Great weekend in Malibu. Loads going on.
Therapy Saturday. Lunch with filmy people. Another lunch with Gabe and Toby in Venice.
Met two very sweet Redondo boys in coffee shop.
Writer arrived at 1pm. Twins came home on Sunday as I am working with writer. Both of them had a great night in Hollywood. They got so drunk and sick and in trouble but separately. They lay down looking worse for wear.
The writer left. I vacuumed the house.
Miami Henry popped over. Made dinner for the four of us. Twins surprised that I made the salad dressing.
Henry left after dinner. Bed at midnight.
Nothing more to report. I have been writing like a crazy person.
I am thinking of checking into rehab. Seriously. I can’t go on like this.
The heaviest rainfall Southern California has ever recorded. 8.5 ins last night.
The road to my house is impassable, strewn with boulders fallen down the mountain and smashed on the road. So…no go to the house. Thankfully, the roof was repaired exactly one day before the storm so even though my house is probably, at this very moment, sliding into the ocean…at the very least it will be dry inside.
I am staying with J and J and their lively children. Their lake overflowed and I had to wade through sewage water to my ride…where to? You may very well ask! Where would I be off to on such a rancid day?
We throw ourselves even harder into helping others when we cannot shift our stinking thinking. So, with this in my nutty mind, I volunteered as a night carer in a sober living in Malibu. Awake all night, chatting with recovering addicts.
This morning I felt loads better. A bit tired.
There is nothing better than helping those who cannot help themselves.
Look!! Loads of people searching for JB on the internet! Whatever for?
JB…dear Oh dear.
This morning I spent a few moments looking at a picture of us together and I can still remember what it feels like to kiss him. From the very first to the very last. Pity that what I was kissing was such a cunt….and not in a good way.
JB!!! What have you done to me? I felt loved and complete. I will never feel like that again. Ever. Should I feel happy to have loved or resentful that I am never likely to love again?
Today…my spirits are high. Not as high as this tide tho.
We ate at one of the food trucks parked on Abbott Kinney then decided to have desert and coffee at the legendary Gjelina’s. Of course we ate all over again when we got in…the pork was particularly delicious.
The deserts are a little mundane but who cares eh?
The best and most unexpected thing happened as we were going in..on the pavement waiting for their table were Maia Norman and Simon Brown.
Simon cooked the first ever meal at the Oyster Company before it was even a restaurant.
These people are old friends and I was really pleased to see them. We ended up having lunch together today in Malibu. It was sublime.
I am really resisting writing about the conversation we had at dinner or at lunch. There is no part of it what so ever that I want to divulge. No indiscretion, no detail no nothing and the reason is this: they are my friends. Even though I don’t see then very often. Even though we never call. Even though we seldom give a thought to what the other may or may not be doing…They are OLD FRIENDS.
Whilst I had no problem writing every gory, painful detail of my relationship with JB and with the same verve describe the inclement and the triumphant situations I find myself here in LA (with obvious negative consequences) all I can tell you today, to say my heart was brimming when we finally said our goodbyes.
I thought long and hard about why: I don’t take anything I do here very seriously. I don’t take the people I know or the relationships I have or the politics I engage in or the landscape I live in seriously at all.
I am a transient in a foreign land and therefore removed from the actual life and heart of the people who live here. This is a wonderland, a delight, a fiction to be reported..like the past. The past where enough time may have elapsed for me to romanticise how it felt, what it looked like and make it mine.
I CANNOT betray my own. That’s what it would feel like..a betrayal. I guess that Jake might think that my writing about him here betrays his memory but (and this may shock you) I don’t care.
Jake isn’t real.
The only time he became real was when we were in the England. When we were on the beach in Whitstable…when we walked up the King’s Road. I wanted him in the world I had left behind so that I could get the measure of him, to see whether he was as substantial as I guessed. The answer was of course a resounding yes absolutely which is why I fell so totally in love.
I don’t know the people I meet here in the same way I know my friends at home. Therefore, they simply become part of what feels like a narrative fiction. With old friends, our connections, our shared stories and obvious affection I become resolutely loyal and unshakably discreet.
Look at what has happened to me whilst I have lived here: the TV show, the house, the ‘love’ affair…the life I have in AA. None of it seems real. Every tantrum, every assignation, every dinner, every lunch or breakfast just feels like a scenes written for some absurd Periclean phallic procession.
I reverentially adore those I have known all my life. I have no expectations, no dissapointment…I am describing the only love affair I have ever maintained: with my home and my home is not here. It is on the wet and windy streets. In the ornate drawing rooms of Belgravia. The galleries, the libraries, the train stations of my pseudo capitalist/socialist home.
This is why I have elected to go to England and have my operation because it feels REAL. I don’t give a fuck if they are the worst doctors in the world (they are not) they are my own and I trust them with my life.
