Friday, 15 March 2013
Twelve Steps To Clinical Insanity
When I woke up, at one, I was assured that I could be Spiderman. I had the feeling. I had the right stuff, to Save, and the confidence to remain anonymous. It was the webs I wanted though. That wrist action and the rapid, controlled and measured shooting of the web. What they gave me was a plastic, suction dart that, when spat on and shot three inches from a window, would stick. Without the window it would travel no more than a disappointing three feet. The Velcro strap was adequate but the cumbersome mechanism for shooting the dart which sat on the wrist was, at best, disappointing.
At two, the joy of isolation, as literature becomes the walk in the country, the Sidlaw Hills, all those days spent bunking off school to walk up there on my own, happy, content. The sensual being, I was, with my fire and stolen potato, my teabag and civies in my schoolbag. All my time I spent there with no-one - not even myself - happy and watching the finches and the city light up.
At three though, I realise, the pain of isolation. I murdered my dog out of curiosity. I loved her, but I killed her to see what it would feel like. It felt bad, but the crisp, suddenness of the pain was soon gone to be replaced by the dull thud that integrated into my character - no need to explain mother, it was messy.
At four I bring out my Bowie, or Tarzan knife, from its leather sheath. This is one of the few possessions I have truly felt at one with in life and I have been told that I cannot have it back. It is not mine. (once upon a time we sat on the gorse, fern and heather covered hills with a small fire when the farmer approached and he told us we were not allowed there and you produced the Bowie knife and stuck it in the earth in front of him and you said your father and his grandfather had been born on and worked on the land and if anyone felt like trying to move us, they could try - and then he left.)
At five, I get home to find the order has arrived. It was fourteen-hole Doc Martins I wished for. The Fred Perry and the Staypress were not important, but I have been sent fakes and I will not fit in. I don’t care whether I fit in or not, but it is noticeable, I will not look good. I would have looked odd but good in the genuine article, but now I will just look odd and cheap. Odd and like I should be left alone.
As I get back to the city at six, I smell the Chinese and Indian food I have never tasted before. My dad may vomit at the smell of garlic, but I am elevated by the sense. Baby octopus on a sizzling platter. Baby Octopus on a Sizzling Platter. Not mince and tatties, or stovies, or tinned custard. The first microwave that softened the steak and kidney pie after skating was Jeff Wayne’s musical version of War of the Worlds, indeed, but the sizzling platter was Iron Maiden’s Killers with Clive Burr and Paul Di’anno.
At seven I have already picked up my guitar and am practicing my modes, Lydian, Dorian, Phrygian, but never Locrian. I am honing my knife skills too, with corriander and thyme - these are the passages to my Holy, these are the good times, when nothing fills my brain but yellow-pepper fish sauce and Madeira/shallot reductions. I have some sense of the Taoist Monks, silence, I am cooking.
At eight comes the bad. The cider, the butane gas, acid, sniff and blow. Hell in the ironic shape of a mushroom where my bath tile swung open and the pestilence of Hell flew out. Horrid it was, horrid, bleeding from the inside out, I could feel the cold liquid and the drip inside me, bleeding, nothing on the outside, all from within, invisible and untreatable.
At nine comes reprieve in the shape of Civil Disobedience, Henry, Henry, Henry my love, the Suffragettes, the Freak Platform, Thomson and Bukowski, Camus and Kafka. Our heroes never take it half the distance, they never compromise, say “Yes, that is enough for me.” I’ve always said, "Yes, it’s good enough for me." I want to offend, but not to the point where I may cause offence. It was good, but a dream.
At ten comes the absence of God and the presence of Sonic. The Hedgehog has become more important, more vital and Current. Sonic has become the puzzle and all else lost or forgotten.
At eleven, the real Loss. Dreadful, confusing Loss. Where Respect became more important than Truth and Feeling. The Loss that requires me not to write. The Loss that requires me to write. Horrible, temporary Life. The life we must love because of that.
Twelve now and back to my audience and my fifty desperate e-mails. You voyeur, you doctor of slugs.
We must break bread together soon, we both know the moment will pass. I apologise, but my family and I are waiting on you, we are here and we are everything you do not have. If I do not share soon, then I shall empty and die. I am empty without you. Please fill in the form attached below and we shall be awkward together as God intended. At twelve, my symbol, my Father…