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“I recall distinctly how I enjoyed my suffering. It was like taking a
cub to bed with you. Once in a while he clawed you – and then you were
really frightened. Ordinarily you had no fear – you could always turn
him loose, or chop his head off.”
- Henry Miller – Tropic of Cancer
“Culture is a mass hallucination, and when you step outside the mass
hallucination you see it for what it is worth. Language is partially the key
here: We cannot move into a reality that we cannot describe. If we can’t
describe a world we can’t be there.”
- Terence McKenna – Eros and Eschaton
“What I choose to do is of no concern to you.”
- Dido
…
MSc. Office moves. Seeing people at a distance through tunnel vision. Suicide. A map of madness. An Englishman’s home is his castle. The wedding and broken wine. Pride in my time. John. Weird phlegm. Wax root. Friendships lost. Hit counter fucked by Cisco. Welcome to hell motherfucker (Read that).
I wanted to apologise for a number of things. Offer some explanation of why I have been living in shit for the last few months, rather merely talking (about) it. I owe you an apology too – for the vast hiatus. But I have barely been able to digest the sequence of recent events. Everything seems to have gone out of whack. I stopped hating myself, and in the process seemed to become something that I hate anyway: A petty minded clown.
It was good. It was a class act. It ran so deep it was even me.
[Pause]
MSc
I dropped out of the course after two days. I realised much later that the Professor
running the course, albeit the proto kind-hearted academic, had been subtly
expounding one long apology from the off. He knew the score. Everything that
could have been wrong became manifest. A bad, flat and saddening atmosphere,
hostility, tears and arrogance. An obvious burnout, too expensive, beyond my
ken and resources and the realisation that the whole subject, the whole industry,
and in fact the educational system itself, its tropes, currents, products and
outcomes - was fucked beyond belief. If these cunts expect me to slice myself
up for them - for that - they can go to hell. It’s bullshit.
Work has been a cauldron of petty hatred. Gossip and fear of gossip. And I have been (possibly) as much of a player as anyone, which makes me so sick that words fail me.
Now every statement directed at me has to be qualified with a theory as to what has been said out of earshot. Last week four managers came into the office and began to discuss what to do with the room my team and I occupy. This was how I discovered that the team was being restructured and we were moving office (again). It’s been worse, more debilitating, than lying in bed high on draw, alcohol, Nurofen Plus, caffeine, nicotine and anti-psychotics.
You can see that I need to get away from here. Lose myself somewhere else. Break away. One way or another, I need to be far away from these people. All people. I dream of being alone for extended periods. My worst nightmares are about privacy. I fantasise of being so far removed in feeling from everyone around me that I can barely hear them. I want to see people at a distance, through tunnel vision, through two small dots, everything in miniature.
“Nobody, so far as I can see, is making use of those elements in the air which gives direction and motivation to our lives. Only the killers seem to be extracting from life some satisfactory measure of what they are putting into it.”
Indeed. The living death. Welcome to hell. Swing low sweet chariot to carry me home – and get me the fuck out of here – one way or another.
To be continued…
soon
Came to the machine by accident rather than force of will. Still soldiering on, in a sense. Let’s see how long this lasts.
I made a list of key events, about two weeks ago, to record here. The list is in my room somewhere. Can’t be bothered to find it. Will wing it.
Or maybe not.
#1. Glastonbury.
I was there on the Tuesday with a run of luck. Just made the connection, comfortable journey, argument with dodgy cabbie at Castle Cary after eavesdropping on a beauty who was complaining about the rip-off fares. She was a cabbie too, and drove me to the site. We chatted. I felt confident. I had a job to do.
Bumped into one of the Oxfam organisers on the gate and breezed onto the site like never before.
I did two shifts early – Wednesday and Thursday, then had a three day break. Naturally I peaked on Thursday night and did my long walk. Felt quite close to collapsing, but that’s hypochondria for you.
I worked hard. I think I did some of the best work in my life. I hope I can keep it up for the next few years at least. They may offer me a supervisors job next year. I don’t think I want it. Maybe it’s the best stewards who decline the promotion. It seemed that way to me at the time.
Besides, I enjoy shouting at people.
On the second shift I was the only one there who knew how the gate was supposed to be organised. I did everything but check the tickets. I handed out goody bags, worked the wide aisle, gave advice and directions.