Good God. What happened to me these past few months? What price was I prepared to pay to feel like I was in a relationship? What insane compromises did I make? I feel sick just thinking about it. I Am Pathetic.
P.S. I had acupuncture this evening to help heal my angry heart. As I was laying there with the needles sticking out of me I began remembering our trip to France. I remembered it as if I were alone. He was erased from every memory. Watching the fireworks on my own. Buying peaches on my own. Laying on the beach. Driving. Loving every moment of my very own road trip. Just me and The Little Dog.
The rain has fallen steadily over Malibu these past weeks. As unseasonal as it may be it comes as a great relief to those of us who live up here during what is normally described as Fire Season. One can only hope that it remains damp rather than tinder dry.
An encouraging weekend of old and new friends. New friends include a charming Pepperdine student who came for tea on Sunday evening and another internet date who was almost perfect…but not. He was intelligent, handsome and age appropriate. Our unusual date started at Intelligensia on Abbott Kinney, a trip to Home Depo to buy chlorine tablets and lunch at Sauce.
I replaced the cap that I lost at Stronghold.
I have no idea if we will ever see each other again but he made the possibility of meeting someone appropriate in the future very real and that in itself was a great diversion from my crazy head.
At lunch we both discussed our recent relationship issues and rather amazingly he became quite emotional: he had been the Jake half of his relationship. Eager to hold onto someone who loved him but wanted to sleep with other men.
Today there is another house viewing and I must make a start on my script.
Saturday therapy went well. Today I went to an early session in the Palisades. I emerge from these groups feeling stronger and more complete. All in all it has been a very gratifying weekend. I am somehow not prone to the great fear. Perhaps this has something to do with the full moon or maybe I am just not taking any notice of the demons.
The house is so beautiful today. The spa is working. Ashley pays her rent on time. The work on the road to the PCH has resumed. The dogs are well behaved. Why go and ruin it with invasive surgery?
I am making a huge oxtail stew for our dinner. The sort of recipe that takes two days to do properly. Every day I must do something creative in some sort of way.
Life is serving up a great and perfect opportunity. I can feel it. After the heavy rain, the plants are convinced it is springtime. New growth, budding cacti and the great orchid trees in the garden are suddenly covered in succulent pink flowers.
Barry from Whitstable is on his way here to stay en route to his new life in Australia. It will be fun to have him here.
With Venus in retrograde (huh?) I have a lightened spirit today.
Actually, regardless of the orbiting planets, nothing has really changed other than the volume of the conspiring demons in my head.
Let’s do a little inventory.
Firstly, having Ashley living at the house makes everything more fun. The truth is if she can get to me with coffee and fags before I write my blog the whole tenor of this blog changes significantly. I tend not to dwell on Jake for instance….who ever that (Jake) is…so much time has passed since we communicated I am just left with a few shards of unresolved resentments and a few hundred pictures of him in various states of undress.
What the hell were we doing together? Two desperate renegades or two men who had a genuine connection that I should learn to honor? If I compare him to the men I meet now, have met..then the attraction is obvious! I loved his pickled brain, his logic, I was even attracted to the shadow in which he lived as it heightened the emotional chiaroscuro.
I hope I get to the point when I can think about him fondly, not skip over the many, many pictures of him in my photo library, not endlessly relive the betrayal, get some perspective….some forgiveness. What am I writing? Have I forgiven him?
Today I absolve you Mr. B. Just for today.
So, what forced me out of the hideous funk?
Getting out of the house sure does help.
Yesterday, JA arrived after the therapy group that we were meant to go to together but I haven’t been to for some time. We drove to PC Greens and bought a delicious lunch. I saw Sarah. We hugged. I cooked two steaks on the grill and tossed organic vine tomatoes and spinach together with a salty vinaigrette. We sat on the terrace overlooking the sea and ate it.
I have this idea for a film. The sort of idea that I know will end up on the screen. I may not write it myself or even direct it but I sure am going to be its midwife.
I tentatively discussed the idea with JA. He loved it!
So, after we talked it through I offered to write the treatment and finish it by the end of the week. A little research..but mostly it’s there in my fingers waiting to be written.
I spent a little time on a gay hook up site and arranged to meet a particularly attractive young man in West H’wood. We shall call him Manhunt date No. 8. JA also invited friends. One of his friends turned out to be a small, timid, New York Jew. 29-years-old. Talent agent. Very intelligent. SOUND FAMILIAR? I laughed at how God plays games with the heart. I was very nice to the NYC Jewish guy and knew that had I not gone through what I had just so recently been through I might have gotten further involved.
After all..a good brain is worth a thousand abs.
My hook-up arrived, tall, willowy, perfect face and body..lovely demeanor. The attraction was mutual and before very long we were headed toward Malibu. I invited him home on the understanding that I did not want to have sex but after a few hours asleep I woke up feeling like breaking that particular promise. The problem is: the passion that Jake and I shared in the bedroom/forest/shower does not transfer easily to another. Our passion was based on knowing each other. A magnetic attraction. A profound level of connection.
