Mitchell's Mustard Blog

November 20, 2015

The Junkie Boneyard

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 3:19 pm

I will always remember the day I decided to turn a corner . .

 

The air was so heavy I could taste it, a mixture of mould and the unkept. The room was dark and dank, a patchwork of plaster and brick on the walls, urban artistry that occurs only from being unloved. The only thing that broke the silence was the creaking of ropes that held up the hammock I was laying on. On further inspection, this hammock was about five foot from the ground and held up by pulleys connected to two of the walls across the corner of the room. God only knows how it was holding my weight, also I’m hoping he might know how I got here, because I had no clue. In fear of moving too much I carefully checked my surroundings. To my right I could see the room was littered with cushions, candles, and sporadic limbs protruding and entwined with sleeping bags. Hoping these limbs are still attached to their bodies. To my left was a window, a battered and ripped blind masked the sunlight from outside. I could see dust dancing in the rays of light that beamed through the cracks. The window ledge was covered in dust, burnt out candles, spilt wax, and the one main thing that caught my attention, a bloody hand print. ‘Where the fuck am I?’ I thought to myself.

   I had been wearing the same clothes for 3 days, my skin felt like it had forgotten about it’s love affair with water. My jeans clammy from sweat, my skin sore where my clothes had started to pinch. My mouth was dry, my nostrils on fire, whether that was from substance abuse or breathing in the close encounters of the room, I wasn’t sure. Craving fresh air and a warm shower to wash away the loathing, I needed to move.

   Before testing the strength of the hammock I looked underneath to make sure if I did fall, I wouldn’t be landing on something or someone. There wasn’t even anything I could use to climb down onto for a safe dismount, there was no way I could do this quietly or gracefully. I lay there for a moment trying to execute a plan in my mind, I didn’t want to find myself in a position where I’d have to converse with another human being, I just wanted out. In one swift movement I was sat upright with my legs dangling below me. If I gently eased myself off the hammock I felt like I could land quietly with great precision, like a ninja. Oh how I was wrong. After breaking what could have been 4 glasses of water, knocked over a couple of candles, kicked a metal tin across the room, and standing on someone’s hand, I had successfully caused the room to stir. All the movement under the sleeping bags and cushions played games with my mind, I felt like I was in a scene from the movie Tremors, the floor looked like it was moving, I panicked, I did what every straight laced mind wouldn’t do, rather than run I sat down cross legged and closed my eyes. For a fly on the wall view this would have been quite amusing, the floor moving and crashing like waves around me as I sat cross legged in the middle, eyes closed while humming to myself to find the calm inside.

   I don’t know how much time had passed, but the room was deadly quiet again, and my heart wasn’t trying to leave my chest. Looking around me I could see all sorts of drug paraphernalia, the ones that caused me to think long and hard about my current circumstances were the used hypodermic needles that littered the floor. There was a fine line between a bohemian drug haven and a junkie boneyard, this was a glimpse into the latter and I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what the smell, taste, and feeling of this room was. But I knew I didn’t want it to be part of my life. My current lifestyle was hanging above my head like a noose, so the decision was easy to make. With this new found motivation, I got up, I found the door, and I got out. I remember stepping out into the sun, feeling warmth. I walked up the path and turned back to look at the house. I had never been there before, and in more ways than one, I have never been there since.                   

No turning back.

          

April 18, 2015

We can’t afford to live like David Gandy

Filed under: My Work — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 5:28 pm

David_Gandy_by_Conor_Clinch_(2013)_-_cropped

In this day and age, for some unknown reason, most articles in which you read about mens fashion, health, and lifestyle expect us all to have unlimited funds from that rumored tree in the garden, and a constant day off from the sometimes overbearing rat race. I know we’d all love to live a lifestyle similar to Harvey Specter, you’d be crazy not to. But let’s be realistic here. Being a man of 32 years old, I’m one of few in a position of having very little depending on me. Most men at my age, shared with their partner, have a family to feed, bills to pay, larger financial expectations to fulfill. So it’s rare that today, a modern man like yourself, will flick through this months must have gentleman’s magazine and decide to treat yourself to this new seasons blazer that will cost the equivalent to your next months rent. Or maybe your new born baby can go without nappies for a week so you can pick up a pair of socks that apparently best compliment your new Italian leather loafers which last month put you in debt with your utility bills? What I’m asking is, because most of us live a realistic lifestyle, does that mean we can’t be seen as fashionable? If we can’t afford the luxuries of their advice does that mean we will struggle to look after our appearance? Do we have to follow the guidelines of these so called gentleman gurus that lead us to the temptation of being broke yet looking good with it? Of course not!
If you’re not bothered by the label that’s sewn into the garment then you’ll be just fine, sometimes people are more worried about the brand they wear than how the actual item looks. There’s an old and wise saying ‘Money can buy you a suit, but it can’t buy you taste’. We all know that person, whilst out for a pint, they tell you the brand and cost of every item they’re wearing. A man with taste doesn’t need to talk about what he’s wearing, where it’s from, or how much it cost. He’ll let his outfit do the talking.
What I’m trying to say is, don’t be fooled into thinking that the glossy dream on the pages of an over priced magazine are the instructions to a modern day gentleman. You don’t need to spend your annual income just to look good. The sooner we realise that we can’t afford to live a David Gandy lifestyle, the sooner we’ll be comfortable in our own style. Just remember, he gets paid to look that good! We all have our own style, we’re all that little bit different, roll with it.
Whatever you do, don’t let your baby go without nappies, if you do then that’s a clear sign that you have an issue that needs addressing and your dress sense is the least of your worries.

June 3, 2014

Skint and Sober

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:22 pm

He sat, pondering on the things in front of him. The way things flowed past without his involvement. He could step forward and be part of the movement, the intimidating movement. It was the intimidating part that kept him in his seat, his weighted body, carrying the thoughts of yesterday and fears of tomorrow. His pint was sour. Before it had reached him, it was poured by beauty, a golden glow that enticed the many. In his hand, it was a weapon for his thoughts, a reason to sway in and out of a path he once stumbled. The days he was unstoppable, uncontrollable, invincible. It’s when the crowds stop cheering, your audience stops following, your band stops playing. It all changed, it all stopped, it was only his addictions that carried on. It had taken him years to conquer heroin, the substance that drained him of his money, his fame, his friends, but worst of all, his marriage. The rock that held him together walked out and left him with the only other rock he knew, the narcotic kind. He hadn’t seen his wife and children in nearly three years, he didn’t even know how to contact them. He feared she would one day see his name in the obituaries, and then keep turning the pages without a blink. His pride wished she knew that he was clean now. In the Hollywood life style in which he had been sold, she would come back to him, hold him and tell him all was ok. But he knew the Hollywood lifestyle was a farce, a rabbit hole he had tumbled down, with every bump, he had lost a little of him and gained a little of them. The ones that love and surround you until you’re skint and sober, dropped like a hat in a coastal wind.
The beauty that poured his last pint asked if he’d like another. Not realising he had finished the last, he had been rolling the empty glass between his palms, his wedding ring making a rhythmic chime. This is probably what caught her attention.
The new golden glow of the glass stared into his eyes, the cold on his hands, he thought of her.
He needed to pull his life together, find his family, recreate his existence. He told himself this everyday, but as always, the beauty behind the bar kept working, the stool he sat on stayed warm, and the golden glass kept staring into his soul. Once an addict, always an addict she had said. As always, she was right, wherever she was.

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