I love the scientific analysis of my life [10th September 2006]

I love the scientific analysis of my life, like Nietzsche. In Nietzschean numbered paragraphs. Like the Rhine Zeitung newspaper articles of Karl Marx. Like the Die Fackel magazine articles of Karl Kraus. Apocalyptic, messianic, satirical. This is not possible when I have drink in my head all the time. It is also true, that some of the high moments of my life have come in the Astral Cinema and the Boulevard Cinema and the Sunset Cinema. Remember that big mullet haired guy who pulled his shorts down all the way to his ankles & sat there with a tube of soap or vaseline, regularly applying it to his cock in the Astral. Remember Red Riding Hood night when I sat for six hours in the front row of Soho Cinema till I was raw & practically passing out from the smoky, fuggy, sticky, lubricious atmosphere and when I finally left I crossed deserted Leicester Square in the lashing rain. Remember black dress Kay in the front row of Sunset sitting completely naked as black man put his huge dick in her mouth, businessman with trousers round ankles put condom on & fucked her, before "monicering" her over her tits, all the time while she stroked my cock with her hand. Remember red bra girl in the Sunset. Not to mention the highs I have reached in Berlin Erotic Centre, or Sarah Young, or Atlantic City or Sexyland kabins, or ML Revue cabins, or the Brussels Gare du Nord cabins. 

On the train into London last night in the pitch dark, I felt so much like I was on that train to Nuremberg. It crept and creaked along & I felt with every minute that passes I am getting nearer to Nuremberg and I remembered that absolutely mindblowing nervousness I used to feel on those three visits. By the time I got off & was walking along the station corridor from the platform I could hardly breathe. I was gasping and hyperventilating and shaking, knowing I would soon be in the Pils Bar and the Caribic. Also I felt like I was on the train into Vienna. 

“I am at the stage now of Paris in 1875" (14th Sept 2006)

“I am at the stage now of Paris in 1875, starting to rebuild itself, glorying in the spectacle of the Garnier Opera opening, a sparkling renaissance is beginning, like the war, siege, and commune never happened, like I had learnt nothing. But what else can you do, you must go on, you must find enjoyment and pleasure; though now it is more realistic, blackened and tempered with sorrow and realisation it is merely consolation.” I had to rebuild myself after the failed relationsip with Black Bob, with Pooky, with Florence. All my books will be seen in a post-Florence yellow light now. A Yellow Claw fog on the Embankment of London. A murderous plot is hatching, Fu Manchu is about to strike again. Once the clocks go back I can indulge myself again. Maybe I could go to Berlin in December! I suppose the main theme of my books is “the simple pleasures are the only realities”.What happened with my paradigm shift was that overnight I simplified my life. Write about what you know. Well, what do I know about? I know about strippers, and I know about scopophilia. I know about the nervousness that almost stops you from breathing, as you near Nuremberg, or walk into the entrance hall, or go up the stairs to a model’s door. Or walk from the 91 bus stop down to the Midnight Bell. I know about watching and watching, and never wanting to actually do anything. I know at first that intrigues the girls, then entices them, then bewilders them, and finally makes them contemptuous and disgusted.
“His pamphlets, articles and letters during his thirty years in London form a coherent commentary on contemporary political affairs in the light of his new method of analysis. They are sharp, lucid, mordant, realistic, astonishingly modern in tone, and aimed deliberately against the prevailing optimistic temper of his time”.

I will try to go straight home Wednesday night (12th Sept 2006)

I will try to go straight home Wednesday night and not come back till Saturday morning, that will minimise my costs as much as possible. A missed call from Olga at 23:06 on Friday night apparently. Strange I did not notice it before. I should not feel too bad. Going to the Bell to see Florence only cost me £20 on the girls and £12 on drink. That is only £32. That is not bad for a Saturday night when I won’t have another Saturday off for three weeks. It is good to be there when it is so busy. I look forward to getting to work to listen to Boogieradio, and to read the newspaper articles of Karl Marx. “Berlioz’s unstinting lionisation of Beethoven in the pages of La Revue et Gazette Musicale de Paris,the most important and influential music journal in 19th-century France, also played a major role in establishing him at the centre of the repertory for the concert hall.” In my journal, what would I write about, who would I lionise? I would lionise the Midnight Bell, perhaps, and its dancers, extolling the virtues of Sylvia and Florence and Janet above all others. Extolling them in messianic, apocalyptic, grandiose, diva-esque terms, like they are Sarah Bernhardts. Invoking Hungarian history. Giving reviews of their performances just the way one would with reviews of violinists or pianists. They are all on a stage, why not? Instead of one paragraph reviews of Anita Berber’s Bethanien or Marlene Dietrich’s grave, extend them into full page articles, enabling me to digress into talking about the Blue Angel, Lola, etc. Berber at the Romanisches Cafe, Tucholsky. It would be a journal devoted to the strip clubs of London, the pubs, to Berlin, and Vienna, and Brussels, and Munich. Florencia, from Brazil, has made Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie her own, Crazy her own, Check On It her own. Talk about them the way you would about great opera singers of the 1880s, from the stage side box. Write a magazine where on one page there is a review of Barbara Frittoli at the Wigmore Hall on Wednesday night, and on the facing page, a review of the Flying Scotsman on Thursday night, each with equal analysis. My reviews are scurrilous and scandalous, like James Ellroy, Charles Bukowski. Winter is coming. Remember those cold icy days when I first moved in here? Remember the excitement of those Astral nights? Missing in Action Painter film? The unable to breathe shaking with excitement as I headed down the steps not knowing what I was about to see? Remember that unbelievably huge breasted beautiful Czech girl at the Boulevard? It is almost like a dream. I cannot believe I witnessed something so spectacularly sexy as her and made so little of it. If only I knew where she was now.

I would like to write my own magazine like the Fackel, full of my hard-hitting sometimes scurrilous articles and reviews of London life. Write about Barbara Frittoli and the tyranny of not being able to write about the singer’s beauty, and sexual allure, as if this must not be mentioned, like some guilty secret. Write about La Traviata at the ENO, a weepy opera about “some consumptive whore, when in real life whores are treated like the lowest of the low, yet here she is celebrated as something glorious”. I love writers like Peter Wilby, Sidney Blumenthal, Naomi Klein, Maureen Dowd, and in the past of course Karl Kraus, Karl Marx.

The sensible thing is to not go to Vienna but to keep saving and rid myself of this crippling, dangerous debt. I have been reminded for the first time in a long while of the psychological horror of my missed opportunity with Florence. The Tombe moment came in two parts, like a double break of a bone. It is sad what our friendship has turned into. When she spots me her face is so bleak and stressed and unhappy.

I would rather write a paper magazine. People get tired of scrolling and clicking on links. Only if they have got a physical paper magazine in their hands can they leaf through and see everything in one place. My magazine, which no one else need ever see, can run alongside and counterpoint to my books which people also never see. This will be my Fackel and my Simplicissimus side by side with my Grundrisse, the manuscript copy of Das Kapital.