Suzanne planting chives. She thought Corinne was mad (very intense, one track mind). I thought she was sweet. Marine thought she was sad. Lonely? Widowed or divorced?
I've washed (well Suzanne put a wash on and hung it all up to dry) my sheets, but still haven't managed to have a shower or a shave. And I need a haircut. Maybe have a treat (wash, cut and style for €17, which seems ridiculous considering the lack of challenge my hair represents to a coiffeur / euse. An -euse would be nice. But he'll probably be gay.)
I need some more music. I like everything I've got but it's a bit limited. Be nice to have Kind of Blue or Brubeck on my stick. If Andrew leaves the laptop behind try ripping a few of my CDs onto my stick.
Still haven't managed a run. Still, I'm having trouble fitting in brushing my teeth into my schedule. Tried ringing Joe to ask him electrical questions, but he was at a party. Said I can ring him anytime today (i.e. Thursday - it's actually Wednesday 10:43pm right now).
Why are there so many Daniels in my life all of a sudden? Colombian Daniel, who I think may finally be getting me (he's off to Grenoble on Friday), Daniel Sempere, the hero of The Shadow of the Wind, Daniel Stearman in Metanoia, and of course me, as I was in 1967.
Sitting in bed, in my clean sheets, the caravan filled with blinding bright white light - I fitted the second light today - as I like it when I'm doing stuff, listening to Kissilova (I think). I wonder when / if my batteries will expire. Turned the thermostat on the fridge up a bit - it's drawing power all the time otherwise, but it's making ice. Should get a little ice tray for it. I've asked Stuart to book me on a slow trek on Naxos with his new employers ZAS Travel (he'd be leading it). I need to get on with his book - Christos has sent me back the fair copy with the right typesize, pagination etc (or, rather what Stuart wants, and it's his book after all).
No word / reaction from anyone about my final chapters, or anything from Pol about The Tobacconists. Perhaps I'll go and eat worms.
Would I rather this caravan was right now sitting on a mountain on Naxos? An open question. Free, alone, a long way from home, no demands other than those I make on myself, no-one needing me, propping me up, making me meditate, no-one to stop me drinking i.e. I could just get pissed and tell no-one, ever, making my own decisions and plans, no 'children' to cope with, meat when and if I like, incomprehensible Greek all around me . . .
The grass snake I rescued is living in the rock pile outside my picture window - he poked his head out today to have a look at me.
The trouble with 'taking control' is you have to go out in the middle of the night to retrieve the key from the lock up that you forgot to lock up, only someone has got there before you and now you don't know who has got the key, and who it is that knows you're an incompetent, irresponsible idiot. Probably Jean Christophe - he was mowing the grass until dark (he was worried that it's going to rain, and he's on holiday next week).
I have brushed my teeth.
The compulsion to record everything is becoming a bit obsessive. Leave the Chrome in the house at night? And my dark fantasy today - I want to write it down, but not for anyone to see it (why not?) - embed an invisible link here {{{{TheSecretDiaryOfDodgyDannyAged65andaQuarter}}}}}} to another page, for the bits I don't want anyone / everyone / particular ones to read, but the thoughts or whatever will be there, to be seen after my death, or something. As I say, this is all getting a bit OCD. And a bit like the tree in the forest that falls. If no-one ever reads it, is there any point in writing it down? But isn't that what a lot of people do when they keep diaries?
Should there be many secret diaries, carefully labelled with health warnings - not to be read by xxxx, or anyone, and a click here if they insist? Curiosity will kill the cat. And what am I doing or saying, by doing this? Shaming or humiliating myself, or wanting to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Is this what the secret of Dorian Gray is really about? The attic with the true picture, rotting and depraved, hidden from everyone, that we never really reveal, or even admit to ourselves exists. The bit of us we deny, the bit we love to see others reveal about themselves - a lot of transgressive comedians and writers - because it somehow lets us off the hook, we are not alone. We both want and don't want, a soul mate or a priest / confessor with whom we can share our secret.
This matters, because we (or I, anyway) keep 'forgetting' about the picture in the attic, keep entertaining the illusion that I'm good and decent and pure (??!), forget / forgot that I'm really a drunk, or a lecher, or unbelievably self centred, forget I'm a sinner, want to believe I'm as good and perfect as my silly superego thinks I ought to be, denying the shadow, not wanting to be found out, what people go to shrinks or confessors to dig out, and expose, and not be ejected / rejected, to be accepted in my entirety, loved as I am, not some false picture I present to the world, even to those I am closest to. Which is why this door should not be barred (to the secret diary) but also why I feel ambivalent about it. Want at least to be able to say, like Bluebeard's secret room or Pandora's box, I told you not to go there. Can it really work if I don't just splurge it out on the page, along with everything else, not making a joke out of it, or pretending it's just a fantasy, a sort of dark fairy tale, not really me or about me at all.
