As the train arrows its way out of London, I do get a strong feeling that this is what I want to be doing, and what I want to be doing for the rest of my life. Constantly travelling is what my life must be; not living in a marriage. It is only the depth of my love for —– that has delayed me making this break. Yes, this is what I want to do: travelling into emptiness, travelling into nothingness, travelling into solitude and anomie.
Another rubbish night at ——–. If I was to stay out drinking this Friday night, where would I go? Absolutely nowhere! There is absolutely nowhere I would want to go tonight. So what is this freedom I am supposedly gasping for? I am happy going home to open French windows, my tropical ferns, and classical music on the gramophone in the shrubbery, a few late butterflies or bumble bies darting in or out, with my kakapo hopping around my feet. Tomorrow I am free from midday to 7pm or later, to go wherever I want. Sunday I devote myself to my wife. Monday night I can have a quick look in the ——–, stay a bit longer in the unlikely event there is anything remotely worth staying for. I could go to the Axe or Nag’s but they would be just as bad as the ——–, so what is the point. Happy to say I have only spent £3.25 this Friday night. Making my freedom within my marriage; make a bubble of freedom protected by a force field within the marriage. A bubble in which I can breathe completely freely—for as long as she still puts up with me (miracle that she does). I think my freedom will come starting in afternoon pubs, 1230, 1pm, the absolute joy of my life. Plenty of time to be free and still be home in time for the wife, or turn it into an all night if ever necessary—having built up a bit of steam and momentum and in that state being capable of anything. My strategy for finding some workable double life for myself must be carefully thought out. There are times when I have felt close to the edge and thought I must let the marriage go, in order to find the freedom I feel I need. A useful analogy would be having to sleep at night with the windows closed, when I can only sleep with windows open. In the end I feel like I am going to explode with frustration because I cannot sleep and have to get up and throw them open, to the noise and traffic and revellers—then I can relax. Marriage feels like having to sleep with the windows closed, but then at times you feel cold and really need the warmth that marriage provides. But usually I need fresh air, and it would be perfect if I can find the fresh air I need within the marriage, without having to lose the marriage. I offer her fresh air, too, but she prefers closed rooms. I offer her freedom she does not want. She wants to be in all day waiting for me then if I don’t come straight home gets upset. I would rather she went out and did things with her friends somewhere to give me more freedom and breathing space. I think this would keep the spark and romance in our affair—but the thought I don’t want to be with her every single minute makes her very sad and feel that I do not love her. Because I love her and want to keep that love fresh and alive, and blooming and blossoming, I think we should spend more time doing things alone or with other people. So we start to miss each other and then can really enjoy come back together and seeing each other again. “Our set up is sweet, there isn’t a catch. The secret is living semi-detached.” Her conception of a relationship is very different. It remains to be seen if we can survive. I think when I am with her I must give her my absolute all, care, devotion, tenderness, passion, and then when I want to be alone I must do that to the utmost as well, and enjoy my moments of freedom to the nth degree. Thus I wonder if a balance can be achieved. A double life can be found and made to work. The Marriage of Helen & Faustus can go on, and indeed bloom and blossom. It is steadfastly refusing to bud at the moment as if it is not getting the sunlight it needs, like the flowers and ferns in our house. If we moved to a higher floor, they would get the light they need to flourish, and I feel our marriage would be the same, if we could lift it onto another level—where the sunshine could flood in.
Long distance travel only works when you have no one at home waiting for you. These days drinking and thinking seem like all I really need. If there is a naked girl on stage while I’m doing it, all the better. I would never turn my back on ——. I’ll always be at the end of the phone line if they ever wanted it. Maybe I want to be a figure of mystery again. Two in the Nelson and two in the Waiting Room—as if I am resisting the ——– as much as I can. A kind of repulsion. A permanent Kings of Leon soundtrack helps. The terrible thing is I feel I have to leave —— to return feeling to my life. I respect a man who brings two beers for himself and sits down with a newspaper and drinks them. I respect the lonely people. Is there anything more annoying than getting hiccups when you are drinking? Why not stop being sad, and lead a life of total freedom as if you are free—and let her decide what she wants to do? Rearrange my mind. She is always my missing half. And always will be.
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. I can only be alone, I think. I love her, and will love her till the day I die, but I can only be alone, and can only make her unhappy when I’m with her. J.G. Farrell water turning to hard ice, causing such sadness to the women who tried to love him. The price of the man is the head of the artist, as Munch thought. As Nial F says, you can’t mix work and marriage. You have to give up too much. Ah now Sex on Fire. I can only be free when I don’t have a home to go to. When we split up, every sight of her will become so thrilling, I will swoon, like before. I love her more than anything in the world, and yet I love my complete freedom—I don’t know how to put the two things together. This is the tragedy of me and ——. Use Somebody, oh all those amazing trips to Southend. Don’t I need to split up, so I can miss her again?
