Dark Shadows of Existence

At this point I shall not suppress a sigh. There are days when I am haunted by a feeling blacker than the blackest melancholy -- contempt of man. And so as to leave no doubt as to what I despise, whom I despise: it is the man of today, the man with whom I am fatefully contemporary.

Nietzsche – The Antichrist 

 The Last Days of Sober Living

 The last year of sober living was a romantic time. I remember evenings spent sat beneath Westminster Bridge, the party boats just along down, moored in the high tide, the lights of the Southbank centre lit up across. I remember the last days of that infernal summer, where somehow dark obsessions came in on the floral evenings and magic and horror both lay in the distance. It's like it was another world, like the place a poet must see before being condemned to the page and the word. And when the summer was done that last sober autumn, crisp beneath my feet, walking so far and getting so lost and so far away from home. In the distance, rising up, the old industrial areas of Wandsworth, places I'd gone with my father and where we used to research Roman fares and Victorian bottle dumps and dig them up to hopefully find treasures. In the last evenings before the great turbulence of adulthood I read Oscar Wilde and James Joyce and Yeats – the Irish in me for the fight to come. Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the great Russian writers accompanied me as I travelled London, a kinda farewell tour before going underground. I visited museums and galleries and walked around Soho in the pouring rain, miserable and seeking out drug contacts. I wasn't needing a contact just then but was planning ahead. I wrote my first short stories through that winter with the windows out, no heating or money and having to warm my hands with a hair-dryer.

 It was an insanely beautiful time, the memory a bruise blossoming in the sky now. But coming in on the back of the year was a great storm. I had been watching it build for years, darkening tones and swirling shapes in the sky which I didn't understand. I was too young to chase storms at that time. God, I didn't know which way it'd move or what course it'd likely take. So I sat and watched with a fatalistic horror and delight, kinda thrilled that the world was gonna come down on me, imaging the eroticism of my struggle and how I'd kick and fight and die. I watched the storm engulf the sky and come up over the bridge. The river darkened and weird ripples and eddies crashed about below. The cheers from the riverside bars now sounded like screams, like the whole world was screaming. There was talk of a meltdown. That was the night they set the river on fire and welcomed in a new thousand years. And all the while I was at home, laying in bed, shivering and crying and imagining gunning down the crowds. It was on that night there that the wound opened up and the poet crawled out: I was fundamentally at odds with my world.

In the dark of the night my brother said, “Shut up!” And I don't blame him at all. I chased the smack down the foil, but not even that made life bearable. It wasn't one thing. It was a lifetime of things. Twenty five years of tragedy. I watched the fireworks go off, exploding in the sky, Chinese Dragons and Roman Rockets and War and Blood and Bubblegum sparks... “HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Happy New Millenium!!!” They screamed.

 The last drunks staggered home; the celebrations turned angry in them now. It's just the same; nothing changed; and there's work tomorrow. Outside one of the discontented beat up a dustbin, scattered its guts all over the road. I looked at the back of my brother's head and wondered if he was asleep, if he was still breathing, if he'd survive this night. I used to do that when we were young, creep about in the dark, feeling for his breath. I hope he breathes. I hope he sees the morning. He deserves it more than me. I thought back to when I was ten and Robbie Rudge's granddad said that his goal was to reach the year 2000 as he'd then be exactly one hundred years old. I thought of him, if he was breathing. Probably not. I hoped not. We were seeing in a new era of tragedy, but this next thousand years will not be a history of collective tragedy like the last, but of personal tragedies : it will be the single man and woman who will get it this time. The next holocaust will be indiscriminate.

 My brother was asleep now. His chest didn't move and the night was now deadly still around us. I clicked my lighter and as quietly as I could chased the last beetle of smack around the foil, blowing heroin out into the new year. “Night Night, Dan,” I said... “looks like we've made it, Bro.... looks like we've really fucking made it.”


 I don't think I'm going to last out the year. I can feel death and weakness in every move I take. The eclipse of bad health is nearly complete. My lungs rale and wheeze through the night. I am breathless on waking. My first half an hour is spent coughing up the settled phlegm in my chest and smoking cigars to replace it. I feel tired all the time. Not physically tired, but a tiredness that hangs in my face and has a physical weight. I've started getting piercing headaches and have a weird second heartbeat in the extreme left side of my chest. Every so often, twice a day, my entire chest will cramp from the middle as if some force is trying to pull my breast plate apart. My feet are brown from over 10,000 injections per foot and bad circulation. My ankles and shins swell up after each fix. If I pick a scab I scar. Stairs almost kill me. I can manage no more than a flight without getting out of breath. And it's been like that for a while, but now I'm starting to feel really ill with it: old ill, like I'm an old man. If I have to predict how I'll go I'll say my heart will give out. I do believe I'll die alone in this room in France and will not be found for at least a week.

 I never wanted to die and I never wanted to hurt myself. I only ever wanted to tame the pain and be happy. I am happy. That's the contradiction. I was never really sad anyway. I guess when you're young and feel so strong and offended by death that you think you can do just about anything and get away with it. Nothing effects youth but time. Then one day, suddenly, the stitching's all undone. My only hope now is that I really am a hypochondriac.

Rebels should not take Drugs

 Rebels should not take drugs! That is NOT taking up arms! That is NOT the good fight! That is getting in bed with the enemy. Rebels should not drink OR smoke! That is NOT rebelling: that's conforming! Rebels should not pay homage or get high on pussy or arsehole... that only leads to heartbreak, antidepressants and the psychiatrist's couch. Rebels should NOT write! Rebels should NOT march! Rebels should NOT lay down in front of bulldozers! Rebels should NOT sit in French cafés reading clandestine newspapers! That's what rebels are supposed to do!

 People have always said I am a rebel. But I'm not a rebel. I'm the opposite of a rebel: All I've ever wanted was to be accepted and loved.

 Rebels should NOT need love.

 I Have no regrets, but... 

I have no regrets, but...

 That's not a rock n' roll thing, just how it is. I don't look at life for what has passed but only for what is here infront of me today. That's not to say I'd do everything over again. But it is to say that if I could alter history, yet without knowing what consequences that would have on my present, I wouldn't dare change a thing. I have no regrets, but...

 That old man I saw on the metro: how fresh and wise and vibrant he looked. Sitting there with a head of brilliant silver hair, a soberness in his face like you'd maybe acquire from reading thick volumes of law books, his eyes pale and clear, alive and responsive, his skin not sagged or mottled, but thickened perfectly to sit on the collar of his fresh pressed shirt. But there was something else within him, a kind of contentedness with the world and his place in it, something very straight and honest, a kindness of living that only those in good health can have. Somehow he exuded life, as if all the comfort in the world was within him, completely respectful of his own mortality; like every minute was one to savour; like even the discomfort of a morning wash and shave was a pleasure; like waking to a new day was a gift and not a chore to get through until bedtime. I eyed his face again, could almost see the years of him slapping aftershave across his jowls, eager to get out into the world. And he sat there like that, his hands crossed over one another, the right gently clasping the left, taking warmth from his own existence, completely submissive to life, not waiting for the next blow. I unclenched my fists and let my own hands hang loose.

