Tuesday, 31 March 2015

A Substitute for Love (Viennese therapy & its aftermath)



O IT’S OVER FOR GOOD THEN. I will not see her again. The first real relationship of my life is over. I feel desolate. I’ve got a headache, tired and emotional. My emotions are all shaken up.
I said I feel attracted to you and had warm feelings so it’s hard to stop dead after sixteen weeks, and be then left with nothing. But she stopped me; you wasn’t left with nothing—you had the experience of us being together. It didn’t feel like that at the time. But did it later? Yes, it does now.
Sarah in red-brown bun of hair, brown cardigan, white top and brown check mini-skirt, black stockings and long voluptuous thighs. She said she had spoken to Dr ------, who’s psychologist for this area, and told him she thinks I could benefit from further therapy, and he agreed that would be a good thing. But it wouldn’t be with her, because she doesn’t work for him anymore, but it would be here, with someone else. I said it would be hard seeing someone else, here; I’d feel jealous seeing you go in room with someone else. I’m not in that room anymore, she interrupted. No, the room doesn’t matter. It’s that I can continue therapy with someone else.
She said I’m not your mother. No, but you’re my doctor and you help me. You don’t need help, you’re a fully grown man. You have power. You can do what you want.
She says it’s better to come for help when you’re not in crisis, you can make more progress then. Instead of firing on two cylinders, better to come on all six cylinders.
She said it’s to my credit that I wrote a letter and came back to see her again. To my credit in the month & a half waiting for her to write, I found alternative ways of coping with the blackness and getting out of it. She asked if I was in any relationships now. No of course not. Like with the girl in the club or girl at the station? No, no relationships like that. I wasn’t criticising, she said. I didn’t mean it to sound like I’m criticising.
Perhaps this will give me strength, this rapprochement, in unforeseeable ways. I feel relieved to have patched things up.
I talked about my Swiss gold, copper pennies. She says I know what a massive amount of gold you’ve got inside. In our discussions when you let me inside, I felt your gold. I found our conversations so interesting, they were important to me.
Scrooge seems so hateful, I’m not nasty to other people—she interrupted well perhaps not with words, but actions speak louder than words. I agreed.
I was weird as a baby. She interrupted me, but that’s making yourself out to be very special isn’t it. I smiled, and she did too, and I laughed.
She talked about me robbing ------. Because I wrote her for personal details which must have been hard for her, but then gave her nothing of myself.
When I spoke about copper pfennigs, she said “There you go then. You can build on that.”
I said no, I can’t do more. Well, you don’t have to do more immediately. You have the Swiss gold in you, and you have the power to give it. But if you let someone into your gold so many good things could happen.
At the end, we stood up, I picked up my coat and bag, she held out her hand and wished me luck, she put her hand on my shoulder and said “I hope you do something”. Take care of yourself or something like that, what was it?
A strange phrase “I hope you do something”: what did it mean? In life, with my book, or just writing to Dr -----. She said she hoped I would come back for more therapy.
She followed me to the front door, and said kindly “see you”. “See you” I said glancing back, too briefly, leaving, the door clicking shut behind me.
You never think people are going to be nice to you do you? No I certainly don’t! No, she echoed.
If you are going to continue with therapy, I don’t think you can continue to build the walls around yourself. You always come up with 101 reasons for not doing something.
Sarah urged me to continue with therapy: she wanted me to.
Sarah was saying if I’d passed her in the street, I wouldn’t have looked twice at her.

Saturday, 21 March 2015

I feel now I want Astral and the Carnival club again; isn’t that perverse?!

I feel now I want Astral and the Carnival club again; isn’t that perverse?! I want to sit in Astral in shorts, with big breast girl in white top and purple thong on screen. I want to sit in Carnival with black-haired Amazonian with green-tattooed arse on stage. I want to go back up Brewer Street stairway to those warm lamplit rooms. Monday or Thursday. If Monday is dark, go Monday as well. Last week of darkness.

Thursday, 19 March 2015

I love going to the models! But I can’t feel anything

I love going to the models! But I can’t feel anything. Going up the steps is so exciting, standing outside door reading the sign, knowing you can touch them in a minute. Rachel, voluptuous chubby red bob girl. Black bra, breasts hanging over the top, see through tights, nothing underneath. As I lay in bed, she took bra off and pulled tights down. What a sight. So voluptuous sitting next to me, I touched breasts, her pussy, her slit. She put me in, and it was warm, I could feel her clamping me. I pulled out, and put it back in again, back in the warm clamp again. Try it sober maybe. You do what you want. W--ked in Astral to get ready for model. I can always go to Brewer Street when I want to now. I want to spend lots of money, and go back to work, earn lots of money and spend it all in Brewer Street. Write off for jobs, start signing on, when the money goes. Spend it fast as you like. All those doorways to be investigated, and stood outside. I wouldn’t want to go back to Carla, but Rachel I definitely would.

