Wine Dark With My Blood

Dreams of the Greenwich foot tunnel somehow being an analogue of a element of the Duat and travelling through it to meet Anubis at a church on the Isle of Dogs shifted with the fuzzy logic of dreaming into another losing Anne-Marie nightmare. I woke with a start, fumbled for the phone in the grey light to check the time and noticed the blood.

Everything was covered in blood. My Japanese robe. The pillow. The bedclothes. Even my chest hair. Everything stained with a still damp spill the colour of a good Tempranillo. At some point in the nightmare, I’d obviously suffered a bad nosebleed.

After waking up like that, I knew I had to take it easy today. When Messenger chatting to J and catching up on emails became uncomfortable, I rested on the bed listening to Khachturian’s Gayane and reading my new Chomsky book. Some tears crept out of the eyes, but the Leningrad Philharmonic doing ballet isn’t exactly known for reducing your emotional sensitivity.

Pit. A drop of blood splattered onto the open Chomsky. Pat. Another fell, creating that red, white and black colour scheme I’m so fond of. Pit. As the third drop fanned out and obliterated further words, I started to react. Too late. This was no light shower of rain, this was a full on monsoon. The fresh bedclothes were again wine dark with my blood.

Taking it easy doesn’t do a thing for heartbreak. It also seems as if it doesn’t do a do much to reduce the stress to a level where I’m not having to do two loads of washing a day.

Freefalling in the Abyss

I may not write the book. As both Surreal Girl and Stephen have bluntly pointed out, I am in not fit physical and mental state to be taking on a demanding creative project. I’m freefalling in the abyss. That’s not a good time to write 100,000 words to an insane deadline. Stephen is right; I’ll be no use to anyone if I’m ‘dead in the ground from exhaustion’. Working on the book might help block out some of the significant dates, but it could also be a slow form of suicide. I’ve got try and get past the constant sharp static of emotional pain and think clearly about the best route through this hell.

Bag of Dildos

She tells me that she has not said she loves him and he has not said he loves her. Does she think this makes me feel better? It just makes me feel as if her proclaimed love for me is so small, so weak, that it’s worth less than a bag of dildos and all the things she banged on about him for months when she was being less than straightforward about her feelings for Alex and the amount of time they were spending together.

At the end of the day, whatever she feels, it’s not enough love for her to want to try to see if we could work. It’s not a love that means as much to her as her life with him. I might understand, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. It doesn’t diminish the sense of loss, the sense of devastation. It doesn’t reduce the number of hours I’ve pathetically spent crying today. The pain is bone-deep and it doesn’t fade because my love for her is still there.

Jarvis Cocker Sang, Disney Tears Fell

Resting up yesterday allowed me my first proper day out today. Surreal Girl came down from London to provide the supportive company I needed to try and exorcise some ghosts. I doubt that for most people, Italian food and Harry Potter feature as relationship ghosts, but they do for me. The meal wasn’t too bad. The fact that I’d been dreaming of some robust pasta and a decent Sicilian red since I went in hospital helped, as did good conversation. However, Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire was heartbreaking. The Yule Ball scene was the worst. Jarvis Cocker sang, Disney tears fell from my eyes. I had to bite down on my tongue to stop a sob coming out. I have never missed holding her hand more. Not even when I was in the hospital.

I am sick of all these little ghosts. Sick of breaking into tears over the loss of someone who at the end of the day doesn’t love me enough to try. I am angry at myself for missing her so much. I am angry at still having so much love for her in my heart. Angry at being so weak that I feel this overwhelming grief.

Facial Archaeology

Today was spent in taking it easy mode. Given the level of discomfort I’m experiencing, this meant not even being able to focus on the Hicks interview or make a good stab at catching up with the mail that’s come in response to Secrets & Lies during the last couple of weeks. I knew that the low level pain was going to stop me from even curling up and giving The Guardian and the backlog of comic books any of the usual in-depth Saturday attention. Most of the time, I gave in, followed the official advice and rested up with Xfm and Radio 7. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry over some of the emails that I found in my inbox.

I did however, shave off the beard. Given the comments in hospital about looking like Jesus given the length of hair and beard, it had to go. Besides, facial archaeology is always good when you are feeling several shades of crap.

I had some straight talking from Surreal Girl last night during a Messenger chat. She thinks that writing the book is just delaying the inevitable crash. I’m terribly scared she might be right, but I don’t see other strategies for coping.

Flash-frozen Terror

There are some experiences that need a decent amount of time between happening and being committed to the stark black and white reality of hammered out words. My time at the hospital is one of them. I am okay, but sometimes the fear of what you live through is not exorcised by writing, but rather becomes flash-frozen terror. Right now, I need to try and move forward, rather than dwell on things.

