Today we were the guests of Molly and John Chester at Apricot Lane Farm, Moorpark CA.
Molly is a former personal chef and John a former film director.
Now, tucked away in their bucolic idyl, away from the madding crowd, devoted to the creation of a bio-dynamic 150 acre farm set in rolling countryside 45 minutes from Santa Monica.
We toured the property then sat in an etruscan tower over looking the freshly planted orchards.
Perfect way to spend an afternoon.
OK, so here are a few interesting clips from 1991.
There’s quite a bit of nudity and cock…so beware.
Bournemouth Film School…the house I shared with Lawrence and Charlie.
There’s some great stuff from Green Street, Orlando’s club in London.
Damien Hirst, Maia Norman, Orlando Campbell etc.
Kevin at City Gym in Sydney. The beautiful Dane I met in Florence and spent the summer. Whatever happened to him? I wanted to weep when I saw him again. He was beautiful.
The local Whitstable boys. Luke, beautiful Luke.
If any of them ever loved me I was blissfully unaware.
And…there’s a lot of…hair. During most of this…I am drunk or fucked up, remember that. I wouldn’t get sober for another 6 years.
There’s a lot of dancing and dressing up. I seem to be lip synching to Judy…missing some man. Again.
What a destructive theme.
I had a lovely time today with you. You must have been twenty years old when I first met you. Now look at you. I like when you wear your jeans tighter. Cargo pants really don’t suit you. I like when you read poetry to me. I like when you crack my fingers.
Help yourself. You can have whatever you want. Take what ever you want.
Day two of having no boy friend, even though he wasn’t actually a boy friend because he told me so. Not feeling quite as good as I felt yesterday. Wondering if I was just too eager to say goodbye. I know, deep down, that it was the right decision but I just miss talking to him. I see him out there in face book land and I want to say hi but daren’t. I just don’t want to get sucked into our weird co-dependent, obsessive love affair that has no name.
I had dinner with a friend yesterday evening but I really could not summon the energy to engage. Almost fell asleep at the table. Everything he said irritated me. That night I had more erotic dreams about you-know-who. I can only imagine having sex with him. The idea of just taking my clothes off in front of another man fills me with icy horror.
Dane came by and massaged my back until I fell asleep. I like that he blows out the candles, turns out the lights and locks the door when he leaves.
This morning went to Palisades’s men’s meeting-full of monstrous egos and bad hair plugs. One particularly vile Hollywood agent sitting smugly on his fat ass. He isn’t really fat; he’s just pudgy really, like a Rubens nude. Solid fat, not the kind of fat that squidges. Firm fat but FAT all the same. Not ‘precious’ fat. Not morbidly obese either. Just enough fat, that one thinks ‘I might catch the fat’, like a disease. Thankfully he kept his mouth shut.
I don’t know what I would do if he were brave enough to get onto an airplane and come to me. I think I might just forgive him-which is stupid as he obviously has a drug and alcohol problem. Oh FUCK!! It’s so damned hard to fall out of love when you don’t have a big bottle of whiskey to wipe the slate clean.
Party tonight, parties all weekend. Can I really be bothered? I should be mourning the loss of my non existent boyfriend.