January 23, 2017 §
I feel now like I did before my first grand tour to Sweden, Berlin, Vienna and Munich in 1999; incredibly small and attacked, yet hoping to learn something about myself in the despair and the black nights and the loneliness of my journey. This is when the wolves all come out and fall upon you.
January 16, 2017 §
I do think there is something sexy in illness, in disease, in fever. When your body is mired in swamp-like, creepy crawly things, and you cannot go out, when your libido is brought to a halt, then your erotic wells start to fill up and you crave release and erotic abandon again. The same way despair is essential for erotic excitement, disease and fever serves the same purpose. I am a great advocate for despair! A great advocate for disease! A great advocate for fever! The cheapest, most tawdry, and awful sexual experiences of my life are the ones I never forget, and the ones I yearn to experience again. The more awful it was, the more I seem to crave it.
January 11, 2017 §
Always this nagging desire for disease and despair! to dash myself onto the rocks! to let myself be lured by the Circes once more. Always this longing for infection and bleach-splashed streets of Venice. What is Venice but Venus. Ironically it is probably only the infection I am already suffering from that is preventing me from giving in to the desires to ruin myself further in disaster. Venus and Tannhauser. The times when I was in despair were also my most vibrant, and most rich to dig back into now, and find coal, and oil and diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Isn’t it amazing that Oscar Wilde, Elephant Man, Jack the Ripper, Ernest Dowson, Walter Sickert, Bram Stoker, Arthur Conan Doyle, et al, et al, et al, were all in London at the same time? What an extraordinary time, what an extraordinary city Victorian London was. The idea of giving it all up, to go and live in Brazil at the top of a waterfall, on the edge of a precipice.
January 9, 2017 §
Yes, I have got a safe sinecure at the moment, a safe harbour, but in reality it can end at any moment. I am at the whims of others. As long as they like me, they will favour me and protect me; as soon as they change their mind, I will be back on stormy seas again, and back in the financial abyss. I am never away from the financial precipice. It is easy to look back at my years when I was single as some kind of erotic paradise, which in many senses they were, but that would be to forget the absolute despair I was in all of the time. Deep sadness and sombreness and pain. And as I always say I think the true heights of eroticism are not possible without despair. It is only despair that grows and ripens the fruits of eroticism. Dirty smutty sexuality thrives in the damp, dark places of despair, like a fungal infection. It flourishes in the places where no one really wants to be. This is one of those eternal ironies—the highs can only be found in the lows. Student of Nietzsche as I am, we should all be grateful to our times of sickness. To know the true high nights of Eros again one must dive deeper into darkness, and one is no longer prepared to do that, as it would cost too much, and throw away too much that is most precious. I have too much to lose now.
January 8, 2017 §
Still the temptation to throw myself into the void remains. To touch the void. I need to be on the edge: of loneliness, shame, misery, humiliation, despair. I have blotted my copybook.