Sexually, I am very aggressive. I am not interested in being taken. Never have been. I know what I wanted at dawn but I also knew what I was doing: bringing the passion I shared with Jake into another bedroom…it simply does not work.
By the time Ashley brewed the coffee this morning the beautiful stranger was gone. Will I see him again? No idea. Up to him really.
Birthday party today. I WILL go. Eli Roth etc. Maybe fun.
Of course I am thinking about the treacherously intelligent agent. Funny little man.
I did not hear back from my old love yesterday. He is in Vegas so probably very busy. I would adore to see him but strangely just having a brief chat on the phone gave me confidence that there is always closure however long it takes.
Then, when the resentments have been laid to rest, only love remains.
I have a treatment to write. Let’s see if I can write the diary of a film getting made with the same verve as I have Jake these past nine months?
A film getting made rather than a doomed love affair? I don’t doubt that some of you will be interested in this process but not nearly so much as you were in my imploding relationship.
Everybody loves a train wreck..
Woke up too late for therapy. Haven’t been for days. As my leg heals and I begin to face the onslaught I feel myself edge toward isolation once again. A perfect prison. This house is so beautiful..why leave?
Isolation: the great and enduring refuge of the addict/alcoholic.
I have a bunch of Billy Childish paintings that I am going to sell, apparently there is now a market for them. I am limping through this economic disaster like so many people. I have paintings for sale in two major auctions this winter.
I’ll get by. Just like all the rest.
The economic situation will not kill me. My balls may.
Jennifer popped by yesterday as I lay on the couch with my leg elevated wrapped alternately in ice and thick socks. This morning it feels a whole heap better but I don’t want to test it by jogging down the hill now do I?
Everything in the valley is green once again after the heavy rain. It takes no time at all for nature to change its clothes. It’s going to take a few weeks to dry out over here in Malibu. Now, now that it’s California Autumn. My deck is still damp. As Jen pointed out within one week we have had a 50 degree temperature slide. This time last week it was 110 degrees. I always think about the firemen when it rains heavily. Just how happy they must be. Perhaps we have escaped the fires once again this year..yet..as the rain falls the fuel grows around me for the next big fire.
Watching home buying/selling/renovating shows on TV. Houses back East are OK. The further West, the worse the interiors. Until you get to LA: The Land That Taste Forgot. I watch one show after another..unless the houses/people are too ghastly then I look at the food network. Chefs battling with each other to win thousands of dollars. Chefs as gladiators.
I have no interest watching anything even vaguely dramatic. I dip into TV drama occasionally but the acting is stilted. The stories are dull. The lighting, more often than not, too dark and moody. Less light seems to equal serious to the average director/DP.
The dogs are totally bored.
Ashley and Aaron took Willie out yesterday but The Lil Dog refuses to leave my side.
They have stopped grading the Rambla Pacifico road repair. There is some small legal issue that they need to solve. It depresses me when I can’t see them working down there. Rapunzel up here needs that fucking road finished.
I must admit that I spend more and more time looking at unsavoury, addictive web sites. The less time I spend in therapy the more time I am at my computer screen..looking…wondering…thank GOD Ashley is downstairs.
When Jennie and I moved into The Chateau de Fleur we did so to escape the lives we had and wanted to change when we went into rehab. For Jennie it was the beginning of a life away from being a porn performer. For me it was to escape the exquisite monotony of Malibu, the pornography, the internet hook up sites and the gruelling symptoms of sex addiction.
Amazingly, for the longest time, I steered clear of the worst of my sex addict tendencies. Until, of course, I met Jake and collapsed..once again..into active addiction. As much as I try..I cannot forgive him. I was doing so well.
I tell you, I hate him now more than anyone I have ever been wronged by. More than the vile people who ran over The Darling Big Dog and more than I ever harboured for my step-father.
Masquerading as an innocent, timid boy JB knows exactly what he is doing. I would urge anyone that gets involved with him never, ever believe a word that comes out of that mouth. His lies are not even very amusing. An amusing liar, like Leigh Bowery or Diana Vreeland can enhance a dull world but a tepid, self-serving liar like Jake can only make the mediocre a paler shade of taupe.
The only good thing that came out of his mouth was my cock.
I though I might write about the day my dog was killed in front of that building, in front of me and the little dog..but I can’t, not least because the memory of her written on the same page I write his name would sully the memory of her.
To think, he left his gf and flew to me. I tended him, looked after him, cooked for him, dabbed at his tears. I reassured him again and again that things would work out fine..and I am sure they will for the conniving little cunt.
Goodbye Hollywood. Hello New York City.
