I want to write books the like of which have never been seen before (5th August 2006)

I want to write books the like of which have never been seen before. Journals of a man subsumed in a life of emptiness and nothingness, but who revels in and gorges himself on this emptiness and nothingness, like a mother eating her own placenta. Journals about the visceral pleasure in detachment of an autistic person. About transcendency, about finding lenses that enable one to focus all the rays of this emptiness and nothingness like a magnifying glass used to focus the rays of the sun to start a fire, like the mirror that Orphée steps through to enter the Underworld, and then the transcendency flares into life like a white phosphorescent explosion, and one orgies in the transcendency, in the sublime orgasmic detachment from everything and everyone around you, in the supreme quality of emptiness and nothingness stretched to the nth degree like a taut violin string that is at any moment about to break but never quite does; what exquisite pleasure is then to be found. If Guy Debord's view of life was to seek the perfect point of inebriation, mine is to locate the perfect point of transcendental orgasmic detachment. The nights I would go to the Coliseum and have to creep in the darkness to the gentleman's toilets and furiously masturbate so aroused was I. The nights at the opera in Berlin, when I had to leave at the interval in search of Kant and cunt, so highly-strung and aroused had I become.  It is possible to take an aesthetic appreciation in fine pornography, fine aids to arousal and ejaculation; indeed it is impossible not to. The night in Munich I had to leave Strauss's Arabella in desperate race back to Schiller and Goethe. It was Karl Kraus who said a woman can sometimes be an acceptable substitute for masturbation, but that it requires an awful lot of imagination. When I think of all the brief connections I have made this year with women, -----, Melani, Amanda, Pamela, Lydia, I can say that not one of them gave me an iota of the pleasure that I felt when the woman in the cinema let the men crowd around her with their cocks out, and let me wrap her hair around my cock to masturbate with in the dark. Transgression is not only possible, but beautiful. I would go further. Transgression is not only beautiful, it is essential. The double life is absolutely essential in order to save one's life.

Oh I cannot wait to get back to Nuremberg again! To go back to the Pils Bar to look for Martina! To go back to the Caribic on a Saturday night! My trips always used to be a three-way battle between Love, Art and Eros, this in the days when I was tormented by my desires and my repression, and the more I repressed my desires the more they overwhelmed me. Truly the only way to avoid temptation is to give into it. Only by indulging your tormenting desire does that desire go away and leave you free to go on with more constructive things, like writing about it. In the last two or three years, however, I have achieved a unity of the three. Love, art and Eros have been forged together so everything I do is motivated and fuelled by the combination of the three. I go to the Wiertz Museum during the day, and walk around that extraordinary single big room—alone, always alone—and already achieve a fine erection. My cock strains hugely in my trousers and rolls from side to side like a ship in a storm as I walk slowly around the room. By the time I penetrate into the three smaller rooms at the end of the corridor, it is all I can do not to remove my swollen member from its captivity and frig myself maniacally there & then on the spot. How Wiertz’s Napoleon arouses me, his Satan. Because I remember every time I have been here before, it was a precursor to the exquisite coils of desire I would envelop myself in later that night, so the Wiertz Museum serves as the appetiser, the foreplay, the anteroom on the first floor, as it were, to the brothel on the second.

Similarly, I go to the Museum of Modern Art in order to arouse myself by looking again at the deliciously dirty Paul Delvaux pictures, the Profond des Plaisirs, Salvador Dali’s Temptation of St Anthony, Tresors de Satan, and Alfred Steven’s Salome, knowing what it will lead to later. How can I not walk around art galleries with an erection! Especially if there is some sexy woman walking around the galleries just ahead of you, so you sometimes pass her and she sometimes passes you, in an erotic dance, a waltz, where you both know less than half your mind is on the pictures, and your eyes are surreptitiously looking at each other much more than at the paintings on the wall! Oh art galleries are the most erotic places on Earth! Classical music concerts, too. I have never met so many single women as I did when I used to go to concerts every week. The red scallop neck top girl who followed me back into the auditorium at the Barbican after the interval, and who as I looked up from my notebook, I made suddenly electric eye contact with. For the entire second half of the concert, as she sat two rows in front of me, her chest rose and fell like she had been running, so excited and aroused had she become about what might happen between us afterwards. Of course, nothing did. I sidled miserably home on my own, hating myself more with every step I took, but still—the mutual arousal and anticipation had been thrilling. So many times I have had encounters like this at classical music concerts. The Irish-looking lush in front of me in the Wigmore Hall ticket queue, who kept looking back at me, and then for no discernible reason bent right over, so I could see up her skirt. Women can be quite primitive in their seduction techniques sometimes. And people say to me “How boring! Art galleries! Classical music concerts!” They have no idea. The highly developed dirty mind, the truly smutty intellect, can find sex in a pot plant. And don’t get me started on tropical palmhouses and butterfly houses! Steamy indeed! Steamy in every sense of the word! I want to write smutty monographs of no more than 45 or 50 pages each, to document how deliciously dirty the world is. For the true connoisseurs of smut.