Wednesday, 18 March 2015

"Lautrec only placed his trust in people when he felt that they understood him"

"Lautrec only placed his trust in people when he felt that they understood him, when he knew them for a long time or when something about them had made a special impression on him. Lautrec tried---in spite of, or because of, his handicap---to find the most positive sides of life for himself. At a disadvantage because of his health and his outer appearance, he felt himself magically drawn to everything vital and beautiful and was addicted to the colourful, lively activities of the so-called demi-monde. He undoubtedly suffered because of his abnormal appearance. Once he said, ‘You have to be able to suffer yourself,’ but just this was apparently difficult for him. However, the inner loneliness remained. In order to fight this or at least to cover it, he hid his innermost feelings behind a protective veil of self-irony and cynicism. It was unusual for him to utter such melancholy words, he mostly tried to appear composed and gay, and in many of his letters and diary entries he developed a sort of grim humour. The only thing which was able to give Lautrec consolation and strength in this difficult time was drawing and painting. ‘…I am now obsessed by painting,’ he wrote to Etiene Derismes on Feb 11, 1880, ‘my room is full of things which do not even deserve to be called daubs. But it helps to pass the time.’ From this pastime an art developed which rapidly matured. He gave himself no peace and just wanted to learn diligently and do something which he could be proud of, as art was the best means of self-realisation for him. It distracted him from his sad fate, he found a joy in living through it. With art he counterbalanced his inferiority complex. The older he became, the more his stunted body stood out and his facial expressions became less attractive. ‘He never blamed anyone although he suffered a lot because of his appearance. People turned away from him, but generally more in sympathy than derision.’ Lautrec often had to suffer other people’s thoughtlessness. He was called ‘the gnome with a child’s legs’, ‘shorty’ or suffered even more hurtful descriptions. Only those who knew him closer appreciated him. They did not see the cripple in him but rather the ingenious, amusing human being, and they recognised that behind what the others so quickly called horrible, values were concealed which counted more than any ideals of beauty. He longed for true love which he never found because he sought it in a milieu where there was naturally no room for lasting feelings. Instead of realising this he blamed his outer appearance and said resignedly, ‘I would like to see the woman on this planet who has a lover who is uglier than me.’ Lautrec was a cynic who, especially when he felt hurt, cheated or used, churned out his irreverent, frivolous and sometimes vulgar platitudes like little poisoned arrows. However, in his heart he was very sensitive, he just did not want to show anyone this side of his character if possible."

Tuesday, 17 March 2015

I stay very pure. I’m going to follow my own path, and not be deflected

I stay very pure. I’m going to follow my own path, and not be deflected.
“Theo had long since liberated himself from such constraints. He had managed to adapt to a world of night life and love, a world where absinthe and ‘the hour of the flesh’ were there to be enjoyed."
The prostitutes in Dean Street, there since Karl Marx. I miss that black skipants, big tall black-haired Amazonian girl in Carnival so much! And big breasts blonde black jumper. It’s there to be enjoyed.

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

I am Oscar Wilde. Dandy, laughed at, reviled, but triumphant

I am Oscar Wilde. Dandy, laughed at, reviled, but triumphant, forever above them all. I am Aubrey Beardsley, sad, frustrated, repressed young artist. I am Giacometti, a very private man who spent all his time in brothels. I am Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh.

Monday, 9 March 2015

Summer's coming and perhaps I will come into my own

Summer's coming and perhaps I will come into my own: Misadventures of Sgt Trotsky finished at last, money to spend, films to see, strolling around London under the trees, I've removed the last taboo with the models.
I felt I was deliberately stopping short of something which I didn't really want to think about.
I was deliberately limiting my experience. Now I've done everything, I can get on with my work.
It was fascinating to be on that bed and have her putting condom on and wanking me wasn't it? Then lying back for me, and putting me in.
The Astral kept me permanently turned on and bored at the same time.

Sunday, 8 March 2015

I don't want to talk

I don't want to talk because then I lose the only good thing about me, my wonderland, my daydreams, my stories, my fur coat wardrobe. That's what makes me special.
I wanted to end the carefulness of my life. Be Wedekind, Giacometti.
This will be my expensive month. Forget budgets for this one month. This is my last London month before summer arrives, then my expeditions will go round again.
"For some of us at least he hasn't lost any of his old vulgar vitality, his willingness to give something a go, his relish for chaos, his failures of nerve, his inability to become respectable no matter how hard he sometimes tries, his contempt and anger at the follies and cruelties of the powerful."

Friday, 6 March 2015

"Walking with a yellow star on my coat, some woman spat at me....You have to look straight through people like that"

"Walking with a yellow star on my coat, some woman spat at me....You have to look straight through people like that, without seeing them, or else how could you bear it.....They came to watch us at the station; they expected wailing and crying. We had a dignity which made my heart overflow with respect."
So I did it. Went in model's room in Dean Street.
Big breasts blonde in Carnival again. Plus big new long black-haired girl, with green shockwave tattoo round bottom. Big voluptuous bottom, in black ski-shorts over white knickers and bra. Great dancer, sensational big girl, big hips, big bottom. Her bottom dancing in front of me.
I had a permanent erection in Astral but you don't really see anything.
I go to prostitutes. Whatever turns you on. Prostitutes turn me on. That's what I want.
I've done it now. I can do it whenever I want now. I am Wedekind. Toulouse Lautrec. Van Gogh. 

I'm like Aubrey Beardsley, shy lovely young man who drew erotic pictures, but was incapable of a physical relationship. A disappointed Oscar Wilde said don't get caught on a couch with Aubrey, it's not the least bit compromising. Write my Yellow Books.