Don’t trust everyone

At the start of my crisis, and before it, I tended to be quite open about my mental health. Now I will not even tell people who know me that I have therapy – I just tell them I am having non-descript ‘sessions’.

There is something about this discretion and lessening of trust which is building me up as an individual with his own power. I have more power over my boundaries than I thought.

Life taught me not to be too trusting. I honestly believe that gains in my own power have come from this with-holding; as if whenever you give yourself too cheaply your subconscious swallows a nasty draught of something toxic and self-negating. And everytime you give trust to the wrong person, you end up with a dagger to the heart and a dark wound. I will not let this happen to me again.

You don’t have to trust someone you do not know. You don’t have to help someone you do not know. You don’t have to trust your parents or your siblings. You don’t have to trust the authorities. You don’t have to trust anyone.

Of course, trust is a vital and beautiful thing. In Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea Saga, ultimate trust is demonstrated by revealing your ‘true name’ to someone, giving them total power over your being. If your true name falls into the wrong hands, you are fucked. But you can offer ultimate trust to another sentient human being with it, and if they reveal theirs to you, you have communed with another on the most fundamental and beautiful way possible.

Without this trust-giving, we are isolate, and isolation is just as much a destroyer as naive openness. We have an imperative to escape our isolation, it is in our nature to. We are all individuals, and this is where liberty stems from, but no man is an island.

I cannot trust the sea of humanity anymore, but I can trust my tried and tested crew, or communities I have come to know. And of course I can trust myself.


No work, no home, no woman.

It sounds like it could be a blues song, but it is real life. And its mine.

No work, no home, no woman.

I can self-deceive only for short bursts of time. This has been a hard and sorry life.

Even with great progress made on some fronts (why do you think I ain’t been postin’? When things get good I don’t write about how good it is – I just get on with it!) Things can fall down like a house of cards. Things are so fucking frail. Things don’t really go anywhere when you are in the belly of the beast.

It feels like you have moved forward, but this could be conscious deception. The depths are where your true meaning lies, and shifting that perception is like moving a mountain stone by stone.  Something inside is timeless. It can’t be outrun, and it doesn’t move with ideals of progress. It is just there.

I am more familiar with this deep, dark pulse. Every massive leap into the unknown I know I can come out of the other end swinging and somewhat intact. But this is to be dragged from battle to battle, with no promise of a castle to rest in at the end of it.

This is no way to live.

Its no way for anyone to live. But there isn’t much ‘live’ after this.

Our generation has been shat on and shat on and shat on. Any of us with any semblance of conscience have no choice. This is the life we have live, to live.

That is why I ain’t got no work, no home and no woman.

There is no work that is worth doing except for the fight; the system is collapsing. There is no home to shelter in; the world is crumbling. Perhaps the only consolation in life could be to love woman, but the above factors and an extra helping of fucked-up don’t go down too well with them.

This is why I have found massive affinity with early Tolkien, namely his ‘Germanic myth’ stories. The characters go through endless tragic shit, and often die at the end of it, victorious but completely destroyed. These are more true to life than Hollywood’s bullshite mythos, with its bullshite characters.

Even the darkest of films has nothing on Turin Turumbar. Now that was a fucked up life. He had no home (he had to leave very early on), no work (other than fighting Morgoth from the age he could hold a blade) and we won’t even go into the last one.