I am unique. It is important to remember that (4th August 2006)

I am unique. It is important to remember that. I am writer and eccentric, like Philip O'Connor, Friedrich Nietzsche in cold stoveless rooms, Ernest Dowson. I exist to write those extreme, bizarre, small little books, like Autismus, Lotta, The Cold Icy Air of the Mountains, and Casanova. 45 page long monographs about emptiness and nothingness. Smile from Calcutta blonde: "No ice today!" I need to focus on Miami Vice, Rebels & Martyrs exhibition, classical music concerts. The sexiest encounters of my life were at the Barbican and Wigmore Hall. I travel uniquely, to Berlin, Vienna and Brussels. I live a bizarre and nocturnal life. I will continue to use Sunset Cinema and Demi and Pamela. There is nothing like that excitement when a gentleman comes in with a woman and everyone crowds around with their cocks out. Day 1 of my new life starts here. No more Flying Scotsman. The Calcutta only, followed by Sunset Cinema, Demi and Pamela. I will go to Sunset Strip only when Deborah is on. I am Ernest Dowson. Philip O'Connor. The Shining Roads will be exclusively in Soho. How thrilling it is to come out of the cinema with my huge cock rolling in my trousers, just around the corner to Demi or Pamela. My life revolves around drinking & pornography. I want to take a long train journey again, thinking and writing.

Ecstatic outpourings (1st July 2006)

Ecstatic outpourings. It is easy to say I am wasting my life and my money on all these whores and strippers, in London and Berlin and Vienna and Brussels. Rather, aren’t they the best thing about life? Aren’t they the alpha and omega of life? Aren’t they the brief moments that persuade us to put off suicide a little longer? Do they not provide the very greatest, and most precious and treasured memories of my life? Aren’t my greatest regrets, indeed, that I did NOT do anything with Clarisse in Brussels, I did NOT do anything with the Ukrainian sisters Alla & Olga in Berlin, I did NOT do anything with Martina in Nuremberg? So what I owe £5,800 on my credit card? That seems like nothing. Aren’t travelling round Europe and London in search of the biggest-breasted whores and strippers the greatest point of life, and the most worthwhile quest!?

So that is it, June is over. The first half of the year is over. Most of it lost in suffering over —–, then recovering via Melani and Pamela and Demi.

I find it impossible to give anything with people at work, because I am just desperately counting down the nights and hours till I can get back to Sunset or the Scotsman or the cinema or a whore. That is all I think about.**********I feel very depressed now. By all the above. There is nothing in my life except that, and the writing. I can only be alone. I cannot bear to be with another person. Nobody could bear to be with me.

I WANT TO WRITE LIKE E.E.CUMMINGS. I WANT TO WRITE LIKE HART CRANE. I WANT TO WRITE LIKE PHILIP O’CONNOR. I WANT MY WORDS TO APPEAR IN OLD PAPERBACK BOOKS LIKE I FIND IN THE CHARING CROSS ROAD SECOND HAND BOOKSHOPS. I want to write about solipsism, and what it is like to never connect. To always live alone. To always retreat from people when they try to get close. Only when I feel most bleak and lonely can I write.

The friendships I NEARLY developed with Iga and Riccarda, with Viktoriya and Irina and Susi, with Ana Maria and Lela, and —– and Melani.

You can’t ever expect normal people to understand you (21st May 2006)

You can’t ever expect normal people to understand you. Even if they read Autismus, Lotta & Sophia, or The Cold Icy Air of the Mountains, they would not understand you. An uneventful journey to work. Perhaps it would be fun to go to Sunset early on Thursday before 6 for Melani & Giselle, rather than Wednesday night, just for a change. Then I can hang around just to see Caroline after 6. Maybe I should go back to The Makropolos Case Wednesday night?

I am glad I am ruining myself & becoming increasingly mad & crazy at the Flying Scotsman (23rd April 2006)

I am glad I am ruining myself & becoming increasingly mad & crazy at the Flying Scotsman. I am deliberately becoming a grand wreck. It is part of my project to experience new things, push an experience to the extremes. “Crane wrote to a friend, “You may not think it, yet there comes a great peaceful exaltation in merely reading, thinking, and writing.” Yet this was not enough to ward off sporadic spells of intense depression; he first attempted suicide at the age of 15 by slashing his wrists and taking an overdose of sleep medication.” Think of the kindness D— tries to offer you. C——, too. I am lonely. That is why I keep gravitating back to the Flying Scotsman like a moth to a flame, to the girls I know so well & the drink I know better. “Mariani brings alive the doubts and self-recriminations that constantly bedeviled Crane and the accusatorial inner voices that must have haunted him during his frequent hangovers. Alcohol and depression exacted a truly terrible physical and emotional toll on Crane, and his hair turned from premature gray to white by the age of 28. He was frequently jailed or beaten for his drinking, and Mariani’s index lists 17 instances of Crane’s “outrageous and violent behavior” due to alcohol. He embarrassed himself, alienated friends and damaged his ability to concentrate on his writing, but Mariani notes, “Like [Charlie] Chaplin, he meant to pick himself up, brush himself off, and go on whistling into the teeth of fate.”” 

“Like Hopkins, Crane sought an epiphanic vision, and Mariani notes, “In spite of the absence of any God he can name, there is a desperate vulnerability about Crane’s prayer for meaning” in poems such as “O Carib Isle!”….Crane once signed a postcard to his mother with the name “Atlantis.” As Mariani notes, “Even to himself he seemed a lost city.”….Mariani leaves us with the tragic image of a brilliant mind struggling with the desire to push the borders of poetry beyond the familiar and traditional to “new thresholds, new anatomies,” all the while contending with interior realities that were the source of both his greatest inspiration and his greatest unhappiness. Although Crane sank beyond the reach of lifesavers, thanks to Mariani’s book we retain a strong sense of the spiritual gates this poet sought to enter.” Very much on Saturday night I was thinking how fake all the smiles & friendship from the girls is, as they only smile & pretend to like you for the money. There are some exceptions to this, I think. D— is not nice to me just to get pounds from me, nor is C——. Maybe M——, too, and for a while —–. I could of look back at all the arguments I have been having at the Scotsman with a detached amusement. It is just an adventure I am having.

