Last Sneak Peak shhh: ecshatonIIsequence vi

eschatonIIsequence vi

Is it possible to be ill from matters, or things, psychical and mental, or isn’t that precisely what is meant by existential?

My problems were as real as cars or flowers or trees, they were streams and mountains. It became immaterial to me what rules I was flouting.

The philosophy of denial and of the Saints became my bible, but it was more of a grimoire when it came to writing.

I wrote ritualistically and cut myself, I turned from family; I was sailing close as possible to disaster. And then disaster happened. All of it was over.

I guess the underworld of chaos, hunger, dark and rats and hardship is where my will eloped to after hours. Those hours turned to years and I suffered on the bottom of the pond like larvae, before some glint of light on me was turned.

There will always be a struggle as long as we are made of matter, so the thoughts that give us wings should be sought after.

I do the best that I can do given the best that I can be. Under these conditions what more could be expected of me?

We may never be well but we can learn to cope with the adversity, avoiding triggers but facing up to our anxieties.

I do not think that medicating needs to be a factor, except as one more factor among others.

Some people, it does appear to be, have more luck in their lives than other people. Often we can’t see why but if we look extremely closely I am sure often there is goodness in their eyes.

It isn’t only God who moves mysteriously about, our consciousness descends like fleas on monkeys.

Life’s not short it’s long, that’s one of its many contradictions: it seems to last forever when you’re young, and flies like sleekest night when we are old. Yet somehow the days have mass and that mass increases with momentum.

I write like a marionette made of animated meat, attending to the tautness of the lines.

It’s been a serious amount and length of time since I was nauseous and sick after any substance. I witness many times those who consume enough to vomit on, and can’t help but feel no sympathy or quiet contempt. It’s not that I don’t sympathise – once I could have vomited for Britain – but my response to the lapse in judgement is a little strong.

This is obviously more true for those who I know should know better. An old man being sick from drinking is admirably rare.

Similarly of those go sick from taking a relatively small amount of heroin, not every day but often, I would say ‘haven’t you learned by now to stay away?’.

Still if you saw that sorry man before the state that later enveloped him, you’d wonder which was worse, which makes the entire business all the more pathetic.

Compared to an impressive sum I could be considered a frequent user of all drugs under the sun, but none leave me adverse effects, or gets in my way or that of anyone around me I could call close.

Perhaps it would be different if I lowered my exposure, but the time left on my hands is what I’m trying to cure.

I smoke to kill the day and scratch to bait that horrid itch creeping up from nowhere and gets under your skin and muscle like wet sand: no powder or potion can be perfectly clear.

I will never inject substances, I do not have the training, and if I did you’d find no solution here. I’m my own brand of pure

I keep things within reason when there is no reason to.

Generally the only thing that I’m unsure of is the variable that is you

Your base reaction to my product is in the space between the lines.

You may need extra paper if you would ensure full and frank replies.

Between the uppers and the downers not a difference, not even size

Of my modest responses. It is almost tragic I don’t drive.

Fractions in the drug world are essential to survive.

Unless you are so casual that neither money, curiosity nor social niceties compel you. Laziness has saved the life of many a prospective dope fiend.

Users have an especially refined distinction between what they can use and what they want or need.

I’ve still by some miracle avoided all addictions, all that is to say except for tobacco preferably with weed.

But I swear the drug is purely gastronomic: it merely helps the medicine go down.

And if I have to go for hours without a smoke and not go insane it is no problem.

Of course I often wonder why I even smoke at all. Boredom is the rolling action, habit lights the match.

If I could only get more exercise, in the form of a regime. One of the near-impossibly few reasons I’d even consider the dating scene.

I made a new friend on the internet, another who has fallen for my home, no small thanks to me. I can be surprisingly enthused when it comes to advertising my country.

That said, a combination of truth, beautry and plain reality, does more than enough to sell my home town(s) to them for me.

This person is as is no longer surprisng to me: a little broke, a little damaged, a little vain and a little loopy, but bursting at the seams with creativity.

Urgency will always be a factor in our writing lives, so long as the process of becoming continues to push itself into Being.

Limitations create a pressure by which to narrowly focus the spectral breadth of the creative imagination.

The end of anything is more of a limit on its being than its momentous start, or set of initial conditions.

Imagination brings our consciousness much closer to ther end than our memory brings us close to our beginning.

If you refuse to play a game where the house can never lose then its fair to say of that game that you are winning.

Every day provides examples of, and opportunities to engage with, moral matters that seem negligible but aren’t.

Ironically the sequence may have saved me with its hubris and obscurity, confused the will or left my psyche

free to reassemble and confess with impunity.

I have taken life quite seriously, there were tears even in the funnies

and scars where reason let that project down.

Perhaps it’s no surprise, amongst the speed and productivity, that occasionally you just want to paint life brown.

There is no shortage of that gear in this town.

Ascetic types of that descent work very hard for their salvation, but its the will that drives the call and spoils the sacred.

There is a moral difference between fasting and starving.

Generally I’ll have what you are having. My interest in food is lesser than my interest in sewers. As usual it’s the end that interests me.

I cannot help but brood on death, since I am already dead in the time that you have read this.

My spirit already moves on and explores the white sky, leaving chem-trails of ink on a batch of rectangular clouds glued and bound like the vaults of a heaven set down between two perfect paperback covers.

You must at least try and resist some sentences, while other sentences you have to accept.

Everything is waiting. Everything meaningful consists at some point of mere waiting. Practice, and courtship, and music, is waiting. Waiting gives meaning to many things, but what gives meaning to waiting? Sacrifice, imagination.