 Between Saxe Gambetta and Bellecour, two quick stops, I glimpsed that man's entire life in my mind. Or maybe not his life, but the life I imagined I'd never have. And as I watched him more, I thought: I wouldn't mind being like that, being him... getting to that age. That wouldn't be too bad.

 I have no regrets, but...

    ...in the dark window of the subway train I glimpsed at my reflection. And I thought:

 God... what the hell have I done.

 Capitalism is:

covering up the waste underneath, the needle pocked flesh, the brown feet, the huge abscess scars, the frightening capillary veins that pop and spread out like fungi, the raling lungs and wheezing chest, the heart palpitations, the shortness of breath, the emphysema, the bloated liver, the early onset of diabetes, the methadone fat, the filthy elbows, the dirty neck, the suicide scars... all covered by nice shirts and jumpers and trousers and socks and shoes.

 When Tescos began selling books like Naomi Klein's 'No Logo' I knew we were fucked. A system so sure of itself that it even sold me it's own anti-propaganda, advising its customers to boycott almost every product it sells.

 Capitalism is ME. I see it all too clearly now.

Home: A Love Letter to London #257

Behind the wall, in the shade, on the weeds, I know the black and orange caterpillars that are found there. Through the park, behind the swings, in the bushes, I know the human shit and trodden porno mags. Along the river, on the bank, with the tide sat out, I know the stench of the sunbaked mud. In Shepherds Bush, down St Elmo's Road, in first spring days, I know the Cherry Blossom snow. Around the church, on broken graves, under the elm, I know the damp of summer shade. Beneath the cars, where the eye can't see, I know by default lies what where:

The taste of bus windows; the underside of benches; the stuff stuffed down behind the green BT junction boxes; the muck of squashed vegetables after market; the hard school walls; the anti-climb fences and black grease; the smell of the public telephone receiver; the smoked brown wood of telephone poles; the acrid taste of motorway berries; the oil pools on the tarmac after the neighbours fixed his car; a sparkplug caught in the drain; the white enamelled bricks in latrines; the grubs that burrow in the window boxes; the insects that come in on summer nights; the mosquitoes in the back yard; the softness of the back seat in taxis; the taste of bus windows; the rain in shopping bags; the stains the beggars leave alongside the cash machine; the brown furry pollution that clings to the disused power station on Lotts road; the smell of train journeys out of town; egg and cress and mayo sandwiches; wet dogs; house cats; the smell of Superdrug bathsalts; brewery alleys; Adidas aftershave; four pints of beer and an ashtray; sausage and beans; fresh air dried laundry; corner shops full of the morning news; carbon betting slips; the afternoon soup kitchen of the Goldhawk Road Methodist church. That's my home. A million memories of all I am and everything I'll ever be. A deep sadness of a city that horrifies, saddens and brings me to beautiful tears... caught somewhere in years gone by and going by. That there is my home. She rises west from here and sprawls out like you wouldn't believe. She rises and settles like a mushroom cloud; the snake of the river slithering through her heart. London Town.

My city rips me in two. There is nothing I am more passionate about than home. It acts upon me as a melancholic gravitational pull. I cry for London Town. I did another Google Map walk through her streets last week. I broke down crying for the city I know so intimately, for my exile from her, for all that is me and is lost here. Cut off from London I am dying, but I am too gutless to return. I suppose I'd rather live in pain than face the music. But as my father and mother and brother and sisters die I will be taught one almighty lesson: I will be brought to my knees and dragged screaming through these foreign streets.

France is not my home. It's not even a home from home. Maybe on my death bed I'll be nostalgic about my days here, maybe she'll become a part of my history proper, but just now she weighs me down and makes me unutterably sad. I don't know this city or the people like the integral way I know the people of my own city. The little nuances that distinguish everyone – a slight accent, a fashion of accentuating words, the choice of words. I don't know this place and it doesn't know me. I have become a 37 year old blank. I didn't grow up here. I didn't clamber over her walls and graze my knees, camp in her undergrowth, go insect spotting in her forest. The streets are not the same curbs we sat on as kids, poking at the gutter life. The walls are not the same brick I drew and sprayed my name on, was gripped up upon. Even the barbed wire is a different cut and leaves different scars. I once wrote that 'the pavement tastes the same no matter where you are', but that was just poetry, a throwaway line that sounds true but isn't. The pavement DOESN'T taste the same, it's just the same things that knock you to it.

 The Dark Shadow of Existence

I walked around followed by the dark shadow of existence. It fell in front of me when the light was behind, moped behind me when the light was in front, and submerged within me for the high noon sun, only to re-emerge, inch by inch as the light went down, out into the evening, until it stretched so far ahead of me it was all there was. And when the natural light of day was done, my dark shadow of existence multiplied and split, unsure of which debauched route to take through the city night. The lights from street lamps and sex shops and bars and arcades tugging at my soul.

Behind my dark shadow of existence I live in fear. I creep around like one of the mentally retarded, grinning at perverse acts and watching the elephant men and woman of the city balance their lopsided lives in dubious ways. I stand in the grime of shooting galleries, watching and imaging nightmare scenarios. I watch young boys in the station toilets perfecting the eyes of lust they'll give to old men as they suck their cocks and rifle through their pockets. I help put sex cards in the phone booths for dying smack and crack whores. I sit in the room, waiting for the crack man, fronting the money and loading the pipe till she's finished out back and can join me. Sometimes a client wants a proper moment and she'll rush out in vile filthy knickers, her death in the low light, holes in her groin, sucking down a rock of crack before scampering back to her trick. The curtains are drawn and it's not even 2pm.

My dark shadow of existence is there when I wake, staring forward at the naked, nicotine stained walls, the blood on the floor. It raises when I do, before the sun is even up.


Inca said...

