Today we were the guests of Molly and John Chester at Apricot Lane Farm, Moorpark CA.
Molly is a former personal chef and John a former film director.
Now, tucked away in their bucolic idyl, away from the madding crowd, devoted to the creation of a bio-dynamic 150 acre farm set in rolling countryside 45 minutes from Santa Monica.
“Between August 2010 and March 2011 Roy wrote a 50,000-word blog to Bauman.
Roy coldly examines his career to date, how he had been a colourful agent provocateur, his art, like his paradoxes, seeking to subvert as well as sparkle. His own estimation of himself was of one who “stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age”.
It was from these heights that his life with Bauman began, and Roy examines that particularly closely, repudiating him for what he finally sees as his arrogance and vanity: he had not forgotten Bauman’s remark, when he was ill, “When you are not on your pedestal you are not interesting.”
Roy blamed himself, though, for the ethical degradation of character that he allowed Bauman to bring about on him and took responsibility for his own fall.
The first few months of the blog concludes with Roy’s forgiving Bauman, for his own sake as much as Baumans’.
The second half of the blog traces Roy’s spiritual journey of redemption and fulfilment. He realised that his ordeal had filled the soul with the fruit of experience, however bitter it tasted at the time.”
…I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world… And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake was that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom.
We had tried returning a Mighty Mule 500 automatic gate opener at Home Depot but they refused our request claiming that I needed the ‘box it was sold in’. Who keeps every box for everything they ever bought? When I asked the manager this questions he said, “I keep all my shoe boxes.” It was a lame reply.
I called the Mighty Mule people, the Southern man at the other end of the fractured cell phone line told me that my Mighty Mule 500 was still under warranty but I would have to pay the expensive postage to return it.
“If you don’t stop swearing at me I’ll terminate this call.” His southern drawl smearing the words into a verbal paste.
“I’m not fucking swearing.”
“Sir!”
“You fucking cunt.”
Click.
The Home Depot security guard who had been listening to me speaking on the phone stepped tentatively toward me. We left. The defective, un-boxed Might Mule 500 gate opener in the back of the car.
Apparently today is blasphemy day.
Later that afternoon as the sun began to set we were in the car driving over the Santa Monica Mountains and I said, “Do you think it’s odd that I enjoy spending my time with a twenty-one year old than with almost anyone my own age.” He said, “Do you think it’s weird that I enjoy spending time with a fifty year old more than people my own age?”
We laughed at how our perfection would always be denied.
He is perfection.
I spent another night at the house of the troubled child who had, earlier in the day, run away from home. When he returned home late that night he was ashen, fried, wasted…what could his parents do?
Art Platform, Pacific Standard Time and most other LA art events start today. I am attempting to get to most of them. Will keep you in the loop.
The decorators started work repairing the huge mess left by the renters yesterday. I will tell you more about that tomorrow. It’s a story I have been keeping under my hat. Now is maybe the time to reveal all.
I am sitting at home with my foot in the air swaddled in ice, listening to Joni Mitchell. Well, singing along to her less pessimistic songs. Relieved of the bondage of self.
The dog had his stitches out yesterday.
Henry has been very kindly driving me around. We popped into Gjelina for a late lunch with Anna and bumped into Louisa Spring and the fabulous Chrissy Illey. Chrissy, as you know, is a wonderful writer and journalist from London.
I had to buy new towels. All of mine are old and miserable. Nothing worse than getting out of the shower and searing your skin with an old towel.
Meant to be having dinner with a friend in H’wood last night but my ankle blew up like a big pink balloon so I hobbled home and lay in bed. Iced.
I had a Facebook squabble with a well known writer who damned me for appearing on the ‘A’ List. Why the hell shouldn’t I? Low and High culture are there to be experienced. I have certainly had my fill of High Culture. Performance Art, Art Films…even my book (nearly finished btw) feels like it was written for the exclusive few.
Sorry publishers…I know you don’t want to hear that.
When I got home I tried sleeping but ended up not sleeping. Instead I sat at the desk tidying my prose.
Perhaps I am perplexed by seeing you know who next week? Perhaps I am worried by the future. At around 4am I finally fell asleep. Exhausted.