I love Poker for the demonstration it gives of the notion to the quick gambler’s break, winning streak or windfall. Played properly you sit calculating odds for many hours at a time, and over all be making less per hour than an office desk job.

Poker should be played like a Black Ops operation. Undercover, precise and patient, strictly in and out.

I have spoken with people with broke, roughly lived-in faces. You can tell they have had tricky lives, because they are reactive and loud and their mood swings are erratic.

I’ve spoken to other damaged types, but mostly here among men, where instead of being loud and cocky they are more meek, apologetic, generous and tidily neurotic.

The difference is often in the lines; the lines they use, the lines abused, and the lines they’ve grown into.

I look pretty good for my age, and the damage I’ve done. My life has had its hardships but I have always smiled

I’ve always opened my eyes, even if I’m shy, and am averting them.

I’ve always been a pessimist in my head but an optimist at heart.

I’ve said that before I’ma poet: I lead with sighs hope and repetition.

More important than the task we have set is the fact that we have set it at all. A goal, a dream, an arrow, a ride, all have this in common: they take you outside of your concrete walls and your narrrow cofnines.

We are not a doctrine or body of systematic thought on a few related subjects. We are but gobbets of rain on consciousness’ windscreen.

If you are driving by night I suggest you turn your lights on.

When you are enveloped by fog in a town or on a moor or hill, there is little sense I can see in patiently standing still. You have to push on in some direction, to establish a landmark as such, at least a point of reference.

It is not necessarily true or obvious that we will find such a spot, but we move towards it anyway. Perhaps muscle memory will later guide our old steps.

We write, and the gulls laugh with us, or at us. Either way we write what they can barely dream of, a shoal of fish, a mate, a craggy ledge, a trawler. I can dream of being a gull, and make my own crazy squawks of mockery, and burst into my own heckling laughter.

Thanks to a continuing mishap whose responsibility lies with either my surgery or pharmacy, rather than reducing my diazepan, when I tick the one box they send me the dose for two ticked boxes, effectively doubling my dose of diazepan. And the gradual reduction was planned as a measure against increased addiction. I ask you seriously what’s an addict to do? When they no longer work you trade them for something else, that’s what an adddict would do.

My best friend’s addicted to prescription drugs of every description.

I hate to see him living on painkillers and pate and tomato ketchup sandwiches, but all I can do I enable him, via my disability.

To kick the glare of consciousness into the evening air of intoxicants.

I understand all too well the urge to lose the vaccuous sum of your vague and creeping yearnings, to a pill or powder or bottle.

People are being oppressed and scrutinised in regimes of despotic power or tyrannical grip. But babies are dying in bathtubs across the globe; I don’t care about power. I care about the child in the next tower.

There is no more noble an expression than Bill and Ted’s: be excellent to one another.

This book is being written by a side of me that has its own agenda or general orders. It’s as though I’m at the back of the cockpit with my hands on the controls, but all the while the instructor’s doing the basic piloting.

I am still capable of a scream, a cut to slice the air’s arm open, but why to scream when the world is plugged into or wearing headphones?

My words be like the streaks of rain that run down the sultry street in middle August after darkness. They should put you in a mixed frame of mind.

Each word is a step once again closer to Armageddon. But as we have seen that doesn’t mean the end of a kind of verbal heaven.

The text is far more like a gravyard now that the permanence of paper or packets of information can outlast monuments of stone.

The problem of Being is that there is no problem of Being. Being is everything that there is that is being itself. It seems to have no problem. It is we, as beings, that seem to have the problem.

That we have evolved gives us a neat solution to a variety of problems, but it equally poses a thorny problem in its own solution.

That is to say how consciousness evolved from representations in certain relations as presented to a conscious mind, to the centre of those representations individuated through conscious minds.

Consciousness is more than a mutation. It is what underlies the whole architecture of conceptual structures holding up the concept we have developed of mutation throughout scientific history.

I ought to be compensated for my work, which I am allowed to be up to a certain point. But if my readership extends to more than three I will be more than gratified: I would be happy.

I do not believe in routines, regimens, or regular word pacing. I believe in the process I learned, trained, and honed;

how to carry a thread made of a metaphysical meat

Depression is like a combination of grief and the heartbreak of betrayal. And it stays with you all the time, a deep-bottomed lake without a ray of sunshine. The future is blurry with fears, the past crackling with tears, and the present another puppet

Sometimes we are awfully abrupt without a full stop.

Everything takes shape in the end, even clouds ca become oil-paintings with serious study.

My book is like a midnight walk down a dodgy alleyway. There will be offers, and nightmares, and hookers and crooks, but you’ll be fine if you learn to look at them the right way.

I have almost downloaded 30% of the books content. What fraction of a mind at work, and at what time, and in what state or condition, that’s supposed to compare to, I’ve absolutely no conscious idea.

The mind is a hoverer, and at night, within sight of a lantern, the mind is like a moth trying to make a dangerous landing.

It is relatively early, and yet I woke up late. This is why I’m finding it best to write again by night.

Love is not an oject that much troubles me of late. These days generosity is enough to give me a little boost of loving light.

It is starting to sink in that this will not take me a week. And a lot can happen in maybe a month.

A sixth of the way in inside a week is not bad going. Although I’d bet there’s a world record out there somwhere.

We have to come to terms with the fact that there may always be somone better.

I am not a judge I’m a reporter from the ground. I may be flying in a helicopter but once I was on the ground.

My thoughts are only echoes of the problems dead men bring: I am less for thinking on and more about just reading.

Of course I’m not going to miss a chance to make some comment here about bleeding. I mean by it piercing the veil