Archives for posts with tag: Shopping

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My final days in Petrolia.  I’m home now.  The exhausting 11 hour drive.

Stopped in San Francisco for lunch.

We must have climbed the steep hill to Alexander Cockburn‘s Tower ten times a day, getting ready for Daisy’s first paying guests.

By the time we were finished it looked magnificent.  Beating rugs like Victorian chamber maids.  Oiling the redwood kitchen.  Making beds with fresh white linen.  Sweeping cobwebs off the windows.

Giving succor to the inner butler that lurks within.

Here is the sculpture that decorates the path:

Here are the fossilized fish that decorate the bathroom:

Here are random pictures I failed to publish earlier:

Hannah

I haven’t written anything for so long.

Perhaps I just ran out of things to say.

Roger Ebert died.  He wrote to me recently urging me to write more.  I have no idea why.

The house in Malibu is filled with my things again and the garden, this beautiful spring, overwhelms me.

Moving back in gave me the opportunity to start editing once again.    I threw out three huge boxes of old clothes.  Cashmere, labels, everything loved for a moment back then.  Helmut, Yves, Issy, Comme des Garcons… boxy shirts from another era, trousers that I can (after my op) still get into but have lost interest in.

I kept all the Helmut Lang couture.  It’s just too special.

I feel myself floating over the surface of my life.

The road trip across the USA was spectacular.  Chicago, Denver, The Rockies, Utah and Vegas.   Just me and the dogs and a car full of art and luggage.  I met lovely people and saw cities I had only ever heard of.

I never went over the speed limit.

The operation to have my gall bladder removed was painful but since having the surgery I feel wonderful.

I didn’t realize how much pain I was living with.  How the pain made me grumpy, listless and intolerant.

Now, without that girdle of pain, without the imminent GB attacks… I feel perfectly happy.  Peaceful.

I can concentrate.  perhaps that’s why I need to write?

During the past few months so much has happened.  Things I can tell you and things I can’t.

Yet, after the moment passes, I can’t be bothered to write it down.

Editing the huge amount of stuff I own to a few essential pieces.  Taking my old stuff  to vintage stores, consignment stores and auction houses has been cathartic and profitable.   Who knew things were so valuable?

But more than that.  It feels like I am winding down.  Not is a morbid way.

With less stuff and less girth (since the op I lost a great deal of weight) I feel not only lighter but more agile, more energy to do important things (for me) more time to devote to others, causes, delights.

As you know, those who know me, I like my decisions to be made for me.  I LIKED my decisions to be made for me.

Recently I have taken control of the reigns.  Less at the mercy of Duncan Roy.  Do you know what I’m talking about?

Wedding Dress

Sup. I bought my wedding dress.  Am I wearing it properly?

I am back in Afghanistan next week.

I may take it with me.  Masc and Chill.

I’m going to lip sync ‘Call Me Maybe’ with my Marine Corp bros/buds.

January NYC

1.

The definite seasons on the east coast. The passing days, changing. Slowly.

Each day has a brand new identity. New light. Color.

The bland, endless Los Angeles summer has finally come to an end. After 8 long years. I am heading home.

I wear my long, grey cashmere coat (Hermes) and fur hat (Dior).

I pull on my knee-length, woolen socks and my heavy boots.

I am going to therapy… daily. I am finally addressing the issues I have been ignoring this past year. You know, those pesky medical issues.

Strangely, without warning… even though we share the same streets. I never see him. Nor do I wish to conjure him, manifest him, make him appear… I had lunch with one of his co-workers the other day, a youngster (we met at an AA meeting) who wanted his job.

It was funny being at the same table as someone who works in close proximity to him. Their opinion.

They knew the story. An urban myth that they delighted in fact checking.

Oh well.

Of course there’s loads going on (Film/House/Social) but somehow I don’t have the energy to write it.

I take pictures and let that suffice.

2.

I found a picture of Joe. He’s obsessively going to the gym. A man mountain. In his late 60′s now.

I scarcely ever think about him. Isn’t that odd? To have no thoughts about someone who was once the center of your world.

So, here it is.  Up and running.

My controversial, contemporary retelling of Oscar Wilde’s 1890 Lippincott version of  The Picture of Dorian Gray.

I really hope you enjoy it.

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My days are split between the remarkable and the absurd. Bloated with new experiences, extraordinary adventures and, of course, passion.

Every day unfolds like a new napkin.

From dawn I write and rewrite. I am determined and hungry, inspired by the 75-year-old man who won the Palme D’Or in Cannes this year.

Contradictions:

On Thursday I stood in front of the Men’s County Jail with a disparate bunch of men and women denouncing the secure communities protocol, the very same protocol that illegally incarcerated me. A press conference for the Spanish press.

The only Anglo Saxon, the only non spanish speaker.

They hailed me and the other people called to testify. ‘Viva Duncan!’ they shout together. I am moved to tears.

