Now, all I have to do is pack up remaining items and move out of LA. Then it’s the dog orientated trip home flying via Paris to London.
There I will have my operation and hope that it hasn’t spread.
You know that I like to tell you the truth here on these pages. Well, I want to share that I found being in NYC really miserable. Why? I was anxious that I might bump into him even though I had texted him telling him that I would be there and to avoid where I live and SHNYC.
Even so, I felt terrible and dreaded dread dreaded bumping into him.
I dread the small claims case in October too. I dread seeing him. I wish that these painful feelings would just go away. I wish he had never contacted me. Why did he fucking contact me?
Manhunt date number 3 was good fun.
A giant of a man turned up…it turned out that we had friends in common. We talked about Jake.
It’s funny that even though he had been through a similar experience with a man his immediate response was to chastise me for getting involved with someone who was BLATANTLY unready to be gotten involved with.
Yet, as I have found out..we ALL seem to make really bad choices in love. My straight men friends routinely describe the females they get involved with as insane. The women I know describe the men they get involved with as douche bags. People make mistakes in love.
It is very hard to control a yearning heart.
I am just so angry with myself that, a. I believed him. b. fell in love. c. took him home.
Why the hell didn’t he tell his friends that he was gay rather than me? Why? Somehow my TV confession spurred him on to confess..yet, as I pointed out to manhunt date number 3..I am NOT a TV character..I am a man. I am profoundly UNLIKE the way they edited me on TV.
This is ripping me apart. It is just so unfair that I let some crazy fan into my life who wanted me to be like I was on TV and I…fucking IDIOT..fell in love with him.
I was on Dan’s lap top today checking a friend’s Facebook page and there he was making some Camille Paglia comment. His new profile picture was weird. Mugs and fruit. His hair was all flat and he looked thin.
I know that sooner or later this mess will pass. That I will start to forget.
You may think me mad but really what you are reading is the real and daily trial of being an addict. That I can have all at the same time huge compassion for him and a consummate loathing.
There was a moment is Sanary sur Mer in France where he was sitting at the end of a jetty looking at the sunset. I slipped quietly away. He was thinking about her. He was sad.
Thankfully there is still one sacred place I didn’t take him. It remains mine. Unseen by crazy fan eyes.
I pray every day for the obsession to be lifted but I guess it will vanish in God’s time and not mine.
It sure is odd living in Malibu again. As if the past 18 months in Hollywood just never happened. It has been raining and chilly all day today. The gardeners came yesterday. 8 of them buzzing around the property dealing with the last 18 months worth of growth. Today they returned to attack the larger trees and make them fire proof. Lets face it though..there are no fires imminent. This year has been British damp. Poor little dog is shivering on the sofa.
12 people for lunch yesterday. I flayed a chicken and cooked it with rosemary and lemons from the garden.
A great bunch. Lots of love. Surrounded by a great deal of unconditional love and conversation. JAR and me are about the same age and have trodden the same path for many, many years but only really met here in LA. She is possibly one of the most gorgeous women in the world. Beautiful on the outside and equally beautiful on the inside.
It was a wonderful welcome back to Malibu. Tomorrow night I am having dinner with Jenny A at SHLA. She just drove from Mexico en route to London. I am trying to fill my days with old friends. They seem to more than adequately fill the void.
I am going to Palm Springs this weekend to a gay sober convention. Meetings, meetings meetings. Trying to connect with my tribe. Then, rather annoyingly I have to go to NYC. I am REALLY not looking forward to that.
When one can peek through at the various secret paths and vistas this place becomes magical. You know, don’t you that I am putting the house on the market? I am SURE it’s going to be impossible to sell but hey, let’s try shall we?
If I can get everything here and sell the house I will then try selling everything IN the house. I wanna get out of here with one small bag of treasure and the Little Dog.
Travel light from now on. Too much stuff. Far too much STUFF. Inside and outside my head.
The best part of that insightful comment I received the other day was the advice about getting strong around my health and finances. I really have to deal with shit in those areas.
My back aches. My balls ache. My head hurts. My fingers are dry. My tummy is swollen. My eyes are sore.
Yet, I am going in the right direction. I really DO try and make a better life for myself. I am not going to drink and take drugs but sometimes I think it would be a whole heap easier. I bet I could meet a drug fucked loser in twenty seconds if I towed the line..went to gym, took drugs, drank at bars.
