April 23, 2017

Diary 21st April

Easter weekend, became a lost weekend. We gave ourselves unashamedly to debauchery, Boys & Girls. And strong drink raged (as it does here, from time to time). Driven by our inflamed, animalistic urges we veered from manic to tender, from gently sentimental to crudely rough. It was, in short, an excellent time for us all.

Saturday night I watched a pretty woman put on her makeup. I M’s face, slightly flushed after her time alone with Dee and Gabby, reflected in the dressing table mirror in the spare room. She drank rum and sprite. Fussed with her hair. Spoke in banalities.


And now, between various feverish activities, I must decide whether or not to cancel an oral hygienist appointment at my dentist’s. The day and evening preceding we will be with old friends, eating, drinking, and over indulging. Can I face the hygienist first thing in the morning with a hangover and a mouth like a badger’s bum?

HYGIENIST: “Please Peedeel, allow me to fart in your mouth and freshen your breath.”

I think I’ll cancel!


Vast alchemies. Every three minutes, a person goes missing in the UK. Where do they all go? I find it a deeply disturbing statistic, don’t you?


Oh, yes, which reminds me. I watched the new episode of Dr Who at the weekend. Peter Capaldi’s last series playing the Dr . Mr Capaldi is a fine actor, but the Who series suffers from shite writing, and is in the guiding hands of those who believe that “narrative and characterization are too distracting from their preferred salad of videogame spaghetti”.

Long live the third rate, ay wot?


Food for thought: If all men disappeared of the face of the earth, every war would instantly be over.

My Name

April 15, 2017

Diary 14th April

In ‘Crowds of Power’, Elias Canetti gives us an example of inter-tribal warfare in South America. A Taulipang tribal warrior tells how they wiped out a neighbouring tribe, the Pishauko. According to Canetti, the Taulipang launched a surprise night attack on their enemies village. Apparently the Pishauko witch doctor sensed their approach from the ‘spirit dimension’ and warned everyone of danger, but the villagers ignored him. The Taulipang warriors dully appeared and began clubbing the Pishauko to death. They set fire to the huts and tossed all the Pishauko children into the flames.

How did the Pishauko witch doctor ‘sense’ the impending attack?

We know that Neanderthal man buried his dead with some sort of ritual (seeds of brightly coloured flowers were interred with the corpse – probably, they were woven into somekind of shroud). Chunks of manganese dioxide have been found in their caves worn down on one side as if used as crayons. Ritual art is a strong possibility. Undoubtedly, Neanderthal man and woman had religion (indicated also by the stone spheres representative of the Sun and Moon found in their habitations), and religion is obviously the outcome of thinking about the Universe.

200,000 years ago at Pech de l’Aze in the Dordogne, homo erectus took time out to engrave the rib bone of an ox – the engraving, the earliest we know of, is of three arc-like patterns overlapping. Is this, too, a representation of symbolic (religious?) significance?

175,000 years ago Cro-Magnon man was busy painting the walls of caves – in the deepest, darkest, remotest parts of caves. Vivid paintings of bison, deer, wild boar and wild horses. It was Salomon Reinach in 1903 who suggested the probable magical significance of these paintings; magic ritual to lure the animals to Cro-Magnon traps; lure the food to the table.

Alexander Marshack in his book ‘The Roots of Civilization’ suggests the Cro-Magnons were far less primitive than previously thought: they recorded a basic calendar on animal bones to anticipate the seasonal migration of animals, their food supply. In effect they invented a simple form of writing!

It is speculative, but a strong possibility, that religious art extended far back in time beyond the highly developed art of the Cro-Magnon people. It is probable that homo erectus, over 200,000 years ago, with their much enlarged brain capacity, used ritual magic in an attempt to control nature, to control their food supply.

So, you might ask, what has this to do with that Pishauko witch doctor?

Well, ancient man had no need to ask questions about the forces of nature; he FELT them around him, as a fish feels every change in water pressure through nerves in its sides. The result was most likely a curious sense of unity with the earth and heavens that homo sapiens – us, in other words – generally lost a long time ago. Ancient mans religion, his rituals, weren’t an attempt to ‘explain’ his world – it was a natural response to its forces.

In much the same way, the Pishauko witch-doctor was able to FEEL the approach of his enemies. All shamans, witch-doctors, magicians, witches and sacred priests, throughout human history, have claimed they derive their powers from ‘spirits’, often those of the dead. Sure we can dismiss this as primitive superstition – but we’ll be missing the point if we consider it an attempt to explain ‘life’ after death. Shamans do NOT believe in ‘spirits’; they EXPERIENCE them first hand – or at least, experience something they accept as the ‘spirit world’. Thus, boys and girls, I’d suggest it unlikely Neanderthal man performed burial rites because he ‘believed’ in life after death. He performed them because he took it for granted that he was surrounded by ‘spirits’, and these included the ‘spirits’ of the dead and the spirits of nature – otherwise known to us as ‘elementals’. Our Pishauko witch doctor, engaging in a ‘magic’ ritual to help a sick tribe member, and communicating with his ‘spirit guides’ was promptly alerted to the impending danger of attack.


What will happen on Beltane?

We’ll take part in the Great Rite, of course – experience the type of sex where we are so deeply entwined, so far in to each other’s darknesses and each other’s souls that we will be as one. Passionate, lustful, almost savage fucking. That’s what will happen.