It feels odd for me to be the first person to comment, being as I am a relative newcomer to your blog. I have now read all (I think) of your posts from the beginning, as though they were a book I have been waiting eagerly for more. These latest posts feel so complete and like they bring together so much of what you have written in earlier ones. I also find them beautiful and painful.
There is also such development in your writing, which seems oddly at odds (!) with your experience of degeneration and feeling of being old and ill. I find it a paradox that such sensitivity, talent and attentiveness have coexisted in you alongside something else. I say 'something else' with some hesitation as I am wary of having a simplistic, stereotyped response to heroin ( a drug which from my fairly limited experience of it - seems so much to close things down and dull sensitivity). Perhaps this coexistence has been necessary? I get a sense that you have different views/feelings about this - one being the 'what have I done' sense - but another your statement that you wouldn't necessarily change the past.
I love the piece about capitalism - and what you say about these times being the holocaust of the single man and woman. I am a therapist by day and see this constantly. What is awful is that people have over personalised (instead of politicized) their suffering - the real 'enemy' goes undetected and unopposed - the (so called 'worried well' busy themselves (and their bank balances) with self improvement tat - the more broken are often so alienated and marginalised that they don't have the head space to think or feel beyond surviving their personal misery day by day.
I love also your post about rebels not taking drugs. There's another tragedy. Someone I know believes that the ;powers that be' deliberately 'allowed' heroin to flood in the 90's, as a way to break up the rave scene and the camaraderie and solidarity (and anarchism) that was developing through that . Not sure I am a believer in conspiracy theories - but I have seen a whole generation in my home town messed up as a result of heroins grip.
I also want to finally say that I hope you get well. I hope you keep writing as your voice is an important and necessary one. I can tell from the comments that people have found in you a voice for them - a compatriot and ally in their 'single man' and 'single woman' struggles.
If I was your friend I would ask 'can't you return to London' "can't you get clean'? But I expect you will have people aplenty saying such things to you. As for the man on the metro - I believe, to some extent that we see in others things that somewhere reside in us. This probably sounds a bit naff and trite, and I don't know where I am getting this from, but somehow I feel that man is, kind of, also you (even if in some other time/place/parallel universe!).
Take care. In admiration and respect for you.

Absolut Ruiness said...

"The next holocaust will be indiscriminate." That is something i too believe in. The enemy right now is not a single person or a single idea driving a collective group or a faith. Its just a common displacement of priorities among people. It seems like people (at least in India)have taken up this task of ending civilization as we know it in their lifetime itself. I dont think there will be a huge bang and end of the world. We will rot slowly and steadily into oblivion. "Tommyknockers" by Stephen king describes this apathy in a very disturbing but striking manner. I wish i could make it better for you. I'm sure, the man that you described in the metro wasn't as contented with his life as you think. Maybe he was looking at somebody else and going through the same process of analyzing his life as you were. "Always look at the brighter side" is the motto i live by and can prescribe you just that. I hope you can find something which is going for you right now and make living worth the effort. Love your thoughts and the way you say them. Take care dear.

Wildernesschic said...

Shane .. I haven't read the whole post yet .. I prefer to sit when I have time and to really savour each word.. But I swept over it with a skim read 2013 hit me.. I want to wrap you up in a blanket and bring you here .. hugs xx

Yas said...

Shane! beautiful post. I was gonna say hope you are well but you're not sounding it. I'm sorry to hear that. The writing is as amazing as ever and I truly hope you are being one massive hypochondriac.

Sending you love and hugs xx

Wildernesschic said...

Shane there is such a dark beauty in this post but it is also filled with worrying truth .. I also believe there is a time of great suffering coming, which will hit us indiscriminately .. whether that is shared inner darkness or reality who knows.
Why don't you come home to London?
You should, even if its to return to France at the moment you appear filled with melancholy for the place but it has created the most wonderful post.
I love your work ..hugs Ruth xx

_Black_Acrylic said...

If you really are in such a bad way, then I'm truly sorry. Just know you have an army of readers, each one isolated, but all hanging on your every post. Today's is yet another example, only especially beautiful this time.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Cath...

You know, when I started writing here it began just as an exercise to get me writing daily. So I'd open the actual blogger editor and type and post live without so much as a rewrite. And not only that, because it was online I was keeping the posts bitesize, really condensing the writing down to the story.In a way it needed to be like that to kick things off. People will not read 10 pages of online text of someone they don't know (it still surprises me that people will read that much now). So those early posts were unedited, typed live, and condensed to the point of editing out much of the style. Then a few things happened:

People started reading
People started taking about the writing
I became much more interested in being a writer.

The real turning point was a comment by someone who was then a stranger but is now a very good friend. It wasn't gushing, but was honest and more importantly came from someone who'd already been published and knew writing and literature. It kinda hinted that some of the writing was quite mediocre but was broken up by passages of absolute poetry. I knew it was true. I was writing just to get to the good lines. But I also knew if I took a little more time and care they could all be good lines. And so I actually started reading my own words... really reading them, in a way I'd never done before. And it was in that moment that I started writing properly. It was still a process of realizing exactly what my words were and what I really wanted to write about, but that critical way of looking at my own words was really the birth of me as a writer.

I think as well that it's a natural relationship to express yourself more clearly and more urgently the more you feel you are running out of time or are experiencing some kind of turbulence which is maybe at the heart of everything you write about. There becomes a desperation to get these things down, to record them. Not so much for history but more to complete and make more clear what all the words are about. I think the greatest poetry someone will ever write is on their death bed... like the greatest love letters come either in those first desperate days when you want to be adored back, or in those even more desperate days when you've lost your lover's love. It's a death of sorts. Between those highs and lows there is stability, and stability is never a good thing for pen or brush. When you're comfortable you must think of what to write, it is not a gut reaction to yourself. I think the best writers are not those who are traumatized, but those who are desperate.It's there that you really spill your soul.

I never write under the direct influence of heroin: I can't. When I use heroin I get nothing done. Mentally it all still works. The junky is still just as creative mentally, but it never gets onto the page. The effects of heroin are too complex to get into here, but yes, it does dull some things down, but not in the way you're imagining. It takes the edge of whatever you need it to, but sometimes that's a good thing, because you cannot, in the moment, express torture or severe pain or trauma, and often heroin takes the edge of so as it's still extremely painful but bearable... calmed to a place where you can look at it and confront it. It's a myth that heroin flatlines everything... it doesn't. It lowers the peak, that's all... but addicts still pain and hurt and cry.But that isn't to say that all addicts are in pain... most are not. The initial hurt which led to habitual use of heroin is long dealt with and the addiction is now something other than covering up a blatant hurt. I've said many times that why an addict first starts using and why he/she is using ten years later are two very different things.

cnt'd --->

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

(Cath cont'd)

I don't really ponder "what have I done?". I know I wrote of an instance here but it's never been and never will be a preoccupation. It was a fleeting moment on a train which I wanted to write about, more just to record that it did go through my mind, and not to leave a history of bullshit where I deny not even ever having thought of it. But the truth is, as the opening paragraph said, even after all I've done, I wouldn't change it because it's led me to a being a person I enjoy and having eyes that see the world in a very unique way. For me that's a blssing. All that's happened is a blessing. It's the history of my words... they wouldn't exist as they are in any other way. So I'd never sacrifice that for good lungs or a better complexion. It finally comes down to that: the equation of what u've lost compared to what you are today. If you like the answer it'd be pointless changing the math.