50 years ago this month my Mother, eight months pregnant, was scrubbing floors for nuns at a catholic ‘Mother and Baby’ home in the depths of rural Kent. For 6 months, this teenage girl, had undergone an emotionally disfiguring baptism of shame.
The young girls in this Catholic facility were persuaded that for their acts of fornication and subsequent pregnancies they should be punished before God and their unborn, bastard children maligned.
This penance would not edify my Mother. She would not repent. She had already glimpsed the burgeoning freedoms of post-war Britain. She had met a rich, well-dressed, exotic, Persian boy who drove a sports car and had given herself to him. She was aspirational, a teenage girl with an appetite for the modern world. She wanted what he had, the freedom he had but he wanted less from her than she from him and after moments of unbridled passion she was pregnant and abandoned. One can only imagine how dreadful she felt telling her Edwardian parents that she was carrying me, knowing that her life would never be the same again.
My grandmother, disgusted by her willful daughter’s precocious ambition, spoke to a priest who organized seven long months of incarceration at the Mother and Baby home where she would be forced to abandon her dreams in exchange for shame, resentment and fear.
My grandparents abandoned her to her fate. During the 7 months she was sent away they did not visit her once. After I was born they accepted her home begrudgingly.
Most of the girls would give up their babies. Some of them willingly some, like my mother, unwillingly.
She could not breastfeed me. I refused to suckle. Perhaps I already knew that life was not worth living? The nuns insisted and forced me onto her nipple. My mother left me behind at the Mother and Baby home to be adopted but fate or circumstance or racism intervened. I could not be adopted. My skin was olive toned, my hair curly, my eyes jet black. It was obvious to all the prospective parents who viewed me during the time I was offered up for adoption that I would not fit invisibly into any nice, white family.
By July the 8th 1960 the day of my birth the door had well and truly shut on the promises of the age.
Remember, during the first few months of the 1960’s my mother was unaware that this decade in the United Kingdom would be described variously as ‘swinging’, ‘progressive’ and ‘free’.
What of these nuns now? These Brides of Christ? Where was Jesus when all of this was going on? Where was the love of God?
My Mother was neither free to keep me even though she begged to do so and the home I would eventually end up in, although loving, was certainly not progressive nor swinging.
My Grandmother, in a rare moment of charity, decided to go fetch me and I ended up, once again, with my teenage mother and her mother and her mother in a small, semi-detached house in a genteel seaside town. Besides these three women I lived with my two aunts and my sickly grandfather. Victorian Herne Bay was, was at that time, still enjoying the benefit of the second longest pier in England, a bandstand and the cavernous Kings Hall where polite tea dances were held.
mother
There are photographs of me ensconced in the bosom of this dysfunctional family. I was the son my grandfather never let my grandmother have. She doted on me, walked me through the streets come rain or shine. Then, she let me go.
During the darkest days of my childhood I would try to get back to that house. A house I knew and loved but when I got there it was never the house I remembered. She sent me back again and again.
I lived there for two years until my mother married a local lad and we moved to Whitstable. My Grandmother was thrilled to have her sullied daughter married. It was, in fact, against all the odds. She was ‘taken off my hands’ my Grandmother later told me.
50 years ago. 50 years. I have lied about my age for so long that I am in shock when I type those words. The number has come too soon. I am not prepared to be this old nor was I ever expecting it. Shocking! Why did I never expect to live? On many occasions during my childhood I expected to die at the hands of my angry step-father.
When I finally escaped that man I sought out equally destructive situations.
I have been hankering after the long sleep since I was born.
As I sit at my desk in Los Angeles my greatest triumph, if at all my only triumph, has been to survive. To avoid the catastrophic blow that I expected every day. I may not have fulfilled my potential but I have certainly achieved more than I ever expected, more than I was told to expect. In spite of my temper, my addictions, my desire to take up where my murderous step-father left off I am alive!
It is only recently that I tentatively acknowledged that life must be lived.
For as long as I can remember I have imagined and reimagined my death. For long as I have flown in aeroplanes I have reveled in turbulence. As often as I have picked up strange, beautiful and dangerous men I have wished death come to me.
Shame has cast such a deep shadow over me that all I ever managed to do is struggle blindly down life’s treacherous path. Stumbling into people along the way who could see. Many of those people realizing that I was blind did not help without benefit to themselves. Many of those people, when I understood what monsters they were, were shocked when I ferociously bit their hand off up to the elbow.
