Stayed over at the Lake House. Woke early. Made coffee. Fed Max.
Two sets of novel notes arrived yesterday…both were extremely promising. One from the publisher in London and the other from my friend who teaches at NYU. Very positive. I am still undecided about the end. Wish I could write about it without spoiling it. Something good is finally emerging from my time with him.
That pustulent, suppurating, festering, odious, limited…ugly little man.
Something beautiful is being born. From out of the shadows I will make something glorious! Eh up lad. Where there’s muck there’s brass.
Today I am in pursuit of beauty! In all its many forms. A row of freshly planted melons. A perfect cup of tea. A beautiful penis.
I have a friend on FB who takes the most beautiful photographs and yesterday he shared a picture of Thomas Heatherwick‘s Beach Cafe at dusk. Too perfect. This man Heatherwick is a genius. This is exactly what Whitstable needs. A fantastically bold architectural something.
I met a boy yesterday. A brief assignation with a 22-year-old from Maryland. A hotel room in Santa Monica. He was on vacation with his parents. He was my height, muscular, masculine. He had the most enormous penis. Incredible shape, thick. He wanted to ‘role play‘ but I refused. He was deaf. I did not want to know his name.
Spent the rest of the day planting neat rows of cantaloupe, honeydew and water melons..we planted far too many. We also planted far too many ‘heirloom’ tomatoes. There are other bits and pieces in the raised beds in front of the house. Squash, pumpkin etc.
I am perplexed. There is a bare patch of land where the huge Bougainvillea used to be. Needs filling. Needs something. What?
We weeded and watered and dug compost into the dry earth. We trimmed the grape vines. The sun began to set.
Joined the Piettes at The Malibu Community theatre for Hannah’s performance of Tweedle Dee in Alice in Wonderland. The play was great fun. The girl who played The Mad Hatter (Sage?) was not only very beautiful but incredibly talented. Ate pizza during the interval.
We stayed until 10pm. Hopped straight into bed when I got home.
Tom suggested that I reprise my stage version of The Baron in The Trees.
It is such a beautiful day today I almost can’t describe it.
This weekend was great fun. Too much fun to blog. Easter should be spent with children and friends with children. Fat on chocolate and ham.
Woke early Good Friday morning and drove the twins to Pasadena. They spent the weekend in Arizona at a Mumford and Sons concert by way of the Grand Canyon. They are on their way home now. I filled my weekend with lunches and dinners and a pedicure. I went to AA meetings and walks with friends old and new.
There were moments this wonderful spring weekend when I felt as if I were my old self (pre The Penguin) but couldn’t work out why. There were moments when I experience the very illusive peace of mind I had been craving for many, many months.
It all seemed to begin after we had chopped out the great bush of Bougainvillea. I understood that any change, however destructive, can be very creative. By freeing up the view I could see clearly. My over-view, perspective and willingness all remade.
I had to own up, once again, to misdirected anger. I am not angry with him…I am angry with my nemesis. He is not that man. By demanding answers from him I forego the courage it takes to ask my nemesis why he did those terrible things.
What The Penguin did to me scarcely compares to what happened before yet I am willing to blame The Penguin for all that is evil in the world. Of course he should never have lied his way into my life, nor should he have used me to help him. He should never have said ‘I love you’ without considering the consequences.
Our moment in court next month could be used to heal rather than to punish. To move on with amends and explanation rather than two disparate men re-entrenching their anger.
This time next week I will be in NYC…a camera shoved in my face. I must admit that I am ever so slightly excited. I am excited to see D. I am excited that I am going to have a gay old NYC summer. Hamptons, Fire Island…one last gay hurrah! Even though it is not my show and I am merely an adjunct I am excited by the prospect of showing a different, more vivacious side of my character than the one you saw last year on Sex Rehab.
This time next week? I am not living in next week, I am living now.
Therapy this morning was great. Every meeting/group/session I attend things seem to get better and better.
Miles inadvertently looked like Little Edie this evening.
A cold outing to Venice after a good 8 hours in the garden. Our third day of chopping, dragging, pruning, raking…a hard, hard day doing man work with Robby.
The vast, dense Bougainvillea finally vanquished so the house doesn’t end up looking like Grey Gardens. There are now new views all over the estate. It looks a bit bare on the terrace but we shall wait for the grape-vine to grow across the newly denuded arbour.
I wore a very fetching outfit into town. See below. Wore my Derby rather than my cap. Miles said, “I want to dress like you Duncan.” Which, as you may have guessed, is the greatest of all compliments.
We ate dinner in Venice. Food trucks. Not the greatest food truck food but filling and cheap. Then we headed over to Santa Monica and walked the length of the Third Street Promenade. I am quite happy doing these simple things knowing that very soon I will be back in NYC up to my eye balls in Penguin shit.
