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paranoiawilldestroy

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About paranoiawilldestroy

  • Birthday 01/01/1874

Personal Information

  • Biography
    Aaaaaaaaa
  • Location
    Glasgow
  • Interests
    I just want to be
  • Occupation
    Student
  • Gender
    Male
  • Facebook
    FuckSatanHe'sALyingCunt.com
  • Flickr
    Humans heal.com
  • Last.fm
    Riders on the Storm.com
  • Live Journal
    poorjim.com
  • Favourite Bands
    Too many and varied to mention. Understand that music is about taste, not prestige.

    However on those that listen only to one genre of music to differentiate yourself from the crowd... look forward to your mid-life crisis.
  • Favourite Films
    Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
    Fight Club
    A Life Aquatic
    City of God
    Little Nicky
    Lord of The Rings
    The Hobbit when it comes out. It will be a favourite oh yes yes
  • Favourite TV Shows
    I love the news... can't get enough of that shit.
  • Favourite Books
    Best Fantasy Authors:
    Robin Hobb
    Michael Moorcock
    Early Tad Williams
    Tolkien (obviously)
    Stephen Donaldson
    Poor old Scott Lynch... keep it together man I'm rooting for you. But hurry up and write the third part of that trilogy cos it's awesome.

    Others:
    John Connolly
    Stieg Larsson (A very important book to my mind... R.I.P.)
    Dickens
    Carlos Ruiz Zafon
    Susannah Clarke
    Lian Hearn
  • Muse Releases Owned
    Gotta version of Origin Of Symmetry from Avalanche in Glasgow... came out three days early, had a clear silver box with a key to open it. Sold the rest of all my other CD's to buy Christmas presents one year but have since redeveloped my collection (legally, mostly) through the wonderful power of the Internet. Needless to say, Muse feature heavily.
  • Muse Concerts Attended / Attending
    Glasgow Barrowlands gig (2001 I think)
    Three times at the SECC.
    Once in Dublin with Kasabian supporting.