The other complication / aspect is that this is not just about what I am ashamed of, or even do not want to spell out or admit to myself, but that I want to keep certain people away from certain things, thoughts, feelings about other people. So I might want to talk about Sukie or Polly, and not want them or some others to know. This multi-facetedness we present (or maybe this really is something I have a particular problem with) - different bits of ourselves to different people, who then get confused when they are in the same room together with me - who am I, who is this person with that person who is not the person he is with me. The social white lies we tell, about ourselves, or others, to various others under various circumstances. It all gets so complicated and confusing and alienating, as if I never present myself, as a whole, to anyone, including myself. The first stage was / is the supposed 'anonymity' of this blog. It's an illusion of course - some people, maybe, come here, who have no idea who I am. But they could find out soon enough. But most I know, and know me - I told you about it. I don't want to pretend this is the whole truth (as far as I myself am even aware of it) and it not be. And I want it to be as much of the truth of me as I am aware of, for my sake, primarily. I want to discover and expose who I really am, or as much of it as I can dig up and expose. Not be obsessive about it, but not hold back either. So that I can honestly say to anyone - read this, and you will know as much about me as I know myself, maybe even more, because you may see things here that I am not even aware of. Connections. Patterns. Obsessions. Places I am reluctant to go to or explore, that I just make a jokey reference to.
To be continued.[]
The bell's ringing. Barely sweetened tea, and a dull grey morning.
I'm going to continue with my story about the cats, now Metanoia's gone. I wonder if I can?
Do Metanoia without faffing around. Just need to create one big pdf. Do it on Andrew's laptop?
It's not as cold as yesterday, but my batteries are apparently empty (why are the lights still on?) and there is no sign of sun. What does the battery icon on the monitor with the smiley face actually mean? RTFM.
If I do create a trapdoor to the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god, will I just stop bothering to use it? Just write it all here, out in the open, anyway. Probably. Or is there value in making many mansions, a multi-layered account of myself, carefully signposted - 'not for Felicity', 'sex', 'shameful and disgusting personal habits', 'things I'm not even sure are true' etc etc etc? Just bore and confuse people into taking no notice of anything I've written. But it will still have been written, I will have written it, and 'admitted or confessed or discovered' it, and that I think has value in itself, precisely because not only have I written it, but because I have made it available - it is not just my dirty little secret. Good thing I don't have a career to worry about.
I wonder what dark secrets MoneyGram and Western Union (and, for that matter, the Thomas Mills Trust - must write to Penelope) think they know about me? I guess it's my brief foray into money laundering when I was at Top Trucks, that Lloyds investigated and know all about. Am I now flagged up on some ghastly Fatherland type database, to be stopped at US Immigration, or somewhere, and refused entry, or taken in for 'questioning'? the thing I hated about the CoOp, and the Benefits Agency, and filling in the Housing Benefit claim forms - the feeling that they had something on me, that they had control over me, could do something terrible to me, and there is nothing I can do, apart from top myself, which is the ultimate autonomy, and why the right to die opponents are so fucking wrong - if I can't even leave when I want to, what freedom do I have? Church ditto, although they of course would say I have no freedom, I am just God's plaything. Well, fuck that. If the only way into heaven is to become some sort of slave, fuck that, and Him or It or whatever it is. Are you listening God? And if you are, who the fuck are you, because I don't think you're God?
'Finishing the bathroom' is starting to sound like Daniel 'finishing the compost bins'. I really should go and admire. He gave us a very detailed lesson on its care and maintenance this morning. We've said goodbye to Marine and Arthur.
So did next to nothing on the bathroom. Painted the chapel plaster. Inspected veggie patch with Suzanne. And the new pump (very neat, tiny 2-stroke sucking illegal water out of the river). Fiddling with the power station - bit worried I've fucked the inverter (has both fault light and green OK light on, may just be the batteries are too discharged - try switching it off and plugging in again later, running fridge on gas for now).
I'm taking the children out for dinner in Vivonne. Andrew and Delyth are driving to the Pyrenees. Giovanni wants picking up from Poitiers at 11.30 on Sunday night. Said I will. Taking Daniel into Poitiers tomorrow morning.