After bitching about how badly the crowd were being managed the supers put a couple of stewards near the perimeter gate (which was staffed by security) to shout instructions to the tide of people coming through. I went down there myself for two or three hours and shouted directions like a Beefeater – one that relishes his job. I worked the crowd a bit too. It all seemed out of character. I was stunned with my performance for at least twelve hours afterwards. It seemed incredible.
Inevitably that night (Thursday), with the prospect of three days off, and the place coming to life, I decided to soak up the atmosphere. Unaccountably I got ripped to the tits. Hence the long walk back, as I mentioned.
I made it back to Tom’s Field and had nearly reached the tent - where I planned to put myself in the recovery position - when I saw three pissed young men staggering towards me.
I believe one of the young men was a steward I had been working with the previous day. He had talked with a plumb in his mouth and when I asked him what he did, and when he told me, I laughed in his face. He was on one of the most prestigious courses in the world – at one of the best universities in the world. He worked hard on the gate and I respected him for that.
Now, as our paths crossed, he shouted: “This is loud and raucous behaviour!” to the general population of the compound, which was relatively quiet and calm. Then I think he caught sight of me and said, “That guy’s off his face!” to his friends - although this may have been a hallucination - and it may not have been him at all.
It cheered me up though. I needed all the help I could get.
Just found the notebook, and this overheard quote from Wednesday, near Joe Bananas and the meeting point…
“You fucking subconscious bastard!”
As I have the notebook in front of me, this is the Friday, verbatim…
“FRIDAY 7.35 OXFAM TENT
JUST WENT FOR WALKABOUT DOWN TO THE HEALING FIELDS. FORECAST WAS RIGHT. BRIGHT,
SUNNY AFTERNOON WITH STRONG WINDS. WALKED AROUND THE GREENFIELDS. 3 DIFFERENT
VENUES WENT WRONG. FELT UNWELCOME. FEEL AGAIN THAT I DON’T FIT IN. NOW
AGAIN TIME TO FEEL BAD ABOUT MYSELF. GOING TO CHECK MY MOBILE. COVER MYSELF.
HOPE THERE ARE NO MESSAGES. MESSAGE FROM MUM ASKING ME TO CALL HER.
___________________
___________________
___________________
FELT QUITE GOOD WALKING AROUND TODAY. FELT LONELY – YES – BUT DIDN’T
FEEL AS THOUGH I WAS GOING TO COLLAPSE. THAT WALK LAST NIGHT WASN’T EASY.
IT NEVER IS. TERRIFIED TO TOUCH THE GEAR NOW. AFRAID OF A BAD REACTION. ACOUSTIC
STAGE IS CLOSE THOUGH. EASY WALK – EASY NAVIGATION. MUST SEE JULIAN COPE
AT 9 – JUST TO SAY I’VE DONE IT. AM SITTING AT THE END OF THE TENT
ON MY OWN. INTERESTING TO WATCH THE REAL PEOPLE AT PLAY.
SAW ONE SEMI-NAKED WOMAN TODAY WALKING THROUGH THE GREENFIELDS – ONE TOTALLY
NAKED WOMAN – PART OF “SEIZE THE DAY” I THINK – WHO
REENACTED THEIR NAKED PROTEST ON THE OUTDOOR CIRCUS STAGE. GOOD MUSICIANS.
GOOD BAND IN THE GREENFIELDS TOO. AND SAW MALCOLM HARDY.
WENT TO THE OXBOX EARLIER TO PICK UP ANOTHER MAP AND SOME SUNBLOCK.
THE GIRL ASKED ME IF I WAS CHRIS LIGHT.
SHE KNEW MY NAME.”
Later that night, as I lay wrecked again in my tent, I jotted this:
“I was succeeding in all the wrong areas and failing in all the right ones.”
By Saturday the heat was staggering. I had never known anything like it. I tried to stay in the tent for a while, too afraid to face the festival, but had to leave quickly, shoeless, with just my cash and credit cards, to avoid heat exhaustion.
That night I had a space cake, from a previously (very) reliable source. After two hours of waiting for the action to start I fell asleep. The next morning (Sunday) I was banjaxed – a nervous wreck and sick to the stomach.
I made my last shift though, and made it through. I went back to the tent and stayed there all night. It rained and strong winds buffeted the flysheet. The tent flexed and gyrated. I cleared out first thing Monday morning and was back in Twickenham within about six hours.
#2. Weight
I have lost twenty-two pounds over the last eight weeks or so.
#3. MSc
I’ve been offered a place on a masters in Information Technology (software development). It’s a conversion course for graduates with a first degree in arts. I start next month.
