May 29, 2016 §
Let me commence a new career of sinning in Moloch. I need to sin. I sin therefore I am. Olga, Vanessa, Arrika and Evalina were all still in Berlin all looking much much worse for wear and nothing like the voluptuous beauties of my memory. It was a shocking eye-opener. Were they really that bad before? I will not remember one single woman from this holiday. Maybe it is because I am married now (am I still?) to the sexiest woman in the world, I really don’t look so much or care so much. Going to Berlin was a mad crazy thing and I salute myself for it, as I sit in the library gazing out to the lush fronds crowding around the French windows, the last heat of summer warming me, butterflies chasing each other in and out. Already I am frisky again! But I do not summon my negroid; I search for something else. I think this rush helter skelter back to London that has cost me £850 is glorious and mad and crazy. I must lead a double life in the ruins. I crave ruins and degradation. All that talk in Stations 2006 about how much I longed to go back to Europe is perfect for Casanova. But now it is something else; about being able to find a life in the ruins while remaining married. Important concepts are starting to emerge and crystallise after this strange two days in Brussels and Berlin.
May 29, 2016 §
The temptation of Berlin was too much for me and it has proved ruinous. So? I like ruins! The tropical shrubbery and ferns growing in the ruins, classical music playing from gramophones in nooks and crannies. I find ruins fertile and rich and always seek them out, and am happiest in them. They are erotic. Degeneracy is erotic. Despair is erotic. On flickering cinema screens Despair is playing, Dirk Bogarde watching himself make love to his voluptuous wife Lydia. Serpent’s Egg, The Beast. Now, Murder on the Orient Express. Bad Timing. I wander through the overgrown gardens of giant ferns and step through the open French windows of the library and sit in a red leather armchair. A huge negroid woman removes her dress and kneels in front of me. I am ruined and she ruins me some more. I ruin myself all over her face and gigantic breasts. Hubba Bubba. Now I want to be in my Brussels hotel bar again; I want to be in Murphy’s watching the plump Brussels girls. I want to be spending my nights in Cine ABC (and was that another one I saw just down the road?). But oh there are no music channels on the TVs. Nor in Berlin. Orient Express. Is that the title of my long-awaited new book?
May 28, 2016 §
Going to Berlin was a disaster. Going so far away from —– was too much. Before I was even half way to Berlin I wanted to turn back, and rush back home to her. It may take me a long time to rediscover my poise and composure after this three days but I shall. It was a good experience because I learnt travelling is finished for me. Berlin is finished for me. Brussels is finished for me. Is it just Moloch then? And what there? Can I find something to do there? Write my books. Finish the four books. Now I am in the post-travelling period. I cannot go back.
May 28, 2016 §
My desperation to get out of Berlin and back to Moloch to see —– at the ——– has cost me an extra £830. It is beyond belief. This madness. I could not go another day without seeing her. What reception awaits? I could not bear to stay one more day in Berlin. I will never come back again. I can’t wait to get back to Moloch. 12 arrival. Plus an hour 30 minutes to the ——– 130. Drink like a fish to prepare to see her again. I will never travel without her again. If I do anything I do it in Moloch. Now I wish I had stayed in Brussels Friday. Then when I decided to rush back home to see —– it would have just been two hours and I’d have been there. I could have gone to Wiertz and Modern Art and Palais de Justice and drank in Murphy’s Bar watching the plump Belgian girls passing.