Hot Coffee, Cold Feet

Hot Coffee, Cold Feet
20.07.14 (Day 210)
08.42
Sunday breakfast: coffee and a banana, whilst reading the Saturday  Guardian and writing this.
There was no blog entry yesterday for a number of reasons: sometimes I don’t write one; yesterday I didn’t write one; I have no data allowance left on my phone (nor calls or texts) until I get money on Tuesday or someone pays what they owe me; most importantly though, the silence was a mark of respect for a friend who passed away on Friday.
Lukas was one of us: a traveller. He’d spent months fighting the system, like so many of us. And like so many of us, it had got him nowhere. I’m incredibly lucky to be where I am, indebted to a gracious property owner and with lots of support around me. Lukas wasn’t so fortunate and was taken from us at the age of 29.
I’ve said before that in this life, close bonds are forged quickly. It takes minutes out here to build friendships and trust that would take years on The Other Side. We work on trust and we look out for each other. Lukas looked out for everyone and was a handy guy to have around as he was a heavyweight boxer.
Safe journey my friend.
Onto the reader who opined that to read this blog is to witness the self-destruction of a fellow human being now:
Really? I mean, are you for real? Basic science: matter can be neither created nor destroyed but it can change form. I have; I am. You abandoned the old me like so many others in my old life because you couldn’t deal with me, like the Plastic Police and Defective Detectives who also gave up. Thank fuck, as they made me sick. Yes, I’m ill but I’m in a place in my life where I have a degree of happiness and satisfaction. Get out of it. The fact that you’re still reading the blog means that you continue to pay an interest: why? Some sort of perverted pleasure at watching a circus act? When was the last time you saw me? When you gave up. I’m different now and happier. Those around me know the real me. Move along as there’s nothing for you to see here.
And another reader who sees fit to judge incorrectly is one who has constructed themselves a rather lofty marble pillar from which to pass down opinion: you’ll be aware of the story of The Tower of Babel I assume? Well keep building and maybe you will understand all languages, including that which I write in. I have a fictional licence which I sometimes use when writing this blog. You really think I send the kids out on milk runs? That I operate a den of thieves where I’m a Fagin figure? You don’t know me either. Those in here do. And in here we also have orgies and deal drugs of course: that’s what the rumour mill says. But if you RTFB properly and not selectively, you’ll see that the police also read it. We have a working relationship. When interfering, ignorant do-gooders report us to our neighbours (the cop shop is two minutes away) for being here, they’re greeted with the response, “We know”.
I’m perpetuating myths that those outside start. To deny them would be to admit a false guilt. So I fight fire with gasoline. That way it doesn’t fester but comes to a head quicker and gets dealt with.
And if you stick with the story, The Tower of Babel collapses.
I really shouldn’t be wasting time on you people but you made comments – which I chose not to approve for publication with names attached to save blushes – and I felt obliged to address them.
You are you and I am me. I consider myself luckier than you. All life is transitory, mine especially. I feel fulfilled, especially when I constantly have my clingy thingy on my arm: a gift and a reminder of why I’m still here.
My life is far more sorted than it was through the winter, when I was naive to life out here, where I was put because I was ill and no-one could deal with it. Help came from unexpected sources, not official ones; to when I was on the wrong side of the law several times and was handed the 18 month suspended prison sentence that I now have hanging over me. I’ve turned. I’ve turned my back, for better or worse, poorer but richer. I may come back but I doubt it at the moment. A one-way journey. Aren’t we all on one ultimately? Many would disagree but I feel much better in myself for the last 210 days. I am getting better and only I can truly judge how I feel. Try living this life; this adventure. You won’t survive. I do.
So I’ve got the place which I’ve chosen as home for now to myself, for now. I have all that I need here and plan some reading: yesterday’s Guardian and Invisible by Paul Auster (I couldn’t get into White Teeth). I’ll post this when I can but I’m currently sans the means to do so. So hello from the past.
The Dog is out and no-one gets in without phoning me first as we’re at DEFCON 3. I’d have chosen something less dramatic but some of the kids like it. I may have favoured SAFCON or SECCON (Safe or Security Condition, as opposed to Defence Condition) but DEFCON it is. And by the way, the DEFCON system was arse about face in Wargames (the John Hughes film), running as it did from 5 to 1 in ascending order of threat. Ours runs correctly from 1 to 5 thus:
DEFCON 1: no threat. Main gates open and everyone is free to come and go as they please. This rarely happens.
DEFCON 2: no immediate threat. Gates locked but entry available via a route known only to regulars. This is normal. Or it was until we recently rendered the main gates accessible only to a tank when we went to DEFCON 3.
DEFCON 3: perceived threat. We have intelligence that at least one person on the outside has an issue with at least one on the inside. The main gates are permanently secured (locked, bolted and boarded up) and access is only available by another entrance known to those who are welcome. That entrance in turn is bolted from the inside and entry is gained by a phone call to me. The secret route in is secured. This is where we currently stand and having reached DEFCON 3 it is highly unlikely that condition will be reduced in the near future.
DEFCON 4: imminent threat. No-one is allowed in or out until we reduce to DEFCON 3.
DEFCON 5: the end.
That’s where the cold feet come in.

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