Letter from Susan:
I drove my father to the Stiperstones last Saturday – creamy golden late afternoon sunshine lighting all that hilly beauty – he was so happy. But all I could think of was the time we drove up there in his little Mini – I rammed the car off the road at a funny angle and we then draped ourselves around the seats and dashboard. Do you remember how much we laughed when people came to help and we woke up ? I still find it quite funny.
I do remember..and it was really funny.
I have complained before about owning too much stuff. Unable to throw things away. Yesterday was no exception. I moved more stuff into the Malibu house from Hollywood and find it impossible to let things go. Throw things out. Dump the junk that in some cases I have dragged twice around the world.
It amazes me that I have now sold over thirty works of art and you really would not notice the difference. Every spare space on every spare wall is covered with art.
I have just one small box of knickknacks that I have left on the drive waiting to be sold when in fact they need to be thrown away. I need that TV intervention show where kindly looking therapists gently pull ‘precious’ things away from me and throw them into a dumpster/skip. I am not, obviously, a 3rd degree hoarder but my inability to let things go one might use, at this crucial time with Jake, as a metaphor.
What’s the difference between shame and embarrassment? I am embarrassed by the things crammed into my cupboards, closets and wardrobes. Under the stairs I keep an archive of every film and theatre project I ever worked including two 35mm prints of AKA. I attempted to donate this thorough personal collection to the Outfest Film and Television Archive but at the last moment did not get around to.
I have a shelve, a rather deep shelve, in the kitchen where I have put things that I know need to be thrown away. Every time I open the cupboard door these things look at me pathetically, ‘please don’t throw us out’ they plead.
All this stuff from Hollywood fucks up the aesthetic. Cluttered, overwhelming and all the wrong colors. I am trying for less and all the time have to deal with more.
Yesterday Ashley and I cooked dinner for Frank and Stephen. Delicious. Both Frank and Stephen didn’t know what St Tropez was. I was mildly shocked. The Architect text messaged me asking, in lieu of dating, if he could be my slave. I am considering my options.
I am so happy that Ashley lives here. She brings such verve and life to the house. This Sunday she is inviting friends over for lunch, it’s going to be a great deal of fun.
Yesterday I realized that in the post Malibu Hill Billy from last December was the first time I heard from Jake. Compare the lightness and optimism of those early posts. I wish I could reclaim that mood. I will eventually.
I have a date for my operation.
Yesterday I had my fourth and fifth Manhunt dates. The first was a youngish Asian who didn’t have a car or a conversation and giggled nervously. He had been to the gym but I have no idea what he was doing there unless he goes there to eat doughnuts. He had ‘attitude’ which was amusing. He knew he was totally out of his depth. Even though we were totally incompatible he still insinuated that we should fuck. We didn’t.
Listlessly waited for the watch to arrive. The moment I left the house it arrived. I will get it on Monday.
I drove into Hollywood and packed several more boxes with essentials. I had coffee with Michael B in Solar. He can be very tricky. Met a charming Brazilian called Frank who is here with me now in Malibu helping me and Ashley with the endless moving chore.
I tidied the larder organizing the pulses, baking (flour, baking soda etc.) and cans into neat rows.
So, had dinner with Manhunt date number 5. A black man from Miami. Very intelligent, great company. Not very sexy. He too wanted to have sex. What is wrong with these people? Didn’t they read my profile? I am flattered but Christ Almighty…give a man a break!
The only man I could or would consider making anything happen with was the first man..the one I couldn’t look at in the eye.
I am in a sparklingly good mood. I tell you, being single, not having to worry about Jake and being here on the temperate mountainside is just perfect for lifting the spirits. I don’t want this to sound embittered but I feel like I have woken up after a very bad dream. As if for the past eight months I have been watching myself act out the charade of being in love. Deluded old fool.
Just finished reading an advance copy of Tony Blair’s riveting memoir. A JOURNEY. The age explained. I voted for him and was pleased to see him elected. I was upset when Will Self told me that he hated him. I was saddened when his occasional speech writer Stephen Fry told me that Blair would go to his grave with the word Iraq engraved on his heart. Like Mary Tudor had Calais engraved on hers. (“When I am dead, you will find Calais lying on my heart“) Yet, I am afraid, they were both quite right.
What did I like about the book? As a recovering alcoholic I loved that he admitted that he drank too much..that was rather inspiring. Is he an alcoholic? Perhaps. Drank on his feelings. Reading the British press I am a little confused, as I think they may be. Why should this book be such a revelation to most British political commentators? Most seem to think that the moment you become a leader you stop being a man. That all human vagaries should be set aside. How naive. They wonder at his childish spats with Brown, that Blair admits to self-doubt, frailties, manipulation and the like. They marvel at how frank he is.
They seem embarrassed and caught off guard. However poorly I may now think of him, however he will be judged by time and further revelations..I was impressed by his book..how very candid and relaxed he seems. Although I am sure he will be further reviled and doubted by most for this entertaining memoir, I rather enjoyed it.
There is, as my granny would say, no peace for the wicked.