I've washed (well Suzanne put a wash on and hung it all up to dry) my sheets, but still haven't managed to have a shower or a shave. And I need a haircut. Maybe have a treat (wash, cut and style for €17, which seems ridiculous considering the lack of challenge my hair represents to a coiffeur / euse. An -euse would be nice. But he'll probably be gay.)
I need some more music. I like everything I've got but it's a bit limited. Be nice to have Kind of Blue or Brubeck on my stick. If Andrew leaves the laptop behind try ripping a few of my CDs onto my stick.
Still haven't managed a run. Still, I'm having trouble fitting in brushing my teeth into my schedule. Tried ringing Joe to ask him electrical questions, but he was at a party. Said I can ring him anytime today (i.e. Thursday - it's actually Wednesday 10:43pm right now).
Why are there so many Daniels in my life all of a sudden? Colombian Daniel, who I think may finally be getting me (he's off to Grenoble on Friday), Daniel Sempere, the hero of The Shadow of the Wind, Daniel Stearman in Metanoia, and of course me, as I was in 1967.
Sitting in bed, in my clean sheets, the caravan filled with blinding bright white light - I fitted the second light today - as I like it when I'm doing stuff, listening to Kissilova (I think). I wonder when / if my batteries will expire. Turned the thermostat on the fridge up a bit - it's drawing power all the time otherwise, but it's making ice. Should get a little ice tray for it. I've asked Stuart to book me on a slow trek on Naxos with his new employers ZAS Travel (he'd be leading it). I need to get on with his book - Christos has sent me back the fair copy with the right typesize, pagination etc (or, rather what Stuart wants, and it's his book after all).
No word / reaction from anyone about my final chapters, or anything from Pol about The Tobacconists. Perhaps I'll go and eat worms.
Would I rather this caravan was right now sitting on a mountain on Naxos? An open question. Free, alone, a long way from home, no demands other than those I make on myself, no-one needing me, propping me up, making me meditate, no-one to stop me drinking i.e. I could just get pissed and tell no-one, ever, making my own decisions and plans, no 'children' to cope with, meat when and if I like, incomprehensible Greek all around me . . .
The grass snake I rescued is living in the rock pile outside my picture window - he poked his head out today to have a look at me.
The trouble with 'taking control' is you have to go out in the middle of the night to retrieve the key from the lock up that you forgot to lock up, only someone has got there before you and now you don't know who has got the key, and who it is that knows you're an incompetent, irresponsible idiot. Probably Jean Christophe - he was mowing the grass until dark (he was worried that it's going to rain, and he's on holiday next week).
I have brushed my teeth.
The compulsion to record everything is becoming a bit obsessive. Leave the Chrome in the house at night? And my dark fantasy today - I want to write it down, but not for anyone to see it (why not?) - embed an invisible link here {{{{TheSecretDiaryOfDodgyDannyAged65andaQuarter}}}}}} to another page, for the bits I don't want anyone / everyone / particular ones to read, but the thoughts or whatever will be there, to be seen after my death, or something. As I say, this is all getting a bit OCD. And a bit like the tree in the forest that falls. If no-one ever reads it, is there any point in writing it down? But isn't that what a lot of people do when they keep diaries?
Should there be many secret diaries, carefully labelled with health warnings - not to be read by xxxx, or anyone, and a click here if they insist? Curiosity will kill the cat. And what am I doing or saying, by doing this? Shaming or humiliating myself, or wanting to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Is this what the secret of Dorian Gray is really about? The attic with the true picture, rotting and depraved, hidden from everyone, that we never really reveal, or even admit to ourselves exists. The bit of us we deny, the bit we love to see others reveal about themselves - a lot of transgressive comedians and writers - because it somehow lets us off the hook, we are not alone. We both want and don't want, a soul mate or a priest / confessor with whom we can share our secret.
This matters, because we (or I, anyway) keep 'forgetting' about the picture in the attic, keep entertaining the illusion that I'm good and decent and pure (??!), forget / forgot that I'm really a drunk, or a lecher, or unbelievably self centred, forget I'm a sinner, want to believe I'm as good and perfect as my silly superego thinks I ought to be, denying the shadow, not wanting to be found out, what people go to shrinks or confessors to dig out, and expose, and not be ejected / rejected, to be accepted in my entirety, loved as I am, not some false picture I present to the world, even to those I am closest to. Which is why this door should not be barred (to the secret diary) but also why I feel ambivalent about it. Want at least to be able to say, like Bluebeard's secret room or Pandora's box, I told you not to go there. Can it really work if I don't just splurge it out on the page, along with everything else, not making a joke out of it, or pretending it's just a fantasy, a sort of dark fairy tale, not really me or about me at all.
