Night thoughts

I've been trying to lose weight.  All my life I've eaten for comfort.  Food helped me feel better when I was lonely or bullied or stressed.  Alcohol also helped.  It makes some people aggressive, but it relaxes me, and makes me happy.  There's a problem, though.  There're lots of calories in alcohol.  But sometimes, the trade-off tilts in alcohol's direction. 

I'm worried about the world.  I know, I read decades ago that if you think the world has gone to hell in a hand-basket, you're probably over 30.  Which I am.  But I've always tried to remember that little aphorism whenever I've got disgruntled about the state of the world.  Maybe it's not as bad as you think, I say to myself.  Maybe you're overreacting.  But ... maybe I'm not, too.

I look at Donald Trump and his overthrow of truth and decency.  I look at our own government, which in the face of the hottest summer ever, by far, still lies about the country's emissions and wants to subsidize coal power stations.  I look out of the window at dying fields and trees, dying because of a horrendous drought caused by global warming.  There's the war in Yemen, where hundreds of thousands of people are starving to death.  I read reports about how the numbers of insects have dropped 75% over 40 years.  Without insects there won't be an environment; there won't be food.   And I wonder about the rank folly and greed of mankind.

Alcohol helps.  I've lost 9 kilos (20 pounds) but my despair about the world around me threatens to stop that, even reverse it.

Ah, well.  I'll try to be better tomorrow.

As flies

“As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.”

Shakespeare had it right.

Oh, yet we trust

from here

From In Memoriam (Alfred Lord Tennyson)


Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
         Will be the final end of ill,
         To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
         That not one life shall be destroy'd,
         Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
         That not a moth with vain desire
         Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
         I can but trust that good shall fall
         At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
         An infant crying in the night:
         An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

Saturday night thoughts

A couple of glasses of wine, and I am taken back to the loss of so many whom I loved.  It's a beautiful summer evening outside, and that somehow makes it worse.  My mother, my friend Henrik, my friend Anneliese, the little dog I loved so much.  Grief is part of life, no?  The price you pay for loving, for being happy.  To be happy is not enough.  The Gods must make you pay.  So They send grief and regret, sorrow and loss, pain and suffering.  We are but playthings in some vast game, threads in the Tapestry of Life, and happiness is a chimera


Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille. 
Tu réclamais le Soir: il descend, le voici:

Tu crois

Tu crois que la vie
est douce.  Mais ce n'est pas vrai.
Pleine de douleur, dure.

Footy -- Chapter 23

To his surprise, he fell asleep, a drugged slumber that brought him no relief from his grief or his lassitude. Sean MacDonald had never been in love before. Losing Will was worse than the loss of a first love, though. With him, Sean had felt that he was part of the broad congregation of humanity. It hadn’t mattered that his mother’d been a druggie and his father a brutal alcoholic failure. It didn’t matter that he had an unimportant job that everyone looked down on. He’d been alive, and the light of love had cast the shadows away. 

After he woke, he once again lay motionless on his bed. His eyes moved from one corner to the next, noting absently that there was a spider web here, and small damp stain there, that the center light threw displeasing shadows in the corners. Yet nothing registered. The flick of his eyes around the room, from one side to the other, had no purpose. 

There seemed to be nothing that would ease the pain. A few months ago, before Jasper and Will, he might have watched Katy Submits, and smoked a few joints. He might have drunk the bottle of vodka that he kept in the cupboard underneath the hotplate and the kettle. But he knew for a certainty that none of these things would make it hurt any less. And he was not going to turn into either of his parents. Whatever happened, he would survive. Inside him, an insistent quiet voice spoke. No, it said. You’ve failed. You’re just like your hopeless loser parents. And you’re a homo. And where the fuck did that get you? Loser. Failure. Spaz.

You can read the rest of the chapter here.

Saturday Night Thoughts

It's late at night here.  Late-ish, anyway.  And I've just watched a Hercule Poirot and imbibed several glasses of champagne which has left me a little,  well maudlin is the best word.

Alcohol hasn't always affected me like that.  Once it made me happy, and sometimes, when I forget, it still does.  But there are so many wounds, so many scars.  It becomes harder to be joyful.

One mustn't grumble and complain, since it's unseemly, as well as offensive (I have so much: a roof over my head, food and drink in my belly, a wife who loves me, children, and enough money to buy books and records).  Yet once it was easier to bounce back from the stumbling blocks life throws up.  Now I know that the world is far from perfect and in fact never will be perfect.  I used to believe it could be made better, that things could be improved.  Now I don't.   I miss those whom I loved who have died or gone away.  I miss my youth, my good health, my joie de vivre.