Nobody I know cares about these people. Not least my gay ‘friends’ who savage me publicly for standing shoulder to shoulder with day workers, maids and gardeners who face daily threats of deportation and police harassment.

Later that same day I sat with Lady Gaga and Lindsay Lohan at dinner eating spaghetti. My date was overwhelmed. It was wholly unexpected.

The writing and photography give my life meaning and hope. The immigrants, of whom I am one, better shape my understanding of the world.

I am not interested in what I wear. I’m sure I look like a hobo. My beautiful tailored shirts are shredded. I have no interest in replacing them.

All the vintage Helmut Lang has been sold.

I can cobble together an ensemble for dinner. I look respectable enough.

Last week a young gay man told me I was lonely and sad. I feel neither. In fact, I have never felt so complete.

Here is something beautiful for you:  Blondie and Philip Glass

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.

The property was originally owned by a ‘gentleman farmer‘ so the house and formal gardens surrounding the house are spectacular in a Gertrude Jekyll kind of way.

We toured the property then sat in an etruscan tower over looking the freshly planted orchards.

Perfect way to spend an afternoon.

 

“Between August 2010 and March 2011 Roy wrote a 50,000-word blog to Bauman.

Roy coldly examines his career to date, how he had been a colourful agent provocateur, his art, like his paradoxes, seeking to subvert as well as sparkle. His own estimation of himself was of one who “stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age”.

It was from these heights that his life with Bauman began, and Roy examines that particularly closely, repudiating him for what he finally sees as his arrogance and vanity: he had not forgotten Bauman’s remark, when he was ill, “When you are not on your pedestal you are not interesting.”

Roy blamed himself, though, for the ethical degradation of character that he allowed Bauman to bring about on him and took responsibility for his own fall.

The first few months of the blog concludes with Roy’s forgiving Bauman, for his own sake as much as Baumans’.

The second half of the blog traces Roy’s spiritual journey of redemption and fulfilment. He realised that his ordeal had filled the soul with the fruit of experience, however bitter it tasted at the time.”

…I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world… And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake was that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom.

Thank you Oscar Wilde, thank you Bosie.

As I embark on my 15th year of sobriety are things as I imagined they would be?

Well…they are as they are.

In God‘s perfect world there is nothing I can’t handle.

I have enough.

Enough is all I have.

What was it like before I got sober?  It was a daily, living hell.

This is the day I that I yearly recommit to sobriety and this is the day that forces me to take stock and move forward unburdened.

The day where I take a thorough inventory, both good and bad.

Some things need left behind.  You know what I am talking about.

Some things need embracing.

Life needs to be lived.

For all the love/health/death/aggravation of the past year…today I am strong and secure.  Today.

It seems that although forgiveness is key…it is a hard thing to swallow.

I spent the day with beautiful Robby…out and about.   Firstly in the garden spreading out a huge load of compost around the fruit trees and the grape vines.

After lunch we headed into Venice for expensive Intelligentsia coffee.

We had tried returning a Mighty Mule 500 automatic gate opener at Home Depot but they refused our request claiming that I needed the ‘box it was sold in’.

Who keeps every box for everything they ever bought?  When I asked the manager this questions he said, “I keep all my shoe boxes.”

It was a lame reply.

I called the Mighty Mule people, the Southern man at the other end of the fractured cell phone line told me that my Mighty Mule 500 was still under warranty but I would have to pay the expensive postage to return it.

Frustrated with his reply I said, “Oh God!”

The man at the other end of the phone said, “Don’t swear at me.”

“I didn’t swear.”

“You used the G-O-D word.”  He spelled out the word God.

“Since when has the word God been a swear word?”

“If you don’t stop swearing at me I’ll terminate this call.”  His southern drawl smearing the words into a verbal paste.

“I’m not fucking swearing.”

“Sir!”

“You fucking cunt.”

Click.

The Home Depot security guard who had been listening to me speaking on the phone stepped tentatively toward me.

We left.  The defective, un-boxed Might Mule 500 gate opener in the back of the car.

Apparently today is blasphemy day.

Later that afternoon as the sun began to set we were in the car driving over the Santa Monica Mountains and I said, “Do you think it’s odd that I enjoy spending my time with a twenty-one year old than with almost anyone my own age.”  He said, “Do you think it’s weird that I enjoy spending time with a fifty year old more than people my own age?”

We laughed at how our perfection would always be denied.

He is perfection.

I spent another night at the house of the troubled child who had, earlier in the day, run away from home.  When he returned home late that night he was ashen, fried, wasted…what could his parents do?

Art Platform, Pacific Standard Time and most other LA art events start today.  I am attempting to get to most of them.

Will keep you in the loop.

The decorators started work repairing the huge mess left by the renters yesterday.  I will tell you more about that tomorrow.  It’s a story I have been keeping under my hat.  Now is maybe the time to reveal all.