Perhaps this is why I stayed close to my family home, a family that did not want me. Even to this day I hanker after Whitstable. There are still elderly parents of friends my age who remember the small boy who escaped his home whenever he could and seek refuge in theirs.
My Father 1960
During the next month I am going to write an abridged memoir. We know the beginning and most of you know where I am right now. So, as I make my way East through New York and Paris back to my old hometown of Whitstable I will let you know what I remember, what I care to remember from the last 50 years.
Today, the little dog is on my bed waiting to walk through the Californian sun to our local coffee shop. There are people there who know me from the television. People who might wave a tentative hello. Tonight I may hear from the man I love and tell him so without shame or expectation. It’s not much to ask is it? To be loved, to love. To be loved..to love?
The day started out badly and after getting a great deal better ended with a bang…quite literally.
A friend called me a ‘drama queen’ after reading this morning’s blog. Thanks friend. The fact is: I was sick with a migraine, the first real one I had ever had. Nausea, blinding headache and dizziness. Silly me, I decided the best way to solve that particular problem (after writing my blog) was to drive 30 miles to Gold’s Gym and work out with my friend David. Bad idea. Hillary met me after the gym to eat lunch at the French Market in Venice. Bad idea. My reasoning was that if I could just behave as normal everything would get better.
I am sure that my migraine was actually a combination of stress, high blood pressure and depression. It followed soon after some particularly loaded conversations. After I posted my blog the comments came thick and fast. You guys were all so sweet to support and love me. The reason I write this blog? Because you are all there to read it. To understand, to reach out, to condone and condemn in equal measures.
After lunch I went back to bed and slept deeply. The phone woke me three hours later… my friends from England arrived in LA but decided to stay elsewhere. I can’t say I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t in any mood for 10 days sharing my life with English people. Laying in bed feeling so sick, the bathroom floor unwashed.
Woke up to an email from a disgruntled Malibu renter and his blousey girlfriend/fuck buddy. I knew that we would have some sort of disagreement about the return of the damage deposit. When he left the house he left it in a terrible state: broken coffee pot and coffee cups, 5 huge red wine stains on the carpet. Thankfully Jerome was with me when I checked over the house and the moron was forced to admit what he had done.
They were the sorts of tenants who couldn’t do anything for themselves and were constantly summoning me to look at things they could have fixed… like the stove top they locked by accident. As usual it is the cheap skate tenants who nickel and dime that seem to cause the most problems. On the first occasion I was asked to go to the house the tenant was so drunk he couldn’t stand up. I should have chucked him and his lady friend out there and then. I was embarrassed for him.
When they, rather amazingly, asked to come back to the house I made it so prohibitively expensive… I knew they wouldn’t be able to afford it. The letter I received from them was littered with quotes from this blog. Well, blog on this bitch! I was in no mood to deal with bullshit, no mood to be lied to or manipulated and certainly no mood to deal with a woman (not on the contract) the renter had confided in me he couldn’t wait to see the back of.
My anger toward these nasty, cheap people had the affect of shaking my headache and forcing me out of the house.
I walked briskly down Sunset. I had my hair buzzed and beard trimmed at a barbers on Ivar and began looking for appropriate BEAR WEAR as I now intend, whilst I am in NYC, to attend the Urban Bear Weekend which will be fun-exploiting my tiny celebrity for a bunch of hairy bears and their bear cub boy toys. A friend of mine suggested the Urban Bear idea as a kind of joke but it looks like a great deal of fun. This may be my future!
Now all I need is a cub to drag around by the belt loop.
Anyway, by the time I got home it was time to get dressed and head to WeHo for dinner with Spencer my very intelligentBritish friend. Over beef burgers and fries trying to understand the cultural DNA of the average citizen of the USA. My new theory? That the ‘puritan chromosome’ is not nearly as dominant or as influential in the American genome than the ‘wild-frontier chromosome’. That the majority of people who live in the USA came from simple European ancestors who, for their freedom, had to combat rattle snakes, bears, hostile climate, native Americans as well as their brutal own. The threat, real or imagined was always there.
Suspicious and mistrusting by nature these people believe that government is good for only two things PRISONS and THE MILITARY. White settlers distrust Obama, discrediting his empathy.
