Still —– seems the focal point of my life. My mental life, my emotional life, even though we are not together. I still orbit around her star, a distant orbit, but quite happily so. I cannot give her what she needs, and cannot be the man she wants—any man who can be the man his woman wants is not really a man, surely. Less than a man. A castrated man. An emasculated man. The type of man who is taking over Europe, at least, unfortunately. “Snowflake” man, if I have understood the meaning of this phrase correctly. 120. Any man who can be the man his woman wants him to be is a man who I instinctively, perhaps stupidly, lack respect for. A nice man, for sure. And I envy him his happiness and his contentment to be with the woman he so patently loves. Yet nice, it can never be me. Never.
When at home in London, on the treadmill, I crave the erotic pleasures of Brussels, and think when I get back there I am going to f–k every half-decent floozie I see! But then I get here, and feel nothing but reluctance, and reticence, to get involved, and do anything, even though it is all there on offer. This reluctance, and reticence, only grows & grows the older I get; but still I carry on. Like Phedre “continuing to seduce long after seduction has ceased to be a pleasure”. Like Smiles of a Summer Night, “flirting with rescue when one has no intention of being saved”. Increasingly locked up within myself, I discover I have become LESS rampant the older I get, not more. More confident, more freedom, more money, yet I do less than I ever did before, when I was so much crippled by shame, poverty, etc.
I leave the hotel on my second & last day in Brussels with 140 euros in my pocket. I am now confident that this will be enough to last me the whole trip (now that Empire & Jennifer are ruled out). But if I am going to Rue d’Aerschot, bar to girl, for 70 euros, to Fifth Avenue and 20 at bar, which leaves me just 50, not enough for a Fifth Avenue room! So no, maybe not enough after all. And don’t forget I need cash to pay the taxi driver early tomorrow morning.
But what gives a life “point”? To settle down, get married, have a mortgage, 2.4 children, once a year holiday in Spain? Or live alone, travelling several times a year to Brussels, Vienna, Berlin, Munich, always alone? Does one have more “point” than the other? Discuss. A river cuts its own course. I do what gives me pleasure. Or try to.
Ah, my crazy man! My first sight on this trip. Over outside the door of the Plaza with a crutch. He is rubbing his chin, looking in this direction, probably seeing me and thinking the same thing, “Ah, that crazy man in the hotel! My first sight of him in a long time!” We never see ourselves as others see us. As always, I wonder what is his story. He does not look like an unintelligent man, why does he live this empty life? As always, he could say exactly the same thing about me, with great justification.
Always I want to follow the EASIEST route; that is why I always go straight to Fifth Avenue even if I know it is too early for the quality girls and therefore pointless. A river cuts its easiest course. This is why I still keep going to Fifth Avenue too early, rather than Rue d’Aerschot where the more beautiful girls can be found. It is too far to walk? Not sure it isn’t exactly the same distance to Fifth as it is to Rue d’Aerschot.