It’s partly my fear of dwelling on things that has me on the brink of accepting what I recognise is an almost certifiably stupid gig. In the next few days, I will probably sign a deal to write a new book with the delivery date of February 16th. In my condition, I recognise that this is insane. I know it will probably kill me to try and produce 100,000 definitive words on organised crime in the space of a few weeks whilst trying to cope with the medical situation. I know this. I really do know this.

However, I need to eat and pay rent. More importantly, I don’t know how else I can cope with Christmas, New Year, AM’s birthday, Valentines and our anniversary without the sheer deadline-inspired terror of trying to write this book. The workload may physically kill me or induce a catatonic breakdown, but I’d rather take my chances with the book than the risk of not having something to shut out the pain over the next three months’ worth of significant dates. AM had it a lot easier. Even when we were separated, I was there for Christmas and anniversaries so she that didn’t have to go through them alone.

I also know that the narrowed reality and 16-hour working days of writing a book will keep my focus on something other than clinic visits, treatment schedules and the actual unpleasantness of being sick for the next few months. There is no time to linger on physical symptoms when you are facing an insane deadline, a pile on Interpol reports to dissect and a 2,000 word per day count to aim at.

A World Without Dave

In a few minutes, a taxi will arrive. It will take me to the hospital. After a period of fear-strained waiting, I will eventually have surgery. In a few days, I’ll be back in my own bed, trying to recover from having bits of my guts cut out. At that point, posting will resume, possibly in a Walrus and Carpenter fashion. Until then, don’t worry about me.

‘And the world carries on without Davey
It's not a worse or better place
Uglier and safer maybe
But that’s a question of personal taste.’ - A World Without Dave, Carter USM

Fast-Acting Cholera In A Bottle

The day before the surgery has not been fun. I’ve been on a fast since 8am that has to carry all the way through until I go into hospital tomorrow. Being hungry is not the problem. The problem is the bowel cleanser. I won’t go into details, but the sensation of your insides boiling, liquefying and leaving your body over the course of several hours is one I’ve got to go through again tomorrow starting at 7am. Happy happy joy joy! The pharmaceutical company should rebrand their product as Fast-Acting Cholera In A Bottle. After this, I’ve no fear over what the food in Africa or Iraq can do to me.

Of course, AM had to contact me again. She chose not to have me in her life and now I’m getting message after message wishing me the best, reiterating the fault and blame as mine, saying it was nothing to do with the Public Schoolboy and saying that she wants contact as a friend. She is without doubt, one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known, so why cannot she see that I don’t want to hear from her for the next two years? She’s just making the emotional pain much worse at a point when I’m scared and broken in ways I cannot even begin to express. Saying ‘I’ll be holding your hand in thought’ may salve her feelings, but it does nothing other than reinforce the absence of real love and care for me.

Different people have tried diverse approaches at distracting me today. Surreal Girl just bantering on Messenger as if nothing abnormal was going on was probably the most successful. Though, I think sending me a track called There’s No Aphrodisiac Like Loneliness was not the wisest of moves.

I’m saving my packing and the arranging of reading and listening material until tomorrow morning. This is partly out of the hope that a bit of deadline-fuelled rushing about the house trying to find things will help filter out the dancehall fire sense of panic building in my head. I’m also hoping J’s kind gift of CDRs will arrive in time for Bill Hicks to accompany me onto the ward.

There’s a frankly grumpy review purporting to be from Pete Carroll on Amazon.com of Generation Hex. I’d like to believe it’s not really his words, because if it is, he’s become a joyless fucker. I’d much rather imagine him as a magic scene equivalent to John Peel. Given that the review also talks about ‘Louvites’, I suspect the poster has some axe to grind against Jason, probably another of one of the failed contributors. I really regret not being able to submit a piece because I was on deadline for Secrets & Lies - if for no other reason than I’m missing out on being slated by so many bullshit occultists.

Spiral Scatch and the Contract on my Father

It’s has been an odd day. In fact, odd doesn’t even begin to cover part of it.

I woke up this morning to find a hyped email from Twist making wild claims that we were in the acknowledgements of a Doctor Who novel. I know it’s expected that as an author, I should be blasé about something like that, but I’m sorry, I can’t be. It’s Who.

I checked.

Spiral Scratch by Gary Russell – check, I’ve still got it on the shelf. Great Doctor Who novel featuring multiple universes, the sort of thing I’d love to write – check. Good Bridget Riley-ish cover – check. In the acknowledgements: ‘David Southwell and Sean Twist, for much inspiration’. Check.

Yet it’s there in black and white. I have no idea how I missed it when I read the book. No idea. I’ve been acknowledged in a cool Doctor Who novel. I refuse to be blasé about it. It’s a fantastic feeling. What makes it even better is that it’s Gary Russell who acknowledged us.