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  1. P.s I'm not at Alison’s level, but I did spend 10 years teaching myself how to sing. No lessons, began aged 31ish. Sounded shite then, sound like this now. Details in the final novel. Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, backingtracksourcedfromYouTube.m4a
  2. So... After my latest psychotic splurge, I've been asking myself some hard questions. My wife gave birth to my 2nd child today (he's beautiful) and I have to ask... Why would I bring such perfection into this world, just to allow the established order to fuck him about? To allow the people so sorely influenced by aforementioned established order to overrule his thoughts, his emotions and his humanity? My answer... Fuck that. I'm writing a novel, the aim of which is to link the people of the world under one, common banner. Our anxieties, our poor mental health. Using my own experience as a paradigm, I highlight the deliberate use of psychological techniques to effect cultural suppression amongst the masses. It's a powerful story, I'm a dynamite writer (after struggling with a misappropriated belief that I couldn't write). I'll let you guys judge that tho... Although I'm certain I'm now nailing it. To dismiss the fantasy which was manifesting as an inability to contribute to this medium I love, I fought a psychic battle with internalised voices which insisted I could not write and tried to rip me from my family home (details of which are splurged all over this website). I've been reading since I was 6 and love the act of reading. The mindset which nearly killed me when I stopped medicating for the illness made it impossible for me to complete any body of work. No more though (although I would stress FUCK not medicating). The book is wrapped in a fictional narrative yet leans heavily on my own experiences. My degree in sociology gave me the knowledge to trace cultural suppression to its root, a widely spread fantasy that money makes people happy. Not only does it not, but this fantasy causes much, true evil in the world. It will be released on Amazon no later than Christmas Eve 2024 and I'lllinkithere. It will blow your mind. Here's the prologue and first 3 chapters: Faith Is The Law, Love is The Key By Alison Latapy. Prologue ‘… He sees your thoughts as sin, Exposed and bare like skin, I am in service to the muse. Forever lost, unsought, He comes when I have not, My final service to the muse.’ The song’s climatic line sheered the air: rays of sunshine, unveiling a frozen morning. The raw melancholy distilled throughout the contestant’s performance continued to shiver the audience, as if the entire assembly had just been released from a naked embrace. The singer bobbed into a bow and the Glasgow Arena detonated. In her thirties, and petite, with arresting, green eyes, the contestant beamed back at the crowd. Their thunder intensified. ‘Amazing!’ Johnny Gale—one of the “Talent Attack” judges—declared into his microphone. Johnny’s cheeks were webbed with purple veins: testifying to a fondness for hard liquor. He had managed some of the most successful pop acts in Britain over the past two decades, however. Pauline Austin—the second “Talent Attack” judge—daubed at the tears dribbling down her Botox cheekbones. Pauline had packed out stadiums herself in her youth and was no stranger to the admiration of the masses. ‘Marvellous,’ she gushed. ‘Thank you,’ the contestant said, in a guttural, Glaswegian accent. ‘I’m Alison. I’d like tae thank my mum, my dad, my boyfriend… Anyone who’s ever shown me support. This is a dream come true!’ ‘You truly are a “Talent Attack”!’ Damien Powell interjected, rising to his feet to join in with the applause. Slim and in his fifties, with a full head of black hair, Damien grinned at Alison. The smile never touched his glittering eyes though: he weighed the vocalist as a wolf would a prize pig. ‘I didnae come here tae compete, actually,’ Alison replied. ‘In fact, you can eat my arse!’ Stunned murmurs exploded amongst the stands. The judges were poleaxed. ‘You can’t say that!’ Damien exclaimed. ‘You’re live on…’ ‘Fuck you,’ Alison replied. ‘You dobber.’ Damien’s jaw clenched: his expression was an axe descending. The other judges looked away, each discovering something interesting in the floorboards beneath their feet. ‘I know what you are, but,’ Alison spat, showing each of them—in turn—the bird. ‘A cancer! Yous distract fae the great artists of this era, who would bring culture and support tae the disaffected! Yous ram money down the throats of any wae ability when you’ve less than I dae in one finger! Fucking parasites!’ She strode down the stage’s steps and forged towards the exit; a hubbub swelled in her wake. ‘I am deeply sorry,’ Pauline said, addressing the audience. ‘We never suspected that anyone could show such disrespect. We’re appalled at her language…’ ‘Fuck!’ Damien’s booming curse had been picked up by an errant mic; Pauline yelped. ‘We’re live,’ Johnny hissed, ‘the show must…’ The whine of a guitar cut Johnny off: loud, even from behind the amphitheatre’s doors. ‘A phone,’ Damien snarled. A tic pulsed above his left eye. ‘We cannot work in these conditions! Get me the police, now!’ An assistant scurried a mobile over, which Damien snatched. ‘This is Damien Powell!’ he snarled. ‘I am trying to run a show here and this woman just…’ There was a pause as Damien listened. ‘What do you mean, you’re aware of the situation?’ His mouth formed an “O” as he stared at the cameras; as though noticing them for the first time. ‘You must also be aware then,’ he seethed, mopping his brow, ‘that we are a multimillion-pound enterprise?’ Another pause. ‘Thank you!’ he snapped, storming from the Arena. ‘Follow him,’ Pauline said, gesturing to a camera operator. ‘This will make great telly.’ # Damien screamed for security, who drove the curious spectators flocking into the Arena’s foyer out his path. Alison’s vocals soared over the chaos: ‘My senses, so distinct, unique, In this blue, bourgeoisie boutique, I’ll tyrannise senescent skies, Accumulate each major prize. Appropriate lavish jewels, Avoid the directives of fools, Discern abundance with my touch, In glossy magazines and such. And never suspect another, And forever share love, And predict consequence, In complete confidence. Alongside the righteous spectre, I’ll imbibe ambrosial nectar, Will you soak in fortune's wellspring? Will you vibrate Cupid's bowstring? When they sink me into the ground, And celebrate around that mound, I’ll sow dreams from another frontier, Always relieving the palsy of fear. And never suspect another, And forever share love, And predict consequence, In complete confidence.’ The camera operator emerged into sunshine to train his lens on Alison, who strutted atop a makeshift platform with her band. A generator—hooked up to gigantic amps—churned the stench of petrol into the air. A rock ‘n’ roll maelstrom burst out the amps: sucking the audience ever closer to the stage. Youngsters thrashed with abandon while muscular roadies shoved against the Arena’s own guards. Their wrestling grew heated; it seemed likely that blows would soon be thrown. The song dissolved into a screeching cacophony. ‘Hello Glasgow!’ Alison howled. The drummer immediately pounded down a resounding rhythm, while the bassist throbbed a heartbeat. The guitarist pirouetted, instrument levelled at the heavens… And discharged an insurrection. ‘Act your age!’ Damien shrieked, as a woman—ten years his senior—tried to get him to dance. A skinny fellow whipped his T-shirt off and launched it onto the stage. The gathering degenerated into a gleeful riot of bouncing bodies. A flash of blue flared into the camera lens; its operator spun to find the source. Further down the boulevard, two police vans had halted and were disgorging officers. Their sergeant assumed point, clutching a megaphone. ‘This gathering is unlawful!’ he cried. The music faltered. The roadies slunk away as the cops tramped closer. Boos sounded out. Someone amongst the throng shouted, ‘Fuck the pigs!’ Discontent rippled: either at the police, or at the person shouting, or both… It was hard to say. The sergeant scowled and fingered his holster, loaded with pepper spray. Alison spotted this and raised her hands, palms held out. ‘Please,’ she beseeched. ‘If yous want tae hear mair, our album is available on Spotify. We are “Due to the Muse”…’ ‘How dare you plug your album on my show?’ Damien yelled, yanking people aside. ‘How dare you? Don’t you know who I am…’ A precisely thrown apple burst against the back of his head, showering him with sticky pulp. ‘They have roused a rabble!’ he sputtered. ‘They should all be arrested!’ A hail of missiles whistled towards Damien. The police surged to slap handcuffs onto the band, who were hauled towards the meat wagons. Damien—dripping refuse—reached the cameraman and switched the live feed off. # Act One – Hope is A Choice A pallid finger traces round my scars, Her lingering caress, her fleeting smile, Forever curses me into exile, As moonlit waters guide travelling stars, She ushers perpetual nightmares in, Her lips, puckered to puncture like a rose, A deceitful beak, emphasized in woe, She sways intimately, her satin skin, Disguises an abyss I must delve alone, While her raven crown, of silken tresses, Obscures a well befouled with poison wishes, She offers me nothing, her heart is stone, And reaches out, her leisurely embrace, Escorts me down, down to my resting place. Chapter One “‘Sociology aims tae explain and interpret patterns of human behaviour, wae social construction theory forming the basis of that analysis. Social construction theory—which rests heavily on nurture in the nature vs. nurture debate—broadly informs legislation comprising public policy… Even if the warnings of sociologists are frequently ignored by those in power. ‘You don’t often see sociologists giein evidence in court. I’d suggest the reason why psychologists have precedence in such scenarios rests on the dynamics of capitalism, wae aw the requisite inequalities therein. In brief, those in power would prefer us tae blame oursels for our ain situations… When sociological analysis of the data pertaining tae those situations would paint a very different picture. ‘Being liberal wae the truth saves politicians hassle. In modern, Western nations, there exist minorities—characterised by their wealth—who dominate the contest for primacy within the political spheres of those nations. Those minorities send their children tae the same, private schools, already collectively control the means of production within those nations, share the same values, and—judging fae their policies—an evidently suspect morality. ‘In modernity, the fuckers actively design, shape, and adapt each national institution for their ain gain, when those institutions determine your average citizen’s life chances…’” (Latapy, A. 2019), Mission Music Interview transcript with Alison Latapy, conducted by Adeoye, Z. # Mission Music, the magazine that Zahra worked for, had arranged for her to interview “Due to the Muse”. They had won serious acclaim for their homebrewed release and were currently the subject of a bidding war, with some major labels vying for their signature. Zahra sat in a studio on the first floor of the Centre for Contemporary Arts in Glasgow. The room had a high ceiling, lacquered flooring, and was brightly lit. A long table, filing cabinet, and chairs occupied the space. She squinted into a handheld mirror. Her mascara had run in the rain and been smudged across her ebony skin. Her hair—diligently styled before boarding the train from London—was in disarray. She hated looking this frightful when meeting anyone for the first time. A knock came. Zahra set aside her mirror and rose to her feet. The members of “Due to the Muse” were about the same age, early to mid-thirties, and were as soaked through from the weather as Zahra had been. She could place each of them from the footage of that “Talent Attack”. ‘Hi, I’m Zahra,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to meet you guys. Thanks for coming along.’ ‘Jasmine,’ the guitarist said. She was of Asian ethnicity, the only member of the band who was not white. Jasmine had painted flamboyant make-up on over her porcelain skin, which had somehow survived the Scottish elements. A tasteful, silver necklace dangled between her tantalising curves… Zahra could not help wondering if Jasmine were single, professional engagement or not. ‘Mike,’ the bassist said. Mike had long, brown locks, lanky legs, wore stubble, and had a rockstars penchant for tight leather. He slumped into a chair. ‘Obliged,’ the drummer said. ‘I’m Alan.’ Alan was cleanshaven and tall, with thinning, blonde hair. Alison—the singer—had tucked herself underneath his arm. ‘Hi,’ she said. She barely reached Zahra’s shoulders. Zahra could not believe such a big voice could come from so tiny a frame. Her eyes were her most striking feature: at first glance, they glinted like emeralds. When they caught the light though, they flashed blue as sapphires. ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable,’ Zahra said. ‘Would anyone like a drink? My editor—silly man—has entrusted me with the company credit card!’ That line usually induced a more enthused reaction amongst musicians. What a depressing bunch: it was as if someone had died. The four exchanged dour glances. ‘If ever there was a time tae drown our sorrows,’ Mike muttered, ‘this would be it.’ ‘Are you guys okay?’ Zahra asked. ‘We could reschedule?’ Having crawled out of bed at four this morning to make this interview, Zahra would be livid if they cancelled now. ‘We’re finished,’ Alison said. ‘Sorry?’ Zahra asked, confused. ‘We underestimated how much Powell’s nose would be put out of joint by our stunt,’ Alan explained. ‘The cunt’s bought our record contract out.’ Zahra slipped a mask on over her excitement. Sensational! Her editor would kill her if she let a story this juicy slip away… ‘Oh,’ she managed. ‘You guys must be… What happened?’ ‘We met Powell this morning,’ Jasmine replied. Her gaze smouldered. ‘The arsehole flew up tae stick the knife in, personally. He tabled a bid for our signature through some subsidiary company: the terms were too gid to be true, and we fell for it. He’s canned the tour we were promised, alongside any future releases. Cunt.’ ‘What did your manager say?’ Zahra asked. ‘We’ve no got a manager,’ Alan said. ‘The lawyer who got us out of jail after “Talent Attack” said he’d look intae it, but… Powell’s bought our recording rights, and we signed the contract. It’s a certainty his lawyers made it ironclad.’ ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Zahra lied. This could make her career. ‘That must have come as such a shock to you guys… Do you have a plan, then? To get the deal liquidated?’ ‘Goan through the courts against Powell would bankrupt us,’ Alison replied. ‘I have a murky past, but. If that story stirred up enough sympathy… It might force Powell’s hand. He’s a celebrity: reliant on the gidwill of the public.’ ‘I’d love to hear all about it,’ Zahra said. ‘On one condition… It must be an exclusive. Agreed?’ The band muttered their assent. ‘I’ve a few questions I’d like to ask before getting started, though,’ Zahra said. ‘You guys don’t mind if I record this, do you?’ ‘Feel free,’ Alison sighed. ‘Thanks,’ Zahra said. She placed her phone on the table and activated the app she used for transcribing interviews. ‘So,’ she said, speaking for the benefit of the transcript, ‘“Due to the Muse” have just told me that Damien Powell has secured their recording contract. They’ve implied he plans to bury their careers in an act of revenge. ‘Did he discuss the clash you had with him on Glasgow’s “Talent Attack”?’ ‘He didnae say anything about it,’ Mike replied. ‘In fact, he ignored any mention of it. Apparently, he thought we might have a future in music but “changed his mind” after we signed. Bastard.’ ‘Aye,’ Jasmine said. ‘There was some suit wae him an aw, writing everything we said down.’ ‘Why did you guys hijack “Talent Attack”?’ Zahra asked. ‘Why make an enemy of Powell? His show is well-loved.’ Alan, who had been leaning against a wall with his arms around Alison, straightened and let his embrace drop. ‘It would be best,’ he said, ‘if Alison told this part. How about the rest of us go for a beer?’ ‘Aye,’ Jasmine said. ‘Why no? She’s already fucked everything. This whole thing is bullshit, anyway.’ Alan shot Jasmine a glare; Alison went pale. Mike stood, looking uncomfortable. ‘Beer sounds gid mate,’ he said, with a forced grin. Jasmine stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her. Alan stared blades after her. ‘Jasmine’s a cracking guitar player,’ he told Zahra. ‘No great wae people, but. Thanks for interviewing us, it’s appreciated.’ Mike nodded as he passed. ‘Aye, thanks,’ he said. The two left and Alison padded over to sit, facing Zahra. It felt like attracting the attention of a wild lynx; Zahra shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Music is Jasmine’s life,’ Alison said, ‘and the plan tae fuck “Talent Attack” was mine. I understand why she’s upset… Hopefully, this interview can make things right.’ # Chapter Two “… ‘The concept of power elites was something the sociology professors at Strathclyde Uni explored wae us. Under their accredited guidance, we were taught the precise mechanisms of how Britain’s population are controlled. ‘One thing which always stuck in my mind is how the voting system is exploited. What maist of the British electorate think they know is based on a discourse advanced by a British elite. They court national media tycoons, and the elite are acutely aware of the influence the press holds over the democratic process. ‘Top academics work for them. They’re no thick—just vile—and their true interests will never appear in a single mainstream paper, broadcast, or magazine. Any public discussion of world events will therefore be framed around the lies they disseminate. Information passed tae the public through aw mainstream sources is always vetted this way. ‘Tae illustrate, Tony Blair became the Godfather of one of Rupert Murdoch’s grandchildren, after the two plotted how tae sell Bush’s illegal war on Iraq tae the British public. One example of many, but particularly shocking due tae the humanitarian cost. ‘The reason the UK and the States invaded Iraq was cuz Bush wanted tae monopolise the movement of oil out of the Middle East. Iraq is the site of many, key trade routes, and Bush wanted them secured fae Russia. ‘A further worry… Any student of history could tell you of Appeasement theory, which explains how the economic misery heaped upon the German people post World War One by Britain and the States facilitated the rise of Hitler. ‘Tae be clear… Bush is a warmongering cunt, Blair a sycophantic arse-licker, and Murdoch plain evil. All three should be jailed for their crimes…’ (Latapy, A. 2019) from the Mission Music Interview transcript with Alison Latapy, conducted by Zahra Adeoye. # ‘There were two reasons I thought it would be a gid idea,’ Alison continued. ‘The first is obvious. We—like every band—want tae make it big. Whether you enjoy our music or no, everyone in Britain knows who we are now. “Talent Attack” gave us that exposure.’ ‘Isn’t Powell within his rights to take revenge, then? If your reasons for attacking his show were so mercenary?’ ‘Our reasons wurnae mercenary,’ Alison bit back. ‘Nothing could be further fae the truth. I completed an Honours Degree in sociology a few years ago, which helped me join the dots between events in my personal life, and the wider world. The understanding that taught me is what led us tae tearing “Talent Attack” tae shreds.’ ‘Care to elaborate?’ ‘Aye,’ Alison said. ‘Fae the cradle tae the grave, folk are taught tae evaluate one another according tae their earning potential. Any human quality—such as kindness—is rarely considered as intently as how lined someone’s pockets are. That focus comes fae an abstract ideology: that the mair money you make, the happier you will become. ‘Tae me, happiness comes fae daein things you want tae dae. Opportunities tae improve your self-esteem arise fae excelling in a field you are drawn tae, by developing a skillset that you care about. Being manipulated and exploited away fae what you want tae dae will lead only tae depression and anxiety. ‘Sadly, the existence of the various institutions which advance that ideology—that money equals happiness—means that the people you love may urge you tae consider things differently.’ ‘Why would someone’s loved ones stand in the way of them being happy?’ ‘Excellent question,’ Alison said, ‘and although I know the answer… It still upsets me, thinking about it. ‘Your loved ones may not acknowledge that the only person qualified tae decide which vocation will bring you joy is you. Tae your average parent—for example—a career in the arts may seem illegitimate for their children, cuz it’s seen as being an unreliable source of income. That might be despite that child being in love wae their chosen medium, and consequently equipped wae the devotion tae learn the skills required tae succeed.’ Artistic alienation had been a common thread in many interviews Zahra had led. She did not want this discussion to become embroiled in something that the average “Mission Music” reader might not relate to. She would go with it for now, though. It would be rude to abruptly switch the subject. ‘So… What would you suggest to any aspiring artists who might read this interview?’ ‘A fine question,’ Alison said, ‘and one I’ve thought about, deeply. My honest, considered response? Fuck it.’ ‘Fuck it?’ ‘Aye.’ Getting the conversation onto juicier topics would have to wait. ‘Please explain,’ Zahra said. ‘The path,’ Alison said, ‘that the majority follow is set around that integral belief: wealth equals happiness. The philosophy of “fuck it” threatens the very fabric of society… Cuz it negates that belief.’ Zahra had to laugh. ‘What does this philosophy actually involve, though?’ ‘Well,’ Alison said, ‘if you wanted tae be a writer—for example—you might want tae “fuck it” by ignoring the widespread opinion that it’s no economically viable as a career… And learn that craft until you’re so damn gid that publishers foam at the mouth every time your name is mentioned. Fact is… The arts are so neglected now that it really isnae that hard tae attract notice; you just need tae get excellent. ‘The toughest part is getting your work up tae that level; you’ll need tae study, and practice… And be prepared tae be stubborn about that. It can be emotionally draining; worth it, but. Even if just tae see the naysayers backtrack after you blow the fuckers away.’ ‘What about talent? Not just anybody can learn to be a professional writer, surely?’ ‘Wrong,’ Alison replied. ‘You’re completely wrong. I had to practice like fuck tae sing at the level I’m at now, and I did that for personal reasons… Whilst trapped in a society which considered it pointless, impossible, and objectionable. The reasons why I persevered willnae make sense tae anybody until I’ve told you the whole story.’ Zahra nodded, mentally noting to follow up on what Alison had said. A weird comment. ‘If you offer yoursel tae an artform,’ Alison continued, ‘dedicate yoursel tae learning it… It will reward you, as your mastery grows. You don’t need tae head intae showbiz tae show off wae it. You can dae whatever you want wae your newly acquired skill. Naebody will ever take what you’ve learned away fae you. ‘There is a joy in creation that your average citizen cannae experience, and that’s because power is being exerted over them by a political elite. Each British institution is hellbent on getting the labour force intae industry…’ ‘Okay,’ Zahra said. That was enough on alienation. ‘Why did you mess with “Talent Attack”?’ ‘Ultimately,’ Alison said, ‘record executives decide who gets signed and who doesnae, and their decisions are always based on which artists will generate their label the maist revenue. That feature of the culture industry is commended by “Talent Attack”. We wanted tae challenge the concept that music be evaluated in that way.’ ‘I don’t follow…’ ‘When music is written for a market,’ Alison said, ‘as the “Talent Attack” producers insist artists dae… It’s no the true self of the artist being presented in their work. “Talent Attack” is a pop-orientated show, marketed towards the widest common denominator. It treats music as a commodity: I recognise it as much, much mair than that.’ ‘What is music to you, then?’ ‘It’s a support network,’ Alison replied. ‘Every nuance of the human condition is echoed throughout music. Through streaming services, music is mair widely accessible than ever before, and can help people—especially youngsters—form an identity independent fae the bullshit presented as options via the mass media. ‘It aw depends on what you listen tae. Pop—the genre that “Talent Attack” celebrates—expounds on repetitive themes: namely its glitz stars processing mair dick or pussy than can conceivably be healthy. That isnae right.’ ‘In what way?’ ‘Well,’ Alison replied, ‘when sex-appeal is used tae promote an artist, that mirrors how the fashion, beauty, and diet industries glamorise sexuality. ‘Those industries spend staggering sums of money daein exactly that, targeting their efforts on adolescents. Those campaigns actively contribute tae rates of mental illness amongst youngsters.’ Zahra furrowed her brow. ‘Can you substantiate that?’ ‘There was a sociological study,’ Alison replied, ‘conducted on an isolationist tribe—located in the islands surrounding New Zealand—which pointed tae the same thing. ‘The tribe’s governing elders refused tae have a single TV in their village, throughout their history. Eventually, that situation changed… And six months later the first, ever cases of bulimia afflicted the village. It was a virtual pandemic.’ ‘Oh… Really?’ ‘Youngsters in the West,’ Alison said, ‘must be vulnerable tae the same techniques which caused that phenomenon. One reason exposure to a television triggered the bulimia was cuz that tribe were especially susceptible tae its influence: they’d never seen a telly before. ‘There is no escaping advertising here, but. In the West, kids are groomed tae compare themsels tae superstars: folk whose lifestyles are promoted as being full of joy, who have access tae personal trainers, and are well-paid enough that they can look after themsels, physically. ‘It is the job of those celebrities tae make adolescents envy them, want tae fuck them, want tae be them… At the expense of those kids thinking about what they might want fae life: outside of their manufactured longing tae be a celebrity themsels.’ Zahra could not fault Alison’s reasoning. She just had never considered it before. ‘You’re suggesting that this is the intended effect? If that’s true… That’s horrible.’ ‘Agreed,’ Alison said. ‘There are things you cannae protect your children against, and modern marketing techniques are aw the mair evil cuz they’re so widely accepted. Kids don’t have any option on whether they want tae be exposed tae adverts or not… It’s just how things are.’ ‘I still don’t see how “Talent Attack” ties in with this, though?’ ‘True art,’ Alison replied, ‘which is when an artist puts their ain thoughts and experiences under the microscope… Can be a lifeline. If youngsters can be encouraged tae listen, read, or view in the right places, they’ll build their ain sense of self… And the capacity tae resist those insidious techniques.’ ‘Okay… There are loads of things about the world which seem immoral when you look at them…’ ‘“Talent Attack’s” impact is twofold,’ Alison interrupted. ‘Firstly, it pushes happy, pish music that plasters over the cracks in people’s lives, written around the same boring themes, wae the same, tedious chord structures. There is a pre-existing market for plastic music like that: it explores nothing… But will sell. There are very few pop artists out there who even write their ain songs. ‘Pop—wae its popularity augmented by “Talent Attack”—detracts fae other genres’ credibility. Watch MTV for an hour… I’m sure you’ll notice sexualised content throughout those videos. ‘In modernity, mainstream music and fashion are the twin horns which jut fae the same, rampaging bull, and that fucker is intent on goring the absolute shite out of the experience of being young… Aw in the name of the mighty dollar.’ This was excellent material for the magazine. ‘You said there was more to the impact of Talent Attack?’ ‘Aye,’ Alison said. ‘The inequalities of the global, economic system already marginalise working-class voices. The time required tae hone your chosen craft is a luxury that maist low earning adults will never be in a position tae afford. You have tae fight for it—as I did—tooth and nail.’ Zahra was starting to warm to Alison’s theories, and to the woman herself. She seemed motivated by a good heart. ‘And what does that mean for working people, then?’ ‘Well, I can tell you what it meant for me, growing up,’ Alison said. ‘Maist accept the lies of Western governments at face value, while those who question what’s behind their deceit belong tae a rarer breed. ‘I count masel as being amongst that rare breed. The lack of support I experienced for my questions—I read books that no one else in my peer group had the literacy skills tae comprehend—made my youth a lonely, broken affair. ‘If mair working-class artists had found the limelight, and sang about how they felt when I was younger… I would have found a certainty in my convictions that I needed tae avoid a shitload of pain.’ ‘I take it then, that your strike at “Talent Attack” was a political statement?’ ‘Aye,’ Alison said. ‘Powell deserved what we did tae his show… He’s a blowjob, the public face of an institution which spits on music’s potential as a force for positive social change. Maist musicians see “Talent Attack” as an opportunity… It’s no. It’s a fucking disease.’ ‘Thank you,’ Zahra breathed. Her editor was going to love this. ‘You said you had a story to share with me?’ # Chapter Three “…According to the most recent Census, one in five of respondents who admitted to consuming narcotics that year highlighted feelings of anxiety prior to episodes of substance misuse. It is also believed that Scotland accounts for three per-cent of the world’s cocaine consumption: a startling statistic, considering the size of the country. Whether the respondents highlighted in that Census were as gripped by an anxiety disorder as Alison was, or whether their consumption of illegal substances was a deliberate answer to a mental illness… Remains ambiguous. There is not enough data to identify whether any such trend exists. Calls have been made however, for studies to be conducted on adolescent mental health survivors. The hope is that by comparing such studies with existing data, and tracking the behaviours of drug abusers who exhibit mental illnesses early in their lives, more might be learned on how to treat addiction. Alison was insistent however, that poor mental health must be a driver for many narcotic abusers, claiming that she could not be the only one. She urged anyone identifying with this practice of self-medication to seek, “professional help tae treat their actual distress, instead of numbing their symptoms wae dangerous alternatives. Folk who self-medicate have a very real danger of overdaein it.” (Adeoye, Z. 2019. Mission Music ed.26, pg.64.) # Smears of light from passing streetlamps reflected off the window. Alison sat, face pressed on the Perspex and a stranger’s leg against her own. Other passengers were not so lucky and stood, clutching at hooks dangling from the bus’s ceiling. Listening to her minidisk player was the only way Alison could endure the terrors of the 66: a route which ran from Glasgow to East Kilbride. She was tired. The eyes were so much worse when she was tired: she’s a weirdo ugly bitch seen stick insects with more meat on them The eyes… A relentless commentary on everything Alison felt, or saw, or did. When the voices Alison heard had first begun—over a year ago—she had been terrified. Now, she was just exhausted. she’s lost her mind it was only a matter of timelonely alone lonely Alison Anyone paying actual attention to Alison might have noted her darting gaze. The stains around the collar of her white blouse. Her baggy eyes, untended hair, and bitten lips. She reached her stop. With a muttered, ‘S’cuse me,’ to the man adjacent, she rang the bus’s bell. The driver brought the vehicle to a squealing halt. Alison kept her gaze down. A gang of neds in Berghaus tracksuits swaggered past; the area surrounding the off-licence was their haunt, and she knew from experience to never look at the natives. As she passed the bookies, a hand stretched for her from the corner of her vision. She whipped her earphones out. ‘Jeez oh!’ Alan said. ‘Sorry Alison, didnae mean tae startle you! How you daein?’ Alan was tall, with short, blonde hair and twinkling, blue eyes. He wore a parka against the cold. bite him bite him she wants to fuck he’d rather fuck a dog ‘Alright,’ Alison replied. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ Alan asked, pulling a joint from his pocket. Alison nodded; the cloying scent of green wafted as he sparked it. ‘Thought you stayed in St. Leonards?’ he asked. ‘Aye, I moved.’ ‘Your ain pad?’ ‘Rented. I’ve a job in town that pays the bills. I wisnae getting on wae my folks.’ Alan passed the doobie. ‘You still writing?’ he asked. Alison took a flavoursome toke: her senses mellowed, like she was being enveloped in cotton wool. Nevertheless, a blush rouged her cheeks. She felt embarrassed by her hobby. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Poetry, mainly. Passes the time.’ Alison handed the joint back. ‘You never thought of learning an instrument?’ Alan asked. ‘Some of the stuff you used tae write at school would have made cracking lyrics.’ ‘Cheers for that,’ Alison said, blushing, ‘I’d love tae learn… Never tried, but. I’m twenty-one nearly. I doubt I’ve got it in me, tae be honest.’ ‘We need a bassist,’ Alan said. ‘My band are practicing tonight. Bass is easy tae pick up: the basics, anyway. Bryan could teach you… He’s top on guitar.’ Alison had sat beside Alan in Higher English; he was sound. With the eyes though… Alison would not be able to go anywhere with him, not anymore. ‘Ach, I’ve some shit I need tae dae,’ she said. Alan looked disappointed. He brought out his mobile. ‘Listen, I’ll gie you my number. If you change your mind, giez a bell?’ Alison wanted to get home before she said anything weird. She did type his number into her phone, though. ‘Thanks for the smoke,’ she said, and plugged her earphones back in. ‘See you.’ # Once inside, Alison slumped against her door and locked it. Dust motes danced beneath her hall lights; the carpet was thick with oose. She tramped into the kitchen, kicked her shoes off, and plucked the remnants of an ounce of solid from out a tin atop her fridge. addict junkie whore can’t stop can’t stop can’t stop The faded wallpaper, the greasy dishes heaped in the sink, the pervading stink of damp… There was nothing in here which might provide even momentary relief, never mind dispel the dread threatening to curl her into a ball. The thought of another night stuck in here, smoking weed just to stay calm… Alison knew she needed professional help. The prospect of making an appointment with a doctor though… Filled her with horror. If she turned herself over to the NHS, she would get locked away. She selected a number on her mobile. ‘Hi, Alan?’ she said, after he had picked up. ‘It’s Alison. Were you serious about the night? I’m up for it, now…’ # Alan was already at the stop when the bus dropped her off: a woollen tammi covered his head. His breath plumed in the cold, and he had a clinking rucksack slung over one shoulder. ‘Hiya,’ she said. ‘Hey dude,’ Alan replied. ‘Cheers for coming.’ ‘How far is this place?’ ‘No far. We better get goan.’ Alan took off, down a grassy slope. Alison scurried to keep up, legs pumping to match his longer strides. At the bottom of the hill, a pathway meandered away from the road. It led to an industrial estate. Shadows strained against the streetlamps dotting the road. Alan’s face was formless in the gloom. If his intentions were less than pure… Alan had been a nice guy at school. Alison had no reason to suspect that had changed. She forced herself to say something, anything. ‘So, what’s this studio, then?’ ‘Some dudes fae our auld school run it,’ Alan replied. ‘They got a business grant. It’s a gid place. You can have a smoke, drink your ain carryout…’ ‘How long yous been practicing for?’ ‘Eight months, nearly. We’re gig-ready… Or will be, once we’ve found a bassist. That’s where you could come in?’ ‘I doubt it.’ ‘Aw, come on. You’ve a quality taste in music and you’d fit right in.’ Alison shook her head. She regretted her decision to leave the flat. People could sense when something was wrong… And she radiated wrong like a nuclear wreck. A car passed, then stopped on the road. It tooted its horn. Alison got ready to peg it. ‘That’s Colin!’ Alan said, jogging to the car. ‘Come on, we’ll get a lift fae here.’ He jumped in the front. Resigned, Alison got in the back. ‘Alright?’ the driver asked. He had a modish hairstyle and stubble above his top lip. ‘You must be Alison. Alan said you were coming. Hope you enjoy getting high and listening tae gid music. I’m Colin.’ ‘Aye. Gid,’ she replied, keeping her head down. Colin accelerated. A light rain began, pattering the windows. she’ll grab the wheel run the car off the road wonder how much they’ll like her then Alison gripped her knees so hard her knuckles hurt. # Colin pulled the car up outside a low building with a sloped, corrugated roof. He popped the boot. ‘I’ll help wae your kit, Alan,’ he said. ‘Aye, cheers for taking my gear in your car,’ Alan replied. ‘You grab the booze; I’ll handle my kit. That way, I’ll no have tae take your jaw off if you drop it.’ Colin laughed. ‘How you planning on daein that?’ ‘Practice,’ Alan replied, winking at Alison. Colin shook his head. His sharp rap on a metal shutter brought out another guy, whose hair had been styled in a ridiculous, ginger perm. ‘Alright?’ the man said to Colin and Alan, before proffering a hand to Alison. ‘I’m Gonga.’ ‘Alison,’ she replied. She pried her eyes off his absurd hairdo and gave his hand a shake. ‘I’m here tae see Alan’s band play.’ ‘You play anything?’ Gonga asked as he led the way inside. ‘Na, just wanted tae watch.’ The studio reeked of weed. Loud, canned laughter drew Alison’s attention. Through an opening to the right sat a few guys, illuminated by a TV as they passed a bong. Gonga joined them. Posters adorned a short hallway: Pearl Jam, Jimi Hendrix, The Who… Colin nudged a black door open. The room within was a small space, dominated by stage amps, and also painted black. A drumkit sat against the far wall. ‘Take a seat,’ Alan said. ‘Sparky and Bryan are always late.’ Alison eyed the only settee doubtfully; it stank of sour alcohol. Stuffing protruded from its seams. The others busied themselves with their instruments. Two guys waltzed in. Alison knew one of them… Sparky had piled on the pounds since high school. His chubby cheeks were flushed as he struggled out a leatherjacket. The second man was slimmer, though far from skinny. He had thick arms and a sagging paunch. Sparky stopped short. ‘No way!’ he exclaimed. ‘Alison Latapy!’ he knows sit on his fat face bloated sad sack Anxiety slithered its throttling coils around Alison’s neck. She despaired of ever having enough confidence to speak before a crowd: she felt like an insect battering against a prison of glass. The silence stretched until Alan rescued her, not even bothering to look up from where he tinkered with the drum kit. ‘I met her earlier dude,’ he said, ‘when I was down the bookies.’ ‘Well, prepare yoursel cuz we’re fucking awesome,’ Sparky said. ‘Bryan, this is Alison… A bird fae our auld school.’ ‘You alright?’ Bryan asked, before turning to Alan and Colin. ‘Yous two setup?’ # The band were good. Bass was supposed to be easier to learn than most instruments. she’ll kill herself first never last suicide Her smile faded. The band stopped for a break. This was the moment Alison had been afraid of. When she would have to talk. ‘Anyone up for a line?’ Sparky asked. He pulled a packet from his wallet. ‘I’ve some peas-and-barley left fae last night.’ ‘Aye!’ Alan said. ‘Nice ones.’ ‘Knew you would. You cost me a fortune,’ Sparky grumbled. ‘I’ll pay you back when we get our first advance,’ Alan replied. ‘I’ll hold you tae that.’ Sparky sat next to Alison and chopped lines of cocaine onto a CD case. ‘One for you, Alison?’ Alison hesitated. She had not touched class A’s since the eyes had begun. Probably not the best idea… ‘Fuck it,’ she said, and accepted the rolled-up bank note from Sparky. There was little point in coming across as being uptight. She already heard voices: things could not get any worse. She zipped the ching up her nostrils. Her anxiety receded, though the eyes became stronger, more virulent. we missed you speak little girl speak we want you to speak to us ‘Cheers,’ she said, swallowing the bitter drip oozing down her throat. ‘Been awhile.’ Sparky nodded, took the next one, and proffered the CD case to Alan. They all took a pinch of the sniff. #
  3. Eh. Calmed down a bit lol. Book is on, gimmie 4 weeks or so. Was self sabotaging all this time. Brains are weird.