After dinner Spencer and I wandered around WeHo and met a couple of handsome cops. Handsome but dull. We wandered aimlessly back to the car and outside the Abbey some young man threw a can of vile smelling alcohol at me from a yellow school bus yelling homophobic rhetoric. The full can hit me squarely in the chest. I can still feel where it hit me on the sternum. At first in shock, I grew increasingly angry, then I buried the anger under a seething fury, quietly determined that ‘they’ can’t hurt me, that they can’t hurt me any more.
‘Drama Queen’ that I am I sank into a pit of man hating quick sand. I hated the entire crew of my Wednesday morning therapy meeting with their frat house homophobia, their cheating ways co-signed by a dodgy ‘therapist’. These men miserably attempt to patch up their sham marriages to avoid alimony and see their kids whilst yearning after mistresses, transexuals and sophomoric freedoms.
My date last night was perhaps the first proper date that I had ever had. We were meeting to see if we could sustain more than a moment of initial attraction. Isn’t that what a date is all about? I had been looking forward to it all week not least because I am so eager to get over the hesitant, unwilling Mr. NYC…should I start using his name rather than some acronym?
Whenever one is transitioning from one relationship to another it is almost impossible not to compare what was with what is on offer. So, in order to beat that particular demon we talked about last loves and expectations. Frankly it was wonderful to just be in the same room as a man who one found attractive rather than the constant yearning of the past 6 months. The more I sat with this strange new boy the more at ease I became and the more attractive he seemed to me. But unlike the last I would have to work a great deal harder to capture this butterfly.
For a start-I am not and will never be his physical type. If we have types…I suppose I may surpass types. I am the charismatic, art collecting, goat rearing, F150 driving, Vivienne Westwood wearing anomaly so getting to have dinner with me is just about me and who I am.
Of course he knew more about me than I him as my life is flayed all over the Internet. He looked at me with curious blue eyes. At times he was deliciously coy. This man/boy is incredibly well-educated with a compelling story and good connections. A bit deaf-or maybe I was mumbling. Our recent experiences with men have confused us. I urged him not to let these last encounters destroy what we love most about men…anyhow it is the very essence of jade that is peculiar to gay men and is as attractive to me as rat poison. It is true to say however that we are both a little bruised by recent loves, a little reticent. I want to meet men unfettered and with abandon. It is my aim.
He is a recent émigré to LA so enjoying all that the city has to offer. Irritatingly, unable to stop myself, I began a tirade against my adopted home and found myself saying things to him that I didn’t even believe anymore-it’s just easier to gripe about Los Angeles rather than take ownership of it.
Of course he is strikingly good looking…a willowy boy, tall, and slim like an 18th century romantic hero. An extraordinary gait. Floppy blond hair and the most beautiful nose. He drank one glass of white wine, which scarcely seemed to affect him at all. We ordered three courses because I knew that today I was going to go on a diet and start my gym training with David at Gold’s in Venice.
Rabbit good. Bratwurst bad. Cakes divine.
I have no idea if I will kiss his neck or sweep the blond hair out of his eyes. I have no idea if we will meet in Paris or drive to San Francisco on a whim but there’s a chance that we may and if we don’t, well…I know I made good choices tonight. Good for my brimming heart.
On my way back to the United Kingdom. Even though it is to deal with very bad situation at home. Includes a long journey so I can travel with the little dog: New York, Paris, Calais, Dover, Whitstable! One month before I leave-will arrive there May 30th. I am excited. I will stay there for three months-one of the many benefits of not having a career!
Anyway, a great deal to sort out. Nothing much to write or worry about today.
Had a great night out with my friend Ryan. We headed over to Tod’s shoe store on Rodeo in Beverly Hills for a party that a bunch of worthy LAers were throwing to welcome Jeffrey Deitch the new MOCA director to a bunch of LA’s finest. Jessica Alba, Kate Beckinsale, Angelica Huston etc etc.
Met up with Miggy and her girlfriend and their charming journalist friend from the Sunday Times who had seen the sex rehab show. He seemed really impressed. It is so odd to have left something indelible in the life of another. It is even odder to have people come up to you who are well known (famous even) telling you how much you have helped them. Ended up chatting to Gavin Rossdale about our friend Sebastian Horsley who is best known for crucifying himself in the Philippines-with real nails in his palms. He then fell off the cross.
Leaving something indelible stayed with me throughout dinner at the 101-where we ate the Thursday Fried Chicken Special of course.
I was going onto another party but bailed after dinner, I need to be on my own. To get used to it once again.
