My last afternoon in Vienna and here I am in my big white bed, listening to classical music on the radio. I drank too much yesterday and last night. Terrible headache all morning, and sick feeling. Just want to stay in now, drinking nothing but water. Later I may or may not go out for a last Café West End and a last Manhattan. Three solid days of drinking have, as always, left me tired and down. And such a horrible long journey to get back home from here. 317pm.
I don’t want any relationships, I don’t want to be with anyone; just drink and watch the world go by? Is this then all my life will be? Tonight I plan an epic walk across Brussels, from my hotel all the way to the Justice Palace, and beyond, down to Louise then Rue de Livourne. Stopping off along the way in Club L’Intime and Reves Table Dance. Perhaps. I doubt I will go all that way. Not with this complete lack of enthusiasm which has bedevilled this trip. The skies still bright blue but at street level dusk starting to fall; lamps outside the Hotel Plaza glowing brightly. 845pm. I just want a little nest, where I can be alone with my ferns, and my classical music, and my writing. Perhaps my lethargy & torpor on this trip is sub-consciously because I feel it is nearing the time when I find that little nest for myself and save my money for that.
I don’t feel too down about feeling down. One good thing I have learned is not to feel down because you feel down. I have learnt this period of feeling down will pass, and then you will feel up again. So just learn to enjoy the periods of down as much as the ups. Feeling down last night, I just stayed in my big white bed, listening to classical music, and that was a pleasure; of a melancholy kind, but a pleasure nevertheless. 201. I spend my life looking for a really high quality FLOOZIE. Like Adelina in Vienna, Amanda in WSK in Vienna, Lucy in Fifth Avenue, Andrea in Fifth Avenue (I have cooled on —). Even with a floozie, you like to feel a little bit of tease, coquettishness, flirtation in return, but with — she gives you (at least, me) nothing. She gives the impression I can by all means go to a room with her, but I’d have to drag her there in chains to do it; she will not resist the chains, she is happy to wear the chains, but I do have to drag her there in chains. No more enthusiasm for it. When I let Lucy, or Andrea, or Julia know I was interested, they responded in kind and then I couldn’t stop myself. I can stop myself now.
It seems to me most of the greatest art is about sex, most of the greatest philosophy is about sex, most of the greatest classical music is about sex. People think oh, art, philosophy, classical music, is so old, dry and dusty, and boring; but when you realise most of painting, philosophy and classical music is about sex, then it opens up to you like a flower, and you can see how rich and fascinating it is. And then I sit there in a classical music concert lusting after the violinist on stage with a swelling in my trousers, I walk around art museums almost always with an erection. Eros is all around us.