I really don’t care about looking for jobs now (23rd April 2006)

I really don’t care about looking for jobs now. I will never find a better job than this. All I want now is to lose myself in classical music. Just accept this will take a long while to get over. You are heading for ruin. Concentrate on the positives. Concentrate on writing with blue hands in cold stoveless rooms like Nietzsche, heading to the cold icy air of the mountains, where the air is thinner & there are less people. I always want to get to where there are less people. I seem to have lost interest in art museums, in classical music concerts. I am just lost in an emptiness. All there is is drinking. This coming week I will devote to writing, staying up all night, into the early hours of the morning. Funny how sweet & lovely to me the new brown top barmaid was; she was gorgeous to me. Jane was lovely to me. Even though my life is getting better year on year, there is always a period each year when I go into real psychological darkness & desperate straits. 

“But despite his literary success, Crane was a profoundly tormented man. Poetry sustained him in a life that otherwise teetered on the brink of collapse. When he wasn’t writing, he spent much of his time engaged in fleeting homosexual encounters and alcohol binges. In 1932, three years after meeting Lorca, Crane committed suicide by leaping from a ship into the Caribbean”. 

“Crane tends to be labelled as American poetry’s answer to both Rimbaud and Keats. Like the young Rimbaud he believed a poet’s vision derived from systematic deregulation of the senses; many of his poems were written in an alcohol-induced frenzy while listening to the same song on his Victrola over and over again, while his tireless, often dangerous cruising of the Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Hoboken waterfronts – occasionally under the pseudonym Mike Drayton, in honour of the Elizabethan poet – shocked more conservative friends such as Allen Tate and Yvor Winters……..By the time he arrived in Mexico in 1931 he was grey-haired, puffy-featured, and subject to hallucinations, delirium tremens, and corrosive self-disgust. He wrote only one poem there, the sublime “The Broken Tower”, in which he acknowledged his inability to do more than merely “trace the visionary company of love”, or hold for longer than “an instant in the wind / each desperate choice”. A month after completing it in late March of 1932, Crane decided he had no choices left at all.”

I want my writing to be jouissance. Orgasm. An ejaculation in words (24th Nov 2006)

I want my writing to be jouissance. Orgasm. An ejaculation in words. 

Limit the f–king to once a fortnight. 

Translating mental upheaval into a revolution. 

“What do people think of me? A non entity, an eccentric, an unpleasant person, a person with no position in society, in sum the lowest of the low. Even if true, then one day I should like to show by my work what such a non entity, what such a nobody has in his heart. With a handshake, ever yours, Vincent.” 

I have become close to several whores: Ana Maria, Lela, Olga, Pamela. In Berlin Iga. To many sex dancers, too. In Munich Viktoriya. 

I wish the whole world was a harem. I wish it would thunder all the time, I wish it would rain all the time. I wish it would be dark all the time.

I am so tired & jaded of London now (23rd Nov 2006)

I am so tired & jaded of London now. I must instead go & get drunk in Brussels & Berlin. Reacquaint myself with Karl Kraus, and F Nietzsche. 

All that matters is my bleak books, written in blood, with blue hands in cold stoveless rooms around Europe. My studies in solipsism, the visceral pleasure in detachment of an autistic person. Autismus. Lotta & Sophia. The Cold Icy Air of the Mountains. Casanova. 

I have moved beyond —–, & Olga, and am free of them. Now the travelling starts again. To write my books in Brussels, Berlin, Munich and Vienna. 

I will run up such a debt I will no longer be able to go out in London, will just pay all my money on my credit card repayments & interest. That is OK. I will go back to drinking in my mother’s house & the Calcutta, while listening to the songs that remind me of travel, until I can travel again.

Thunder at 6AM. Now torrential rain (30th Sept 2006)

Thunder at 6AM. Now torrential rain. Winter is finally coming. I am autistic. I am Stephane in Un Coeur en Hiver. I am Will Penny. I am the Consul. I am Noodles. It was so good watching that Stephen Fry programme about depression. Even though he had just been to a party and was laughing and joking and was the life of the party, when he got home he cried his eyes out and thought of ways to kill himself. Richard Dreyfus has only coped by being on medication for the last 30 years. Many people find it hard to cope with their minds. 

I am so ridiculously nervous about meeting —– again tonight. Most people have got lots of different kinds of relationships, as Sarah would say. I do not. I have only my longing for —– and nothing else. —– is everything. I just know how I will feel when I wake up Sunday morning with a hangover, depressed, so so empty, feeling so worthless and pointless because I am alone and without her. I dread it—yet what is the alternative? If I stay in and do not go, I will feel just as empty. At least for a couple of hours I will have the intensity of losing myself in the depravity, of diving deeper into darkness. Into the Libertines, Hogarthian, Crane Wine Menagerie world. What I did was perverse with —–. I eventually got over the black psychological meltdown with Black Bob, I eventually got over the black psychological meltdown with Pooky, I eventually got over the black psychological meltdown with Susi and Irina. I suppose I will eventually get over the black psychological meltdown with —–, but it is hard when temptation is always there, when she is so close. I am so unhappy, because I am alone, because I did not take a chance with —–. Falling in love is awful. I have been bombed to ruins again. What is there for me to look forward to? Just writing with cold blue hands in cold stoveless rooms high in the icy mountains. Complete emptiness and hollowness. 