I am sitting at home with my foot in the air swaddled in ice, listening to Joni Mitchell.   Well, singing along to her less pessimistic songs.  Relieved of the bondage of self.

The dog had his stitches out yesterday.

Henry has been very kindly driving me around.  We popped into Gjelina for a late lunch with Anna and bumped into Louisa Spring and the fabulous Chrissy Illey.  Chrissy, as you know, is a wonderful writer and journalist from London.

Read her stuff here.

I will see them again this weekend.

I had to buy new towels.  All of mine are old and miserable.  Nothing worse than getting out of the shower and searing your skin with an old towel.

Meant to be having dinner with a friend in H’wood last night but my ankle blew up like a big pink balloon so I hobbled home and lay in bed.  Iced.

I had a Facebook squabble with a well known writer who damned me for appearing on the ‘A’ List.   Why the hell shouldn’t I?  Low and High culture are there to be experienced.  I have certainly had my fill of High Culture.  Performance Art, Art Films…even my book (nearly finished btw) feels like it was written for the exclusive few.

Sorry publishers…I know you don’t want to hear that.

When I got home I tried sleeping but ended up not sleeping.  Instead I sat at the desk tidying my prose.

Perhaps I am perplexed by seeing you know who next week?  Perhaps I am worried by the future.  At around 4am I finally fell asleep.  Exhausted.

Malibu Chile Cookout today.

Henry

This summer has not delivered the early morning, glittering sea views we are used to.  It is gray and wet.  The dew is so heavy that it drips like tropical rain off the plane trees.

By 10am the sun has burned off the marine layer but somehow never really recovers.  The weather is totally messed up.  The garden thrives although I worry about the cacti.

We lost three this year, rotting in the damp air.

I have huge and beautiful squash growing on the terrace.

Henry is dropping by today.  He is taking me to the doctor.  My foot is still very painful.  Swollen.  I can see that it gets better.  Slowly, slowly.  I take a stick with me into the garden.  Ever since the coyote attacked the little dog he stays close to me.

There is a very destructive squirrel chomping on anything and everything but mostly he/she picks oranges and peels them very carefully.

The plums have all been harvested.  The figs are ripening.  There are so many this year.

Tomatoes and beans, lemons, limes and grapes.

I cooked dinner for Andrew last night, we sat eating it watching Ted on Chopped.  I rarely veer from watching HGTV or MSNBC.

Late last night the dog started howling at the moon.  It’s impossible to get back to sleep.

The poor little darling was in worse shape than I thought.  The coyote bite was much deeper than it looked.  Today Jason and the kids took him to the Malibu Coast Vet and Dr. Victor made it better. Whilst he was asleep Victor cleaned his teeth and cut away a skin tab behind his ear.

We love Dr Victor. He is incredibly handsome.

I am in pretty bad shape.  I can only crawl.  So I am crawling to the bathroom.

We are laying in bed together.  Time will heal both of us.

The more I think about that brazen coyote the more it scares me.  He was waiting a few feet from us.  Waiting.  It was very frightening.

Must buy a gun.  It could be me next time.

Pain is very exhausting.  The shock really compromised me.  Anyway, we’ll get through this.

This is a picture of the drain and the scar.  I could show you my swollen foot but that’s more disgusting than this:

 

Matt Rowe arrived from London.  Lunch with Casey at Westville.  Steven and I ate an early supper and held hands in the street.  I felt my whole body tingle with excitement.  Late dinner at lil’ Frankies with my pride boys.  I love them.

Gave up after that.  Exhausted.

I found out that somebody for whom I had long-held a candle is in fact gay…

Much more to tell but have no time.

It’s none of my business what you think about me. Remember that. Duncan Roy…asshole.

Busy past few days. Mostly interested by the end of my novel. Eluded me until last night. Then, just as we are serving dinner (Michael B), it hit me like a rock in the head. The dignified end that had been requested of me.

I have had to really listen these past few days. Listen to somebody I have never met yet whose opinions I trust. Somebody who although several thousand miles away, is as engaged as I am with my book. It is all at once disconcerting and exhilarating.

He asked if I was wedded to the idea that this be a ‘gay’ novel. Don’t! That’s what I thought. Please don’t do this to me. Then, without a moments thought I said that I wasn’t wedded to the idea but didn’t know if I could write it any other way. He suggested that I re read a certain novel with similar themes. That I might be inspired. Well, I did and I was. He was right.

As a result of his suggestion..everything has to be re-jigged but it is smoother, less…his words…’self conscious’. That seems to be what he levels at me most often…that my writing is ‘self conscious’. Then I think to myself, you are out there helping me write a better novel. Do you want to write? No, he says. That’s not my job. I don’t have those aspirations. Like a therapist he is loathed to talk about anything else other than my work and me. He is a closed book.