    On that note...

     

  4. So is anxiety (couldn't help being a total dick, and that goes for anyone who knows an afflicted person too). So is depression. So is psychosis.

    Burn a light in all your windows. I don't know the truth. I just spent a long time fixating on emotions, and had a broken, frustratee heart. There's always tomorrow though.

  5. Ah k. Lol. See you at Glastonbury or whatever lol. Btw true sight is quite the adjustment

  6. Ah fuck. You're OK. You've lived through this. And I need your help. My phone numbers in my password. That's what my playlist is getting at.

  7. Time to start studying psychology

    1. paranoiawilldestroy

      paranoiawilldestroy

      Ah. We're fucked. There's nothing I can do.

  8. K. Need to get rid of that cunt first. The curse wait lol

    1. paranoiawilldestroy

      paranoiawilldestroy

      OK so the greatest medical minds on the planet can't solve this problem. Meds block it.

      This is all I got to go on:

      https://music.apple.com/gb/playlist/soul-asylum/pl.u-JPAZEk9CWb8peq?ls

      Predates recent events again (the playlist). Dunno what else I can do right now except recover my wits after that horrifying experience. And try and escape the yoke...

  9. I have no idea if this book is even my idea, 2bh. Will it do more harm than good? I'm pretty sure it will have the intended effect on some people. But if world medical establishments are unaware of the consequences for those individuals, it'll just sow chaos, and people will point the finger. Especially after these posts. It doesn't help that I can't do anything other than doubt this. Dismiss an ancient Aztec curse through a novel, and then prepare people to withstand angry African spirits long enough to get medical help?

    What if there's no health care provision for those people? What about a global Abilify shortage? People might die. I can't do this.

    Back to plan B. I'll write it, but it ain't for general consumption, not yet. Maybe not ever. I'm sorry the world is too fucked up for me to write about it.

  10. Fuck I literally know nothing other than that this might be a thing, how to heal oneself... And what awaits. But what the fuck is it? Any friendly psychiatrists even half convinced by this? Does it make any sense to what we know about mental illness progression? Mysticism aside?

    1. paranoiawilldestroy

      paranoiawilldestroy

      Probably the silliest question I've ever asked. Guess I'll be studying psychology (unguided haha), writing a book, raising a son, a newborn, learning the fundamentals of synthesisers (can't sing over the top of or write music to otherwise), defending myself from rampant maniacs, and keeping my wife happy. Oh! I've a full time job too. And a mountain of debt, like every other bastard (credit being a form of systematic control, thanks Margaret Thatcher). I'm fucked. And I'll have to dodge an extended stay with the NHS. Could the CIA be an issue, at this stage? Hmm. I'm definitely fucked.

    2. paranoiawilldestroy

      paranoiawilldestroy

      No. I'm not. Same as anyone else. If I can sort the book, I'll get more time. If I get more time, I can handle the rest, one at a time, challenge by challenge. And if I die, at least the book will help people and we might be OK, anyway. Fact is, we all die.

      Fuck it.

  11. Ah fuck, it's no that daft is it? Besides I smoked a doober and my anti ps ain't fully active yet.

    OK how about this. Touch my family, you wyrd fucker and I'll make you suffer torments like you cannot imagine. I'll not rest. And if you send any psychos round my gaff you prove my fucking point, and I'm fae Glasgow. I'll rip their eyes out.

  12. So yeah spirits are real, and anxiety the product of the human world. Try and crack out the fog, expect an invasion. Fuck this shit. I'm an ordinary man who loves books, music and love as well. Might be better to just let this shithole burn. I'm not equipped to stop this, and it puts my family's life at risk. Fuck it. You guys are on your own.

  13. Fuck knows when this was written. Discarded lol, entitled 'Tragedy'.

    Tragedy, a dying sun
    Drifts undulating across a tapestry torn  
    Picturesque, pretty and shorn
    From a womb divided by unravelling hope
    Waves uniformly crashing  
    Unravelling the bone beaches of hourglass minds.
     
    So uniform in their capricious nature
    Undulating within jagged stagnant snares
    Rising like the notes of steel hammers clashing out amongst the furnace
     A tempest of terror
    Thoughts seek new masters
    Darting like serpentine sharks amongst the blood of believers.
     
    The fates rise up in a maelstrom
    And our natures are exposed
    Manipulative maidens and masculine malevolence
    Like hurricanes, shrill winds exposing eternal truth
    Homage to my own carpenters art
    Homage to the truth
    Homage to the sparks and the incandescent gods that remain

     

  14. And it felt powerfully external. Wasn't like here go see your mates and leave yer wife and kid for an hour. Tore my psyche to shreds.

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