I was always the one who wanted to stay in the corner and not get involved. Fine. 

I shut out all the people who try to love me (16th Sept 2006)

I shut out all the people who try to love me. Florence, mother. I just feel this deadness, and I cling onto this deadness for dear life. Being brought back to life is terrifying. I hurt myself rather than let a girl bring me back to life. I cannot believe I dedicate myself so totally to getting drunk when there was something special like Florence waiting for me. I preferred to concentrate on the drink, and let Florence go. You Never Call Me When You’re Sober. You only want it cos it’s over. It’s over. Well done. I kept myself safe, so Florence could not get in. I feel so down now, 3:22 in the morning. Ten Miles Infernal. Shakira Hips Don’t Lie. Florence was always such a happy thing. She always looks so unhappy when I am there now, so uncomfortable. No happiness in this life. I bring unhappiness to all people who try to love me. Because I am cold, and I stay cold. I am ice. I am high in the cold icy air of the mountains, weeping, writing with blue shaking hands in cold stoveless rooms.

Munich Editors. I have to go before 2pm because of the Scissor Sisters concert in Trafalgar Square. Wouldn’t you like to go to the concert? No. All I care about is writing, drinking, and watching girls take their clothes off while dancing to loud music. I remember how unhappy I made B Rosa, too. Patricia, too. Susi, too. I am so cold. I shut people out and get shut out by them. Maybe I can come back home Tuesday afternoon and spend all week here again. Florence must have been thinking about my snub for the whole two weeks, because as soon as I came in she was looking to make eye contact with me and when she did, she straightaway put her finger to her lips. If we cannot make each other happy, then we can at least make each other unhappy. That is our relationship.

Addicted to opium and alcohol. I insist on the primacy of my own experience. My own vision. I can only be alone. I can only be in cold icy mountains.

Don’t be unhappy, be happy! Think what immense power you have got! You have made the great separation & now live for pure priapism. You have got money. Winter is coming. I can go to the Bell, the Cotton Club, Cotton Club Cinema, Demi and Pamela. In January I can go to Berlin. This is going to be a season of the flesh. It is funny when I got the flat I thought now I can go to the Bell & this time talk to the girls & ask them to come home with me, and that is exactly what happened, and I could have had a relationship with Florence–but threw it away. The one thing I said I wanted.
I have got a nice little job I enjoy. I have got money coming in. I have got my own little nest. I have got a week off in December and another week off in January to go to Berlin, for La Traviata and Carmina Burana.

“Where do you live actually?” said Pamela to me. The discipline of saving money is actually a really exciting one. It has made the Bell more exciting for me. It will no doubt make the Cotton Club more exciting for me eventually. I love the things I have got away with in the past, the things I get away with now, the things I will get away with in the future.

I have got my book-lined London home, filled with ferns, and classical music. I live like a church mouse in a little hotel earning the money to write my books, while enjoying the girls taking their knickers off to loud music, and travelling a couple of times a year to Berlin. I am still sad about Florence. Do what you want with your genitals, otherwise you will regret it when you’re dead.

How when I watch Eminem’s Ass Like That or Shake That Ass videos, or Jon Bon Jovi’s Queen of New Orleans, or Korn’s Word Up, it makes me so much want to to get back to the strip club. To the Bell or Cotton Club (nowhere else in London!), Atlantic City. It rarely is as hot and exciting as it looks in the videos, although Saturdays are best–anywhere. Empire, Atlantic City, Bell or Cotton, Saturday nights are the wildest and best. If I spend all my money on that, and my life revolves around that, then going to a pornographic cinema after that and Esmeralda to finish, why not? If that is what you like doing, and that is what gives you the most pleasure then that is absolutely what you should continue doing, with joy! I was walking along ——– platform, remembering the excitement I feel when I am starting one of my travels & heading off to Eurostar. How exciting that is. But at the same time what dulls the excitement completely is if I travel knowing that I already owe £6,000 and I really cannot afford to be doing it, then that completely diminishes the excitement. That is why this hibernation is necessary before I can even consider going to Berlin in the New Year.

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.

If I’m excited and inspired by doing some good writing & thinking I do like to go out & enjoy the Scotsman on a Saturday (9th Sept 2006)

If I’m excited, and inspired by doing some good writing & thinking, I do like to go out & enjoy the Scotsman on a Saturday. That is the secret. I don’t just earn it by saving money, I earn it by doing some great writing—then I deserve it & feel I deserve it.
I am a great believer that you carry the weather with you. If you travel with a spark, a dancing flame inside you, you will have a great time. If you travel unhappy, and in a black place, weighed down by worries and debts, you will have a sad time. I cannot say the well in Munich has run dry; probably it is my well that has run dry. When my well fills up again, by making myself happier, ridding myself of obsessions, financial worries, anxieties, paranoid depressions, I will find Munich’s well is full to over-brimming again, "stars filling the throat to the crop", as it was absolutely full to over-brimming when I met Susi, Irina on the night of Turkey v England, Patricia, Emily on the Night of the Snow, Viktoriya in those four magical life-changing visits in the space of six months. I love loud pounding music. Muse Starlight. Even in the Scotsman standing looking up at the screen I loved hearing the loud pounding music from behind me, Pink Who Knew. The start of Miami Vice suddenly starts with loud pounding music in a club & a girl pole-dancing.