He helped me with the POV (Point of View) which I had thought about a million times when making a film but never when writing prose.

So, there’s a beginning, middle and an end. That’s that.

What else? Well, I have been in the garden for hours. It looks amazing. I am either at my desk editing or I am in the garden planting and pruning. My nails are constantly black with mud. There is a trail of dirt through the house where I can’t be bothered to take off my shoes but get very grumpy if anyone else forgets to.

I went to a dinner with Tom and wished he didn’t want to sleep with 19 year old boys but wanted to sleep with me. I had sex with the deaf boy whose deafness kinda turns me on. We fucked. I wish I knew him better.

The Dane arrives this evening and we set off on our adventure. What is it with me and adventures?

Have been to therapy every day. I feel great. I feel complete. I know, God damn it, that this will pass but being active in the body and the mind seems to placate my yearning heart. However, I am acutely aware that when I feel good like this I start hankering for more. Where’s mine?

 

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.

I love Shoreditch too.  I love Soho.  I love rioting students.

I love (particularly) the paint splattered Rolls that the parasite Prince Charles and the hag Camilla were caught in the other day by the ‘off with their heads’ militant protestors.  hahaah.

I am really loving being home.

It has settled something in me.  I am no longer so angry.  I am calm.

After my fuck session (which will do me for some time I might add) I wandered happily all over Shoreditch.

I stopped in at a number of cool looking shops:  like the funky Japanese run clothes shop that sold padded linen overwear, the odd man’s pop up shop that sold Swedish soldiers head-gear and ‘vintage’ socks.

A shop that sells second-hand mens socks.  Eww.

I dropped into White Cube and resisted calling Jay.

The show was spectacularly lame.   The entire space devoted to a 37 year old artist called Rachel Kneebone.

Lamentations 2010 is the name of the downstairs show.

Huge white porcelain tangled/mangled/reconstituted genitals on huge marble plinths set against slate grey walls..beautifully lit.  The usual soulless, inchoate nonsense you might expect to find in White Cube.

They reminded one..obviously of the Chapman brothers and their obsession with the dark, chaotic imagery of the unconscious.

White Cube

Jay is already showing new artists who cannibalize existing White Cube artists.

Apparently Kneebone is expressing the ‘trauma of death, loss and grief’ and shown differently these works might very well have achieved her aim but so elegantly displayed they had the guts knocked right out of them.

I went upstairs to see the rest of the show but was told to leave as I had the dog with me.

I wasn’t leaving the Little Dog outside so I left.

I wandered around.  I met a man in the street who offered to blow me but I hadn’t showered that morning after a night of sex… I declined more for his benefit.

I found a wonderful shop called Labour and Wait which can be found at:

Labour and Wait

This charming store is really worth a visit.  I thought, when I found the 1940′s lilac, enameled milk-boiling pot pictured below:  Oooh, I thought, my friend Marilyn Phipps would like this.

As if by magic..who did I bump into today?

Marilyn Phipps!

Marilyn has the most wonderful home in Seasalter called The Battery.

The Battery, a nineteenth-century naval building, is a huge, bright blue, wooden house that sits right on the Whitstable beach and faces onto a 120ft secluded sea-front.

The Battery is a shrine to Forties ‘utility’. The kitchen was put in during the Forties when the house was used as a holiday retreat for disadvantaged children.

Marilyn has carried on the Forties theme throughout the house. The two huge wooden doors between the dining room and kitchen were made in the Forties for Ramsgate post office. The kitchen walls are lined with teapots, sugar shakers, vinegar jars, and salt cellars.

A huge kitchen clock was bought locally and the chunky table was already there.

The Battery can be incredibly hard to keep warm. Marilyn solved that problem by installing an enormous wood-burner for the dining room. She painted it midnight blue, making it more abstract sculpture than functional heater…she calls it The Beast.

The Battery has a fascinating history, and features in the book Wooden Houses. It was built as two big wooden sheds at the end of the nineteenth century.  The first housed two cannons, the second was a drill hall for sailors, and during WW1 it was a convalescent home for wounded soldiers.

Marilyn still get’s people visiting who remember it from their childhood holidays in the Forties, saying they had the happiest time of their life here.

Wait!  Did I tell you that they found a strangled woman in the room I was staying in at Soho House NYC?  I can’t wait to stay there again.

Innocentboy7 baring his ass..sent me a ‘wink’.   That’s what happens when you sit on Manhunt long enough.  Unlike the real city, this virtual city has no surprises.  Asses and cocks on view before they risk you judging their ugly mug, their pretty face.

A mountain of heaving pink and brown flesh.  Like some virtual concentration camp.  A tangle of broken limbs.  Faceless.  Broken.  Made to kneel at the edge of the pit before the single bullet to the head.