I must remind myself of that sometimes.
I forgot to mention just how wonderful the last renters were. A sweet couple and their gorgeous dog. Vegan, into meditation and rebooked immediately for next year.
I am slowly moving back into the house. Brought a bunch of things with me from Hollywood yesterday. I am enjoying ironing the linen and folding it neatly and making piles of sweet-smelling pillowcases. Putting everything away. Lovely.
Not much to report other than a very funny story I heard from my six-year-old and very beautiful god-daughter Lily. She loves acting and singing and three times a year performs as part of a local theatre group. At the end of this summers performance she told me that an old lady in a fur coat came up to her and told her how wonderful her voice was, that she had seen her in the last play and how delightful she was. Her parents giggled, the old lady in the fur coat was Barbra Streisand. That’s Malibu life for you. Just a little community of regular beach dwelling folk who are, for the most part…billionaires.
Had dinner with Eric at Sauce in Venice. I love that little restaurant. The waiter had huge hair and a cheeky smile. I ate pulled pork. Delicious.
I am going to get dressed and walk to the new road.
Jason and Hillary, quite separately, popped by and both brought lunch. Hillary arrived with a friend’s dog called Willy who decided to pee on everything the moment he came indoors.
Hillary made a delicious gazpacho and Jason brough chevre and smoked salmon. Three mad brits eating an Enid Blyton lunch in our tree house over looking the ocean.
I ate bread which I bitterly regret having eaten today. I am bloated and my tummy aches.
The house after dark can be a little noisy. I lay in the dark listening to the raccoons squabble, the coyote’s howl and the owls hoot. The little dog had a restless night, so, of course did I. He was up and down the stairs shouting at anything that disturbed him. After an hour of this nonsense I closed the windows and he slept peacefully.
It was meant to be in the 100′s all week but by last night in Malibu it was colder than Whitstable. I am sure the firemen are very happy as there have been so few wild-fire warnings. Everything is very damp in the morning from the thick mist that rolls off the sea.
Jason left and Hillary and I decided to take the dogs for a long walk along the length of the new road (Rambla Pacifico) that leads to the PCH. The house is now walkable from the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) and since they started building the Rambla Pacifico extension empty lots are now for sale, lot owners who abandoned their lots 26 years ago are on the mountain with contractors discussing driveways and bedrooms with ocean views. There is a certain excitement up here which cannot be ignored.
I applaud myself for paying so little for this house. I just KNEW that one day the road would be built..who knew that it would be so soon?
Apparently I am not the only resident who regularly walks the muddy track which will one day be our new road/life line. We saw a man armed with shopping bags marching over the hillocks. Everyone is so impatient to feel less isolated.
It is only a few weeks until the rainy season starts so they must get a move on and finish this project. The worst that could happen is that heavy rains come before it is finished and all their hard work is washed away.
If only Malibu would buy the road so it can be used by everyone rather than a select few.
Watched TV until midnight…yes there is a TV here and fell into bed. I watch home improvement shows and laugh gently at how cheap and ill-conceived the ‘improvements’ are.
The Lil Dog was exhausted from running after Willy all day and his long walk but not, apparently, exhausted enough.
P.S. The despicable Glenn Beck is holding his reclaim America from anyone who isn’t white rally today in Washington. For those of you who underestimate the ambition of people like Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin I urge you to take notice of their message. They are determined to undermine the goodwill and inclusive character of this great country and, my friends, they will succeed just like their right-wing predecessors. They will use all the usual tactics: fear mongering, false patriotism and the invocation of their malevolent God. These men and women are not clowns, we cannot afford to grandly sneer at their absurd antics. For as the liberal elite laugh in their grotesque faces they are gathering speed. If we are not very careful it will be soon too late for those of us who believe in freedom to stop them for we were too busy laughing.
We say that to each other in the UK all the time. It doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just the way we check in with each other. I check in with you and you check in with me. Even if I am not OK I thank you for asking.
When I taught him, the companion, what it meant he played at asking me if I was OK but the effect was still the same. I felt good, checked in with, placated.
Americans, when you ask them if they are OK, worry that something looks wrong with them. It worries them, disrupts their day.
So, don’t ask an American if he/she is OK unless you think that there is something wrong. You’ll do more harm than good.
It’s Monday morning. I have just been to therapy.
The weekend was a delicious blend of fun, laughter and me feeling better than I have for 8 months. I am just so happy. Happy doesn’t necessarily mean well-behaved. I have been delightfully rude.
Ivan Massow is in town, such an unpleasant man who was the ‘source’ in the Caroline Roux article about me for the Guardian. The source who was too scared to be openly vicious about me. Anyway, there he was yesterday having lunch, slimeing all over my straight friend Ben. Who in their right mind gave that man the ICA to run? WHO in their right mind thought he should stand as Mayor of London? Crazy!
