July 31, 2016 §
730pm I’m the only person in the bar. From 630 to 745 there has been no one in the restaurant. Does everything get worse? Is this the law of life? The Dorint bar carpet looks exactly the same as the Ibis Brussels bed rugs. That seems a fascinating thing to discover. Sitting alone in the Dorint bar is pleasurable enough to tell me I will travel again, in the next month or so. My old addiction has returned. The bar staff may be boring, but! Remember Lotta and Sophia worked days! There is still hope for tomorrow. It feels like something extraordinary to realise the Dorint carpet is the exact same as the Ibis bedspreads. Now when I travel it’s just all memories—is this what turning — is? I wouldn’t recommend it!
July 30, 2016 §
I was halfway through my first Zipfer at the Dorint bar before I looked behind the bar and realised this is where Lotta stood eight years ago. It was quite an incredibly powerful moment. I travel always looking for another Lotta; another Riccarda; another Yulia, Diana, Iga, Emily, Martina—but I never meet them anymore. I travel looking for the real Lotta again, really. The more Zipfer I have the more that four days with Lotta comes more and more back to life—and the gap between that memory and this present reality more and more stark. When I look at —– I feel I am looking at myself. I feel so inseparable from her. If we met years in the future, having not seen each other for all these years, I would break down in tears unable to control my grief. Six years since I have been in the Dorint bar. Unbelievable. I miss my youth and innocence and hairtrigger eroticism of those days. But, I suppose, not the pain, the tortures, the agonies. When I start drinking, I only want to be alone, it’s true. This incredible paradox of being with someone is so hard for me to get my head around. For a normal person this is normal. To enjoy sin I’ve got to be so drunk that I cannot see, so I’ve completely lost my moral compass. Moral compass. What does that mean for a man like me. Being on my own at Gatwick I felt the most incredible hunger for every woman I saw; this is why I have to travel. Nothing happens, but that feeling keeps me feeling young, alive. I look at the armchair I sat in when Lotta suddenly appeared at my shoulder 8 years ago, and it seems like another lifetime, a dream; not something that really happened. But that’s how my journeys used to be. Unbelievable fantasies made real.
July 29, 2016 §
No time for the Secession building & the Beethoven frieze on this brief flying visit, or the Schoenberg Foundation, Karl Kraus’s house, the Belvedere, KHM, Zentralfriedhof. No Third Man sites. How I have blossomed and bloomed since the cerebral, mind-obsessed pages of Autismus is quite extraordinary, yet in another way I have not moved on at all. I have become more relaxed and at ease in my own skin, but still the eternal battle between love, art and eros rages in me. Like scratching a mark above a child’s head every year to measure how fast they are growing, it will be interesting to see how different I feel in Vienna this time; from the neurotic first 4 day stay in 1998, to the three days of exquisite masturbation on the way to Oslo, then falling in love with Lotta & Sophia, to my last time six years ago when I finally lost my Vienna virginity. Now I am living in London with a sex dancer from The ———, after an affair with another Tallulah from the same place, and before that an Esmeralda, a sumptuous Siberian Cleopatra, with a big cat’s face, purple fingernails and blonde highlighted bob. Back in 1998 I never imagined I would ever be with a woman, or could ever be. Eroticism is the motor of life, it is what makes the world go around, and I have no shame in admitting I have devoted my life to it. Let those who are family men be family men, those who are businessmen be businessmen, but I live for eros alone. Priapism, persistent erection of the penis, has been my guiding philosophy since I was almost old enough to walk. There is no pleasure to compare with the swelling of one’s member, feeling all the warm blood beginning to fill it; it is even better than orgasm. Anticipation is everything. Resolution is merely putting the lid on it so one can return home, over Dowson’s Shaftesbury Avenue, across a rain-swept torrential Leicester Square, pass the statue of Oscar Wilde, into the bosom of the Charing Cross Hotel; or across a beautiful vast tree-canopied Kurfurstendamm with a bulge that still refuses to go down one little bit, around Olivaer Platz and its erotic window-display mannequins, back to the Plaza; back around the Gurtel to the Dorint; around the corner of Schillerstraße on shaking legs over the tramlines back to the Intercity; or back down the interminable never ending Boulevard Adolphe Max to the Ibis. Oh these high nights of erotic swooning, those high moments that “persuade us to put off suicide”. This my career in infamy has brought me. I like Nietzche am grateful to what my years of sickness have wrought in me.