People like me and my friend Jon and his son.  People like me and Ashley.  People like me and my friend Rose.  Made to run over ploughed fields.  Naked.  To the pit.  To the single bullet.    A woman in a beautifully cut coat and dress protecting herself from two big dogs.  Her felt hat on her head.  Where is her bag?

Innocentboy 7 are you innocent?  Are you a boy?  I asked him.  He replied, “Yeah dude, I’m a flight attendant.”  He ‘unlocked’ the pictures of his face.  Thanks for the introduction.   I wasn’t interested in his ass or his face.

I love the city.  That’s where I want to trawl for men, male encounters.  The streets, we are all equal on the streets.  We can be mysterious.  We can be men.  In the summer, sweaty kisses.  Letting them undress you.  In the winter warming your hands on their hot bellies under layers of coats and scarves.  Strangers in virtual streets now wink at me.  “Hello Ducky, have you got a light?’   “Do you know the way to Piccadilly?”   or,  if you’re feeling particularly fresh, “My boyfriend and I..well, we was wondering?”

What is the point of meeting anyone if you know exactly what you are going to find slumbering in their underwear?   Where is the delicious mystery?   I don’t want to see your cock…or your ass.  Not until we have made a contract.   Your hot breath on my face, on my neck.  Kiss my eye lids.  Kiss me.  Seal it with a kiss.

Without doubt I have met some interesting people from the internet.  But…they ain’t going to fit in.   Will they listen to The XX?  Do they have the ability to light a fire?

Can they stay?  Did you ever think about just staying?  Turning your back on the life you had?  Just staying over and never leaving?

There are great forks of lightning dancing over the Pacific this morning.   Like those elephants in the Dali paintings, you know the ones..the paintings?  The real paintings.  When he was painting.  I think they are in Tampa, Florida of all places.  Did you know that?

Fixed the hot tub spa thingy yesterday.  It looks great.   Can’t wait to get in it.

Gayboyforolder just sent me a picture of his cock.  He is coyly pulling his underwear from his groin to reveal his meat, his cock, his prick, his weapon of war, his 8 and a half…well…sadly…it’s an ugly little thing.  I can’t imagine doing anything with that.  Not a girl like me.  It needs photoshopping.  It looks jaundiced.  It looks toxic. It looks traumatized.

Do you know who I am?

I have songs to sing today in imaginary opera houses, in Carnegie Hall, on the South Bank.  I have songs to sing.

Have not left the house for 8 days.  Last night a friend popped by and he was playing with my lap top and there was a moment when I wanted to hit him on the back of the head with my heavy metal torch because I HATE people messing with my laptop.  I would rather they looked at my soiled underwear.

Sunday, forgot to tell you,  chatted with Lady Rizo.  I love her so much.  The call lasted all the way from West Hollywood to the PCH…giggling and analysing.

Spent the larger part of this morning in bed skyping with Tim Willis whose book about Nigel Dempster hits the shelves today in the UK.

Dempster was an old-fashioned gossip columnist who worked for the Daily Mail and the satirical rag Private Eye.

When I was a small boy living in Stanley Road, Whitstable I used to just love reading his column.  A window into another altogether more exciting world.  A world with which my Mother was very familiar from her days working as a waitress in the Carlton Club.

I was secretly shocked and delighted by his salacious Royal gossip.  Dempster’s code name for the Queen when he wrote about her in Private Eye: Brenda.

I think more than anyone it was he who inspired prepubescent me to search out the fun-loving aristocrat and the demi-monde.  I alluded to him at the beginning of my film AKA.

Years later he wrote about me unfavourably after I was caught pretending to be ‘one of them’.

Nigel Dempster and the Death of Discretion published by Short Books.  Buy it.

Today I am strangely at peace with myself.  It’s been this way more often than not these past few days.  I have no idea why.  I guess because I am no longer in love.  No longer pining.  No longer focused on another.  I am listening to Copeland, majestic strings elevating the view, the moment..this life!

Two good friends called for advice.  Isn’t that strange?  I can help others when I tend not to be able to help myself.

Now that my fantasy of loving another has been safely stowed in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of me I can concentrate on what I do best.  Dreaming.  The dream of love is so much better than the reality.  Good God it is so exhausting being in love.  So consuming.  Being in hate can be just as tiring.  Thankfully I am neither.

I have named the lil maggot on my ball.  A pain in the balls.  I have a picture of my tumor.  I will put it up when I can.

Frank and Willie

I spent the night in Hollywood.  Had breakfast with John but didn’t go to therapy.  I had the dogs with me and wasn’t going to leave them in the car whilst I was inside getting my head fixed.

Finally, just three months late,  summer is here and despite all the drama of the past months I find myself feeling positive, upbeat, fearless.

I described it yesterday to Frank as no longer being possessed.

Frank and I had dinner with friends in Beverly Hills.  We sat next to Stevie Wonder..which was kinda wonderful.  As they were eating their desert he and his friends sang to each other so we were treated to an impromptu performance.  This is LA.