Anyway, supposedly he is sober so I am trying not to hate him too much.
Thankfully he is losing his looks.
Saturday spent nearly all day in Malibu. Lunch in the Lumber Yard with Jon Aubry. I went to bed early Saturday night.
Breakfast on Sunday with Will and his dog Rocco. Stephen popped by at about 11 and then lunch with Sharon Swart. Delightful. She attended a flower arranging class and brought to lunch a huge bouquet of roses and hydrangea.
Sunday night Michael and I went to a party in Silverlake. There was a performance piece for us to watch. Three 10 minute sections of a larger work about a man accused of burning down his house and killing his daughters. The first part was indecipherable. The second and third part, although messy, were much better and had good, strong ideas. The director asked what I thought..so I told him. Bad idea. Nobody wants to hear the truth.
We were meant to meet Jamie Lee Curtis after that party but we did not.
Taka came by late on Sunday. He is a funny one. Editor, Japanese..chatty.
Oh, before I forget..the new Malibu renters arrived on Saturday and are very happy in the house. They are the SWEETEST people from the UK who loved the house the moment they stepped through the door and from whom I have not heard since..no news is GREAT news as far as renters are concerned.
I made a ‘to do’ list for Monday that includes all the boring stuff I have been putting off for weeks but essential if I am going to stay on top of things.
I went to therapy on Saturday morning and shared my good news. My only worry about therapy is that I am surrounded by so many miserable, desperate men.
It’s now Monday morning and I am positioned at my ‘desk’ at SHLA. Papers and briefcase open and ready for action. My list of things ‘to do’ is already half eaten. THICK lines scored through the things already done.
Listen, I have no idea why I am so happy but one thing is for sure..it has nothing to do with anyone else. In fact, I was briefly annoyed by the actions of the other last night but after a few seconds ceased to be. There was a time in the very recent past when the other could ruin my entire evening by being snippy. Not anymore.
Whenever one has a meaningful relationship one tends to ignore when things don’t add up. Denial gluing disparate parts of one story into something believable.
I am not annoyed with him..a little disappointed in me.
Disappointed that I have been so desperate to make our relationship work. Just writing that down makes me feel sick. That I would have done anything to make another man love, want and care for me. For the past 8 months I have devoted my time, energy, love and money to a stranger who bust his way into my life after seeing me on TV. It is a testament to my own low self-esteem just how much I was prepared to ignore in order to feel loved.
I am grateful that I fell in love and really got to know a man, be seen by another man. You may think that I have been foolish but in fact the last few months have been some of the best of my whole life. I miss him. I do. But what I miss doesn’t really exist. I miss being cared about, thought about, fantasized about, included and lastly, but most importantly, I miss being loved.
Every decision I made these past few months has been inspired by my love for him. Consequently I now have to make decisions based on my needs, my desires and my career.
I have vowed not to work out our stuff here in my blog so I won’t.
All you, my readers, need to know is that I am ok..are you ok?
Before I start today’s rant I must just share with you how beautiful it is in Malibu. The house is calm, the colours are peaceful and dreamy. The misty canyon is slowly clearing to reveal the ocean below.
Unusually there is a TV and it’s nice to hear it babbling in the background so I don’t feel so alone. I woke up too late this morning to go to my therapy group. Thirty minutes too late. Perhaps all I need is a TV and a little dog to be happy? I have been wondering since I returned from Europe what or how life will deliver next. Obviously if I were in NYC I would be enjoying the tail end of my relationship with him. Oh, I don’t know.
The insurance man came yesterday to discuss the burglary that happened here in Malibu before I left for Europe. He was polite and thorough. A friend popped by to take me to lunch, a young Japanese actor. We ate at the new Cuban place nearby.
I spent the afternoon imagining how the house might look if I made the essential changes I want to make before I put it on the market this autumn. I drove down to see how the new road is progressing. They have already carved out the route and huge yellow earth movers are shifting tons of debris from the 26-year-old slide. It excites me to see the changes. Driving up Rambla Pacifico is really beautiful overlooking the northern Malibu shores, past vineyards and the vast Santa Monica mountain range. As I have said before, the road makes sense of why these homes were built here. I was sure when I bought the house that one day the road would be repaired so seeing it happen gives me a huge sense of relief.
Went out for dinner with friends last night, they had an elderly black labrador who the Little Dog fell in love with and tried humping. He had such fun! Running around their lawn with his new girl friend.
Something funny happened yesterday morning after therapy. One of my co-conspirators (kinda famous) came up to me and told me that if I ever saw him in public that I shouldn’t speak to him. That my fame as a sex addict might reveal him as the same.
The news on the TV is all about missing boys, bigamy and bombs. For many people just like me yesterday’s great news was the over turning of the morally reprehensible proposition 8. A federal judge declared California’s ban on same-sex marriage unconstitutional Wednesday, saying that no legitimate state interest justified treating gay and lesbian couples differently from others and that “moral disapproval” was not enough to save the voter-passed Proposition 8.