Gary is someone I really admire. Someone I really respect. It was his work at Big Finnish that helped restore by love and passion for Who. It was largely his work that made me fall in love with Colin Baker and Paul McGann’s Doctors. I think that the Who we have back on television would not exist in the same way without what Gary has produced at BF. He’s a good, talented and witty guy who is generous with his time. I loved knocking back the Cokes with him and chatting uber-Who fan stuff when Twist was interviewing him at Centre Point. The fact that he has put Twist and I down as inspirations in Spiral Scratch is beyond neat, especially as it’s such an enjoyable book

Of course, by ten o’clock, Stephen had news that would usually top anything. He announced that David Bowie had been given a copy of Generation Hex and was probably reading it over a cup of tea. Still, I’ve been acknowledged in a Doctor Who novel by one of the men I personally believe helped save Who, so I’m not being too harsh on myself for missing out on not submitting to Generation Hex and missing out on being read by Bowie in book containing with Stephen’s potent writing and Jason’s use of the ‘ESP kids’ quote by Luke Haines

All the sheer geeky thrill of being in the acknowledgements of Spiral Scratch helped take the edge of puking blood whilst passing it at the other end. I held it together enough to make the usual Friday trips and bring in grocery shopping for my grandparents. At this point, the day got odd.

Over a cup of tea, whilst discussing the details of the Princess Diana crash that I cannot publish, my granddad casually mentioned that the car crash that nearly killed my father had been an attempted contract killing.

Tea was spluttered.

Before I’d had a chance to ask anything, he also told me that the man who forced him of the road had been caught and sentenced, admitted he had been paid by ‘The Circle’ and that my father had got £3,000 from the criminal compensation board (a tidy sum in the mid-seventies). Oh, and that the failed assassin was an ex-bus driver - an inappropriately hilarious fact.

Obviously, this is going to need some investigating in the future, but it does mean that the one question I never got to ask my father has now moved from being: “Why didn’t you find a place for your sons in your life?” to: “How did it feel to have a contract on your life?”

Even when my existence sometimes seems to take a detour through that adjunct to the Twilight Zone known as Soap Opera Land, even in the strange world of conspiracy authoring, learning that someone took a contract out on your father is out there. Leave aside the being thanked in a Who novel, with this revelation, I feel as if I'm living in the fag end of a plot of one.

The Day Did Not Get Out of Beta

Woke still recovering from last night’s trickle of blood and the pain in the head. The day did not get out of beta as I could feel the red-hot ball of lead inside my stomach much more than usual. The cliché of sick of being sick holds a lot of truth for me right now. As much as I am shit scared of going into hospital next week, I’m also relieved. I want to get well. I want to get through this as quickly as possible.

Consolation from the Artic Monkeys

The book is officially out today. Any lack of shouting with joy and punching the air is partly down to the fact that I am too ill to enjoy the triumph of getting the material put out by a major publisher. It is also because I’m still shit scared of going up against Nestlé, Ford, Coca-Cola and Church of Scientology. The CIA and the Yard have no power to keep me awake at night compared to the frightening clout of the corporate big boys and the assorted shades of goon that Scientology can throw around.

My favourite step-cousin sent me a text out of the blue tonight. It was great to hear from her, even though she sounded somewhat low. We have made provisional plans to meet up in December when she comes down to London from Birmingham for a day. Oddly, I was thinking about her at the weekend, as it was in her company that I last drunk far too much in Camden.

Despite myself, I’ve been taking consolation from the Artic Monkeys’ Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts, especially the lines: ‘There’s always somebody taller with more of a wit,’ ‘You heard what she’s been doing? She never did it for me,’ and best of all, ‘He’s pinched your bird and he’d probably kick your head in.’ It’s not Hanesian, but there’s a delicious grim humour in it.

Shades of Britpop, shades of Spaced

QuestCon 05. This meant up at 5:20am on a Saturday and a 6:22am train into London. I am hard pressed to think of another person I’d do this for other than Andy. Then again, I’m hard pressed to think of anyone else who would want me to grapple with setting up a giant projector screen and fiddling with a mixing deck at something after 8am on a Saturday morning.

Amongst the compensations for the painful early start to the day were Richard’s company, catching up with one or two old faces, discovering a good curry house in Camden and the fact that my fliers seemed to go down well. Of course, with the fliers, I can only judge success by the number of orders they bring in. Something that both Richard and I agreed on was that it was good that Andy had positive new people on the ‘staff’ such as Matt and Rene and Dave and Michelle.

If you look hard enough on the Web I’m sure you can find a blog that gives you a blow-by-blow account of QuestCon, what the speakers were like and how the event compared to those held during the previous 18 years. However, it won’t be this blog as I spent an inordinate amount of time down the Spread Eagle drinking Belle-Vue.