My friends are film finance wizards from the UK so, after we deconstructed the British Film Industry, we talk love lives.  They were fascinated by the Sex Rehab show.

Two women with very differing pathologies.  One said that when ever she falls in love she becomes unrecognisable.   The effective, fully functioning business woman becomes needy, obsessed and emotional.  Huh..I nodded a lot as she described the symptoms of obsessive love.  The other woman couldn’t be more different, trusting her man to the point where she becomes suspicious of any man who asks her randomly what she is up to.  She, of course, is very happily married.  The other woman..is not.

Dinner was BETTER than therapy.

I ate a small cobb salad.  They very kindly paid for dinner.  So sweet.

I spent the day in Malibu being that handyman I had wished daily would just come with a screwdriver and do all the things I had been putting off ever since I first got here four years ago.

I put up a mirror in the bathroom, a shelve in the hall and a hat rack too. I hung curtains over the double doors and whilst I did all this Ashley cooked the most delicious breakfast which we ate on the back terrace.  I had scrubbed the huge, wooden table with vim and a scrubbing brush like a mad man until it was a delightful silvery grey color.

This morning I filled the truck with books and draws and cushions and the remainder of my shoe collection and here we all are at the house.  It’s 80 degrees.  The dogs are slumped on the marble floor…panting.

This morning we ate breakfast in the Farmer’s Market on Fairfax and Third.  Ordering scrambled egg and sausage…the deal is you sit down and they call your name when it’s ready.  They called my name very loudly.  I was aware that some people thought they knew who I was but having my name operatically yelled over the terrace confirmed their suspicions.

I chatted with a young fan.  He was adorable.

Anyway, very excitedly expecting my box of meat and veg from Jennifer’s organic delivery service.

P.S.  Forgot to mention that I went to the Prism opening (vernisage).  The gallery belongs to my friend Jared.  I had a lovely long chat with Stavros Niarchos about Spetses and the Russels and Engenio Lopez.  Bumped into Degan Pener who wants me to write something about art for The Angelino.   Saw Kevin from W but he was frosty.  You can’t win them all.

The problem with Prism is that there is no frisson.  It needs to take itself seriously rather than be the gallery ‘toy’ of two rick kids.   Remember going to Tracy Emin‘s White Cube show?  There were a thousand people in Hoxton Square..even class war demonstrators?

Where’s the audacity?  The verve?  Those boys need to cut a dash.

This is far better than the original…

I JUST REREAD THIS POST.  IT IS SO BORING!

Hahahaha

Without intensity and drama what becomes of me?

I woke up feeling really positive.  I am really beating this one.  Really.

A simple day.  I am losing weight.  I saw my reflection.  It gives me great pleasure to see a flat tummy.

I decided to give Manhunt a try as I had paid for that account to snoop on u know who.  It was good to get some interest from cute looking men but I felt as if I had come full circle since I was last living here.  At least I am being myself on Manhunt rather than disguised by some fake profile just to hear the reassuring ping of interest.

Almost immediately two men recognized me from the show and two friends.  It was fun.

Talked to realtor about what he wanted me to do to the house before we put it on the market this November.  He said nothing.  He said whoever bought it would probably tear it down.

I made jam.  I made a jam.  Strawberry jam.  Tomorrow I am going to finish up after the gardeners.   Today the little dog ran around after me in the garden.   We drove to Venice and ate breakfast at Sauce.  How quickly the staff get to know me.  They remember after just two visits what I have and how I like it.

I like that.  I like being taken seriously.

Scrambled, tomatoes..grilled.

I need something from you.   I need closure.  Don’t take this the wrong way.  Moving at the wrong pace.  I love you but…

You told me that you could not give me what I wanted-but I think you misjudged what I wanted.   What I wanted more than anything was that we could do all the things we said we wanted to do when we weren’t in a position to do them.  We had some really great ideas about what it meant to be together, time together, excitement together, exploration together.

You said you would fly to see me if only you could, then when you could..you couldn’t.

You may have become less free rather than more free, less brave rather than more brave and complain all the time about your lot without ever taking action to improve it.  Darling Lamb Head:  get a  job you love and a place to live and make yourself available.  Stop wallowing in self-pity and false promises.    How long is this charade going to last where you pretend not to be having a life because you don’t want to be found out?

I am afraid of the huge difference between us.   You see, I am not scared of all that life has to offer!  When I was your age, at the merest hint of an invitation I would have been on that plane, that boat, that train, I would have been in Paris and London and Rome!  You put all the reasons why NOT to before the reasons why you should.

If it had been me I would have come home triumphant!  Armed with stories I would have told my grandchildren.

Darling, I need you to not call me when you are lonely and make cooing noises that just makes me love you all over again.  I need you to set me free from the hope that we could ever be anything other than friends.  If that!