What a fucking tosser that man is. When I told Toby that The Penguin was attempting a restraining order he said, “Oh, so you’ve won.” Which is one way of looking at it I suppose.
There are no winners here I am sorry to say.
P.S. Did you know that JBC’s house in the Pines was called Grey Gardens?
The huge hedge of Bougainvillea that separated the house from the garden is all but gone. It has taken Robby and me two days to chop it down and cart it to the compost at the end of the drive. The house now feels as it is floating above the forest of specimen trees and succulents. Uninterrupted views all the way to the hot tub and the drive. More importantly, as one enters the garden, the full glory of this house, this post and beam gem can be fully appreciated.
On Sunday, after my AA meeting and wander around the Palisades Farmers Market, Anna popped by. We ate a particularly foul, tasteless lunch at the newly refurbished Malibu Inn (at my suggestion) and then we walked the length of the Malibu Pier which, I am ashamed to say, I have never done.
It really is very beautiful.
Nicely decorated shops and restaurants, fisherman (mostly Mexican) fishing on both sides. A seal lazily swam on it’s back looking up at us. The water around Malibu is teaming with life. Seals, Dolphins, Whales. At the end of the Malibu Pier are two elevated rooms which might be perfect for hiring. I suddenly thought that rather than have a birthday party at my house this year I would have my party there. What do you think? I didn’t celebrate last years mile stone so this is maybe a perfect opportunity and location.
Whilst in the Malibu Inn the beginning of a rather bizarre incident began to unfold. One that caused some consternation later on that evening. A rather jolly, good-looking young man handed me his number. A usual occurrence here in LA. Especially if one has been on TV. Whilst serving us he had overheard Anna and I talking about the entertainment industry. I took the number and we started texting, agreeing to meet after he had gotten off of work at 7pm. I asked if he had a car and if he could get up here or if he needed to meet on the PCH.
When he arrived at the house (shrouded in marine layer) we chatted for a few moments, whilst chatting he must have received at least 10 calls from his parents wanting to know where he was and when he was coming home. “Perhaps you had better go.” I said.
We continued our conversation regardless. He wanted, of course, to be an actor. An actor who wants to be in action films. He mentioned that he had thought about modeling. He is a great looking guy but, I told him, maybe a little too short for modeling. He told me that he needed money to finish his tattoo and move out of his house. He wanted to be free of his family. I sympathised and told him to work harder at Malibu Inn. When young men start talking about how much money they need I disconnect.
Then, I noticed that there was someone looking at us. A man on the terrace looking in.
I opened the door and there was a man (my age) with a friendly looking German Shepherd and asked him what he wanted. I noticed another person scurrying up the path. A woman with long black hair.
He said gruffly, “I’ve come to collect my boy.”
I demanded an explanation. He explained sheepishly, losing some of his bravado, that he was the young man’s father and rather than the young man having driven himself to the house as he had implied, his father had brought him. I suddenly felt rather set up. As if I was part of something that had been planned rather than being as spontaneous as I had first thought.
“Why didn’t you come in?” I asked him. “Rather than skulking around the garden.”
“You should conduct business meetings in your office.” He chided.
“This wasn’t a business meeting.” I snapped. “It was personal.”
I asked the young Malibu Inn man if he was OK and he nodded, his face reddened with embarrassment. I asked his ‘father’ if everything was OK.
“For the time being.” He said. The inherent threat was not lost on me.
I heard them stall their cheap car on the steep drive, spinning their tires on the damp concrete.
My next door neighbour Jerome was in so I stopped by and told him what had happened. The more I thought about it the more I realized that this may very well have been some sort of opportunistic venture on their behalf. They must have thought that being a self-proclaimed sex addict that I would ‘try’ something. Not realizing that I only really respond to sexual advances rather than initiate.
I suddenly felt quite vulnerable.
Thankfully the twins arrived home. It was a spooky night, the man emerging from the mist. The strange boy who needed $150 to finish his tattoo of a skull in the shape of a dollar sign.
Spent most of Monday taking down the last of the Bougainvillea. Breakfast on the PCH. Dinner with friends.
The house is rented for the week to nice sounding people from Texas. They arrive at 1.
I am looking forward to spending what may be one of my last weekends in Hollywood. I fill my suitcase with favorite things and return them to Malibu.
I am listening to BBC Radio Four, Gardeners Question Time. One of my favorite programmes, the show was first broadcast in 1947. My grandparents loved listening to it. My mother loves it too. I particularly enjoy listening to the advice of the more elderly gardeners they interview most weeks. Softly spoken with thick regional accents. Even though I cannot take their advice directly because, of course, my high sierra garden is nothing like the lush, green gardens of England.
This morning they discussed string beans.
