August 30, 2016 §
I wonder have I ever had a great experience sober? All the great experiences of my life, all the high nights that persuade us to put off suicide, came when I was drunk, I am sure of it. I am not capable of highs, of pleasure, when I am not drunk. When one starts drinking, anything becomes possible. The door to all sorts of pleasures opens. Rubicons can be crossed. Ishtar Gates passed through. Riccarda, Iga, Diana, Yulia, Emily, Martina, would never have happened if I was not drunk. Drink is the precondition for anything happening. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” Those amazing, amazing nights I had in Munich, Berlin, Brussels, Vienna were all fuelled by drink. Then why was I so unhappy? I had the freedom but craved something real. I was eviscerated by loneliness and emptiness. I was ripe for falling in love with the woman of my life, and then there was —–. “I don’t have a boyfriend in London !” Now I want to go back and enjoy all those places I used to enjoy. So I go back but—I find all those places are dark and closed down, no longer in business, and those that are still open, are filled with hideous crones, the same crones that excited me so much just 5, 6 years ago. Is loneliness, despair, essential to being able to enjoy the lush life?
August 30, 2016 §
It is better to stay drunk, because then it gives me beer goggles and every woman suddenly looks beautiful, and one starts to feel turned on; it is better to stay in this aroused state. Debord spent every day searching for the perfect point of inebriation; but of course as soon as it is achieved it is passed, and lost. Drink, giant tropical ferns, fauna and flora, classical music, naked women dancing. This is my lush life. —– gives me incredible freedom within the marriage to enjoy this; but I still have not successfully found the lush life I want. I am still searching for the lushness I feel I need. I tend to concentrate my search in King’s Cross and Soho but think I must search further afield. I found nothing in Brussels, Berlin or Vienna. I have got to find it in me first. You carry the weather with you.
August 29, 2016 §
At times of financial meltdown you have to hold onto what is imperishable, and endures: gold. I have to make use of my gold. Locked away in my vaults all these years. I have to try to make use of it. That schoolgirl fascinates me more than I can say. She is such a floweringly beautiful 15 (16? 17?) year old girl yet always looks so unhappy, like she is carrying some deep wound, dignified, and proud. Her lips are always set in a pout, she always walks so slowly, like she has nothing to look forward to in her life–yet she is staggeringly attractive and can have any boy or man she wants. Perhaps she has suffered a loss, the loss of a mother perhaps, or perhaps it is a romantic wound–that I will not approach her perhaps. I always feel a spark of electricity between us since those first times we saw each other back in September, October, eight months ago now. In an attempt to catch my attention, or rather to provoke me into acting on my attention, I fancy was the reason for her change from a demure brunette to a stunning bottle blonde with long hair all over the place. I really don’t like blondes, despite the only three real girlfriends of my life, Olga, —-, and —– all being blonde, but her appeal to me has not changed. I had not seen her for a long long time, what with the Easter holidays and then me always being late, but yesterday as the bus turned off of Tower Bridge Road there she was trudging slowly with eyes to the ground, back TOWARDS her bus stop, away from her school. As if she had been that way and was now coming back for some reason. I think she cannot live that way as there was a closer bus stop than the one I always see her at. Her being there at that corner was quite mysterious. And today she got on my bus for the first time in weeks, and then strangely got off one stop earlier. I wonder if this was to give me the chance to get off with her in peace away from the crowd of her schoolmates who all pile off with her at the usual stop and have the confidence to approach her. The other strange thing is she never acknowledges the other pupils on the bus in her same uniform. She seems so apart from them, indeed looks so different, like she belongs in a better place than this. It is strange to see a girl so staggeringly beautiful around these parts. Quite out of place. There is something special about her, and I think she knows that, and I think she recognises there is something special about me too, that is why she was attracted to me from the beginning and cannot now shake it off, and it weighs down her every step. She has a broken bleeding heart, yet still hopes by some miracle I will do something to make something happen. Yet–I can never approach her, she is just 15, perhaps 16. It has to come from her or not at all. So I will do nothing and soon will see her no more. But she is one of the special people of my life, already.
August 28, 2016 §
My problem with psychotherapy was I felt she was asking me to be someone who was not fully my true self, but to live in some corset; and sometimes I think this affair is the same. I feel a constant frustration that I cannot be fully myself every day, and that breeds a low level resentment which is quite damaging to romance, or lust. “After two decades obscured by scaffolding, the Leaning Tower of Pisa basks in its full quirky glory”. I wanted Sarah to help me bask in my quirky glory; instead she wanted to knock me down and build a new tower, just like everyone else’s. I don’t feel I can bask in my full quirky glory now either. Perhaps I can only ever be alone. To be happy I have to be unhappy?
August 28, 2016 §
Now I am travelling between sheer rock faces, on my little ship, as the waters quicken and the channel narrows. It seems that I must be dashed against the rocks or the walls, but this time the narrowing is caused by financial pressure. I am being squeezed to death like Princess Leia and Luke in the Death Star. I seriously give consideration to ending my affair with —–, to return home to mother for a year or two, to relieve the financial pressure and float my boat again. I am taking on water faster than I can bail it out. Something has to give. I dream of a magic solution, a way out of my predicament, with one bound I am free, Fantomas-style. Getting published, rich and famous; living alone again in a small studio flat; returning to mother’s for a year or so; moving to —–. Most of the options revolve around me being single. The cost to my soul and heart of that are quite difficult to imagine or quantify. I fought so long and hard to get the one woman in the universe I could love, so to consider letting her go to save money is quite hard to get my head around. But I feel locked in a vice, that is getting tighter and tighter and tighter. I have achieved one impossible dream in getting —– —me, the biggest loner in the world, the man most incapable of love or any human relationship because of his crippling shyness, gets —–, the woman everyone wants. Now I seek the second impossible dream—getting published, and earning money from my writings. Only by achieving this second impossible dream can I hold onto the first, I think. If not, my only way out of this impasse is to be single again. All great artists suffered crippling debts while trying to work, Wilde, Byron, Grimshaw. I tell myself not to give up, but to let —– go would improve my finances at a stroke. Then I would be free to miss her for the rest of my life.