Cath... i'll have to reply in two parts as it's 4am and I must get some sleep. We'll call this part 1 and then you have another helping to look forward to...

Thoughts and Wishes, Shane. X

To be cont'd...

Anna said...

Haven't finished this yet, but two sentences in and I'm sobbing. I just wanted to say thank you so much, I was really looking forward to this.

Nathan said...

Hi Shane

Just read you recent post. I was getting goosebumps. God, I can still feel them. It's no mean achievement when you consider I am sitting in a hotel lobby in Phonm Peng. I hear the smack is incredibly clean and white here, but I'm staying away. Like you said, there is no rebellion in taking drugs, getting high, chasing cheap thrills.

I have, perhaps, half your writings on my kindle which I take with me everywhere. You are a bit of a purist so I imagine you are against Kindles. Anyway, you're on there. Along with Neitzsche, Burroughs, Maughn... all the old standbys.

Reading your work is so affecting. I feel somehow a great affection and come concern even though I never met you. I think it's because you touch on human suffering per se. I first got into your stuff for the narco-porn aspect. But since I kicked the habit I read it now more for the fact that you stand bold in front of the universal suffering and refuse to look away. You do not condemn or moralise other than to describe the ineffable pity of the human condition. In your best moments you remind me of Camus.

I am concerned for your health. It would be an act of terrible selfishness if you die without leaving us a full record of your works in a physical form: your collected works in a book. It wouldn't be that difficult to produce, self publish. Not for any financial gain but as a gift or perhaps a final "fuck you" to the world. And also, it's a lot of effort combing through your blogs, converting the text into kindle format and making my own digital scrapbook - save us the trouble, dear Shane.

Anyway, I'd better get on, back to the heat... I worry my own writing will suffer here. The heat makes the process of writing quite intolerable at times. I think I may have to reserve the hours of 5-7am to write as this is the only time of day where the heat allows me to function above the level of dumb beast.

In makes me sad to think of you suffering in France. But, like when I see the poverty here, I have to remind myself that suffering is universal. No-one's plight is more profound than anyone else's. We're here and we make (to bastardise Satre) what we can out of what is made of us.

Keep writing, for God's sake keep writing and leave us a record of your thoughts and words... something physical.

Bye bye

N x

Cadan Henry said...

I love you man. Have since I first read ya. I don't imagine anymore why you live the way you do. I simply accept it like I do the rain. Whatever corridor of life you find yourself going down I wish you peace... in life, in death, in the seam in between.

In case your ever looking for a reason, but I doubt you are, I point out how different we are from each other. I know myself and I think I know you yet reading you relaxes like few others.

One day we'll walk the rim of the burned out valley together - in this world or the next.


Anonymous said...

Hey Shane: I am still reading your writing, but unlike some of your commenters, I don't want to save you or simply praise you. If you die before reaching half a century, or if I do/did, I couldn't give a fuck as long as you continue to put out such brutally honest and original literary work. At its best, your writing is exceptionally insightful and thought-provoking, especially since you avoid the common traps of self-pity, political correctness, and existential heft (i.e. bending what you say to meet the expectations of other people). Your stuff always cheers me up or cheers me down: it always affects me, even if I agree or disagree with you. Keep it up/down you crazy diamond. I passed the robot test, but this doesn't mean I am not a robot haha. The Pseudo-Impostor.

Anonymous said...

Unlike your opening reader who states that she's read everthing you've ever written (I don't have the time or energy to do that... being a full time poly/illicit/injection opiophile/drug user and living often in conditions similar to those you describe - and constituting a full time job in itself to simply maintain at this level of pleasure/pain - ... how the hell could I read the abundance of work you put out in one go?). That said, I have been reading when I can and I find this post to be one of the better new year's predictors of the kind of year I think I'm looking both forward and backwards to. Listen mate, being bi-lingual and from Canada, you might want to learn some fucking French as a way of fitting in better in your surroundings since I know you cannot come back to London. I'll leave you with this... we're all homeless, and yes, the next holocaust will be an individuated experience indubitably; how can it fail to be in a globalized world dominated by a culture whose every thought/action is to promote the culture of individualism in the mad rush to consume, consume, consume [as I am doing with this space right now], so really... who gives a fuck where one resides when the shit hits/has already hit the fucking fan. Keep up the writing till you either die or decide it's not working for you anymore. It's working for me, most of the time, as you and I are at least from the same up/down planet (that much is obvious). My biggest compliment to you is your refusal to lie to yourself in your writing, making the reading experience for those like me much more enjoyable for not having to waft through mountains of ego-driven pap. Live or die... we do it alone. Cher (new wife of the pseudo-imposter).

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Absolute Ruinous....

Oh, I'm not too sure... I see a huge war coming in the nor too distant future, a war where an insane belief in Armageddon will have countries detonating nuclear bombs. It will not be a religious war as such, but more a war of old world vs new: the absolute death of religion or a complete rebirth. It will be a war of split ideologies, unlike anything we've ever seen before. So I think it may end in a bang, but not before a lot of personal suffering has een had.

I think the old man on the train was genuinely content with his lot. There was something so fresh and clean and alive in him... something even mor than good health. You could jst tell he was relishing the world, eager to not waste a single moment.

Oh, living for me is always worth the effort. A brooding text doesn't mean I've had enough of life, just that I see it was a quite hopeless exprience regardless of anything we do or become. But I'll die because my body gives out, not because I give up.

Love and Thoughts, Shane. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Ruth, I'm really wanting to get back to London for a little holiday but at the moment, besides anything else, it's a financial problem.

Until I left England I never knew how much you are the place you come from.. though I think I suffer from than more than most. XXX

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Yas... Oh, I'm always well (in my head). Even if occasionally I think or write of dark places or thoughts, it doesn't hint at my general state of mind. These pieces and thoughts are written on a whim, often originating from a very fleeting reflections... they in no way can be used to gauge my psychological state of mind. They are just fears that are quite natural and healthy, I think. XXX

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

hey ben, oh I seriously doubt it's as bad as I think! It NEVER is! Of course 12 years of drug dependency and injections have really damaged me, and when I wrote that text I was really feeling I'd not make the year (actually I was even concerned i'd not make the month), But I feel quite a bit better now.

Love and Thoughts as Ever Shane. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Anna... hope you've stopped crying now... It's been five days, and I hope my life isn't that sad!


JoeM said...

I wrote my first short stories through that winter with the windows out, no heating or money and having to warm my hands with a hair-dryer.

