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“The Devil Sent Me You” by Johnny Horton - 1959. “B” side of ‘First Train
Sometimes SHIT Just Happens. . .
Here's Me on the Edge. With a grand view of this Ball of Mud.
And Proof that SHIT HAPPENS!
2001 Bracknell. U.K. - I Found a Nice Place to live. Nice place I guess.
I think I am fairly safe here. It a small bachelor apartment. After all I am a bachelor and would like to remain thus until the right time.
Until the Angel of Sweet Passion comes to call me again.
[I wrote this SIX years before I found Donna Darkwolf.]
It is in the western part of the city.
I remember when I first came to this city I thought that the streets were so like a maze – always drawing you continually deeper, toward hidden centres, tedious, well-guarded secrets. Concealment of the common place is a heritage of our Moor ancestors in Spain. Which is different from the Spanish them selves, where nothing is concealed: but all is incomprehensible. . . labyrinths leading outwards. A transparent defence – like anemones.
Yes – I conceal nothing, and thus contrive to hide everything.
How often I envied the thief who has nothing to hide but a handful of game. Most of us are so unfortunate as to have secrets that we cannot even conceal in a pocket, or into a closet: secrets which cannot even be buried in the back yard.
One would need a private hidden cemetery.
I, who was so sociable and gregarious have become a recluse. Mostly to
avoid all the things my life brought to life. People and events that I
can no longer keep track of, nor wish to. I dream of a house on an open
stretch of beach. With you, Strega Mia, with you.
You may have been there. In your dreams, and found me to be out at the time.
Amazing how people assume that a person who lives alone has something to hide: the equation is true as it is banal.
“Now I really don’t want you to come around to my place - the cops might trace you here and I gotta whole lotta really not so cool stuff about.
You know. Drugs? Guns ‘n stuff. Capische?”
Perhaps it is the only place I can hide my contempt of those I must daily linger with in the course of daily sojourn.
My work of writing the Book of my Life, forces me into a solitary mode of life. I am a good chef and I do not mind taking all my meals at home, alone in my apartment. Because I can then read – without interruption. Or distraction of listening to some one else’s account of their mindless day – as mindless as my own usually and therefore – more tedious to bear the listening of. . .
But I know someone who thinks that my wish to live alone is a deception.
A lie. I have tried to demonstrate that to lie is to remember details.
A liar is forced to live in a hateful state, an unnatural state of consistency. Their role becoming eventually their punishment.
Every one else is free. By that argument, not having to remember what they last said. And not remembering, forget. Forget themselves in their lives, imagining that they are alive while they are dying without wisdom. Old women and children are probably the only repositories of wisdom that the human race possess.
A big change from when I used to bring home a different woman, or two
every night. I like duets. I often wonder what my neighbours must have
thought about the endless parade of fleshly delights they saw me coming
home with. Or leaving with in the morning.
Aged nineteen or thirty nine. . . they could only have thought. . . what I do not care. Lucky for me that I live in a security block, and that uninvited visitors have no way of getting to my apartment.
No sooner written, than I have the recall of some occasions when some enterprising girl managed to get access – con a resident. Scale the wall. Stage a walk in with a guest after hanging at the gate for forty minutes. And then the madness would start.
No friends of mine ever visited for that matter.
What must I be doing? they will be murmuring amongst themselves. . . always willing to ingratiate themselves with their offers of dinner with them, questions about what I do and what I am doing.
As if I should have a game plan that they should be aware of.
Then one morning I awoke and ended it all.
I got this place to myself by the grace of the Borbaletta, who fled one Sunday in April because I would no longer put up with her shitty behavior and her problema do cocainho, la senhorita da lineas blancas
I warned you: I like to fuck you and you are a lot of fun and you are beautiful and the most exquisite of all Gods creations – but I don’t need you in my life to fuck me around? With your drugs? I can do that with my back turned. . . and then she was gone. And there was the end of it.
No more bodies in my bed. Had I grown tired of being so jaded? Bored of
the stories? Bored of the song? Bored of the inevitable-ness of these soirees?
There are only so many ways you can make love before you start to repeat
the repertoire. Even with two women.
Even with changing women on a rotational basis for variety grows tiresome. Young girls become the most tiresome first. The fact of the matter is that unless one wants to invest exceptional long-term effort in a relationship based on unbounded love, time is merely passed by.
Women from 25 to 35 need commitment. And they want a partnership.
Which is difficult if one does not want that. Women from 40 on – secure in them selves, still want to be taken care of. Which is okay – if one wants to take care of a 40 year old adolescent, like this parachutist. . .
I have done all that. Young girls are like comic books. Bright and colourful.
Read in an afternoon. A woman is like a book. With pages and pages of stories – that go into making up The Story.
But what if one does not like the story? One has to put the book down. The book I am looking for has an unfinished story. A story which captures my imagination and my heart. . . that causes me to want to continue writing THAT story. I want to write Chapter Seven.
I want the last magic girl, the last mystical woman to complete my life
But then one day – by mistake I allowed some one to came to stay with
me. . .
I have previously demonstrated in my life, that as a professional, I could play with or with out a plan. I could play drunk, sick or half-dead. I might not always win – but I could play, none-the-less.
She being a confirmed rationalist, would deny the existence of such a person even while that person tears her throat out. The argument was that I must have “a plan that suits her” – which will also include her Right into my life.
I love living alone for the simple reason that it is more bearable than living with some one that I can have no enthusiasm for. Oh yes in some conventional domestic way, it would be nice to live with a woman. But then she has to be the other part of me, of us.
Less than that will be a whole world of pain. Alone, I can read. I can write with out interruption and I do not have to explain my self: I said. Just as well I should talk to the walls. . . they at least look “thick”.
She said I was lying about wanting to live on my own. . . alone. But then she said I was lying about many things. So I lied I wanted to live with you and your kind. Free
I tried to point out the following: firstly there were many things that I never VOLUNTEERED information on. That is, I never mentioned them in any regard.
That I never mentioned them might be because they are: irrelevant to any one but myself, or of a private nature and concern no one but me and the Universe.
Secondly, when I was asked about a certain thing that I thought was irrelevant or of no concern to any one, my answers were usually short and undetailed.
Pressed for further information – I would resist answering for the simple reason that if the first answer was not acceptable. . . the second was bound to hurt. And ultimately it did.
And I was accused of being “cruel”.
I was ignored. So we went around the cycle of accusation. First I was
being evasive or secretive – by not giving a full answer. Then I was cruel
- by GIVING the answer.
I was told that I do not answer questions. . . but go off on a tangent about something else.
Well that should tell a person something.
The penny never dropped.
I explain. We are all after the same thing, whether we tell the truth, or lie:
Our Own Advantage. People lie when they think to profit by deception, and tell the truth for the same reason – to get something they want, and to be better trusted for their honesty. It is only two different roads to the same goal.
Were there no question of advantage, the honest man would be as likely to lie as the liar is, and the liar would tell the truth as readily as the honest person.
So I was continually accused of lying, while there was no advantage for me to do so. I would achieve nothing in our “relationship”, for the only relationship I wanted, ever, was just friendship and not a lover.
As I was tired of being. I explained that I had never ever lived alone for 25 years. Since I was 20. Being the sexual hedonist that I was, I could no sooner live with out a woman, than I could live without air.
I was always some one’s lover, some ones husband. . .
Now I want this next third of my life FOR ME.
And my pursuit of MY happiness.
And regain my freedom, my mobility.
Not a life of confusion like this place outside my door –unrecognisable.
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