Thoughts that spring to mind at three in the morning. A random selection of jottings and scribbled thoughts emanating from a confused and disordered mind. A haphazard mélange blending wisdom,* philosophical musings and nonsense These scattered jottings from long ago include a fair few reminiscences on past experiences, thoughts on the process and rationality of writing and writers, work in progress, abandoned projects and quite a lot else. Offered in its original state, without any attempt to improve, eradicate or adorn.
*Disclaimer: wisdom is in short supply.
There are a few examples of what the author fondly, and possibly erroneously, regards as his best work in here, interspersed with some of the worst. Make your own minds up.
Long Lost Words.
Decluttering: sorting the detritus of one’s possessions for the removal of the unwanted, un-needed and the just plain loathsome. I wish I was better at it. But I try.
In the midst of a recent attempt to shed clutter, I came across a dozen or so floppy disks – or is it discs – and a beige plastic contraption with a USB connection allowing a modern computer to seek out hidden treasures from long ago.
In a rash moment, I plugged in a disk and discovered a long-lost masterpiece. Okay, not a masterpiece at all, but the skeleton of a novel entitled ‘Take My Breath Away’ dated February 1997. A second disk, dated January 1998, contained an almost identical novel, now with a different title. After suffering yet another name change the wretched novel survived to eventual publication in 2011.
In essence, they were different manifestations of the same novel. Same storyline, same characters. The only difference was the word count. The 2011 vintage was about 125,000 words; its predecessor had a whopping 178,000 words! Obviously, I had somehow turned into a savage and ruthless Editor.
Yes, perhaps the excess words weren’t as necessary as I had once imagined, but there were even more of them in a file called ‘extras.’ Notes and personal recollections; hardly any of them would ever to be used in a novel. Another 47,565 words. Written, slaved over and then discarded. I’ve pulled out just one example. This was the germ of an idea for a kidnapped junkie and did appear in a vastly different form in the ‘proper’ book. I haven’t changed a word from the 1997 original. I feel I’m a far better writer now and the very good reasons for rejecting these banished words fifteen years ago are even more viable today, but here’s evidence I had a decidedly ‘noir’* aspect to my writing even then, 25 years ago.
‘Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.’
Proverb inscribed above the gates of Hell in Dante Alighieri’s epic poem Divine Comedy published in 1472. The most appropriate English translation is ‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here.’
Modern version: *Anyone of a delicate disposition, stop reading now.*
Angel’s Story.
The persistent voice soothed its way into his consciousness. His body contorted, the thin wire cutting into his emaciated frame, restricting the convulsions and producing a snarling rictus of agony, yellow teeth bared in his gaping ruined mouth. Bound hand and foot, lying naked on rough bare cement, screaming in frustration and torment, Angel begged only for death. His soft voiced inquisitor knelt alongside, soothing and stroking.
‘Come on Angel, let it go and I’ll give you what you need’, the words mingled with the sobs of the wretched creature before him.
Angel lay still on the damp unyielding floor of the dingy basement, his bones standing out in stark relief, his skin pale grey in the murky light with lines of dirt in the creases of his body. Blood ran freely where the wire cut deeply into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, his badly set broken nose streamed with mucous and red rimmed eyes watered profusely. Deep black shadows under sunken sockets and beads of sweat in the hairline giving the lie to his compulsive shivering.
‘Just tell me, then it’s all over’. Angel turned his face away, teeth clenched in defiance and heard the door slamming behind him as the man left him alone in the near darkness.
Angel was beyond help, in the depths of his agony he knew he was going to die, but to die like this, screaming where no-one could hear, lying trussed and helpless on a cold damp, filthy floor, it wasn’t right, he deserved more than this. This was a sordid way to die. More self-pity overwhelmed him, his bony chest heaving he wept for himself alone and for what might have been.
Stomach cramps tore again at his guts. He drew his knees up under his chin in an attempt at relief, oblivious to the cruel wires biting deeply into his flesh with each movement. The light grew even dimmer; night was approaching. At least two days now since his last fix. ‘Just finish it, don’t leave me like this,’ he screamed to unresponsive empty walls.
Angel retched, his empty stomach producing nothing but bile, but constantly racked by cramps and nausea. A thin mucus of rancid diarrhea seeped unnoticed between the flanks of his scrawny buttocks. Rolling on the hard, unyielding concrete, impervious even to the agony of his wired wrists and ankles, he beat his head against the floor, seeking the temporary oblivion of unconsciousness. Alone but for unknown fears, hallucinations and irrational terrors, he thinks only of the needle, the relief from all pain, nothing else exists for him. He will lie, cheat, kill, nothing else matters but the blessed release of the needle, if the fucking cripple came back now, he’d tell him what he wanted to know, tell him anything.
Convulsions wracking his body, panting and gasping for air, limbs contorted, lips stretched to the point where they split and tear, he screamed the frustration of his need. Impotent for months, his penis now erect and pumping as he ejaculates, he knows no pleasure, is not even aware of the act, only the needle is important, only the needle matters now.
In his desperation he recalls the words of his inquisitor: the crippled man who’d left him here and may never return.
‘What’s it like, smack? Can it be compared to anything else? Sex, perhaps?’
He’d not answered, but the other man’s ignorance was telling. Only someone who’d never felt the rush of the powder would have asked that question.
Smack, it’s a thousand times better than any orgasm, it’s the ultimate rush. Yes, it fucks your life, you look and feel like shit, but you’ve just got to do it again and again. He’d done all the rest, weed, ecstasy, speed, coke, the fucking lot, they were nothing next to the powder. Even when you know it’s going to kill you, when the lows are so much worse than anything else you’ve ever felt, you don’t fucking care. When you haven’t got it, you’re hurting. You’re in pain, real screaming fucking awful pain, until you get it, then it’s alright again, and it’s fucking marvellous. Better than getting pissed with your mates, better than winning the League, better than shagging all the women in the fucking world, it’s all there fucking is.
He hadn’t said any of this. Kept his trap shut ‘cos once he started talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop and he’d tell the man what he wanted to know. If he did that, he’d be a dead man. This way, there was still hope.
The crippled man’s curiosity had been genuine. He thought smack could be compared to something in is own experience. Sex or alcohol, perhaps. Pathetic.
Junkies despise drinkers. Small-timers playing at avoiding the stresses of life. He’d known a lot of heavy drinkers, usually happy, cheerful drinkers, who want everyone else to be as wrecked as they are.
That’s the thing with alcohol, most drunks want company, want the whole world to be as pissed as they are, to share the experience. Junkies don’t give a shit. The really bad times are when all your mates are wired and you’re the only one hurting. Every other twat is out of it and you hate the bastards with a passion. When it’s you that’s loaded, high as a kite, you don’t notice anybody else. Your best mate is just some fucker who keeps bothering you. You don’t need mates, you’ve got everything you need.
HIV, Aids, the fucking virus, a junky won’t worry about that. If you get it, well tough shit. When you’re on smack, that’s all there is. You’ve no interest in anything else. Not food, drink, not sex, not relationships, not friends either, you’ll just use your relatives, your friends, everybody.
The crippled man’s questioning voice came back to him. ‘Why don’t you stop taking it if it fucks you up?’
Another fucking stupid question. Come off it? What for? What else is there? He’d tried it once. Stopped using. In the early days before the buzz became life itself. Life was so boring, so fucking depressing, he ended up drinking, taking pills, anything he could get hold of. The only real answer was to go back to what you know.
Angel turned over, his face pressed against the cold, damp floor, and begged for an end to his suffering. In the darkness, the silence, his pleas were unheard.
Gulliver Smith 