That reminds me of a bit from a Bill Douglas film. The grandson of the old woman put hot water in a cup then emptied it out and gave her it to hold to keep warm.

As they say: in this day and age who would believe such things happened.

Most commentators have said much the same as I would. One or two things nobody's mentioned. If you went to a French doctor asking them to look at the health things you worry about would they tell you they can't help unless you give up heroin? I could believe they'd do that in England but thought that France had a near Socialist system.

Having said that I'm always boasting to George Wines (Misanthrope from DC's) about free Scottish system – and then I very rarely go to the docs with my various hypochondrias (At least I hope that's what they are).

Also I wonder if you yearn for London because you've been away from it for some time. I live now just yards away from where I grew up. And I would move away if I had the money. It's not that romantic when you're walking past the old town home so often. But I can't say I was that in love with it to start with...

MOnique said...

Hi Shane...
I first read one of your posts dated back in 2009, and you've kept me away from my bed and up past 2am for the last few weeks... Im absolutely sold on your words!
so pleased your still here and have so much to share!
I don't know anyone with a life as interesting as yours...

Love & kisses.... Xxxxxxxxxx

Anna said...

Fuck you Shane. You aren't allowed to die, and no, I did not stop crying. Actually, I started howling, and now I feel like killing you myself.
Also, your life isn't sad, which is why it shouldn't be over yet. Appelle le Samu, merde.

Anna said...

There isn't one way to be happy. And happiness isn't even really a thing. You can't be happy anyways if you don't exist. So quit the monomania, allow yourself to rest from your happiness.

Death is ugly. Especially the kind of death you're announcing. And you're writing is so beautiful, if you die this way, it will taint you work, in my eyes at least. Actually, I don't care if you never write again, as long as you keep that beauty inside of you. Because ultimate beauty isn't in a text, or a painting, or a song, it's inside another human being.
If you die, and I die, and we all die, there may be a beautiful combination of words left on a piece of paper, but who'll be there to read it ?
Existence is absurd, but letting it be absurd is ceasing to exist. You can't let stuff happen to you, à un certain moment, faut poser ses couilles sur la table.

anyways, sorry for the rambling, I truly do care, in my own selfish way. Good luck.

Anna said...

Also, to answer JoeM, yes, France is a socialist country, and no one in the medical system cares about your addiction unless you want them to care about it, at least according to my experience of the whole thing.

Anna said...

Okay, so I just read you're feeling better, so my rambling wasn't even relevant. Toutes mes excuses. XXX Anna

MOnique said...

No one cares about your drug dependency in any country unless you want them to.....:-/

Anonymous said...

Gosh... I remember my last 'sober' days. I say sober, I mean opiate free. When cocaine and partying was still my prefered choice. My life feels like it's been on pause since then, and while the rest of the world is going forward and growing up, i've just paused my life. And, what an incredibly stark wake up call you've given me. Cat Woman x

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Everyone.... Sorry I've not been replying but this past week I was hit by this europewide flu which is going around and it really knocked me off my feet. I've been bed-ridden the last two days and took such a bad turn through friday night that for a moment I thought my own words in this post were about to be fulfilled. I did manage write about that moment and the instant when the world came back and so there will be a little text on that for you when I feel uyp to finishing it.

For those awaiting replies to comments I will try my best to answer in the next couple of days.

All My Best, Shane. X


France a Socialist country??? I hope that's a joke. Sure the 'Socialist Party' are in power, but they are no more socialist than what New Labour were in the UK. In fact it was a very similar situation, being 17 years here also since the last 'Socialist Party' were in power. So there was a lot of early hope and excitement but now the country's come back down to earth and realize nothing is changing. And don't forget; even if the socialists won the election the far right took a record share of the vote (even more than when they made the second round head off some years ago). The electricity, gas and water is privatized... health care is half privately insured.... that's not a socialist system. Still, socialist or not, it does work and general health care here puts Britain to shame. Getting into the other question Joe M posed will require a lengthier response so i'll return to that later. From what I see here France treats the addict and not the addiction. They make sure the addict is never ill and are extremely liberal with methadone and subutex prescriptions. It's a breath of fresh air to be given your substitute and not harassed or bullied out off treatment because you're still using. And why should the medical services care about anyone's addiction? Come on... that's for the holed up self-pitying-drama-queen-addicts!Really.


MOnique said...

Well, you did say you were a huge hypochondriac..... You're feeling better now I hope? ;-)


Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Nathan, sorry for the wait but I've not been well the last week... came down with the flu.

I'll just clarify a little on the rebel point:

A drug user can still be a rebel, but taking drugs in itself is not an act of rebellion. Me, I've never wanted nor tried to be a rebel... I just don't do or think anything that is expected of me (and that's something quite different).

Purist??? I'm all for anything which wrestles words and books away from traditional print. I also NEVER write on paper, indeed I cannot write in ink on paper. Without the word processor I'd probably never have written at all. I think you're maybe mixing up my stance on self-publishing/e-publishing... which generally i am against for the pretence of it all and also the great swindle of it. I've written in detail of this here and in many emails so i won't repeat it all again (maybe i'll find a mail and copy and paste it... just for the record). And I'm not against paper books, just they were only ever a means to an end... the most practical way to get works of literature out and about. But now electronic media does that and more and it's the way to go. It will eventually mean the death of bookshops as we know them, but anything that saves physical space will be a huge hit in the future and books in bytes will allow us to squash the entire FOYLES collection (every book) down to one computer in a shop... eventually contemporary bookshops will completely disappear as publishers do away with premises altogether and work exclusively online. As a novelty traditional bookshops will linger on... but not in any really relevant way (other than libraries).

Oh I'm not interested in stitching together a book just to please the ego... I just don't think of writing in that way. I've seen people pay to put their stuff between covers, absolute trash, not even proof-read, and talk of it like they're bona fide published authors and how proud and elated they are at finally getting into print! It's a delusion. And the author's name on the cover is always BIGGER than anything else! I don't have that need of pretence. I've done enough writing the texts and posting them here... someone else can collate it and stick it together for me if they like, but I'm not gonna waste my time on that. I'd rather be writing new stuff or living even newer stuff!

OK Nathan I'll cut it short here as I'm going on a bit and have a whole bunch of comments to get through. Try and catch the comment I'll post about self-publishing (if I can find it). Love and Thoughts, Shane. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Cadan... thanks man!

Generally I have a peace within myself. Not a day to day peace of having paid all the bills all the time, but a greater peace... something to do with all this <i've written about.

You take care C... it's not our time to fall off the edge of the world just yet! X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Joe... Sorry for the wait. Usually you'd get fast-tracked to the front but I was even too poorly to cheat for you this time!