I often forget that I can tune in and listen to BBC radio live everyday. It’s very reassuring listening to British news and opinion, current affairs and of course..The Archers.
Yesterday I trimmed the Bougainvillea around the terrace so one can eat breakfast and look over at the ocean.
I am struggling with my sad head, my achy balls, the move, the renovations and the house sale that I hope to make this year.
As for where next? God only knows.
The door that regularly opened between me and my creative mind is jammed shut. Barricaded by resentment. It is obvious that a life which includes a deep resentment leads only to futility and unhappiness…
I am planning my trip to Australia. The little dog will have to be in quarantine for 30 days and I fear that he will go mad without me. I can visit him every day at the kennel but I know that he will hate it. I would much prefer that he lived with someone he loved here whilst I am away. Or..maybe I shouldn’t go.
Whilst I seem to report only the most catastrophic thoughts and feelings in this blog I am actually working hard in therapy to understand the consequences of my actions. As a single man the consequences of watching porn, masturbation, hook ups etc, are few. However, I had a delicious revelation at group therapy on Wednesday night. I have struggled applying what I know to work in AA to my sex/love addiction. I needed a key to unlock this conundrum. Someone in the group shared that when he read the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous he replaces the word drink with think. We have lost the ability to drink like normal people. Becomes: We have lost the ability to THINK like normal people.
I began to make my way through the Big Book replacing the word drink with think and suddenly began to totally embrace how I could make sense of my sex/love addiction.
Through the pain of the last few weeks as I hurtle away from Jake leaving him somewhere in the cosmos I have wilfully forgotten the solace I get from my commitment to sobriety in which ever form that takes.
Coffee. 6am. We didn’t get into bed until 3am. Still, it’s impossible to sleep. Perhaps coffee after midnight just doesn’t work. Spent early part of day in Malibu swapping out locks, preparing for visitors. Trimming the over grown canopy of Bougainvillea leading to the top apartment. After a week of intensive organization I am making headway with downstairs and this autumn Louis will come and paint everything cream and clean.
It was good to have Andrew help me clean both apartments. He is incredibly thorough and dependable. It’s fun hanging out with him. Yet, saying this I also miss you-know-who who may never call enough for my liking. It’s odd to have your heart so evenly split between two so very different men. He is on the East coast making sense of his new him and I am here with Andrew on the West making sense of mine.
The closer we get to going to Europe the more peaceful I become. I am going home.
So, I had this invitation for the Warhol opening at Jared’s gallery on Sunset. I really had no intention of leaving the house but Ryan called and insisted that I come join him so I dragged myself into my new Nantucket reds and set sail for the social high seas.
Prism is a huge cave of a gallery that only the son of a billionaire could possible own. There were very poorly guarded yet beautifully hung Warhol’s and several hundred frantic club kids drinking free wine and beer, not paying the slightest attention to the art. Very skinny girls and very pretty boys, I am glad I was with Andrew as he was, by far, the prettiest of them all. He was wearing a pair of lively patterned Comme des Garcons pants and a simple black tee-shirt and looked divine. The little dog was wearing a wagwear collar. We chatted with Sharon Osbourne for a little while but when she realized I was British-or perhaps realized who I was-she affected this weird accent and became decidedly odd, testy.
We ate dinner at the Chateau with other friends and ended up at Soho House where I spotted Bryan Singer with a gaggle of frat boys. Robert Downey Jr and I had the briefest of chats and by midnight I was fully engaged with my old and abandoned social life. I sat with my Australian friend Peter S for a good hour remembering Sydney leaving Ryan and Andrew at the bar drinking stout.
You know I spent a rainy week on Fire Island with Bryan Singer years ago when I was with Jamie. I have nothing to report about that week other than to say it was before I got sober. A blur of interminable drinking.
Duncan. Unknown, Brandon Boyce, Bryan Singer Fire Island
Ryan and I discussed just how distracting LA can be. How one can achieve absolutely nothing yet feel as if one has had a full and accomplished day.
Poor Soho House are having a terrible time placating their near neighbors and the beautiful restaurant has to be cleared at midnight for noise pollution reasons. I really can’t imagine that you can hear much of Soho House from the street over the traffic or the other noisy clubs/restaurants but people seem compelled to complain and bitch and moan about almost everything and anything all the time.
It was fun going out although I felt incredibly tired by 2.30am and eager for my bed. I used to live this sort of life every night in LA and I could once again if I could be bothered. It’s just so tiresome being ‘on’ or being me and since making the show there is the added element that people know rather too much about my life ahead of meeting me. Too much for comfort.
This morning I have to meet John for breakfast, our Saturday morning pre-therapy ritual.
I heard a great deal of damning gossip about Kay and Amanda but may have to hold off reporting this until another time.