hello once more
tis i paul art-guy extraordinaire. or i was.
My hands are seared cauterised stumps my mouth solid bone.
I have barnacles on my shoes and my feet are encrusted with cities of coral, constructed not from their own bodies but from splinters of slippery phoenix eggs. Impossibly sharp and so bright. So bright.
Makes my boat go like a confused piece of soap though.
Gentle light and soft chords in the night.
i have chronic pain. i have always been bipolar.
i have a huge left temporal lobe tumour that deforms my brain to the point where my skull is observably the wrong shape. this is NOT cancer, and has prolly been around since i was born, fucking everything up.
the pain has continued for four years now. and no-one, NO-ONE, seems to have any idea what to do about it.
In a hell. A burning bloody hell.
it… there is a terrible, inevitable mass pushing me forward in time. it is some colossal blind thing at my back, behind my eyes, aching underneath my teeth.
it is inexorable, irresistible, mindless, deadly and horrific.
it is eating my life.
the years do not even stir the scorched nerves in my fingers as they drift through their grasping, wretched reach.
though often every minute is a horror of slow slow existence from second to second.
a wyrm of terrible, irrevocable power nudging us forward, each breath closer to death.
In my tiny world and my ugly, pale and powerless life -
i barely notice the years that have passed.
I have so much to do!
and i am… kind of CREATIVE.
this last sentence, statement, pre-ponderous exclamation, is complete bullshit. I was. Now I am not.
I can do a few things for a day or a few hours each week, I am too fucking sick. That. Is. Not. NOT. A creative person!
I was so much more…
For some months i was in hospital, a mental ward, getting shock treatment in 2004. i painted and drew for at least 10 hours every day.
i have painted… written… in a living carnivale freak show extremity.
and the despair that worsened every year and tried to kill me and took my hands away from me and used them to cut my throat.
even in the coal-black abyss of despair…. i fucking WORKED. i NEVER STOPPED.
i do not remember but in the hospital when i was getting the shock treatment (ECT), my beautiful friend Kirsty tells me that the dressing I wore over the vicious tear in my neck was
the pain is not as bad, truly, as the despair that stalked me, so deadly.
it is not. it hurts… less… but…
Even though I have worked through such horror and never stopped…
I can’t paint now. I paint… badly. The pain, i cannot paint whilst in pain. And it never stops.
My writing gets confused. I can’t play my guitar, nor sing. I just…. fucking SUCK at all this.
I just… fucking… suck.
And the despair is coming for me. It will cripple me anew. It will be a fierce ally to pain. Oh. Oh.
Despair comes for me. And I am afraid.