This summer has not delivered the early morning, glittering sea views we are used to. It is gray and wet. The dew is so heavy that it drips like tropical rain off the plane trees.
By 10am the sun has burned off the marine layer but somehow never really recovers. The weather is totally messed up. The garden thrives although I worry about the cacti.
We lost three this year, rotting in the damp air.
I have huge and beautiful squash growing on the terrace.
Henry is dropping by today. He is taking me to the doctor. My foot is still very painful. Swollen. I can see that it gets better. Slowly, slowly. I take a stick with me into the garden. Ever since the coyote attacked the little dog he stays close to me.
There is a very destructive squirrel chomping on anything and everything but mostly he/she picks oranges and peels them very carefully.
The plums have all been harvested. The figs are ripening. There are so many this year.
Tomatoes and beans, lemons, limes and grapes.
I cooked dinner for Andrew last night, we sat eating it watching Ted on Chopped. I rarely veer from watching HGTV or MSNBC.
Late last night the dog started howling at the moon. It’s impossible to get back to sleep.
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.
The poor little darling was in worse shape than I thought. The coyote bite was much deeper than it looked. Today Jason and the kids took him to the Malibu Coast Vet and Dr. Victor made it better. Whilst he was asleep Victor cleaned his teeth and cut away a skin tab behind his ear.
We love Dr Victor. He is incredibly handsome.
I am in pretty bad shape. I can only crawl. So I am crawling to the bathroom.
We are laying in bed together. Time will heal both of us.
The more I think about that brazen coyote the more it scares me. He was waiting a few feet from us. Waiting. It was very frightening.
Must buy a gun. It could be me next time.
Pain is very exhausting. The shock really compromised me. Anyway, we’ll get through this.
This is a picture of the drain and the scar. I could show you my swollen foot but that’s more disgusting than this:
Matt Rowe arrived from London. Lunch with Casey at Westville. Steven and I ate an early supper and held hands in the street. I felt my whole body tingle with excitement. Late dinner at lil’ Frankies with my pride boys. I love them.
Gave up after that. Exhausted.
I found out that somebody for whom I had long-held a candle is in fact gay…
It’s none of my business what you think about me. Remember that. Duncan Roy…asshole.
Busy past few days. Mostly interested by the end of my novel. Eluded me until last night. Then, just as we are serving dinner (Michael B), it hit me like a rock in the head. The dignified end that had been requested of me.
I have had to really listen these past few days. Listen to somebody I have never met yet whose opinions I trust. Somebody who although several thousand miles away, is as engaged as I am with my book. It is all at once disconcerting and exhilarating.
He asked if I was wedded to the idea that this be a ‘gay’ novel. Don’t! That’s what I thought. Please don’t do this to me. Then, without a moments thought I said that I wasn’t wedded to the idea but didn’t know if I could write it any other way. He suggested that I re read a certain novel with similar themes. That I might be inspired. Well, I did and I was. He was right.
As a result of his suggestion..everything has to be re-jigged but it is smoother, less…his words…’self conscious’. That seems to be what he levels at me most often…that my writing is ‘self conscious’. Then I think to myself, you are out there helping me write a better novel. Do you want to write? No, he says. That’s not my job. I don’t have those aspirations. Like a therapist he is loathed to talk about anything else other than my work and me. He is a closed book.
He helped me with the POV (Point of View) which I had thought about a million times when making a film but never when writing prose.
So, there’s a beginning, middle and an end. That’s that.
What else? Well, I have been in the garden for hours. It looks amazing. I am either at my desk editing or I am in the garden planting and pruning. My nails are constantly black with mud. There is a trail of dirt through the house where I can’t be bothered to take off my shoes but get very grumpy if anyone else forgets to.
I went to a dinner with Tom and wished he didn’t want to sleep with 19 year old boys but wanted to sleep with me. I had sex with the deaf boy whose deafness kinda turns me on. We fucked. I wish I knew him better.
The Dane arrives this evening and we set off on our adventure. What is it with me and adventures?
Have been to therapy every day. I feel great. I feel complete. I know, God damn it, that this will pass but being active in the body and the mind seems to placate my yearning heart. However, I am acutely aware that when I feel good like this I start hankering for more. Where’s mine?