For Beltane is a time for love. A time for merging with the goddess; for seeing the world through each other’s eyes. It is a time for bonfires and dancing. It is a time to be joined by spirits, in celebration of the Earth’s great fecundity. See their ghost shapes, milky white, dancing beside you in the trailing smoke from the bonfire. Eat, drink, love…

93 Percent Smiling

April 2, 2017

2nd April

Sunday morning. For some a time to think of hangover cures. For others a welcome ‘lay-in’. It’s a time for cuddles and kisses and sensuous embraces under the covers. For breakfast in bed. For contemplating life, the universe and everything. For going to church, or just listening to the grass grow.


At 1.40 am last Friday morning Gabby and Dee were fiercely arguing. I did not interrupt but remained listening to their raised voices in my bedroom. They had both been drinking and alcohol fuelled their anger.

‘Stop provoking me,’ Gabby yelled at one point. ‘Just stop fucking provoking me, Dee. I mean it.’

Their anger was fast become phosphorescent. The stupid thing was the argument probably began in fun: one or other of them taking the piss in a light-hearted way; but then, because of the drink, offence was taken – that’s usually the way it begins between them.

Oh, how they love, these two. Such volatile individuals. Love and hate, the two sides of the same coin. They only forgave each other Saturday evening. They drifted like a pair of ghosts through Friday evening and Saturday daytime. Then, finally, Saturday evening Dee spoke –

‘Would you mind if I looked at your copy of Cosmo.’

And everything was suddenly alright between them. Communication resumed. They kissed and made up.


March 25, 2017

It had been a night
of silence
thought and of quietness
making love
no talking or speaking
unsure of intentions.

I cried
and in the love,
on that night
it was as though
neither of us were
not quite sure

Until now.

And if I weren’t sure
I would have told him to
take his crescent wrenches
and fuck off,

…he was crying too
he doesn’t cry
I cry, not him.

So, I slid into bed next
to him…

your own real feelings

March 20, 2017

“Do you love me?”

“Yes,” said Boris, making a face.

“Why do you make a face like that?”

“Because – oh, you annoy me.”

“Why? It isn’t true that you love me?”

“Yes it is.”

“Why don’t you ever tell me so yourself? I always have to ask you.”

“Because I don’t feel like it. It’s all rot; it’s the sort of thing that people don’t say.”

“Does it annoy you when I say I love you?”

“No, you can say it if you like, but you oughtn’t to ask me if I love you.”

“It’s very seldom I ask you anything, darling. It’s usually enough for me to look at you and feel I love you. But there are moments when I wish I could get at your own real feelings.”

“I understand,” said Boris seriously, “but you ought to wait till I feel like it. If it doesn’t come naturally, there’s no sense in it.”

“But, you little fool, you yourself say you never do feel that way unless somebody asks you.”
Boris began to laugh.

“It’s true,” he said, “you put me off. But one can feel affection for somebody and not want to say so.”

Jean-Paul Sartre
The Age of Reason


Diary 13th December

Last night, strange dreams – almost fever dreams. Unsettling; unpleasant. The night before that, I dreamt I was in a dense forest. The place was unknown to me, and yet I seemed to know which path to follow but without any idea of my final destination. Despite this I remained still, quiet, calm. Now, I sit at my desk and watch the fog gathering across the lane in the darkness: an opaque obscurity about the hedgerows. It is cold outside. It all seems strangely threatening to me.

And my loves, sleek and smooth, a pair of subtly scented shadows under the bedclothes in the next room, sleep through the velvet night, in gentle oblivion. Which is as it should be.

Ah, come, whisper me some more dreams, will you? Dreams of mistletoe kisses and sensual mouths; wild cascades of gleaming hair, and the closeness of made-to-sin-bodies.


Storm birds die in the depths of her eyes!

Oh, when she is angry, she is intimidating! But still so very beautiful…


Unlucky thirteen?

We made love the first time on the thirteenth. I passed my driving test on the thirteenth. I left school, unofficially, on the thirteenth…The luckiest number, ever, IMO!

pagan, with occult tips

December 5, 2016


Diary 5th December

Slightly jaded today. A little hungover, perhaps. Feeling very pagan.


‘I love you more than yesterday,’ I said. ‘And yesterday I loved you infinities…’


My mission should I accept it, is to obtain carnal knowledge of everyone in this house who is still breathing…


Drown me in December gales…Or bury me in snow that is blanket thick, and the colour of a wild swan’s feathers. Oh, do, please do…


Freezing fog the other day. It came nearer and neared, seemed to flow round the house, sending tentative fingers into the frontporch.

Glancing up at the window she said, ‘It’s very foggy.’

She relaxed and sighed. After our lovemaking, she always goes limp, drained. The fierceness of her, though, when we are loving makes inscrutable the sane. Me, I remain malleable as worry beads. Know what I mean?


Gabby asked about the latest story. It’s not finished yet. About a simple-minded young boy who sits all day in front of a tick-tocking grandfather clock. The clock is the centre of his world. He ignores his mother and father. Sees them as abstract distractions from the reality of the clock. In desperation, one day, they remove the clock and hide it in the attic. The boy’s life is shattered by this sudden and unexpected absence: he’s convinced the clock has died and that his parents are responsible. They have hidden its body. He leaves home, goes in search of the clock’s final resting place, while planning a suitable vengeance on these clock killers, his parents…

Night on the Island

December 2, 2016


All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water. Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the top or at the bottom,
Up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before,
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
what now–
bread, wine, love, and anger–
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.

Neither night nor sleep
could separate us.

I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

Pablo Neruda