Indelible, irrevocable-something irrevocable. Changing somebody irrevocably. I may have done that too often to count on the fingers of two hands.
This time I am changed irrevocably. Something has shifted in me. Most of the people I have gotten close to recently have in some way been associated with or saw the sex rehab show. My generous NYC friend, my recently ended relationship and Jennie, let’s not forget Jennie. I think it maybe time to reconnect to those I knew before.
I think that even though these new friends know my story they don’t really take how seriously I believe in the power of recovery. I really do believe in the tenets of AA. I really do.
I came so close during the past month to using alcohol and drugs because I so desperately wanted to fit in with my new friend. I told him that I would take drugs so our sex life would get better. I thought about taking a drink. I seriously considered it. But if I had what would I have been left with now? Nothing. No relationship, no sobriety, absolutely nothing. At the end of the day all I own is my sobriety and my name.
There are fire trucks outside the building.
So, I pass through to the other side. Where I am on my own again. With out recourse to long, late night conversations. I am on my own and happy to be so.
The other burgeoning relationship in my life is with a young man who came to me for help with his sex addiction. He came along at just the right moment. To help him recover from a masturbation addiction. He checks in every day and God, yet again, is doing for me what I refuse to do for myself. Rather than drowning in self-pity I am helping a man less fortunate than myself and so, yet again, I am changed, refocused.
I had a short text exchange with the other this evening and rather than making me hanker for him it just made things easier to deal with. My darling New York boy is on his true path and that, I suppose, is something to do with me. A helping hand out of the darkness and into the light. An irrevocable change.
How many people fall in love with the person who helps save their life? Not many. Who is falling in love with the firemen or the nurse or the doctor?
Very sleepy now. I need to sink under the sheets and tomorrow-well perhaps I will be able to write the other stuff I write. Maybe.
Woke up this morning in a wonderful mood after a lovely evening with Anna. True friends are too few in this life. I woke up in my own body. Does that sound familiar to anyone? Doesn’t everyone? I woke up in the moment, not in some delirious fantasy about what could be. I smiled to myself. Gently. I imagined myself walking the pavements of Notting Hill Gate. I imagined looking into the beautiful homes there. I thought about London-because I am happy.
A beautiful spring morning in Los Angeles.
The fact is I don’t live in New York. I live here and for the foreseeable future I will continue to live here. I have to make this work as best I can. Any other plans to move will have to be made because it suits my sensible self.
My great friend John has gone travelling and I miss him being around. He reminds me to be awake, to no longer sleep walk through life.
I loved seeing Jennie this week. It was after all this week last year that I entered Sex Rehab and the adventure began. The journey of self discovery, the great revelation, the great insight, the life of many choices, the decision to love myself, the strange and wonderful experience with reality TV and of course my relationship with the inspirational Jennie Ketcham. The love affair, the language of recovery. The list goes on and on.
To love someone selflessly is hard. To live without hope is very hard. To put a lid on my feelings for another seems almost impossible. If I think back to the end of my most beautiful relationships there are weeks of debilitating sadness, sad songs then emerging from the pall with my head held high.
Today is Saturday 3rd of April. I pay my rent today. I go to my Saturday morning meeting and see my friends. Do you have a group of men or women around you who can hold you when everything seems desperately bleak, when things are going so well that your feet scarcely touch the ground?
Several of my readers really helped me yesterday with their comments. I read about limerence and it was painfully, embarrassingly familiar. I particularly liked Leslie’s comment.
“What are the three most dangerous words? ‘I love you.’ By saying these words to another, we give them power. But the power is two-fold: the Other then has the power to destroy us, to kill our heart. The Other then also has the power to create us, to give our heart life. So what is the love we give when we say those dangerous words? It is peace, patience, mercy, trust, fidelity and forgiveness.”
It is hard to explain to those who are close to me how important this blog is. It is a relationship with the world. Reaching out daily to those of you who read what I write and honour me with your comments and opinions-good and bad.
So, Anna and I sang sad songs and laughed out loud and when I went to bed I no longer had any yearning in my heart. After all, what have we got to look forward to? I’ll tell you what-today, this moment..right NOW. Like so many people I have lived so much of my life regretting the past and hoping for a brighter future without really paying attention to what was happening to me right now.
How many of you look at charlieissocoollike on You Tube? Real name Charlie Mc Donnell. I love him-no, not like that. He’s only 19, fresh, funny and talented. My friend Mr S Fry made a charming end credit for him. I will write more about Mr Mc Donnall soon but do check out Charlie’s Duet with Myself.