Somehow, getting mildly drunk in Camden always has vaguely distasteful shades of Britpop, shades of Spaced. It’s not something I’ve done properly for nearly a decade, but in the company of Richard, it was an entirely reasonable way to spend the afternoon. Later, I half-dozed through a psychedelia 101 lecture and was sober enough to report that many rated Jeremy Narby the Questcon highlight.

Ian Lawton had the toughest gig of the day. Despite having to face a post-8pm crowd and enough firework noise to make it sound like Cecil Sharpe House was experiencing some American shock and awe, his lecture really hit the spot. It not only reinforced my sense that the next book I should try and do is Iboga – The Story of the Wonder Drug*, but showed why he is the only author working in his field whose approach to research is worth a damn.

I made may way back through the Saturday night wildlife of Camden at a reasonable hour and was home without incident in plenty of time to be passing blood and paying for a day in town.

*A rough and I recognise, naff, working title.

The Nomenclature of Discretion

This is my blog. If I make an arse of myself in it, I am to blame for my own naming and shaming. However, there is a need for sensible obfuscation when it comes to mentioning certain real world people who may feature in this dance of words. I’ve been finding nomenclature of discretion confusing. I know two friends with the initials AC, two with the initials RW. There’s only one Dickon, but if I say Richard, I could be referring to potentially three different people.

To counter this, I’ve devised the following rules of thumb. Friends and associates who have to some degree put themselves in the public domain, such as authors, may be named in full, everyone else gets initials, a single name or nicknames that would require both an in-depth knowledge of my social scene and the application of some logic to make a good guess at who they were in the real world. People who share names and initials will be able to work out who they are from the blog because they will know where they have been. Other readers should be able to tell them apart because the total confusion of something like knowing three Richards will become the potential confusion of Richard, RW and Swiss Tony.

Anyway, today one of the ACs agreed to be given the moniker Surreal Girl (better than another potential name for her - Forthright Aussie), so I might be able at last to post up an entry on Wednesday evening a little later

Midwich Cuckoos to a Northern Soul Soundtrack

According to Elvis Costello and Wendy James, ‘London’s brilliant when it’s raining…' Yesterday, it was pissing down in London. After meeting up with Dickon, I found I had four hours to kill before the evening’s action. The usual round of the bookshops on the Charing Cross Road took up two, so I decided to seek shelter in the Odeon in Shaftsbury Avenue. I feared I’d have to endure something bordering on artsy pretension in exchange for protection from the weather given which cinema it was. At best, I was hoping for a good documentary. Instead I got Ghost In The Shell 2: Innocence.

I can only describe Innocence to those who have not seen it, as Blade Runner done as an animated buddy-cop movie by Ridley Scott on a magic mushroom bender, re-edited by the studio to have a happy ending and more haiku-based exposition. Seeing it on the big screen, I emerged from the bowels of the building with the decompression that always follows a potent cinema experience.

After the wonderful guilty pleasure of seeing a movie in the afternoon, it was onto Treadwells for the London launch of Generation Hex. Fittingly given the title of the book, despite it being a London occult book launch, it was a younger, less snobby crowd and the usual malicious atmospheres were absent. I’d only come up to town for it because it was Stephen Grasso’s night. Despite the distant taint of my blagger and journalist past, it takes more than a few free glasses of red get me to go to a launch, especially if it has any link to the snide, lunatic political world of the London occult scene. Stephen is one of the few people I’d ever brave that cacophony of poisonous prattle for.

However, the launch was refreshingly devoid of cocktail jazz/atonal droning, careerism and pretension Christina Oakley Harrington gave a passionate speech about the book and managed to give the whole thing a celebratory, party attitude - something also helped by Stephen’s choice of a Northern Soul soundtrack.

Good conversations with strangers on Jack Parsons and Ogun, a rum, cigar and Bounty Bar interlude and the fact that other friends apart from Stephen were there, made it a night that despite what is happening in my life, I was almost able to enjoy. Especially as I think Christina said she was smitten with my book. I might have got that wrong. I did also enjoy the free wine.

More than one person could be heard echoing my view that Stephen is the best writer on magic to emerge in the last 20 years. He read his ‘Midwich Cuckoos’ piece that, like the rest of his work, is strong on emotional truth, inspirational clarity and a nice turn of phrase without recourse to poncy language. You can be of a non-mystical persuasion and still get the same pleasure out of his prose that you can from Alan Moore or Susanna Clarke lighting up with the page with their descriptions of the magical.

Hearing that everyone’s Season went so well, the positive reaction to Stephen’s work and the general celebratory ambience gave last night a sense of a New Year party. All dues paid. Clean slates. No auld lang syne, but nods at the Crossroads. The side effect of feeling that I’d been at a New Year party was the 3am heartbreak and loss was more intense and I’m trying to cope with today on an insomnia jag. Even so, London can be brilliant when it is raining.