I almost crave the old despair, so I can return to the mountains and cold stoveless rooms. In this time of plenty and warmth, I must fill my boots and save as much money as I can. When disaster comes as it must, I will be ready with stockpile to head back to the cold icy air with. Sils Maria too. I am one of life’s outsiders; you can try to bring me in but I will never feel comfortable or happy; and will have to fly away again. Like Wendy tried to lure Peter in, but he had to go.
There is a kind of dangerous desire for defeat, for only in complete abject defeat and despair can one experience that release of pure nihilism, that eroticism of despair that enables real sexual ecstacy to flower, to bloom and blossom from the absolute fertiliser of shit in which one is now wallowing. For instance one can yearn for a wonderful blessed marriage to a beautiful woman to be lost because it restricts one’s true desire too much so one can be free to wallow in shame and degradation again, one can yearn for wonderful job and career to be ruined because it would allow one not to refrain from certain practices, so one can be free to wallow in shame and degradation again. This yearning for disaster, defeat, shame, humiliation, as only then can you achieve real sexual highs. Only in the most abject lows can you experience the most sublime sexual and spiritual highs. A real Sadeian Nihilism. A French cyclist who wants never to win stages of the Tour de France or to ever again win the race itself so the despair and the bitterness can become richer and richer, like a child biting down on a loose tooth to release that amazing sweet taste of blood and feel that amazing pain. This whole attitude is prevalent through the life of the Marquis de Sade, and I recognise it so strongly in myself. It is both terrifying, and disgusting, and makes me want to cry, at the same time as filling me with a dangerous excitement, a devilish desire, a feeling that is my true desire. So sitting with my beautiful never to be unloved wife in a pub together looking at some lonely old man sitting alone all afternoon with his pint, quietly and with dignity speaking to no one, but just periodically returning to the bar to politely take another drink, I find myself yearning to be that lonely old man myself as I get older. There is a dignity to them, a beauty. Like sad abused old dogs recovering from their terrible wounds in some dog sanctuary seem so much more lovable and noble than happy dogs.
Yes Fifth Avenue is poor but better just to see it as a stopping off point on the way to Rue d’Aerschot where you are guaranteed to find at least one girl you fancy. As always I have my Stations of the Cross. I had it in Soho back in the 1990s fin-de-siecle, had it in Berlin during the Mon Cheri/Stutti golden age, and I have it now in Brussels. Start with Jupiler in the hotel, then a brief stop in Cine Paris, then one in Café Jimmy, then walk along the street girls to Fifth Avenue. Only then can I head up to Rue d’Aerschot. Perhaps a Brussels Grill or Domino’s Pizza on the way back. Later that night if I wake up in time, a last visit to Cine Paris.