Did I tell you that I had TERRIBLE food poisoning after our delicious lunch at The Standard Grill? The rabbit ragu served with the ‘home made’ pasta and chanterells did me in. I have not vomited for YEARS. I mean, hanging over the pan and violently chucking up the entire contents of my belly whilst simultaneously shitting my white comme des garcons under pants.
I don’t expect much from life. I really don’t. But I get so little in LA. Like so many people I may end up being one of it’s finest victims but…I doubt it. I am heading east. I’ll tell you all sooner or later why.
The goat project has been put on hold until I have some more spare cash. The film I want to make is ready to be born so I will just make it. I may just be in it. I am all a quiver about making a new film. Can’t get it out of my head.
My friend Joan thinks that I am all over the place but that’s how it has always been-all over the place.
I tweeted today about being grateful. It’s easy to complain about life, then when it gets better forget to be grateful. I am sitting in a warm, well decorated room overlooking the Hudson River, my belly full and friends to see. What more could I want?
I am really glad that I came to the USA for as long as I have. I have learned so much from you people. Good and Bad.
More facts emerging from the Kristian Digby funeral fiasco. Kristian’s mad mother apparently very dismissive about KD at funeral to his visibly upset father. Friends and some family members and work colleagues unable to attend the funeral-asked to stay away. Real friends got together at tree in Torquay and buried box of memories. One friend reporting that Kristian’s coffin was dragged into church rather than carried respectfully. I will repeat my earlier assertions: Kristian’s mother is an insensitive hag who ruined great portions of her son’s life. The truth will out Mrs Digby.
Met some PR type gay in Soho House the other night. Single. attractive but after ten minutes of conversation..really ought to have stayed in the closet. BACK IN THE CLOSET for you young man. He told me I needed to filter what I was saying-we were talking about politics. What a fucking boooooar.
Finally, did I mention to you how much I loathe Sophie Dahl? How she went out of her way to ruin my experience of LA? That poor sweet crooner husband of hers will see straight through her conniving ways sooner or later. You can’t marry a woman 8 inches taller than you-why? Because you never get to look her directly in the eye.
There’s nothing more exhilarating that an unresolved resentment don’t you think? One day I will recount the entire sordid story for your delectation.
For those of us who live in this part of Hollywood the Security around the highly anticipated Oscar Award Ceremony can be a big pain in the ass, at least for the one day of the ceremony.
I live exactly two minutes walk from the Kodak Theatre in the very heart of Hollywood. Franklin Avenue, where I live, has been completely closed and all the cars that were inadvertently left after the 6am deadline have been towed. More money for the city of Los Angeles.
Swarms of security guards patrol the streets, armed police with vicious dogs hang out in ominous gaggles, guards check under cars with mirrors on sticks, concrete road blocks hamper normal journeys in and out of our neighborhood and for one day only we get to feel what they must feel in Baghdad every day.
I had a huge dream last night. Kay S, Amanda E, three other unknown women and I were descending a steep mountainside. Lil dog had transformed into a waist high dog/goat, his soft ears all leathery like a goat, his soft coat transformed into wiry fur. I knew that we were facing something treacherous at the bottom of the mountain and as with all of my bad dreams the light was eerie like during an eclipse. I woke up exhausted.
My Scar
When I last saw my therapist she asked if I thought I might be depressed. I could tell immediately that I might get all sorts of expensive medical attention if I said yes. I gleefully imagined a warm hospital bed somewhere. My favorite.
I remembered the terrible car accident that my family were involved in when I was a small boy, remembering the moment that I was thrown off of my mother’s lap, out of the warm car and through the front passenger window and into the cold rain and the wet grass. I remember my aunts bleeding legs, I remember the ambulance, the hospital where I would stay for a very long time as my head repaired. I still have a huge scar that when I have very short hair everyone comments on.
When I write the word family I wonder whom I could possibly mean? Does that word apply to me?
I am sitting outside the supermarket Fresh and Easy waiting for the store to open. It is 8am, an endless stream of determined Academy Award production crew pass by me, their scripts in their back pockets. They are all dressed in black so they can vanish amongst the stars. They are the night.
I feel like I have been fast asleep. I wonder if it is worth waking up?
Flying back to LA.
I know that sooner or later this mess will pass. That I will start to forget.