I love looking at stars in the black sky and colourful gassy nebulas, as it reminds me of the old E ships idea. Elric ships in space. Pope in his velvet lined spaceship. On the 91 to King’s Cross a brunette girl vaguely Canadian-looking came & instead of sitting on empty seats beside me, sat on the seat facing me, reading a book, so I could get get a look at the deep cleavage under brown jacket, beautiful globes visible & she knew I was looking. Then I knew I DID want Bell. Evanescence. You never call me when you’re sober. Jokeren Gravol. DAD Scare Yourself. Gnarls Barkley Smiley Faces. Oh I’ve just remembered those two Brazilians running for 87 yesterday, blonde & brunette. The brunette in white T and blue jeans over most incredible bubble butt bulging all over the place though she was really slim. Brazilians have got the best butts. Bloodhound Gang Uhn Tiss. Robbie Rudebox. Zero 7 Throw It All Away. Nellie Furtado Maneater.

I think after all it might be possible to achieve a balanced lifestyle for myself. Paying my rent, and allowing myself one night out a week, so I can still get to wallow in the Libertinesesque/Hogarthian/Rabelaisian/Rake’s Progress life, and still seriously paying off my cards so I can get to Berlin or Vienna a couple of times a year.

It is always hard to drink, go to cinema, then start drinking again. I was tired & run down yesterday & still quite enjoyed Zoe and Jane and Leah, how much better if I am sober and excited? The Francis Bacon Gilded Gutter Lily/Ernest Dowson/Frank Wedekind/Oscar Wilde Feasting With Panthers/Vincent Van Gogh Hour of the Flesh life. Kanye West Number One. Kelis Bossy. Junior Senior Get to Know you better. On my last few trips I have been hoping to get lucky and have a great time on just a very small budget with just a very small outlay & that is why I got so little back. You have to speculate to accumulate. I had so little starting capital to gamble with so I was only ever going to get little back. You have to gamble big if you are going to gamble at all. I should have gone with Alla & Olga and to hell with it. I should have gone with Clarisse & to hell with it. What memories that would have been! Justin Sexyback. Sugababes Red Dress. After all, the great thing about the Bell is that it can cost as little as £5. One pint and two girls and then push off. Cotton Club is a minimum £19 to start off with. How I always remember Masha dancing to Global DJs. That is why I travel. I will go back to Vienna, I will go back to Munich. I will owe £6000 or £7000. So what? For those memories. Habit encrusts itself to us, like barnacles. Every few years one finally makes the effort to scrape all the barnacles off, and uncover the shiny ship’s hull underneath, as if new. Such I have just done.

For all that talk of big breasts I never really made the most of my opportunities (25th August 2006)

For all that talk of big breasts I never really made the most of my opportunities: Clarisse I never even had a 5 euro dance in my seat & refused to talk to her, Martina, I went with Diana instead, Andrea I just had the £20 option instead of half an hour. I can worry about the sadness and despair of my last trips to Berlin, Munich, Brussels, but I always feel this sadness and despair so it is normal & I should enjoy it! There is a kernel inside my brain that only wants to be stimulated by pornographic films and prostitutes, and will never be able to feel anything in real relationships, so I should just understand that and enjoy it. Isn’t it great that I now feel so happy in myself and so self-confident, I am writing, I have my own place, I am enjoying the pornographic films and the prostitutes the same as ever, and no one can touch me. How beaten down I used to be. Not anymore. I am taunting them with what I enjoy that they cannot. I am flaunting it in their angry faces, more and more. I am provoking them more and more. I am Beethoven. I am genius.
Alcazar Crying at the Discotheque. My God I cannot wait to get back to Vienna again! Back to the Ring! I cannot wait to see Jolanda again. And Melani. Then on to Demi or Pamela. Oh travel is so much the greatest thing.
I try so hard to recreate the sensations I feel when I am on holiday. That feeling drinking beer from my minibar in my Munich hotel room before going to Atlantic City. Or drinking in my Vienna hotel room before going to ML Revue. Or in Berlin before going to BEC and Stuttgarter Platz.

Well, this morning I was able to pay £300 off my Barclaycard. The long road back starts here. I felt so uncomfortable when I came out my flat 930am yesterday morning. I had two pints in the Calcutta before getting the 23:19 home. ENJOY ALL MY TAPES AND MY VIDEOS! WHAT A COLLECTION I HAVE AMASSED!
I lead a strange existence. I read and write for a couple of hours, then sleep for a couple of hours. Listen to some classical music for an hour, then read & write some more, then sleep some more.

What a great life this is. Sleep for a few hours, get up to read and write for a few hours, listen to classical music for a while, sleep some more, for three or four days a week. Even my bad trips still produced interesting experiences. I need complete isolation. Complete peace. Complete solitude. I can only exist in solipsism, and its military wing, Priapism. I enjoyed living in the broken world of strippers and whores. But I fell in love with one of the strippers and started embarrassing myself. I want to write a magazine like Simpliccimus and Die Fackel. Or make my satiric interventions on, for example, BITE, or Openlegs4u. I would restart The Serpent’s Egg either on wildeboy.com or Yahoo360 but I would have to reveal too much about myself. My life revolves around strippers and whores and yet I cannot talk about that. 95% of my life would have to remain hidden under the surface leaving only the tip of the iceberg which is not worth talking about.