#4. Pills
A new bright spark at the surgery called me in for a chat. On 4mg now – when I remember to take them.
#5. My big hallucination
I'm saying nothing.
#6. Weather
Really warm.
::chris::
If you aren't already - you should be reading this blog. Will try to post tomorrow - the following day is the 8:42 to Castle Cary and some craziness.
Well, that was a fucking epic.
Best map of the site I have seen (big file - 'bout a meg)
Strange days.
Although blurred with uncertainty, I have been nursing a powerful desire to approach this machine for the last few days. The need to talk has almost sent me crazy. I had to jump for the desk spontaneously. I’m apprehensive. Something feels wrong and I know what it is. It is the enormity of what I want to try to convey. The effort I will need to make. The possibility of failure is huge, especially starting like this; with a belly full of lager, Guinness, wine and Mao-tai – a Chinese liqueur which seems to be in the same league as Absinth.
Not to mention the weird virus (or something) that hit me last weekend, resulting in three days off work at the beginning of the week and which is still generating some interesting effects. It’s all been highs and lows mixed in with a low grade Conradian daze.
I’m a big boy though.
So this may be a long post. Bear with me if you can.
Glastonbury tickets went on sale last week. Predictably I am going for a stewarding job again. I sent the application off this morning. If I don’t get the job I’m fucked. It just doesn’t bear thinking about.
This may seem strange to you if, in the unlikely event, you have read my previous ruminations about the festival. I look at those entries now and feel that they don’t tell the whole story, not even my own story. In fact, they seem to make no sense whatsoever.
I’m nervous now. Lost for words. Looking for an angle.
This year will be different, whatever happens. Every year the festival gets better for me (this will be my fourth time since ’89) because every year I get a clearer picture of the site, it’s demographic, the people and what I need to do to get through the six days. My survival skills are more honed. I share them with you:
Get there as soon as you can to acclimatise – and get the drop on everyone else. Get your bearings. Take nothing that you cannot afford to lose. Take earplugs. Take a hat. Warm clothes. A butt pack. Wet gear (cheap stuff – no gortex). Buy a blanket. Keep warm at night – because it gets cold. Distribute your cash. Watch out for those exhaustion lows that lead to misunderstandings. Drink plenty of nice herbal tea and fruit juices. Carry water. Eat organic. Shit in a bag if you have to. Piss in a bottle at night – no-one will give a fuck. Have at least two massages (try a facial massage facing the sun). Get ready to towel wash in the tent with plenty of water. Take it easy on the hash truffles (4 or 5 maximum) and listen to what the crazy people around you say because these mad conversations, observations, salutations and occasionally rants are one of the most interesting aspects of this event. Spend plenty of time in the greenfields. Don’t forget the healing fields. Head for the smaller venues and respect them.
Watch the sunset at the stone circle as early as possible, but ideally on Thursday (note the amazement on people’s faces) then walk to the northern end of the site, to the high ground overlooking the pyramid stage, and watch the fireworks and listen to that huge bowl of humanity cheer and holler at each other. Stand even higher at the north end, near the flushing toilets (use them), or stand on the high ground overlooking the stone circle in the south. Stand in those places at night, so you can see nearly all the lights and fires and smoke in the valley. Hear the music, generators and human voices coalescing into a great, ambient hum. See how this humming city of light, music and voices seems to float in space. Note the silence of those around you who are also standing in awe. Have a smoke. Consider walking down the hill and mingling with 130,000 people.
[Pause]
In ’89 I was 22 going on 18. I was in the West Country on the Tuesday selling accountancy training manuals, driving through the raging summer heat in my Vauxhall Cavalier 1.6L, chain smoking, listening to a mixture of Deep Purple, Kate Bush, Beethoven, Hawkwind, Genesis, Yes, Pink Floyd and a wide range of rare, bootlegged, deleted, British progressive psychedelic folk.
I drove around the limitrophe of the site at this early stage. I saw crusties stopped by the police on the roadside and had a chat out of my nearside window with an American woman sitting in a Mercedes who told me impassively that someone had just tried to rape her.
Back home my life seemed to revolve around two houses: Olde Hinges in Staines, scene of one acid trip, several mushroom trips and the biggest and strongest joint I have ever rolled (or smoked) and Hollywood, a semi-flooded, crumbling Edwardian pile set off Egham Hill in its own grounds, caught in a time warp, and a future venue for my impending disintegration.
