. I spend time on film and photography. Shamanic research. I am hoping for a three month rehab to free me of the chemicals my body became dependent on. Benzos and bupronorphine the two hardest. Ethylphenidate has crept in and a mania grips me. All money is gone. I need a cash injection but can't see one coming. Whether I explain I need to take this three month retreat to everyone or not. My addictions are the tailends of replacement addictions. These medicines stopped the chaos of my life but left me numbed. Emotionally I am so turned down it is not possibly to love, certainly not fall under a clamour, fall in love. I have made a terrible mistake in speaking out. This will return to sever my life. I know it. I ought not to have trusted my partners parents. The issues are not within their understanding. They can not help but worry but their understanding is too small. I should have said nothing. They will come in with the delicacy of elephants. Everybody thinks they understand things but unless you have been addicted to each drug, your knowledge is worse than nothing. Experience of heroin will confuse any attempt to grasp crack, alcoholics have no incite into heroin. They are not transferable knowledge. I fell in to benzodiazepines. Having been a heroin addict in the past I assumed I had knowledge. The differences are vast.
GABA receptors and that family of neurotransmitters calm us, they are a large part of our reality perception and personality construction. Withdrawal is far worse than opiate withdrawal.. Opiates, endorphins keep pain at bay and balance emotions. Withdrawal sees returning emotions in torrential downpour. Discomfort of all types. Much like a baby, unable to understand emotion, you cry.
I am killing myself behind this blanket of opiates and benzos with ethylphenidate. More corrosive than anything I have touched. How I went from two years of complete sobriety to this kamikaze lifestyle I can't say. Explaining is impossible. To get even a hold on any of it you need understand that addiction meens you, the self, has no control over your use. Your behaviour is not consious nor acts of volition. That is what addict meens. You have lost any free will. Yet still people speak to you of intentions, aims, goals, as though choice existed. There is no control. If I could see myself, if I could choose what to do, I would be well already.
Addiction is so little understood. Ideas grow fashionable then wither. New visions take over. But none so far nail it at all. As with other mental illnesses it seems unless we figure out a biology of consiousness we will continue these superstitious rituals where we have no science. Or is it a new thing altogether. A dis function of the soul.
Certainly, addiction confirmed for me free will is an illusion. Agency is desperately clung to by those grown up on religious foundations. A belief in choice is hard to shake off. They will resort to the language of philosophy. Determinism. The truth is more likely to lie in acceptance that we are animals. We can spin a yarn but our stories, our personalities bare no relationship to our actions. Our skill is lieing. Deceit and self deceit. We describe or narrative constructs, explaining as story of who we would be. But our actions, the truth, has little or no connection. We believe ourselves. But consiousness, so prized and considered, is of no real value. This tip of the iceberg above water, so tiny to the mass beneath. We are not in control. We act first. Cognitive decision making can never be fast enough. We have acted before we know it. The reason is constructed to rationalise an animal impulse.
I just wish to retrain in order to survive. Like a dangerous dog. We can be trained the same way. But consious effort is no use. A foolish idea. No one is to blame. No one asked to be what they are. I can take no pride in not killing children because I have no desire to. Drug takers did not choose to be so. Any more than homosexuality being a choice. Non addicts can take no pride in abstinence from something they don't desire. Morality. Criminality. Everything we are must be reassessed. I don't steal cars, but not because I am good, I just don't wamt to.
The next person to talk as if it's a choice will have this explained to them.
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
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