The pleasure of travelling around Europe by train is so great even if I’m lonely because when I am lonely I write the most (17th August 2006)

The pleasure of travelling around Europe by train is so great, even if I’m lonely, because when I am lonely I write the most. It is Nietzsche in cold stoveless rooms writing with blue hands, while weeping, writing in blood. That is what I like best. So what I owe £6,000. You cannot take it with you. I might as well live intensely for the next few years while the rausch is on me. I am inclined to go to Berlin in January for La Traviata and Carmina Burana. That will mean I should go to Munich and Vienna at the end of October, to pull into Munich Hauptbahnhof in the dark at 7 o’clock at night and walk into the Intercity, for a couple of beers from the minibar, shower, couple of beers down in the bar, before rounding the corner into Atlantic City. The next day I can enjoy the gorgeous Lamm's and that night maybe go to Nuremberg coming back for 630 breakfast. So Thursday get Eurostar to Brussels Radisson SAS, few drinks in bar, up to Empire and Gare du Nord. Next lunchtime to Munich. Saturday night in Nuremberg and Sunday lazing in Munich? or train to Vienna? Monday night arrive in Vienna for some drinks from minibar then Dorint bar, then Seilerstatte. Next night Pour Platin and ML Revue. Yes, Munich and Vienna in end of October, save Berlin for January. That will give me all of November and December, another eight weeks, to save for Berlin. Munich more than anywhere is really the City in the Autumn Stars. It even has a Rosenstrasse! Maybe I could buy some new boots. I am really going to enjoy myself this autumn in Munich and Vienna. Still, before I go, I would like to return at least once to Cotton Club Cinema and then to see Demi and Pamela. This time I will take some pictures in Munich at night. I am going to really absorb myself in Munich and draw out of it as much as I can this time. 

OK now I have woken up a bit, I think yes of course I must travel, and put it on my cards. That is what cards are for, to enable you to stretch yourself and have amazing experiences. Even the failed visit to Frankfurt now seems so evocative. Even the last visit to Berlin had Erika, Alla & Olga, Serail at the Komische Oper, not to mention the one night with Prokina at the Deutsche Oper and Wild Hunt in the BEC, coming back home through those leaf-strewn back streets, crossing the Ku'damm STILL with an enormous swollen rolling cock in my trousers! Fantastic. Even the last trip to Brussels brought some fantastic large breasted women, and-amazingly–still that gorgeous McDonald’s girl! Oh the Pullman! Oh the Cafe Belge! I cannot WAIT for end of October so I can pull into Munich station at night, go straight into the Intercity (or Regent?), then straight out to Atlantic City to drink. Next day wake up midday to go for my gorgeous Lamm's, New Pin, back to sleep a little before getting evening train to Nuremberg for Pils Bar and Caribic. 4am milk train back in time for 6am Intercity breakfast! Spend Sunday in Munich, or use it to get to Vienna? Have a rostbraten when I arrive in Vienna and a quiet Sunday night in perhaps, getting very drunk in the Dorint bar. Then Monday, Dorint bar early for some zipfers, then out to St Stephen’s, the Pummerin, the Butterfly House, KHM and Leopold. Back to sleep, before off out to explore Seilerstatte first. Maybe on way back to hotel I can pop into Manhattan or Pour Platin for nightcap. Tuesday night back up to ML Revue then exploring Gurtel on way back, Angelique, Pour Platin. It will be expensive but it has got to be done. Then I can wait for Berlin in January for La Traviata and Carmina Burana–a full 15 months after I last set foot in Berlin!!!—knowing I can then stay at home for rest of year to pay it off. 

Oh how I love to be awake at 4 o’clock in the morning! This is my time! I want to fuck those Vienna whores. Viennese Eroticism. Bad Timing. The Night Porter. Mando Diao. Saybia. The Libertines. Soulwax. Galvanise. Maria. Harrieta. Of COURSE I must go back to Vienna first. Tonight feels like a significant night. The night I realised Munich and Vienna must come first and it feels right.

After Lamm's what else is there to do for me in Munich apart from struggling to the New Pin & trying to make it back to the Intercity before I explode? (4th August 2006)

After Lamm's what else is there to do for me in Munich, apart from struggling to the New Pin & trying to make it back to the Intercity before I explode? Nothing. Really. Lamm's is the be all and end all of my every day in Munich. At nights, the White Coffin becomes the be all and end all but I think even that has finished for me now, as it has become just full of memories which the here and now increasingly struggles to live up to. The more fantastic memories you have built up in a place, or exquisitely painful ones, the more blood you have left on the tracks, the harder it is to get the same thrill out of the place & the more disappointing it becomes. It becomes a law of diminishing returns. There is a rising arc of your first few visits when it gets better & better, then you reach the zenith, then level off, then the arc inexorably descends, and every trip becomes increasingly distressingly flat and uneventful. The whores get more flat-chested and unattractive every time you go. In Berlin, Yulia, Riccarda, Iga, Diana, gone forever. Maybe they were always poor but the excitement of going somewhere new made them seem more sexy and alluring than they really were. The more you return the more you tend to see the same women in the cold light of day, as it were, and you realise they weren’t all they were cracked up to be. 