All this makes hope harder to hold on to.  And without hope, what point is there?

Majorca Flats -- 249

“G'day, mate. Thank you for ...”

“... no worries, mate.”

Obviously a real man, thought Luigi. No wasted chatter.

“What's your address, mate?” he asked, matching tone and diction. “I'll come and pick Cody up.”

The other man gave his address while Luigi looked around Keith's sitting-room for paper and a pencil. “Hang on a tick! Just looking for a pencil … Right, what was it again? And what's your name mate? Michael? Good, Michael. I'm Luigi. Mate, thanks again for helping Cody.”

At the other end of the line, Michael clearly had several questions he wanted to ask but couldn't work out how.

“We'll talk when I get there, Michael. See you in 45 minutes.”

When Michael asked whether he wanted to talk to Cody again, Luigi shook his head, forgetting that Michael couldn't see that. So Michael asked again.

“Yes,” said Luigi.

“Lou?” Cody was tentative. Luigi could hear the strain in his voice, and he felt his heart wrench. Once he'd loved this man more than anyone he'd ever loved, in all his life. And that someone'd proved to be … flawed. Did he still love him? Yes, blast his eyes, he did.

“Coad … I'll see you in three quarters of an hour. Take care …” and then, hesitating, instead of “love”, he ended with “mate”.

“Yeah,” Cody replied, his voice full of doubt and hurt.

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Episodes 1 to 220 (without pictures, 10 episodes per chapter)

The Failure

Despair by Edvard Munch

I get the occasional angry or offensive email about my opposition to Christianity.

Wrong.  I'm not opposed, at all.  But I detest those who have set aside the central message of Christianity so that they can hate and despise, the people I call ChrisTaliban or Christian Fascists.  And I respect and admire those Christians who try against all the odds to be compassionate, kind, loving and decent.

Here's a post from a gay Christian I follow.

Well said, mate.  Very well said.

Love one another as I have loved you.  Such a simple proposition.  So hard to follow.

Majorca Flats -- 217

Jason knocked at the flat's door. Luigi opened it and stared at him in silence. Jason's heart sank.

“May I come in?” he asked, his upper-class English accent suddenly strong.

Luigi bowed.

“You all right, Lou?”

Luigi's shiny black-olive eyes were sad. “I don't know, Jace. I … I feel …”

Jason was unable to stand it any more. He pulled Luigi into a hug. He squeezed the other man hard and then he kissed him.

“What happened last night?” he asked.

Luigi stared at him. He didn't pretend not to understand. Still held by Jason's arms he muttered, “I dunno, Jace. Maybe … it was … fuck!”

“Did Esmé freak you out?”

Luigi rubbed his chin on Jason's stubble.

“Having fun?” asked Jason.

Luigi grinned. “Sorry, I had a sudden itch. And you're holding my arms.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Did Esmé being there freak you out?”

“It's … it's just that I'm afraid that Keith will decide to go straight. And then …”

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Episodes 1 to 180 (without pictures, 10 episodes per chapter)

Majorca Flats -- 124

Without a word, Keith rose and went to the bar and returned with three brandies. In silence, he pushed one across the scrubbed table boards to Jason and the other to Luigi, then took a long swallow from his own glass.

“He came to me. The club said that if he repaid the money and resigned, they wouldn’t press charges. As I said, he was very popular. His work was also ready to avoid a court case if he repaid. He came to me, and asked for money. I could easily have given it to him. Even if I didn't have it in my bank account, I could have borrowed some from somewhere. He might have had to leave the club and find a new job but at least he wouldn't have to go to jail.”

Jason took a long swallow of his brandy. The burn as it went down his throat promised anaesthesia to come. He relished both.

“I refused. Fuck me for a cunt, I refused. He didn't say anything, he didn't get angry, he just looked at me. I'll never forget that look. Never. I'll live with it forever.”

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Majorca Flats Episodes 1 to 10           Majorca Flats Episodes 61 to 70
Majorca Flats Episodes 11 to 20         Majorca Flats Episodes 71 to 80
Majorca Flats Episodes 21 to 30         Majorca Flats Episodes 81 to 90
Majorca Flats Episodes 31 to 40         Majorca Flats Episodes 91 to 100
Majorca Flats Episodes 41 to 50         Majorca Flats Episodes 101 to 110   
Majorca Flats Episodes 51 to 60         Majorca Flats Episodes 111 to 120