Oh God, that winter and how I ended up in a room with no windows is a story just in itself. I won't relate it here just to say it involved two cockatoos, pillows and thick books. Anyhow I accidentally put the windows out myself. Mostly I was playing guitar and writing songs then and so the hairdryer was for my fingers. But that wasn't all. Where it was so cold in the room I had kinda fixed my duvet like a teepee on my bed so as I could play guitar, read and write under covers.

The French health system is something like a 70/30 public/private deal. They have great healthcare here (even if the nationals bemoan it) and I think it must be one of the leading health systems in europe - you're really looked after well if you fall ill (or most are). The one downside is that it is not free at the point of service: you pay and are reimbursed 2 weeks later. So I don't believe most french doctors would care if you're using heroin or not and need treatment for other problems. As long as you have your health card and your complementary insurance to pay for your treatment then that's all they're interested in. Personally some may dislike you or blame you for whatever ailments you have, but I don't think it'll effect how you're treated.

I think a FREE system is great and preferable, but it MUST WORK and cannot offer secondrate, hand-me-down treatments. That's not the deal. If you compare the NHS to the French Health Care, Jesus... Britain is put to shame. The problem is you only know this if you live outside the UK for any amount of time. Like most Brits, while living there, I took it for granted that we were receiving the best of everything and our Health System was one of the best in the world. But that's just a huge myth we're all peddled.

I think my relationship to London may be different to what you have with Glasgow. I've always been nostalgic about the place... even when I lived there. I was endlessly wandering old roads, where things happened, on nights like they had been... and it always, always filled me with the most incredible sense of beauty and nostalgia. I think because such heavy stuff happened growing up that memories were often caught in atmospheres - a certain feel/light/scent at a certain time of day or year.But I never really appreciated my city outside of that and NEVER realised just how much of the city was in me. I don't need to live in London, but I need close access... I need to be able to walk the past. As you've seen it's one of the great themes and obsessions of my writing.


Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey MOnique and WELCOME!

Oh, the life looks interesting in my words, but really it's pretty dull and normal and no more interesting than anyone else's. Also the writings here only concern a part of my life - that which has a heroin theme. Anything outside of that (or a few other themes) doesn't get written about. So it's very selective and all the boring stuff is left out. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Anna... hope the tears have finally stopped now! Are you serious about France being a socialist country? X

JoeM said...

I suppose the fact that I've hardly been away from Glasgow explains why I'm not nostalgic (and why I'm so fed up with it!)

I did stay in Surrey for a few months once and slightly missed Glasgow, though not much. I actually wanted to move on to London but that didn't work out.

I think of France as 'Socialist' only in comparison with most other Western countries. And even then I'm thinking of the past. It's like Sweden Norway even the UK - everywhere has become more right wing. So in no way could it now be seen to be Socialist any more than New Labour is left-wing.

I's so funny when Right wing Americans call Obama Socialist! By our standards he's positively Fascist!

MOnique said...

Well have you seen that doco on the American health system? Just pleased you dont live there! Lol.. Then there'd be no stories to tell! ;-)

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Would you consider self publishing?

Under very certain condition I would self-publish, but I would not self-publish in the hope that I'm somehow going to be discovered or have a distribution outside of my immediate friends. For me self-publishing is now a huge swindle, and basically, what is happening is that a company is selling you paper at 1000% the price. To self-publish you are buying paper and selling it on to friends and not much else. Self-publishing companies are not in the literary business and they don’t give a damn what goes inside their cover as long as it's paid for. That's one of the problems. Every other person I know (writer or not) has a self-published book... and to me it means nothing. It's just something you pay for and the biggest achievement is typing it up into a word document. I know one girl who typed up her old scrap books, hundreds of pages of nonsense, full of typos, grammatical errors, bad-spelling, etc. and published it. You can self-publish anything and there are just no limits or standards. To the right people that can be fantastically healthy and liberating, but mostly it just makes for pulp - and not even decent pulp. So I don't see self-publishing as any achievement whatsoever. Tomorrow I could have five books with my name on and an ISBN if I pay the money, but what worth more will they be than what is already written and available? People are being peddled their dreams; that's all.

Self-publishing, from being sold to us as a service, has become the preferred route to print not of literary outlaws and gunslingers, but of bloggers and anyone with the slightest pretension of being a 'writer'. And every serious reader knows that. I don't know anyone who goes hunting self-published books/authors. We know we're gonna have to be extremely lucky, maybe even blessed, to find anything worthwhile. So the self-publishing industry is a big con, companies playing on peoples pretensions and selling them the paper and print for one hundred times the industry price. Self-publishing is no different from printing your words out of a printer and putting a cover on it then putting it on your bookshelf and saying “I'm a published author!” But I'm not against people who do it. I don't blame them and understand why, but it's not anything I'd seriously consider doing myself outside of free give-aways  or unique copies of my work. 

cont'd --->

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

cont'd ---->

E-publishing is a different kettle of shit, but in many ways the same. One huge difference is that e-publishing  will become a proper literary industry in itself and even big name and properly contracted writers will and do have ebooks. But self epublishing, whereby you can put anything in an ebook, and as long as you have the cash you can have an ebook, that's just for the pseudo-writer anyhow (mostly). 

I consider my various sites as being the best and most accessible publishing I have at the moment and serves me much better than twenty sold copies of a self published novel. But online writing suffers from the same fate and stigma as self-published writing and it's because the words are regulated solely by the author and that often means a messy death. But the future is online... I'm convinced of that. And if nothing else, RIGHT NOW, is a window of opportunity for a few serious writers and artists to work uncensored and raw. 

With self/e/publishing, often, the bad points are also its good points. I think with perseverance you can kind of rise above the boil of the pot.  I've never had a dream or ambition to have my name on a book above all else. My aim is to try and write great stuff and have it read and if my name gets associated with them words I'll be proud but I'd also put my words out anonymously if I was paid to do so and could write without worrying about rent arrears and the electricity being cut mid-sentence. My name on a book only becomes worthwhile if the book is worthy of my name. And that gets back to what self-publishing offers us :

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

NOT a book deal, but the PRETENCE of a book deal... a professional looking book, properly registered, available for any shop to order, and at quick glance and to the unknowing: 'THE REAL DEAL'. It serves the EGO. These companies are all working on that premise. Their target market is NOT 'writers' but 'budding authors', and they do not work on any book selling more than 20 copies. Their profit is not made from bulk sales but on the presumption that the few friends and family of the author will buy a copy of the book (even if it is a crock of shit). That is where they make their money, and they don't care if an author sells 20,000 after that or none. 99% will never sell a copy outside of friends and family and maybe the odd friend-of-a-friend. In fact, even those sales are unimportant, as most customers ('budding authors') will order twenty copies of their own book and either sell them on or sleep with them.  The publishers know this, and so they make their main profit regardless of ANY sales! 

