September 30, 2016 §
I always say my momentous dates are always personal. As Nietzsche says, we must make our own feast days. Christmas, Birthdays, and New Year’s Eve, all mean nothing to me and are when I am at my most nervous and uncomfortable, feeling the skin stripped from my body, exposed. For me, the great nights are Twelfth Night, Walpurgis Night, St Swithin’s Night, and great personal anniversaries.
September 29, 2016 §
Really since January 2010, and at a stroke, after a typically momentous Twelfth Night, where I left —-‘s bed in the morning and welcomed —– back into mine just after the chimes of midnight, all my writing has been about the frustration of my lost freedom. ‘Boredom is the despairing refusal to be oneself’. You must never refuse to be yourself. That is why I have forced my freedom to watch strippers and to travel alone; —– has reluctantly ceded me this freedom, this privacy, and still calls me her baby, and we still give each other love. If she can accept the pain of my solitary travels, we can stay together and be stronger than ever, and bloom and blossom, and ripen, more than ever. Always the thought though that ripening just brings the moment of going rotten nearer. Between ripeness and rotting is but a hair’s breadth, a piano wire, a knife edge. Between the perfect point of inebriation and having passed that point is but a hair’s breadth, a piano wire, a knife edge. —– laughingly told me a woman lets her man think he has freedom at the beginning but gradually, imperceptibly, tightens her coils around him like a Boa Constrictor, till he is completely trapped. I have had to fight long and hard to release the coils.
September 1, 2016 §
I never thought I would have a connection with the real world around me, until —– came along. She brought me into reality. I still don’t know if I can cope with it. I will make her pay a higher price for keeping me in this world, and see if it is still a price she thinks worth paying. I love her, little —–, and will love her till the day I die, but I wonder if I can ever thrive and bloom and blossom in this world. How quickly I forget how totally eviscerated I was by pain and despair and loneliness in the long years before she came along. How rude, and foolish, to now question her rescue of me. I miss —–. I think I took a wrong turn when I turned to —- instead of her; and by the time she came back I had left —- and was with —– (all in one day, an incredible Twelfth Night). But I could not love her as deeply and totally as I love —–. I should perhaps start going to —-, —– and — more often. New environments.
July 9, 2016 §
I want to investigate the notion that the web has killed eroticism. For that I would need to be alone, and spend a lot of time in Vienna, Berlin, Munich and Brussels. It seems the scene has died everywhere, London Soho and Berlin, but maybe it is me that just changed when I became a family man. When I left R— on Twelfth Night I saw vistas of complete freedom open up before me but just a few hours later before the end of the night those vistas were closed off again. But I love her. If we split up, the Ice Age would envelop me instantly. All love, comfort, tenderness, affection, cut off like a switch. She would be vicious in enjoying her new single life.
July 5, 2016 §
What is different now is that I am travelling with a wife back in London behind me. What is different is that after I stopped travelling, and fell in love with —–, and then spent four years doing nothing, thinking nothing every minute of every night and day except about —–, I am now with —–, and now feel the desire to go back to all the same places again, just to see how they feel now. I miss her so much when I go and I feel so much love for her when I am apart from her, it is like biting down on a loose tooth when you are a child, it hurts but the blood tastes delicious. The mix of pain and deliciousness is addictive. The great irony is that when I broke up with R— on the morning of Twelfth Night, I felt now I am free, and I am going to bestride the world and enjoy my freedom like never before, yet just a few hours later as Twelfth Night became Epiphany —– was getting in a cab and ringing the doorbell of my flat, and since that moment I got sucked inexorably into being a family man and the brief glimpse of freedom was snuffed out as soon as it began, but not to have been reunited with —– would have left a universe-sized chasm in my life and my soul, a Grand Canyon that nothing or no one else could ever heal. The great challenge now is to make a double life work amidst the ferns and the classical music and the steaming baths.