Archives for posts with tag: Adele

After a day of resting my poor foot Andrew and I decided to go to Hollywood.   Not particularly searching for a party but interested by the prospect.  We met my friend Samantha and her super cute actor friend for dinner.

Hollywood seemed unreasonably quiet after the VMA’s last night.  The Chateau looked busy, Sunset Tower was rockin’.  The SHLA  just right.  I have no idea where everyone was…but where ever they were I wasn’t with them.

We did, however, bump into Adele with whom I was uncharacteristically star struck.

She was surrounded by burly security men and has a booming, luxurious speaking voice, a huge presence.  Like a tiny field mouse I told her how wonderful she was and she in turn asked if I had any Marlborough Lights.

My briefest brush with Adele.

Now, I am kinda sick of being told that I am name-dropping every time I tell you who I meet or bump into.   It’s Hollywood!  The town is packed with names.  I am a small town British boy who, at those moments, wonders how he ever gets to have so much fun.

Whenever I tell you about who I meet it’s not to self aggrandize.  I thought you might be interested?  No?

I saw this:  a very drunk woman wearing Christian Louboutin shoes being hauled into a limousine by her uniformed driver.

Vomiting over the very same shoes that would have paid most of my utilities for a whole month.

The driver looked understandably perplexed.

There seems to be some confusion about my state of mind at present.  Just to clear things up: Despite my imminent trip to NYC to see Jake in court I am actually very content, happy even.  Part of that happiness comes from being at peace with the idea that…I am unlikely to ever have another relationship.  Ever.

Why?  Because I am impossible…that’s why.

That doesn’t mean I want to have a million hook ups…I don’t.   Let’s face it..I have always loved the fantasy more than the reality.   A real person by my side?  I can’t do it.

I know lots of straight batchelors my age.

As I said the last time I wrote my blog, having a boy friend would be like working in an office.  Do you know what I mean?  I am not that guy.  Unemployable maybe?  Probably.  Unloveable?  Well, probably not…but incapable of having a relationship.  Incapable of accepting love.

I am listening to Adele.  Remembering what it felt to be in love.  Thank God that’s over.  Like sticking your hand in the fire.

When I was a kid my Grandmother and I found a diamond brooch.  She handed it to the police.  All my life I couldn’t understand why she did that.  Now I do.

Meeting Jake was like finding that diamond brooch in the street.  It wasn’t mine to have yet I did not want to give it up.  It was beautiful and sparkled in the night.  But what’s a man to do with such a thing?  I couldn’t wear it.  I had to give it back.  Unwillingly.

So, I am happy.  Can you understand that?  I don’t think you can.

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I look at my blog site stats.  A bunch of fluctuating numbers posted throughout the day behind the scenes of this blog.   I used to be mesmerised by these stats.  Especially when thousands of people read the blog every day.  Now, those numbers have dwindled.

I could do more to boost my numbers but choose not to.

Each morning I get up and write everything that is on my mind.  It isn’t particularly interesting to most people what happens to a man living on both coasts of the USA.  Living on a small stipend delivered monthly from various investments made many years ago.  Living with a small dog and a pair of beautiful twins.  Living with bi-polarity.  Living in his dreams.

Yet, every morning I feel compelled to write my life for you to read.  I try not to boast, I try not to be too self piteous.  I try to tell it as it is.  Sometimes I am just talking to myself, sometimes I am talking to my Mother.  Mostly I am just talking.  Last year I seemed to be engaged in a one way conversation with him.

As the days pass between who I was and who I am, the years pass between what I thought I wanted and what I actually achieved, the decades between an impetuous youth and a contemplative old age.  I become less frightened, more at peace.

I know that my writing about him has chased many of my regular readers away.  I worked out that terrible obsession here on this blog.  Do I regret writing it?  What sort of diary would this be if I hadn’t written it?  What sort of man would I have been if I sat here suffering and just candy coated what was the most bitter of all pills?

Of course I am capable of telling you lies but for the most part I get up and tell you whatever truth is presently haunting me.  I have not written things and regretted it.  When I was with him I often excluded him from the narrative and as a consequence the most beautiful moments we shared have been lost.  Making love in the wood.  I didn’t write about that when it happened and now it is as if it never happened.  Writing retrospectively about those moments somehow devalues them.

I know that you hate me writing about him but he has been on my mind.   When I stop feeling angry, foolish, sad…I still find myself wanting the best for him.  Wishing him well.  Hoping that he resolved his stuff with her.  Praying that he now has the gay life he wanted so badly.

After all is said and done…I loved him.  For good or for bad.

I wish that I did not now have to see him in September.

At this moment I have climbed fully out of the straight jacket I designed for myself.  Life has become simple and manageable once again.  My head no longer in two time zones.  No more longing, fantasy, false hope.

I listened to the singer Adele talking about how her first album was crafted after a nasty break up.  How she punched her ex bf in the face then wrote her album.  This is what artists do.  Copper’s Bottom, the play I showed at Sadler’s Wells in my mid twenties was all about a love affair I had with a policeman.  The deep scars it left in me.  This is what artists do.  We craft something from our own experiences, we do not disguise our vulnerabilities, our history.  I cannot deliberately disfigure the past.

When I was nominated for the BAFTA I finally had proof of sorts that being true to oneself and the stories we tell can reach much further than those of us who hide away.   I have hidden away for most of this year.  Licking my wounds behind my site stats, my failed love affair.

If I am to remain credible I must do what I do best: create.   Wasting the rest of my life hankering after what could have been is just plain stupid.  Whilst many of the folk I grew up with are considering retirement I must do what thousands of artists before me have done and just get on with it.  Do the work.

Regardless of how many people are watching.

This morning I have watered the garden.  Listened to the birds.  Made strong coffee.

Miles is vomiting in the bathroom.  He drank too much last night at the Whale Wars premiere.  He is missing his girlfriend who has moved to the mid-west.   Watching him struggle somehow helps me.  I have no idea why.

“I’ve never been this hung over.” He moans.

I don’t have ANY sympathy for people who drink too much.

Now, what next?  Apparently the niche publisher is not so niche and the nice woman there has already read my book and wants to talk further.  I wonder what that means?

I put my film on ice but am ready to warm it up.  I am meeting producers this Sunday.   Whilst I was in New York I met another producer.

I seem to be getting back into that grove.

PS  I got a 4k reduction on my property tax..which is now only 13k a year.  Hurrah!