October 15, 2016 §
On the U Bahn to Hallesches Tor I saw a girl who looked so much like Lotta it made me almost melt; blonde ponytail, sweet face, nice tits in green wool sweater. It reminded me why I fell in love with Lotta.
October 9, 2016 §
It is funny I had Lotta’s email address once, now lost. This year leafing through my Gay Science book on the title page I found Iga’s Prenzlauer Berg phone number that I had been looking for for three years, and it was there all the time. She gave it to me as I was leaving the Golden Gate, and next day I returned home, and could never find where she had written her number, however hard I looked. Even my Gay Science book is lost now, in Thames Water probably. With my first gold —– cross, and my white Russian cross. I had Viktoriya’s number once, now lost. Two years to the day after she gave it to me—May 5 will always be Viktoriya Day—I got a long distance call at my hotel in the middle of my night shift, when I took the phone and said hello, the line went dead. I am sure it was her.
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.
August 3, 2016 §
Perhaps in years to come people will want to sit in the seat K1 of the English National Opera balcony because it is where I used to sit. They will want to stay in the Dorint, and the Berlin Plaza, and the Munich Intercity, and the Brussels Ibis because it is where I used to stay. I remember when I used to sit at the Dorint bar studying the Vienna map for where I am going today—but I have been everywhere now. Amazing to think Lotta and Sophia are probably 26-27 now. Probably married with kids.
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 7, 2016 §
The three days of exquisite masturbation in Vienna in 2001 on the way to Oslo are a legend of my life. I don’t know what came over me. Well I do, and that was the strange thing, instead of catching myself in a tissue or my underwear I laid back and let it come all over my stomach and chest, time and time again. I have never done that before or since. It was a mixture of the black psychotic despair I travelled with combined with the sinful seductiveness in the Vienna air, I think. It was a combustible mixture and it was just set off. The days with Lotta & Sophia are a legend of my life. Maria in Pour Platin is a legend of my life. I feel like just going ahead and booking my April flight now and done with it. Despair and hopelessness are the vital ingredients for a true eroticism I think. Perhaps I need —— to leave me before I will ever know true erotic pleasure again. The pain and despair of that will overwhelm anything I have ever felt before. I want to really wallow in that pain and despair again. Am I really prepared to let —— go to do that? Perhaps better if I go to Vienna as soon as possible so I can answer a question to myself–provoke the crisis now, and now see what comes out of the crisis. There needs to be an explosion and a reordering. Perhaps when the smoke clears she will be gone, then I will be alone for the rest of my life.