Even though marriage has been small part of my long story I have never really considered marriage between me and another man a possibility. If I stay in Malibu on the side of a mountain I am never going to meet anyone.
Meeting someone. Why has that become so important to me? Why have I abandoned my desire for glorious isolation? I suppose the very fact that for the past few months I have felt connected to someone has woken in me the desire to share what I have and learn to be a pair rather than a single. Of course this happened rather too late in the day. I miss him because he is intelligent and funny and warm and forgiving and when I am with him I feel complete. A rare combination. NYC is not far away but I will stay away because he has to make sense of his new life.
I must spend the morning putting the house together for new renters. The last renters left the house looking beautiful. Some people just leave a really nice feeling in the house. It is easy to remember only the bad renters and forget the good ones. I have been jammed solid with renters this year and most of them were appreciative and delightful. For that, this morning, I am very grateful.
All day the Little Dog has been sick. He is listless and miserable, his little black nose hot and dry. I checked his gums but they seem ok. I get scared that he might die. The past few months would have been utterly unbearable without him.
At about 7.30 he perked up and has been right as rain ever since. Leaping all over Eric when he arrived for hastily put together dinner.
He is snuggling in my lap as I write.
I think about the darling big dog. My darling big dog, I miss her more than I ever did. I still have daily, violent memories of her broken, bloody body. Searing into my mind. Replaying the last few moments of her life before that evil truck scraped her across the road.
My fingers angrily bang the letters of those words onto the page.
I CAN’T HELP YOU.
I blame the man driving the truck. He did it on purpose. He didn’t stop. Bastard.
At moments like this I soothe myself with memories of home. I think a great deal of England-green and pleasant land. The Kent countryside, the buses to Canterbury, Georgina, The Goods Shed, etc. etc., I nightly drive through Clowes Wood in my semi conscious state..naked..shameless.
I remember a recurring nightmare: I am a young boy naked in the schoolyard. I have no idea where my clothes are or where I lost them. I hide behind the half door in the toilets as the other children are called to class. I stand naked in the schoolyard covering myself, the cold wind whipping grit into my eyes. The other children sitting warm inside at their desks.
Last night as he was with me in my bed I lay thinking of how I might get home safely. How can I get back home? For all that raucous, interminable thinking we slept soundly.
I’ve not written a word these past few days. Full moon blues I call it. I lost interest in my blog as things calmed down with my (ex?) and my new friend holidayed in Italy.
I had to deal with a moving traffic violation issue that meant going to the Superior Court twice this week. The judge was very fair and funny but going through a stop sign still cost me $550. I have opted for community service. The art auction last Sunday seemed to vindicate my ability to pick the winners. Things sold mostly at the upper end of the estimate. I bought a beautiful candle stick by a potter whose name I have forgotten.
Prevaricating. Stifled. Tongue-tied.
The point is: I can’t really write down any of my true feelings. I am in shut down mode. I can’t do anything, move anywhere, release myself..rant or rave. The malaise seems to affect every area of my life.
After the headiness of New York I’ve fallen into a sharp decline, my confidence at an all time low. Dinner with friends last weekend I simply couldn’t hold my head up, my libido, my enthusiasm, my recall deserting me. She was a very cool next generation producer. CAA agents greeting her at our table. Hugs and kisses. Fast track.
I say to myself, “I am on my own with no one to focus on, no one to say that I love.” It feels like a terrible waste. I had some real hope! Hope that I could travel the world with a man I was excited by. How those dreams crumble into dust. I am fractured by time and distance. I am in the wrong city, in the wrong country, on the wrong fucking planet. I am desperate for a change of circumstance.
The road that leads to the Malibu house is weeks from being repaired. It maybe the very metaphor I am looking for. The road to the house is being repaired so I can escape my verdant prison. Yet every day I do my best to make it more like paradise.
I want to write about The Great BP Catastrophe but I can’t. I want to write about anything other than me but each time I begin I am stopped by something inescapable. I just don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I am exhausted..spent.
Beaten by the sheer force of inequity:
BP, miserable pictures of delicate Pelican eggs smeared with crude oil. The watered down banking regulations that caused Wall Street a collective sigh of relief. Congress about to pass an additional $32 billion to pay for war in Afghanistan yet it struggling to justify a $23 billion bill to forestall the layoff of nearly 300,000 teachers next year.
What kind of country are we?
The storm is well and truly passing. The stack of unopened mail on my dining room table can be opened. The Malibu house is now rented for the time that we were going to be there. The bathroom floor can be mopped. The thick LA dust over the marble side tables can be washed away.
I can now turn my attention to Kristian once again. So many beautiful tributes to him on the internet. I like that they have recast him as a film director who also made TV. He would be liked to remembered like that. I have not yet scanned the pictures of Kristian and I. They are very sweet.