I remember being back in Egham on that Tuesday night gathering blankets, candles, torches and the like. The next day I left for the festival with what seems like a boot full of junk and a free-wheeling, music obsessed Irish Loyalist called Ian Patterson.
We were on site, with the car, on Wednesday night. Our friend James turned up the next day. We established the camp, bought a hand-made chillum and from Thursday I gradually started to lose it. I was the archetypal Glastonbury Virgin – stoned, stunned, disorientated, lost and tripping on the idea of my fate.
I never got my bearings and was never far away from James or Ian when negotiating the site. The tents fell apart (I drove the car over one of them) and we had some stuff ripped off.
We met with people we knew. I saw travellers and heard house/trance for the first time – which amazed me. We watched Van Morrison in blazing sunshine and Suzanne Vega through the smoke of the fires. The pyramid stage was a dirty battleship grey. I took to the chillum Saturday night and listened to the voices around us in the night with anticipation.
Monday morning I raced James back to Olde Hinges. The car was trashed inside and the bodywork was covered in a patina of dust. Somebody, possibly me, had written “Glastonbury Victim” in the dust on the bonnet. I frequently topped a hundred on the way back. My face was peeling off. When we got back to Staines I gave James some of my dope and went home to sleep and feel like a failure.
Years passed.
In the nineties I watched the coverage. People I worked with were going every year. I eventually cracked in 2000 and applied for a job on the recycling team. I felt, rightly, that a job would give me a regular baseline – a mooring. I went in with a ‘fuck you’ attitude to being overwhelmed and I kept on the qui vive. Besides, I had put on seven stone since ’89 and stood about six foot in my boots – so I probably didn’t look like an immediate pushover. I made an exhaustion fuelled decision to leave on Monday morning and missed my last shift. I didn’t get paid. It didn’t bother me at all.
2002 seemed vastly improved. I was lucky with the weather (again) and spent much more time in the greenfields. The scousers stayed outside the fence (I had witnessed a mugging in 2000). This time I worked as a steward. I got to know some people, interesting people, and I finished my shifts.
The festival never really leaves you. The more I go, the deeper it works its way into me. I can’t not go now.
Well, all this plus Terence McKenna. Could be a recipe for disaster. Great.
Peace.
::chris::
Discovered Elftrance on Darian's Blog {Not updated for 18 months 210405}. One of the most interesting sites I've come across - ever.
Thoughts on the war:
From a pragmatic point of view I can see the gain, the short-term gain, on disposing with an evil regime. But on balance, I would rather be disengaged from the whole process. Very little makes sense to me now. The secular world, this reality we live in, seems both complex and uncertain. I find myself unable to deal with it. I feel as though I am drowning when I face it. Allegiancies, political views and opinions of all kinds seem shallow, or psychotic. On the whole, I prefer the idea of mutability rather than taking a stance, drawing a line or adopting a view.
I suppose you could say people have three choices:
To most of us (not all of us) the war is very far away - in the same way that Westminster, Brussels, the UN and Head Office is far away. That doesn't stop people having an opinion on the conflict. But most people vocalise their support or opposition and in reality do very little. Most people won't vote in the next election, either because they feel powerless or they just don't care. Most of the people who support the war won't be buying war bonds (even if they could), sending food parcels to Iraq or doing anything else manifestly tangible. Certainly, a lot of people have marched, but most haven't. Now the country has galvanised into the for and against and it seems everyone must fall into one camp. Frankly, I have trouble making sense of the mess we have made - like arming Saddam in the first place, in the same way we are arming people today, or breaking their rice bowls, or generally pissing on them. Trust me, this reality we have made makes no sense - in every way. I would be proud to turn my back on it.
I want no part of this world, even though I pay my taxes. Is that a cop-out? Shit. Maybe we would all be better off without opinions. Let me deal with my own little world. I can make more progress that way.
::chris::
Back at the machine. Long time since my last real post. Apologies.
I’ve had a few runs of luck over the last month or so, some boozy sessions and some moments of bad health and being short of breath. There have been a few co-incidences, blasts from the pasts, meetings with people long since seen and known and a few freebies. I have been sick on absinth, dreamt violently and visited my old, old sixth form college a few times - long forgotten, much changed.
I've had a friend living at the flat for about six weeks now. We’ve had a few people round to stay. We have a LAN, drink Illy espresso, eat out, have curry and Chinese delivered, and occasionally cook big meals. There are four working computers in the house and I’m having a lap-top delivered soon (from work). I moved to a new office on Friday.