Self-publishing is mostly for people who'd like to be thought of as writers... who badly want some shred of confirmation that they are it. That's the truth. I guarantee if one of the self-publishing clauses was that the author's name was not allowed to be on or in the book, 99% then wouldn't bother. Because the actual words inside are secondary to the name on the cover.

Patrick Smith said...

I would buy your book. And I must say this post made me hold off on going out right now, in rain and sleet, to score. I feel the disconnection and how I have already forever intertwined this substance with my life. We can take breaks, we can see other drugs, another trick fix, but we always end up together with eachothers misery and in the search of small pleaseure....ugh rambling. But over the years Ive found alot of comfort and beauty in your writing. Cheers and good health man because everyone that has ever tangled with this monster needs it...

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Russell...

You're one of the wizened ones:

You know there can be no saving around here... that would-be saviours will only get robbed before ascending alone. But you know me well enough to know I'm not after that and never encourage or try to bring it out.

Thanks for all you say... it means a lot from someone like you. Just please excuse the delay in getting back to ya... has been a hard two weeks. Love and Respect, Shane. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey CHER... (the New Wife(shock!)

Yeah I know what you mean:

God, I've not even read everything I've written!!

The writing's here to be poured through as and when people like. While I'm still able and wanting to write I'll add as much to it as I can.

Oh,>I speak french... that's not the problem. The problem is much more abstract and complicated than that. Even speaking french you still lose so much of yourself in the cultural differences, and also just in the fact that you never crawled and bled and grew in this place. The city gets in you... you know it, and the people of your home town, like nothing else. But even more isolating than you not knowing the people or city, is the people of the city not knowing YOU. It means you go unexpressed. That maybe a fashion of speaking, or holding yourself, or what words you choose to use.. they no longer help to get across who you are as an individual and so you become lost and use other things (like clothes; or certain books) to give your secrets away.

If you're behind the fan when the shit hits it, then that's not a bad place to be. So it can matter. In that regard it's like a GG Allin concert: experienced members watched the gigs from backstage as GG always hurled his shit forward or out.

OK Cher... Nice to have you here... signing off now Shane. X

Anna said...

Yup, I believe France is deeply socialist, we've got good healthcare, affordable child care, taxes and benefits aplenty. The socialist government has just been elected, but they've won most of the local elections for years. And the French believe in socialist values -they'll go on strike "pour un oui ou pour un non", unions are powerful, etc.

It isn't a perfect system, but I think it's fairer than most.

Also, if you think of addiction as an illness (which is the traditional view, I'm not saying it's the right one), isn't it a doctor's duty to try and cure it ? And even if you don't think of addiction as an illness, if it's detrimental to a patients health, shouldn't a doctor do something about it ? (e.g. drug/mental illness comorbidity; or even smokers with lung cancer).

Gravediggin' Under the Mancy Way said...

Oh Shane, the entire question of loss and wasted yet never wasted at all years and a sick serenity looms. Of nuclear wars of the mind...I couldn't even read the rest of your impending war comment, having been utterly terrified as a child by watching "Threads" and by the much-vocalised fears of my CND, Greenham Common dwelling mother. Remembering songs around the peace camp fire and "knowing" all would soon melt into a nothing of intense infernoness.
But what writing. At first, I thought it would be a long story. But I enjoyed the fragmentation, the juxtaposition of new and old memory. Of the reflection in the glass and reflections of the soul.
And the smell of public phone receivers: where have they all gone?
Today, I saw a beggar chatting on a mobile phone and I shook my head in bemusement at the times I was begging, back when mobile phones meant you sold drugs and the only way to score meant smelling that stale-cigarette and mysterious feline, yes, feline odour on the heavy, black receiver. Back when a call was 10p and not 20p minimum. When I'd dial, say my name, a number and hear
"Links Corner"

knowing I'd be cooking my way up out of withdrawal within the half hour...

Oh Shane, I've crossed continents without having left the country since we last spoke, and I wish so, so dearly that you are, indeed, as hypochondriacal as I am.

Two nights ago, I had cancer.
A few weeks ago, DVT. Oh, and Emphesema.
I KNEW I would die in my sleep if I didn't force myself to stay awake.
Just because I probably have none of the above doesn't make it any less frigtening.
Especially as hypochondria is punishment enough in itself.
Much love to you my dear, and long life, long, beautiful life, filled with joy and many, many stories.
I'm feeling so peculiar I will stop drivelling onto the page now and post this, knowing its sense is senseless.
Oh, and Ruth, I know what you mean about the blanket...ahhh, you have such a sweetness, Ruth. I will do a smilie just for you :)

I damned well wish someone would roll me up in a fluffy blanket and let me sleep for two weeks solid right now. So I shall go to sleeeeep while I can (and death thoughts are far)

Love&Inspiration&long life as always,
and I'm sorry to have been so absent. I've been fighting my own battles with time and what have yer...

Fuck I don't half waffle on sometimes ;) XhugsX

Gina said...

Hi Shane. I don't have anything clever or deep and meaningful to say. I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed reading that post. I don't like to think of you as being miserable or lonely but all without all the shit you've been through, you probably wouldn't be the brilliant writer you are today. As always I send my love and best wishes and like others have said, I genuinely hope you are just being a hypochondriac. Lots of love Gina. X
P.S. Do you remember me? We used to chat via email (bmail even lol) xxx

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

'deeply socialist' ... Anna, I just can't seriously answer that. I think maybe you're confused as to what socialism is.

'good healthcare' (has nothing to do with socialism. France's healthcare has even less to do with socialism as It's a public/private healthcare... not too 'good' if you have no earnings or money.)

'affordable childcare' (that's true of most european countries... but has nothing to do with socialism in any case. But you try earning the SMIC (legal minimum wage) and getting a free creche for your children. You'll have to pay for it and it's not cheap.)

'taxes and benefits aplenty' (that's just stating the obvious, and is true of all countries. What country doesn't have taxes and benefits???)

None of those things has anything to do with a socialist economy.... and don't forget socialism is an economic theory, not a 'social' theory. You cannot have socialism working out a free-market.... it's a complete contradiction.

As for the unions, they are part of the french political system proper and also a french tradition. Union membership in france is also avery low compared to many other european countries. But most tellingly is the fact that UNIONS exist and NEED to be POWERFUL. UNIONS are only needed when workers DO NOT have equality... do not have great conditions.... are not paid very much, etc. In a socialist society Unions would not exist... they would not need to.

