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 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.
January 4, 2017 §
For me the only travelling that is worth anything is travelling alone; which makes things difficult for those in a relationship. Only in the loneliness and the silence do your thoughts come out like bats at night. If you are with someone the noise of your constant chatter scares your thoughts away and they remain out of sight in the shadows, unknown. Like a firefly they live for such a short time, glimmer so brightly then expire, and are gone forever. You must be ready to harvest them at a second’s notice, without delay, lest a single one be lost. Because my thoughts seem so valuable! When I am gone I expect they will build libraries just filled with my writings; all my original notebooks and manuscripts will be pored over by philologists of the future.
September 22, 2016 §
To write I have to be in extremis. In intense solitude, loneliness, despair, isolation. That is why I keep travelling. I am piling up a mountain of debt, dancing on the volcano, by continuing to go back to Berlin and Vienna, time after time. I am loading —– and me with such a financial timebomb. I miss feeling like a sexual instrument, a finely tuned violin, my strings quivering at every slightest erotic stimulus. Every breath of wind made me quiver with lustful pleasure. Reading Lotta, I remember how much I fell in love with her. An 18 year old Swedish blonde girl, with big breasts. I wanted her so much. Amazing to think that was nine years ago, and she is now 27, probably married with kids. Just ships that passed in the night. Writing is my life. As are —–, and strippers. “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” I was alive then, but in such pain and despair. I am calm and content now, but feel less alive.
September 15, 2016 §
Only words written in loneliness have any meaning.
September 2, 2016 §
When you have nothing, a little thing becomes everything. However, when you have something, a little thing seems like nothing. How I miss the great days—that massive black Congolese cock in Brussels hotel toilet, the massive breasts of Martina in Nuremberg, epic amazing nights. This is the crux of my problem, and why I cannot enjoy the double life now. For it to be worthwhile, the old life has got to offer something extraordinary, and it never does, and perhaps never did. Only when you have nothing does everything in the gutter glitter like gold. Don’t I want the freedom of being free again? The cold icy air of total loneliness, total solitude, total despair? Maybe we should try it for a while—a trial separation. The trouble is I think I want to be the lonely old man staring into a pint in the pub every day. That has always seemed attractive to me. While creating my body of work that no one will ever read. Journals 1996-2007, and the others that follow.
September 1, 2016 §
It is Walpurgis Night tonight; perhaps I should beg freedom for tonight. But I’m already drunk and tired by 12:15 in the afternoon. Thus the Journals 2010-11 begin. Now I have —– but miss my complete freedom to —- what I want. The cry of many a man everywhere. Perhaps we need to break up and love each other from a far, far distance. But I want the old excitement. The old sea-faring on stormy seas, Master & Commander excitement. No I don’t forget how eviscerated by pain and despair and loneliness I used to be every day of my life; I just wonder if that is not the only way I can live and thrive and bloom and blossom. Don’t our ways have to part? Isn’t it inevitable? I have never been in a relationship this long. It is not normal for me. I am in uncharted waters. Uncharted calm waters. I am grateful to the storms that formed me, and now miss them. Better we split? It will return the fire and excitement and blood to our relationship? I want a great big explosion of excitement in my life, like what —– produced at the beginning, but which is lost in marriage. Perhaps I have to split up to find it. So everything is new again. Some people can only be alone. The title of this book is still waiting to be discovered. The titles of all four books came towards the end. We are just in the foothills right now. The summit is lost in the fog.