The “lost” video
and other tales of depressive despair.
and other tales of depressive despair.
On Friday afternoon, and on the very banks of the River Severn that snake their way through the toy-town of my spiritual home of Ironbridge, I recorded a 30 odd minute video now deleted for the forever of time. I had no “script” or real idea or purpose of what I wanted to say or was going to say and instead, I chain-smoked my way through half an hour of unhinged madness, and all to the backdrop of a formation of ducks swimming by and a couple of young canoeists taking advantage of a sweltering late Summer’s afternoon and a still and tranquil River Severn.
I wrongly believed the video would be my ticket out of the maelstrom of madness I’d yet again self-inflicted upon myself but I just cried too much, smoked too many cigarettes, and rambled on and on and said things even I really shouldn’t have. I threw in a couple of lame gags surrounding suicide videos and being killed by Hillary Clinton and perhaps being beside the River Severn allowed me to “wash away my sins”, but the video is no more and just a memory, a moment now lost in time, like the tears in the rain of the violent thunderstorm currently approaching this sceptered isle.
I should therefore find it easier with the written word and a dancing set of fingertips upon a keyboard. It’s my one and only true skill.
But how far do I dare go?
I could tell you how manically depressed I am or how I’ve never been happy (not truly happy) since a horrible November night in 1986 when I saw and experienced things no 14 year old boy should have to. Or that I look to the night sky and the stars pleading for my mother and father to “come and get me” or that I hope and pray that I die peacefully in my sleep every time I go to bed. Why even bother awaking when the mail through the door will go automatically un-opened into the nearest bin, emails will be ignored for weeks or months on end and a telephone that only rings with fucking scam callers or bad news used to only ring with my mother’s name and number and that’s never going to happen ever again. Why bother awaking when I’m financially sunk and in dire, desperate need. If I’m allowed two swear words in one article, I’m financially fucked and dread what’s coming next and where I’ll end up living. Living? Now that’s a fucking oxymoron and now that’s three swear words.
I don’t live, I exist. “I’m not living” as Thom Yorke of Radiohead opines in their incredible song True Love Waits.
“I’m just killing time”.
I give the impression of being a contrarian who always cites his inspirations as Salvador Dali, Hunter S Thompson or Christopher Nolan, and that I live by the madcap principles they did or seem to. Time doesn’t exist. Everything is malleable, even memories, and I rip off the great Dr Thompson every chance I get.
And why not?
But I’m a depressive fraud, an “alien” according to one ex-girlfriend (and a compliment I still hold dear to my blackened heart) and try as I might, a dreadful human being at times. I suffer from the bleakest and darkest of moods and when one thing, one tiny little thing comes along to ruin my already low mood (see the non-opening of mail or the dread of my telephone ringing) and I spiral into a panic attack, the latest of which sent me to the banks of the River Severn to say things on a video I won’t be admitting to here.
I won’t detail the reasoning behind the onset of the panic attack but suffice to say I found myself driving through the centre of England’s “second city” of Birmingham and I’m sure there’s a city near you far, FAR busier than this central English city, but I shouldn’t have been there and now that I was, we (my son and I) were now crawling inch by inch through the oppressively cramped confines of a busy city overflowing with the hyper busyness of life on all sides and there was no escape. So I panicked, cried, really cried, panicked, and said a lot of things my son should never have had to hear, and acted in a way unbecoming of a parent.
My son was incredible, patient and forgiving and listened to my reasoning's for my outburst after the attack had passed and we’d escaped the oppressive hell of an incredibly busy and overwhelming Birmingham. Sorry Birmingham, it’s your city and not mine, and this isn’t an attack on the city, more a response from a shell of my former shadow (thank you Bill Hicks) and a man who used to travel the entirety of the UK when gainfully employed in a marginally successful corporate career and who took such trips into busy cities in his younger stride.
Now I can’t even bear to look at that shell of a man in the mirror.
I had a “perfect” day planned for my son and I and now we’re driving through the centre of Birmingham and the perfect day wasn’t going to plan and I was trying, and failing, again. I try, I do. But I fail. Every time. I’m currently trying something new once more with a Youtube Channel and it’s failing and will ultimately fail. It’s also rubbish and just a strange old man in an equally strange pair of glasses reading his self-published books aloud, and to camera, and often stumbling and bumbling over his own written words! Yes, it truly is as exciting as that sounds! I’ve tried before and failed before on more times than I care to admit to. I’ve self-published books that will never sell. I now record videos of me reading these self-published books aloud and I have a grand total of 8 (EIGHT) subscribers. I have 1 (ONE) Patreon subscriber, and a kind young Canadian man who complimented me so highly on my writing “style” that all I could do was thank him profusely for his incredibly kind words and support, and that it means the world to me.
I keep rolling the dice, but I’m financially sunk. I’ve tried, but I’m failing as usual.
Perhaps only Lou Reed has a “Perfect Day” and perhaps I shouldn’t be aiming so high, but there are reasons, and they’re fucking depressing. I have abandonment issues. I still haven’t truly recovered from that November night from a different century and from a world so different from the one I’ve despised ever since. I just want whatever my son and I to do to be perfect because I miss my Dad and we never had the day’s out we’ve had together as father and son, perfect or not. I explained all this to my son and he was a diamond because that’s what he is, a rare uncut diamond, and he loves me.
But I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what to do with those memories. I wish I wasn’t around anymore. I beseech the stars to be collected by the ghosts of my universal parents. I wish I was a better father, a better role model, and not the bitterly unhappy old man wistfully looking into the distance with a face as long as a cowboy’s horse.
I’ll finish with that joke.
It’s the best I’ve got.
Thanks for reading. For less serious and depressive fare, here’s some happier news:
“Four Ashes Adventure Golf”
Holes in One galore!medium.com
“The Blackford Book Club” is live on Youtube!
It’s the only BBC you’re ever going to need!medium.com
Trent Alexander-Arnold and a stroll in the Liverpool sunshine
Liverpool 3 Aston Villa 0, 3rd September 2023.medium.com