I want to write books the like of which have never been seen before. Journals of a man subsumed in a life of emptiness and nothingness, but who revels in and gorges himself on this emptiness and nothingness, like a mother eating her own placenta. Journals about the visceral pleasure in detachment of an autistic person. About transcendency, about finding lenses that enable one to focus all the rays of this emptiness and nothingness like a magnifying glass used to focus the rays of the sun to start a fire, like the mirror that Orphee steps through to enter the Underworld, and then the transcendency flares into life like a white phosphorescent explosion, and one orgies in the transcendency, in the sublime orgasmic detachment from everything and everyone around you, in the supreme quality of emptiness and nothingness stretched to the nth degree like a taut violin string that is at any moment about to break but never quite goes; what exquisite pleasure is then to be found. If Guy Debord’s view of life was to seek the perfect point of inebriation, mine is to locate the perfect point of transcendental orgasmic detachment. The nights I would go to the Coliseum and have to creep in the darkness to the gentleman’s toilets and furiously masturbate so aroused was I. The nights at the opera in Berlin, when I had to leave at the interval in search of Kant and cunt, so highly-strung and aroused had I become. 

It is possible to take an aesthetic appreciation in fine pornography, fine aids to arousal and ejaculation; indeed it is impossible not to. The night in Munich I had to leave Strauss’s Arabella in desperate race back to Schiller and Goethe. It was Karl Kraus who said a woman can sometimes be an acceptable substitute for masturbation, but that it requires an awful lot of imagination. When I think of all the brief connections I have made this year with women, Florence, Melani, Amanda, Pamela, Olga, I can say that not one of them gave me an iota of the pleasure that I felt when the woman in the cinema let the men crowd around her with their cocks out, and let me wrap her hair around my cock to masturbate with in the dark. Transgression is not only possible, but beautiful. I would go further. Transgression is not only beautiful, it is essential. The double life is absolutely essential in order to save one’s life. 

Oh I cannot wait to get back to Nuremberg again! To go back to the Pils Bar to look for Martina! To go back to the Caribic on a Saturday night! My trips always used to be a three-way battle between Love, Art and Eros, this in the days when I was tormented by my desires and my repression, and the more I repressed my desires the more they overwhelmed me. Truly the only way to avoid tempation is to give in to it. Only by indulging your tormenting desire does that desire go away and leave you free to go on with more constructive things, like writing about it. In the last two or three years, however, I have achieved a unity of the three. Love, Art and Eros have been forged together so everything I do is motivated and fuelled by the combination of the three. I go to the Wiertz Museum during the day, and walk around that extraordinary single big room–alone, always alone–and already achieve a fine erection. My cock strains hugely in my trousers and rolls from side to side like a ship in a storm as I walk slowly around the room. By the time I penetrate into the three smaller rooms at the end of the corridor, it is all I can do not to remove my swollen member from its captivity and frig myself maniacally there & then on the spot. How Wiertz’s Napoleon arouses me, his Satan. Because I remember every time I have been here before, it was a precursor to the exquisite coils of desire I would envelop myself in later that night, so the Wiertz Musuem serves as the appetiser, the foreplay, the anteroom on the first floor, as it were, to the brothel on the second. 

Similarly, I go to the Museum of Modern Art in order to arouse myself by looking again at the deliciously dirty Paul Delvaux pictures, the Profond des Plaisirs, Salvador Dali’s Temptation of St Anthony, Tresors de Satan, and Alfred Brooks’s Salome, knowing what it will lead to later. How can I not walk around art galleries with an erection! Especially if there is some sexy woman walking around the galleries just ahead of you, so you sometimes pass her and she sometimes passes you, in an erotic dance, a waltz, where you both know less than half your mind is on the pictures, and your eyes are surreptitiously looking at each other much more than at the paintings on the wall! Oh art galleries are the most erotic places on Earth! Classical music concerts, too. I have never met so many single women as I did when I used to go to concerts every week. The red scallop neck top girl who followed me back into the auditorium at the Barbican after the interval, and who as I looked up from my notebook, I made suddenly electric eye contact with. For the entire second half of the concert, as she sat two rows in front of me, her chest rose and fell like she had been running, so excited and aroused had she become about what might happen between us afterwards. Of course, nothing did. I sidled miserably home on my own, hating myself more with every step I took, but still–the mutual arousal and anticipation had been thrilling. So many times I have had encounters like this at classical music concerts. The Irish-looking lush in front of me in the Wigmore Hall ticket queue, who kept looking back at me, and then for no discernible reason bent right over, so I could see up her skirt. Women can be quite primitive in their seduction techniques sometimes. And people say to me “How boring! Art galleries! Classical music concerts!” They have no idea. The highly developed dirty mind, the truly smutty intellect, can find sex in a pot plant. And don’t get me started on tropical palmhouses and butterfly houses! Steamy indeed! Steamy in every sense of the word! I want to write smutty monographs of no more than 45 or 50 pages each, to document how deliciously dirty the world is.

I am unique. It is important to remember that (3rd August 2006)

I am unique. It is important to remember that. I am writer and eccentric, like Philip O’Connor, Friedrich Nietzsche in cold stoveless rooms, Ernest Dowson. I exist to write those extreme, bizarre, small little books, like Autismus, Black Narcissus, The Cold Icy Air of the Mountains, and Casanova. 45 page long monographs about emptiness and nothingness. Smile from Calcutta blonde: “No ice today!” I need to focus on Miami Vice, Rebels & Martyrs exhibition, classical music concerts. The sexiest encounters of my life were at the Barbican and Wigmore Hall. 

I travel uniquely, to Berlin, Vienna and Brussels. I live a bizarre and nocturnal life. I will continue to use Sunset Cinema and Demi and Pamela. There is nothing like that excitement when a man comes in with a woman and everyone crowds around with their cocks out. Day 1 of my new life starts here. No more Midnight Bell. The Calcutta only, followed by Sunset Cinema, Demi and Pamela. I will go to the Cotton Club only when Deborah is on. I am Ernest Dowson. Philip O’Connor. The Shining Roads will be exclusively in Soho. How thrilling it is to come out of the cinema with my huge cock rolling in my trousers, just around the corner to Demi or Pamela. Just getting the bus up Regent Street and along Oxford Street you see so many big breast women, making me ready for cinema even today. My life revolves around drinking & pornography. I want to take a long train journey again, thinking and writing.