It simply isn’t fair or considerate-in fact it is down right cruel because I cannot call you when I am feeling lonely not least because you are not very good at being compassionate.  I don’t think we should see each other at all until we have got ourselves settled with other people.

I am going to meet this guy tomorrow and I am going to take him to dinner and then I am going to ask him if he will come to Paris with me.  You had your chance and all you could say like a willful, petulant child is NO!

I think we really did exhaust things this time.  We really may have pushed the right button.  Please, please lets hope we did.

So, as a delicious post script to the man I loved:

You know, the days we spent in NYC together were some of the best I ever spent with anyone..ever.  Lamb Head, you never let me write about that.  You kept me silent.   I wasn’t allowed to describe the joy, the love and the kindness.  Never allowed to describe our tender kisses just in case it hurt other people.  Our perfect moments sullied by your fear of what others might think.   Like holding hands in the street.   I can’t hold your hand in the street because I can’t bear the thought of the disapproving glances.   No wonder your mother thinks so badly of me because I never get to write the beautiful things..because you told me not to.   So, I want you to know that we had beautiful time.  I had a beautiful time with your son.  That he is capable of great love.  He knows how to love a man.  He knows how to make a man happy.

Just as it is meant to be.

The last thing he said this evening was that he didn’t make the huge changes in his life to be with me but that, I’m afraid, is the lie he tells himself.  He left the other for a relationship with men, not this man, not me, but with men and we must honour him for that, for it was his bravest hour.

We are tired of the conflict, tired of the unresolved feelings that causes so much distress on this roiling sea of emotion.  We must say goodbye now-help me. Help me say goodbye.

I needed to stay in home alone tonight.  I feel sad.  Sad about Kristian, sad about my friends who died this year and sad that once again I am on my own:  the vacuum left behind after a wonderful weekend with a great friend.

I have always had and certainly will continue to have a serious problem with goodbye.  Saying goodbye permanently or even temporarily brings up huge feelings of loss, vulnerability and then the anger-the anger overwhelms me.

The genesis of these feelings: I was ripped from my mother’s breast and put up for adoption.  These are primal fears of life and death.   The most profoundly affecting goodbye after my mother’s abandonment was the death of my Darling Big Dog.

When my dog was violently killed the resulting anguish unleashed a torrent of sadness, a great wave of misery that may have resulted from not ever having said goodbye-ever to anyone I loved.  I did not go to my grandfather’s funeral nor my grandmother’s.   I have rigorously avoided any ritual goodbye and for that I am a lesser man.

Whenever I leave a party I just slip away as if saying goodbye will somehow humiliate me.

The same feelings overcome me now after the deaths of three friends in as many months.  Yet the very act of writing about them lends me immediate solace.

The end of relationships causes me unrelenting heartache.

Stoically accepting the end of a relationship?  No, not for me.  Nearly all of the relationships I have had have ended badly.  I never, it seems, get to write that scene in the movie of my life where two people say a dignified goodbye.

The end of my relationship with Joe ended thus:  I knew that I was going to leave but it took me 2 years to end it and when I finally did I tried to do it with tenderness and compassion but he was so angry that he made my life miserable for a full year after I left him-ending up in court fighting over property.

In my mad head I forget that I have choices, the choice to remember that the past no longer runs the show, choices to say goodbye without the reenactment of traumatic and ruinous scenarios.

Today I waved goodbye to a new friend who has come to mean a great deal to me.  Whether there is any romantic future between us is really not up to me-unless I behave in such a way that he would never want to see me again.   This morning I began to get angry, angry that he was leaving but knew that it was for the best.

Even though I was only momentarily angry-until I could identify what was going on in my mad head and break the cycle of abandonment and despair by telling him that I would miss him, that I was feeling sad, that I had no mechanism for making those feelings go away…and by telling him the truth I was freed from behaviors that would alienate him from me forever.

I will say goodbye to Kristian this week, say my heartfelt adieu.   His death has brought up all sorts of STUFF.   I sorted out pictures of us today and will post them as soon as I can.

Mary in the vegetable garden

The transformation begins.  The property is suddenly alive with Sean and his partner Mary pruning, tilling, weeding and the like.   The terraces that run down to the property line in front of the house are beginning to look like vegetable beds and as I have said before the earth is rich and soft after the heavy rain.

The torrential rain caused damage to many roads across the region and this time our neighborhood was not spared.  In the mountains above me the upper part of Rambla Pacifico has fallen away.  100 feet of road crumbling off of the mountainside like royal icing off a wedding cake.

The fencing for the goats has been mapped out and at the beginning of March I hope to complete this part of the project.    After a long discussion yesterday with Mary and Sean I think I may very well become a vegetarian.   This will please those of you who think my plan to eat the goats was cruel.