The other complication / aspect is that this is not just about what I am ashamed of, or even do not want to spell out or admit to myself, but that I want to keep certain people away from certain things, thoughts, feelings about other people. So I might want to talk about Sukie or Polly, and not want them or some others to know. This multi-facetedness we present (or maybe this really is something I have a particular problem with) - different bits of ourselves to different people, who then get confused when they are in the same room together with me - who am I, who is this person with that person who is not the person he is with me. The social white lies we tell, about ourselves, or others, to various others under various circumstances. It all gets so complicated and confusing and alienating, as if I never present myself, as a whole, to anyone, including myself. The first stage was / is the supposed 'anonymity' of this blog. It's an illusion of course - some people, maybe, come here, who have no idea who I am. But they could find out soon enough. But most I know, and know me - I told you about it. I don't want to pretend this is the whole truth (as far as I myself am even aware of it) and it not be. And I want it to be as much of the truth of me as I am aware of, for my sake, primarily. I want to discover and expose who I really am, or as much of it as I can dig up and expose. Not be obsessive about it, but not hold back either. So that I can honestly say to anyone - read this, and you will know as much about me as I know myself, maybe even more, because you may see things here that I am not even aware of. Connections. Patterns. Obsessions. Places I am reluctant to go to or explore, that I just make a jokey reference to.
To be continued.[]
The bell's ringing. Barely sweetened tea, and a dull grey morning.
I'm going to continue with my story about the cats, now Metanoia's gone. I wonder if I can?
Do Metanoia without faffing around. Just need to create one big pdf. Do it on Andrew's laptop?
It's not as cold as yesterday, but my batteries are apparently empty (why are the lights still on?) and there is no sign of sun. What does the battery icon on the monitor with the smiley face actually mean? RTFM.
If I do create a trapdoor to the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god, will I just stop bothering to use it? Just write it all here, out in the open, anyway. Probably. Or is there value in making many mansions, a multi-layered account of myself, carefully signposted - 'not for Felicity', 'sex', 'shameful and disgusting personal habits', 'things I'm not even sure are true' etc etc etc? Just bore and confuse people into taking no notice of anything I've written. But it will still have been written, I will have written it, and 'admitted or confessed or discovered' it, and that I think has value in itself, precisely because not only have I written it, but because I have made it available - it is not just my dirty little secret. Good thing I don't have a career to worry about.
I wonder what dark secrets MoneyGram and Western Union (and, for that matter, the Thomas Mills Trust - must write to Penelope) think they know about me? I guess it's my brief foray into money laundering when I was at Top Trucks, that Lloyds investigated and know all about. Am I now flagged up on some ghastly Fatherland type database, to be stopped at US Immigration, or somewhere, and refused entry, or taken in for 'questioning'? the thing I hated about the CoOp, and the Benefits Agency, and filling in the Housing Benefit claim forms - the feeling that they had something on me, that they had control over me, could do something terrible to me, and there is nothing I can do, apart from top myself, which is the ultimate autonomy, and why the right to die opponents are so fucking wrong - if I can't even leave when I want to, what freedom do I have? Church ditto, although they of course would say I have no freedom, I am just God's plaything. Well, fuck that. If the only way into heaven is to become some sort of slave, fuck that, and Him or It or whatever it is. Are you listening God? And if you are, who the fuck are you, because I don't think you're God?
'Finishing the bathroom' is starting to sound like Daniel 'finishing the compost bins'. I really should go and admire. He gave us a very detailed lesson on its care and maintenance this morning. We've said goodbye to Marine and Arthur.
So did next to nothing on the bathroom. Painted the chapel plaster. Inspected veggie patch with Suzanne. And the new pump (very neat, tiny 2-stroke sucking illegal water out of the river). Fiddling with the power station - bit worried I've fucked the inverter (has both fault light and green OK light on, may just be the batteries are too discharged - try switching it off and plugging in again later, running fridge on gas for now).
I'm taking the children out for dinner in Vivonne. Andrew and Delyth are driving to the Pyrenees. Giovanni wants picking up from Poitiers at 11.30 on Sunday night. Said I will. Taking Daniel into Poitiers tomorrow morning.
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Say anything you like. I do.