"Doctors duty to try and cure illness"

Oh, you have to be very careful not to impose on peoples freedoms and human rights. For governments or doctors to decide who is ill and who needs to be 'cured' is a very dangerous business. That is just a step away from 'thought-crime'... If they don't like the way you think, believe it to be unhealthy, they'll chuck you in an asylum and 'cure' you. No, in all cases it must be for the patient to say:

"I think I am ill. This is a problem to me. I want help. Doctor, can you help me?"

EVEN if it's cancer. You cannot just pull a cancer sufferer off the street and treat him/her: they must want to be treated. So no, a doctor isn't there to treat who he or the system regards as ill. He sells his knowledge and advice to those who want it. Healthcare is big business.

OK, Anna... that's me done... X

Anonymous said...

Hey Shane I stumbled across your writing a few days ago searching functional drug addict to see if it exists sort of to give me some sort of validity that what I do is okay. I came upon your page of the description of the difference between a functional drug addict and a junkie from then I have spent nights and days reading your work here and although i am not a reader I cannot put my phone down reading about you. Great stuff I am glad to see you are still writing and look forward to continue reading more!
Excellent words almost feel like I was there with you
Thank you

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Patrick... i'd be more inclined to say that anyone who has ever tangled with life needs the good luck and courage. Heroin is just a powder, and only feels good under the strain of some hard living. Thanks for your words and reading.... X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Ya George, well as you know a functional addict definitely does exist and is mostly a matter of finances. Of course everyone will still say that one day we'll take the drop and descend to the bottom but i've known enough who never have to know it's just reassuring bullshit for people to think that( way. I love that idea of 'rock bottom' being the place the addict needs to go top before quitting, when in reality it was hitting 'rock bottom' which got a lot of us into heroin in the first place! X

necroalchemist said...

I'm not sure that it's appropriate that I'm glad to see you are still alive as evidenced by the two posts you made in February...

I guess it is appropriate. Your writing is wonderful and oddly enough, got me through a rough patch...I guess that's why I'm glad to see that you're still living. You strike me as a strange sort of interesting beautiful. Thank you.

JoeM said...

I love that idea of 'rock bottom' being the place the addict needs to go to before quitting, when in reality it was hitting 'rock bottom' which got a lot of us into heroin in the first place!


I'm going to put that on Facebook!

See how crazeee we are...

Gravediggin' Under the Mancy Way said...

"It was hitting rock bottom that got a lot of us into heroin in the first place"
The idea that families and friends need to play the "tough love" card (what has love got to do with abandoning someone when they need support most?) is a part of the same game:
"When they hit rock bottom, they'll come back begging for detox/rehab/whatever treatment"
No: they'll think, "fuck those cunts who don't give a shit about their own family members" and stay away for good...
Rock bottom...yeah...

dirtycowgirl said...

"All I've ever wanted was to be accepted and loved"

You are here in this weird and wonderful internet world.

I hope you realise that :)

alternative medicine cancer treatment said...

This is something inspiration. The piece is quite long and I have to read it for like 30minutes - 1 hour but it's all worth it. Congratulations on your blog!

MOnique said...

Shane... You've been very quiet lately? I find I often wonder how you are and if all's ok!? (even from the other side of the world, Australia) Sooo... I hope you are keeping well!! <3 xxx

Ma99ot128 said...

Shane, I have been addicted to your words for over a year now. You have inspired me in many ways. I'm always speechless after reading your blogs.

I wish you the best of luck in this corrupt world.


Poetic Genesis said...

Hey Shane! Had to stop by your spot 'cause I missed ya and I was hoping you were still around. :) Here's to a better year and I hope your health returns...I know, I know, but I still wish that for you. As always, I read your blog in love and pain and your words are still very much alive. Take care my friend in words :)

Poetic Genesis

Yas said...

:( can't believe you didn't answer my email when i was in France...deeply offended ;)

Hope you are ok. whats been happening? I had the worst time btw!


celltech said...

Greetings from Western Australia
I've been reading here for the last few nights. I'm not sure why, I never used heroin, never injected myself, and there are no people close to me with any history of this. Still I have recently started wanting to learn what is real and what is myth.
I have a question or two...
I'm 42, male...spent teen years and twenties smoking pot, dabbled in speed when available which mostly it was not. Surfing ruled those years, on Bob Hawk's surf-team.
I always liked stims, using them prescribed daily (dexamph.)in recent years. I sleep every night, it's purely functional use.

Sometimes I wonder about opium, why it's not grown by addicts etc...I bought a pack of seeds at the local supermarket. They are Tassies (from Tasmania), the read thing, seeds of opium poppies. They sprout out in my rose-garden right now. It's silly really, I just wanted to see if it can be done...but I already see that it can be done, laughably easy...so my question...why do users not grow the stuff? Even just to keep a bunch of dried pods in the cupboard as a back-up...keep away the sickness?
People become addicted to opium smoking right? People like you and me?

Maybe it's a silly question...sorry if so...thank you for your writings, I like reading and learning from what you have shared. I'm also reading heroinegirl's blog, which makes me cry at times.
Best wishes.

eyelick said...

At least your capitalism is of the very human variety, buy in order to have, in order to fit in.

Mine is of the monster variety. Consumption for the sake of consumption. Go to shows or watch videos on youtube, or download them, get a chance to see movies when they pop up on cable. NEVER *purchase* a CD or DVD. Only have ever owned cars, couches, etc out of being given them. Even the cell phone was bought for me. No - outside of bills and such, money is for cigarettes, for overpriced lattes, to eat on the go, for substances. Only things that seem necessary to OWN are for the eyeball item collection. Never anything to "show" for anything at all. It's kind of like being a tapeworm.

carlie said...

What bt indie publishing, ? Used to be a term for self but now there's small publishers who pay to pub ur book, format for digital, pay advance and royalties …only thing is its Pod print on demand, sold n promoted instores just not stocked. Massive amount of self promo required ccos they don't do as much as trad pubbers. Worth a thought although I aint sure which one would be appropriate for ur unique style, its pure poetry just not linear or Ryhming that's the prob. Literature needs someone like you to get published I reckon it would open the door for others like u. Ur writing is kinda like life poetry as an addict myself I think to make the observations u do u have to b sitting still. Ppl non addicts r often too busy with therat race to appreciate the beauty and irony of life. R u still not fighting will ur addiction now it's affecting ur health? I wish I could have ur attitude of that's just the way it is but I'm a lass n society judges females by different standards, if I was a lad I'd be content with it I think. Hope ur health gets better, keep writing x

piggyinthemiddle said...

Go to a doctor if your heart is fucked. Or you'll die. Shafted feet never killed anyone, junky procrastination about getting help.. thats another story. As for not feeling like you belong - its an illusion - the UK is crap - if you want to move on go further south - you'd like asia for sure

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