The only problem for me being in Malibu is what happens to me when everybody leaves at the end of the day.  I feel incredibly lonely.   So, last night I headed over to Jennifer and Jason’s house near Trancas and fell into a deep sleep on their sofa.

My friends Jennifer and Jason are conspiracy theorists and believe in Chem Trails and government corruption and after an evening discussing their worldview I am exhausted by unrelenting pessimism.

It was fun waking up to their three children and their sleepover friends screaming around the house.  We ate thick creamy porridge and black coffee and I drove home.

However, the truth is, before the children woke up I woke up feeling desperately sad.  Apart from the usual sense of doom that overcomes me each morning when I remember that half of America is gripped by a terrible financial firestorm-as well as the snowstorms that have snarled the capital and all other major East Coast cities.  I was sad because I woke up too many thousands of miles away from the man I want to be waking up besides.

I am falling in love.

Falling in love is not an easy thing to do for a sex addict.

The moment things don’t go my way my default is to retire to a safe and quiet place and lick my wounds.  Why should romantic love be so damned painful?

It has been hard these past few days to make sense of what happens to me when the love thang kicks in.    Of course I want to see him but he is in NYC and he is otherwise engaged.    Why can’t I meet someone who lives close by and is good at farming?  Anyone know a good gay farmer who wants to spend his days in total paradise with me..I suppose THAT is the fly in the ointment-me.

Who would want to do that?

PS Obviously anyone in London who knew Lee McQueen is upset by his untimely demise but I am especially sad as he was so maligned after Issie Blow’s death.   Artists are fragile creatures, he was especially so.  Somehow, at the end of the day, art is simply not enough to sustain anyone.

Lil Dog in the Snow

I attended my first acting class this evening in a squalid theatre on the east side. Sixteen of us, two of us were over the age of 35, Mary-Elizabeth and me.

As I sat listening to the instructor I was so frightened it almost took my breath away.   I had an allergic reaction to the fear.  My throat closing, my face flushed, my knuckles swollen.

I didn’t want to be there.  I didn’t want anyone to see how clumsy and inept I am.

Yet, after a few minutes, I began to feel comfortable and after 30 minutes I was totally at peace.   The instructor encouraged us to make fools of ourselves and I relished the opportunity.  The instructor told us that we would feel insulted, that we shouldn’t THINK.   He told us to ‘go with the feelings’ he insisted that we didn’t manufacture jokes.  That we learn to cut each other slack.  The youngsters didn’t know how to do that-to look after each other.   Mary-Elizabeth and I knew how to make space for the others because we came from a different time in space.

After the first 30 minutes I could no longer hear the internal critic-you know the one-the one who tells you you are a bad writer, bad person for trying.  He looks at me knowingly, with my grand mothers eyes, wanting to know who the fuck I am to think I can TRY.  Who told you that you could TRY?  Could fight back?  Could make art?  Who told you?

WHO?

The others were very cautious of me.   I liked that I understood their caution.  I understood them.  They were so frail and sensitive.  Not the two old farts.  We weren’t frail or sensitive.  We were just having fun.  You could see that they were sniggering at me but I just didn’t care.

I was having a blast.

Some of them, the others, some of them sparkled, some of them were just lousy.  I knew immediately that I was lousy.  I knew I was bad but I didn’t care.  I didn’t have any shame whatsoever this evening.

Tonight the class was about freeing my soul not tethering it to shame.

We poured out onto the cold street laughing and happy.

Sometime I wake up as if from a nightmare but the nightmare is the day ahead.

Someone commented yesterday that they would rather read about sex than money.  Yet, the same issues spring from both.  Shame, fear and resentment.   When I hang out with my very rich friends I come away feeling like I could have done better.

Most of my rich friends were either born that way or have handsome divorce settlements.

As the New Year approaches I am beginning to worry about what comes next – even though I know that the universe has and always will look me after.  I want more.   Yet, what do I do to get it?   I enjoyed the relatively simple occupation of Reality TV.   Just be oneself and do the work of being oneself.

The conundrum I have always had in sobriety-how can one be ambitious yet with gentle optimism hand over the reigns of ones life to God?  How?

Dinner with Anna last night.  She cooked linguine and aubergine mille feuille.   Delicious.  I tried wearing a huge, Russian inspired ensemble but as it turned out there were only four of us at the table and I felt like a bit of a prat.

When I got back to the car Luna had spent the hour tearing apart the rest of the passenger seat.  Very distressing.

I must confide in you, dear blog, that I am trying to be optimistic about self-sufficiency.  I would prefer to be doing it with some one.  Being on ones own and making another project happen on ones own can be very, very depressing.

So, as well as becoming self-sufficient I may stop paying my mortgage.  The house is worth 30% less than what I paid for it.  Perhaps, like many Americans, I should negotiate a reduction in principle.  Yet, the only way to do that seems to be to force the hand of the bank by not paying ones mortgage.

It’s a miserable option.

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