I went in Dionysus again on Wednesday. Absolutely lovely. How lovely it was to be in Charing Cross Station today. I really love Charing Cross. The way in Berlin I cling like a limpet to Berlin Zoo station, and in Munich I stay in the Intercity connected to the Hauptbahnhof, and in Vienna I stay in the Dorint opposite the Westbahnhof, and in Brussels I stay in the Ibis opposite the Gare du Midi, in London my whole life revolves around Charing Cross. I love the Upper Crust girls who get my tuna & mayo rolls ready for me, the Calcutta pub who get my cokes and beers ready for me. 

I took an incredible risk watching those porn movies in the hotel business centre the Christmas before last, before w—ing in room 16. I have never been able to work out what that fantastic film was. I am sure it was a Christoph Clark but I have never tracked it down. Like that elusive E.E. Doc Smith Lensman book I read where the captain slides his hard hand down over F’s breasts while they are watching a play together on board the spaceship. Before C goes to his room and disrobes. The best w—ing of my life was the first nights I stayed in the Dorint Hotel in Vienna while I was en route to Oslo on my Munch pilgrimage,when I was in the blackest frame of mind of my life. The two things do go together. My greatest periods of unrestrained sexuality come at my times of greatest blackness & despair. I need to be low and black and destroyed. I feel like Munch in Christiana now. Too much drink and drugs and endless nights with scantily clad women have overwhelmed my senses and driven me into a spiral of despair. 

The sexiest encounters of my life were with girls at classical music concerts, while I was sitting in the back row–the red scallop neck girl at the Barbican, little brown bob who sat opposite me in the Barbican lobby, black fur coat at the Wigmore, the grey skirt lush in the Wigmore lobby. The erections I have got in art galleries! Especially the Brussels Museum of Modern Art and the Wiertz Museum–I have got to go back to Brussels this autumn! To the Modern Art, the Wiertz, the Cathedral, the Gare du Midi Pullman bar, it is such a morbidly erotic place, even before I get up to Empire and the Gare du Nord. I got great erections in Antwerp,too. And Munich Neue Pinakothek. Oh how erotic it is to be there during the day, going to the New Pin and Lamms, knowing it is just preparation for what I am going to do later–cross Bayerstrasse and round the corner of Schillerstrasse and disappear into the White Coffin. 

My heroes are Walter Benjamin, Karl Kraus, Friedrich Nietzsche, Karl Marx. I live everyday of my life now as if I am on holiday, just drinking and eating and w—ing. The gorgeous beer in the Calcutta, the gorgeous fish & chips in Dionysus, the gorgeous KFC in Leicester Square. The gorgeous tuna & mayo rolls in Charing Cross Station. When in Berlin I live for the knesepfannes in my hotel bar and the ham & eggs rolls in Thobens at Berlin Zoo station. In Vienna it is the alt wiener rostbratens in my hotel bar; I no longer go to Wegenstein's after the staff attacked me. I went back once but it is always so empty there, in contrast to the warmth & conviviality of Lamm's in Munich. I think I almost go to Munich solely so I can eat in Lamm's & have a glass of their ice cold Augustiner beer. I go to Berlin solely so I can eat the knesepfannes in my hotel & the Zoo Thobens rolls. 

Oh I so much want to go back to Munich! But where to stay–the Regent which I love for its bar, or the Intercity for its ease? I go to Vienna solely for the cold Zipfers served by the white shirted girls in the Dorint bar before I commence my afternoon of sightseeing, which usually means St Stephen's Cathedral, the Pummerin bell made out of Turkish cannons left behind after the Siege of Vienna, the Butterfly House, the KHM, the Belvedere and the Leopold. Always the same places. Sometimes I will mix in a few Third Man sites, like the Am Hof, and the steps where Harry Lime stood when the cat gave him away and we see him for the first time. I will not go into the sewers again.

I can only ever write books alone in my cold stoveless rooms (30th July 2006)

I can only ever write books alone in my cold stoveless rooms. This is my mission. Like Nietzsche and Brahms.

Listening to all this Viennese music—Webern 5 Orchestral Pieces, Joseph Korngold lush late romanticism—makes me think of Vienna (27th July 2006)

Listening to all this Viennese music—Webern 5 Orchestral Pieces, Joseph Korngold lush late romanticism—makes me think of Vienna. Even though I wrote her name small, Maria is surely the most beautiful girl I have ever f—-d. Surely the sexiest. Now I look at all my pictures and think they are in a Vienna hotel room with Vienna just outside. Viennese Eroticism, there is nothing quite like it. Bad Timing. The Night Porter. There’s not many Brazilians in Europe, all Poles, Czechs, Romanians, Ukrainians. A couple of stand out Brazilians in Munich in Patricia and Bella Rosa, it is true. In London it is nearly ALL Brazilians! I should stay in the Radisson SAS in Vienna, if only for the first night.
We are approaching the Lost in Space boundary.
You Don’t Know Me.
********
I am a writer. I am Francis Bacon. I am eccentric and wild.
All that matters is the books, the long journeys across Europe. Writing alone with blue hands in cold stoveless rooms.