I am studying PC architecture and hardware at the tertiary. It’s intensive, challenging and well taught. Not bad for thirty quid. I’m having an interview for an MSc course this month.
Friday night I bumped into my Scottish Auntie, who is actually younger than me. I had planned on a quiet evening. We ended up in The Tup, and I got so wasted I danced to the local pub band. During the evening I drank red and white wine, double matured Cragganmore, Cock-sucking Cowboys, 6X, and a fair whack of Budweiser.
I danced like a spavined three-legged horse.
I woke up with a monumental hangover on Saturday. Some of my flatmate's friends
came round in the afternoon, posh blokes (two of them are barristers
I think), and we went out boozing again.
………..
An old friend, or someone I once knew, has appeared out of the blue on Friends Reunited.
It was a salutary moment.
A long time ago, about fifteen years ago, I had about a dozen friends who were everything to me. We lived a charmed life, without much direction, discipline, drudgery or money.
My life turned around - for better, then for worse. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t think about that time. Tablets can take away a lot of the shit, but they don’t deal with the shame, embarrassment, sense of loss, the loss of dignity, the fall from grace, losing people who meant a lot to you. They meant a great deal to me. They were The Real Holiday and Bad Times Blues Band.
When you finally realise that you have fucked-up really badly your natural instinct is to go into the shadows – which I have done, and will continue to do. But curiously, they all seemed to disappear off the map. It was a mystery. I am not only a nosey bastard but also a trained investigator.
More than that; we all have Google now, and anyone can find just about anyone now. Anybody “who is anything” that is.
There was nothing. Well, nothing substantial. Just an entry on the 192 corporate service (electoral roll) and an indie video of Nigel hanging himself. Two sources actually trying to establish contact with members of the crew. Incidental stuff. Tenuous. And nothing on a lot of key people I thought would be all over the web.
For a long time I thought I understood. I understood that there was an ethereal, astral and tacit agreement that no-one was to make a noise, say anything. We all knew the score. We were cool. It was all poetry. It all worked on a different level.
Then a while ago Roger appeared on the Royal Holloway pages. He left no notes. Just a shot in the dark - a neutral ping on the sonar.
But now, of all people, John – putting his year of leaving as eighty-eight; the dozy bastard.
I don’t know what it means, but it’s probably all bullshit. Other than that, you’ll get nothing from me.
I won’t bother anyone.
Sleep well.
::chris::
Just a quick one. It's all kicking off tonight. Ran into my Scottish auntie. Will be down at The Tup by half nine. Will speak to you later, whoever you are. Apologies for the hiatus. Another post within the next twenty-four hours...god willing and the creek don't rise. Another crazy night in Twickenham...
Still alive, and testing ftp.
Is there any way out of this?
Had twelve days off over Christmas and practically barricaded myself in my room. Looked a little into the abyss and ran out of Stelazine some time before the holiday. I started losing it a long time ago of course, but over the last couple of days it has really crept up on me. Not sure what is wrong with me at the moment. Left work at lunchtime and didn't go back. Felt dizzy, weak, sick. Walked through the snow to the surgery and managed to get some tablets within three hours. Took two as soon as I got back. I expected a sea change, but it didn't come.
Snow has been falling on London, and some of the inhabitants have been stockpiling Ricin. None of this has affected me. I started praying for a catastrophe a few weeks ago, a catastrophe on a grand scale. I imagined the snow falling and not stopping. I wanted three or four feet. Something that would paralyse the country. Something that would fuck it over good and proper.
Would the price be too high though? The poor and the weak would be the first ones to get screwed. And they would be. So much for that shit. A giant meteorite then.
Shit - I really have to stop this. This is not what I imagined it to be. Not what has been going through my head these past few weeks. This is the cry of the wounded angel, and I don't think it works.
I don't know that much about my illness. There are times when I lie in the darkness and look into my mind, believing that I can find an answer there. Sometimes I pray that I will find some peace. Sometimes I pray for help. Most of the time I mix with people who make me feel like an aberration. At times like that I want to be invisible. Sometimes I feel like a ghost walking around the streets.
I have tried everything. Nothing seems to work.
I know that when I stop taking the tablets I have about 10 or 14 days before fear and confusion sets in. However blasé I am going in - within that time-scale I turn to jelly.
But good things...
Dreams of Glastonbury. Possibility of change. Laughter. Beer. Lagavulin. Days off work. A trip to Amsterdam. Money on the credit cards. And these...
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