The years of seduction, violence, decay now seem like a lost golden age, though at the time I was desperate to escape to find something real. Now I have something real I miss the old seduction, violence, decay. To be able to marry the two together, or enjoy balance side by side, that is my dream. The Spice of Life is very nice, so much more comfortable than the Cambridge next door. Even if I am prepared to do something naughty, I just cannot think of anywhere to go to now. The Carnival I sorely miss. SS is a waste of time these days—a travesty of what it used to be; ditto Boulevard. Astral gone. Pamela, Betty days all gone. I just don’t have a clue what to do to have a naughty time these days. In the end I always end up back at the Fly. Oh I could try the Pepys. I came in the Spice of Life with Olga once.
It is better to stay drunk, because then it gives me beer goggles and every woman suddenly looks beautiful, and one starts to feel turned on; it is better to stay in this aroused state. Debord spent every day searching for the perfect point of inebriation; but of course as soon as it is achieved it is passed, and lost. Drink, giant tropical ferns, fauna and flora, classical music, naked women dancing. This is my lush life. —– gives me incredible freedom within the marriage to enjoy this; but I still have not successfully found the lush life I want. I am still searching for the lushness I feel I need. I tend to concentrate my search in King’s Cross and Soho but think I must search further afield. I found nothing in Brussels, Berlin or Vienna . I have got to find it in me first. You carry the weather with you. I wonder have I ever had a great experience sober? All the great experiences of my life, all the high nights that persuade us to put off suicide, came when I was drunk, I am sure of it. I am not capable of highs, of pleasure, when I am not drunk. When one starts drinking, anything becomes possible. The door to all sorts of pleasures opens. Rubicons can be crossed. Ishtar Gates passed through. Riccarda, Iga, Diana, Yulia, Emily, Martina, would never have happened if I was not drunk. Drink is the precondition for anything happening. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” Those amazing, amazing nights I had in Munich, Berlin, Brussels, Vienna were all fuelled by drink. Then why was I so unhappy? I had the freedom but craved something real. I was eviscerated by loneliness and emptiness. I was ripe for falling in love with the woman of my life, and then there was —– . “I don’t have a boyfriend in London !” Now I want to go back and enjoy all those places I used to enjoy. So I go back but—I find all those places are dark and closed down, no longer in business, and those that are open are filled with hideous crones, the same crones that excited me so much just 5, 6 years ago. Is loneliness, despair, essential to being able to enjoy the lush life?
At times of financial meltdown you have to hold onto what is imperishable, and endures: gold. I have to make use of my gold. Locked away in my vaults all these years. I have to try to make use of it. That schoolgirl fascinates me more than I can say. She is such a floweringly beautiful 15 (16?) year old girl yet always looks so unhappy, like she is carrying some deep wound, dignified, and proud. Her lips are always set in a pout, she always walks so slowly, like she has nothing to look forward to in her life—yet she is staggeringly attractive and can have any boy or man she wants. Perhaps she has suffered a loss, the loss of a mother perhaps, or perhaps it is a romantic wound—that I will not approach her perhaps. I always feel a spark of electricity between us since those first times we saw each other back in September, October, eight months ago now. In an attempt to catch my attention, or rather to provoke me into acting on my attention, I fancy was the reason for her change from a demure brunette to a stunning bottle blonde with long hair all over the place. I really don’t like blondes, despite the only three real girlfriends of my life, Olga, R—, and —– all being blonde, but her appeal to me has not changed. I had not seen her for a long long time, what with the Easter holidays and then me always being late, but yesterday as the bus turned off of Tower Bridge Road there she was trudging slowly with eyes to the ground, back TOWARDS her bus stop, away from her school. As if she had been that way and was now coming back for some reason. I think she cannot live that way as there was a closer bus stop than the one I always see her at. Her being there at that corner was quite mysterious. And today she got on my bus for the first time in weeks, and then strangely got off one stop earlier. I wonder if this was to give me the chance to get off with her in peace away from the crowd of her schoolmates who all pile off with her at the usual stop and have the confidence to approach her. The other strange thing is she never acknowledges the other pupils on the bus in her same uniform. She seems so apart from them, indeed looks so different, like she belongs in a better place than this. It is strange to see a girl so staggeringly beautiful around these parts. Quite out of place. There is something special about her, and I think she knows that, and I think she recognises there is something special about me too, that is why she was attracted to me from the beginning and cannot now shake it off, and it weighs down her every step. She has a broken bleeding heart, yet still hopes by some miracle I will do something to make something happen. Yet—I can never approach her, she is just 15, perhaps 16. It has to come from her or not at all. So I will do nothing and soon will see her no more. But she is one of the special people of my life, already.