November 12, 2017 §
I am like a dead man, I live so much in my own little world. People find me appallingly lifeless and are horrified by me. I live inside myself, in a world of dreams and reverie, the Kingdom of Death. Girls come along every so often and try to lure me out like Pepe le Moko, but the resulting catastrophe always sends me scuttling back inside, resolving never to let myself be lured again. I cannot exist in their world. I live for solitude and isolation. Loneliness and abandonment.
November 11, 2017 §
How Sibelius always stirs something in me. It is the raging torrents of autism. In the black of the night, the autistic will rages strongest, it rides out on its Wild Hunt. The night is its time. It despises daylight like Dracula. Winter is its time. Halloween is sign its time is here, and Walpurgis Night sign its time is over for another year. Oh to be alone on the sheer threshold of the night again. On the very precipice of the universe, the black wheeling cosmos. When you feel crushingly alone, you need to push yourself to the ultimate degree of that loneliness, so you can exult in it, experience overwhelming epiphanies in it. What can I think of? Abandoned in Australia, standing on the bank of the old Government House in the torrential rain at night, looking back to the Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge all lit up, my whole soul exploded with loneliness & despair, and masochistic joy at that loneliness & despair. Walking along the Boulevard du Jardin Botanique in Brussels in the ice cold lashing rain & wind, so that one side of my jaw froze solid so cold was it, on my way back to the Van Gogh Youth Hostel. I look back at these as rich memories. I was in a state I long to be in: experiencing an ecstasy of loneliness and abandonment. I crave loneliness and abandonment, perhaps as it recreates my first memory—being abandoned by my mother, who was never to come back. I am so desperate for someone to want me, but when they do, I do absolutely nothing about it and leave them hanging. I long for someone to want me and then I am so cold to them in return. I kill them with my iciness and make them hate me forever. Then I can be lonely again.
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.