Fading To Black

The last few nights have been blighted by asthma. Lying on the floor, each breath has been a hot, hard struggle. I have become reacquainted with the ragged gulps of air that are never enough to fill my lungs, the sensation of fire crawling across my upper back.

The asthma transports me back the seventies even more than my Nanna’s black and white television, circa 1971 gas stove and choice of brown upholstery fabrics. It was my childhood asthma that extinguished any boyish dreams of sporting glory. I was always cowered by the knowledge too much exertion on the pitch could lead me back to the isolation and oxygen tents I first experienced as a six-year-old.

The fear of asthma putting me back in hospital was nothing compared to the terror that would actually consume me during an attack. As the sense I was suffocating grew stronger, I would find myself fighting not just for breath, but against an irresistible panic. It was not some adult inspired existential dread designed to make children wary of ‘strange men’, it was total locked-in-blazing-building-hammering-on-the-doors-and-screaming panic. Sometimes when the fire of asthma raged in my chest burning up all the oxygen, I would begin to pass out with no certainty of coming back.

During one attack, when no Ventolin inhaler or adult was around, I found myself on the floor, fading to black as each breath was incinerated by the inferno inside. On the hazy edge of consciousness, I encountered a glimpse of self. Even though my lungs felt as is they were being blistered by smoke, my own calm voice was clear: ‘Everything will be OK.’ At that point, my fear was alchemised.

Right now, when panic about other areas could so easily engulf me again, I need to hear that voice. Need emotional alchemy. Need the growing black dog growl to turn to white light hope. Things will be better in London; it is my crucible.

Black Dog Growl

It is my understanding that the French do not say ‘I am sad’, but rather ‘A sadness is upon me’. The French have it right. Currently there is sadness upon me. I know it is only multiple clouds of small sorrow combining to feel like a severely bruised sky above, but there is no use denying the weather.

Part of the sadness is due to current gravitational pull of Essex. Tomorrow I have to go back to resolve a raft of Nanna related problems. The prospect of days spent battling with bureaucracy and desperately juggling the finances is fine. Knowing my nights will be spent sleeping on the floor of the council flat my grandparents lived in for 38 years is a black dog growl. A place once filled with the animating love of a couple who had been married for 73 years is now just a claustrophobic concrete shell. After the recent break-in at the place by people looking for me, I have additional reasons to feel uncomfortable.

Tips of the Smoking Guns

Unless my publisher makes another mess of end matter, below are the acknowledgements for the new version of Conspiracy Files due out in October. As always, the tips of the smoking guns are a chance to thank friends for their backing and encouragement, give a nod to sources of information and signpost some inspirations. It also allows me to express gratitude to some of those who have supported my work.

If I run true to form, I have probably forgotten to name both at least one good friend and a vital informant. If you think you have been overlooked and are in one of those categories, I am really am sorry. Drop me a line and I will try to remedy the matter.

'DEDICATIONS:

Bill Hicks – I was once lucky enough to interview the great man. He was a keen conspiriologist. I think he would have liked this book.

Robert Vaughn – It is wonderful when a childhood hero who fought the conspiracies of THRUSH turns out to be even more heroic in real life for fighting to uncover the truth about the murder of Robert F. Kennedy.

A TIP OF THE SMOKING GUN TO

THE USUAL SUSPECTS
Surreal Girl; Cheryl Twist; Matt Adams; Annie & Luis; Steve Behan; Andrew & Suzie Collins; Storm Constantine; Tim Dedopulos; Jeff Edmundson; Stephen Grasso; Chandira Hensey, the HTML Fairy; Kate Ison; J; Gareth Jones; Ian Lawton; James Muslic; Hugh & Gaetane Phillips; Staci Rolfe; Dickon Springate; Liz Swanson; Richard Ward; Sean York.

THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS
Ricky Tomlinson – a working class hero and victim of a vicious conspiracy; Ken MacLeod – Scotland’s greatest novelist and someone who actually understands conspiracy theories; David Benson for general talent and his Conspiracy Cabaret; Emilia Telese; Dr. Jack Sarfatti; Catherine Yronwode; Robin Ramsay; my friends at SIS; Piggy; Harry of the Yard; Inspector ‘X’; Peter from the Palace; Zef Nano; Patrick Browne; Mark Pilkington; Tom Vague; Ingo Storm; Steve Rajam; the spirits of Robert Anton Wilson and PKD; Paul Weston; Nigel Beckwith; Jaye Beldo; Ben Fairhall; Greg at Occult of Personality; Dan Parker; Dr. Shaun Saunders; Gary Russell because he still likes conspiracy theories; the other FT; Mich at the CIA and all of those grassy know-alls who helped with research on the Potere Occult who do not want to be mentioned by name.

This book was written to a soundtrack of Luke Haines, country versions of classic tracks by The Stooges and the bizarre French disco rock of Black Strobe.'

Back in Hoodoo City

After almost a month away, I am back in London. This is a grand and glorious thing.

London’s complexity, its tidal flux of people in constant motion, its density of both historical and constantly fresh information… Moorcock was right: ‘London is still the best and worst place for a poet or a novelist to live.’

One of the reasons for this is that there are two Londons. The one you see easy and the one beyond. This latter London lies under the skin of the other. It is hidden, secret and wrapped in shadow. The fire of mythological energy runs through its circuits. With every street, you get the chance to walk between worlds.

Being back in hoodoo city, I have the best of both those worlds. I can turn the key and snuggle in the comfort of my home or go outside and be part of the endless unrest. Stay in this room and create novel worlds with my words or walk the city, let it draw new maps in my imagination. London can burn my eyes with fresh information, make me see in a changed light or I can reach out and dislodge its ghosts from their brick and stone haunts.

Whatever else it may be, there is no denying London is a zone of increased potential and right now, right here is where I belong.

‘It takes at least a thousand pages to write the crap out of your system’

My editor for Conspiracy Files has shingles. His replacement – the blessed Lara – has asked me cut the text. This time it is not for legal reasons, but for space. If the cuts I have to make are too drastic, I will post the full originals on this blog because I am actually reasonably pleased with some of my writing when it comes to the new material. This is not always the case when I appraise my own work.

There are very few bits of advice on writing that actually hold at the coalface. One of them I have found to be true is: ‘It takes at least a thousand pages to write the crap out of your system.’ I think in my case it might be more like 3,000 pages, but the principle is accurate. It takes a while to flush out literary toxins you absorb as a reader. It takes a lot of pages to find your own voice, to be inspired by your favourite authors instead of sounding like a poor copy of them. I might not ever be to sing sentences that bring worlds to life like Sinclair or Moore, but I hope I am beginning to hit the right notes and express the tune I hear in my head at times.