A MIND COMPLETELY BITTEN BY THE SERPENT OF SEX "You may think that the Grand Tour is about politics, & culture, & art, and you would be quite right; but it is also about gambling, and drinking, and sex. Particularly sex."
This is like those old sad nights, sitting in the dark in my flat listening to classical music, gazing out over London, one lamp lit on the floor. My ferns. My sadness. When I feel most myself. When low, broken, defeated; gathering my resources to rise again. I need this hiatus. I need this 25 days.
I don’t want any relationships, I don’t want to be with anyone; just drink and watch the world go by? Is this then all my life will be? Tonight I plan an epic walk across Brussels, from my hotel all the way to the Justice Palace, and beyond, down to Louise then Rue de Livourne. Stopping off along the way in Club L’Intime and Reves Table Dance. Perhaps. I doubt I will go all that way. Not with this complete lack of enthusiasm which has bedevilled this trip. The skies still bright blue but at street level dusk starting to fall; lamps outside the Hotel Plaza glowing brightly. 845pm. I just want a little nest, where I can be alone with my ferns, and my classical music, and my writing. Perhaps my lethargy & torpor on this trip is sub-consciously because I feel it is nearing the time when I find that little nest for myself and save my money for that.
Some big breasts in a tight sweater. That is all I need. Don’t know why more porn cinemas don’t just show porn like this. I wish I owned my own porn cinema. It would be the best porn cinema in the world. There would be ferns, & music playing everywhere, some places all violin music, some places all old psycho funk 1970s music, old blues 1920s music. In another room a stage with fully nude striptease. My dreams in life are all of a pornographic Priapic nature. That is my pilot light. That is the Nile deep underground inside me. My hinterland is all my erotic memories.
When I behave shamefully like Thursday night, I wake up feeling ruined, and not wanting to open my eyes, but when I do I want to do great work, intellectual things, I want to go back to classical music and ferns and my books, and I have the most amazing 48 hours or so of inspired creative work, all to run away from the shame of the drunkenness and hedonism of the night before. So doing shameful things has always been good for me; getting that mucky stuff out of your system; and it also gives me deliciously naughty dreams as well.
The receptionist in the hotel was really good, really warm, and she had black fingernails which I loved (I mean painted black, not dirty). I will return to a life of a lot more classical music I think, tropical ferns, lamps everywhere. Yes I am becoming disgusting, and free, like Anita Berber. I play with them all the time, and they just keep falling into my trap. They react how I want them to. By reacting they have lost, and they are in my pocket then. I have a talent for making people look ugly, and shaming themselves, for showing them in their true colours, for tempting them to crawl out of the woodwork and expose themselves, in a sense of gloating triumph sadly misplaced, as I sweetly and calmly run rings around them, and tie them up in knots, and play them like a piano. They bash their tiny brains out against me like moths against a lighthouse.