I will bake another walnut and banana cake in his honor.
I have a few really important decisions to make which may very well mean that I have to go home, my tail between my legs. Home to London. I don’t feel bad about that. I have had a total blast in LA and as this blog is proof life seldom gets boring.
There was a time before I met Richard, Jamie, Joe, Him, Matt-a moment before we met and that moment has to be reclaimed. Before the note arrives, the stare across the busy club, the man at the top of the ladder, (I can’t remember how I met Jamie) the men who I have been most moved by. I showed Him pictures of Matty and could not remember what it was to love Matty. I can just remember driving in the pea green sports car down the M2 motorway to Whitstable and wondering if I could let him go without damaging him. Like letting a fish go after you have caught it, removing the hook from its delicate mouth and setting it free.
I still remember Richard of course. Richard Green, the great love of my life. Twenty five years ago he was at the top of a ladder outside the Oyster Company in Whitstable. He was wearing tight white shorts and for five exquisite years we explored the world. Tempestuous, glorious years. Of course I never slept with him. Even my mother knew that I loved him and was disappointed for me when he would flirt with girls in front of me.
He would drag girls into the bushes at country dances and return with stains all over his dinner jacket!
Sometimes I would arrive back at my darling cottage and he would be asleep on the sofa. A window broken. I didn’t care.
You know I have 50 intimate pictures of Him and Matty and Jamie but I don’t have one picture of Richard Green. Not one. He is middle-aged now-like me-older and fat and by all accounts a miserable bastard. But if we walked in through that door right now I know that we would begin where we left off. We would have a huge amount to say and do. He was utterly fascinated by the world and I was his willing side kick. He was a perfect love because I had no interest in sex or relationships with other men-I had him and he was enough. He was enough.
Isn’t it funny that I would include Him in the list of those who meant most to me. I think that might change as time passes. I would never have been able to trust him. The next man he meets will not know his story will trust him and love him.
It is a perfect spring day in LA. I am seeing Michelle later and hanging with Frank. I like Frank. Not like that! Not so soon after the last fiasco. Now, it’s Runyon time with the little dog.
My apartment looks like an art gallery, paintings neatly stacked and waiting to be sold. Everything here is for sale. I am slowly getting ready to move back to Malibu and all that entails. As I have written previously, my pack rat collection of more stuff is getting me down. It all needs to be sold.
Last night I decided that I couldn’t see Mr. Darling NYC ever again, that it was doing me in. Yet, for all the hopelessness there is still an unavoidable truth-we love each other. What am I meant to do? Just walk away from what may very well be the best thing to ever happen to me?
I am prepared to wake up alone every morning until he can wake up with me. I loathe waking up alone, alone is not good for a man who obviously has so much to offer.
I long to try something I’ve never had..lover man oh where can you be?
We both have so much.
Up until now I craved a companion on my terms. After our conversation today I now crave a lover on our terms. As he was quick to point out-this is not just about Duncan Roy. My beautiful boy has feelings too, feelings that until today I was ill prepared for.
HE DOESN’T WANT TO MOVE TO LA.
So what of Malibu? I would move anywhere if it meant we could be together. I looked online at houses in Upstate New York, London and Paris. After our long and emotional conversation I understood just how selfish I had become. Yet, sometimes you just have to go with your heart.
This morning, after writing yesterday’s sensible blog, I woke up alone and angry. Angry with him, angry that our fragile love affair could be so easily tossed aside, unless of course I fully appreciated his situation. I shouted at him. He burst into tears.
He is lost and terrified of loneliness. And that description could so easily be mine.
His wracked, desperate sobs silenced and shamed me.
After he tearfully described his fears I knew that things were not as simple or solvable as I had kidded myself. The thrill of romance will not solve this problem. Resolve, strength and patience on my part may be all I can offer him.
I prayed for guidance this morning. God can and will set me straight. Even if it can’t keep him..straight.
I love a married man. A married man loves me. Send in the fucking clowns.
I read a really great blog called Love in The Time of Foreclosure. The blog charts the ups and downs of a couple facing the loss of their house and staying in love. Adversity, so it seems, keeps people fighting for what they believe in.
It’s odd how much one can learn about oneself when love is at stake. I have not really been in love since Matt and I broke up 10 years ago. The sort of love that makes one desirously wild with anticipation. Delirious. Desirous.
Listening to him cry made me love him more. After all, when one is craving authenticity to hear another man cry is as about as authentic as it gets.
I usually write my blogs when I get up in the morning. I breach the surface of the new day with a description of the previous day but this evening I am sitting at home with The Little Dog listening to old tunes and eating Swiss chocolate. Somehow, my darling man crying has settled something deep within me.
All of me, why not take all of me, can’t you see I’m no good without you. Take my lips I want to lose them, take my arms; I’ll never use them. Your goodbye left me with eyes that cry. How can I go on my dear without you?