At bad times I yearn to be a monk (27th June 1997)

At bad times I yearn to be a monk, to be allowed to live for ever in total silence and contemplation. Then I think I can do that here. All that getting me to talk, it's just stupid. Being with other people just makes me so unhappy. I need my privacy and my silence. That is who I am. It hurt me because Sarah always ignored that. If you can't be alone, you need to carry that peace around with you.

Walking down the road in my coat in the drizzling rain, it felt so much like September; I thought how much I love going to Sunset Strip after Chandos in the dark afternoons. That little cauldron of colour and girls. With no emotion involved, the way it should be. Pouring with rain as I came back.

I'm looking for self-realisation, and I will only find that in my writing. I want to explore that now, now you've helped me find the secret door in.

Sex dancers who create their own fictional world in the orange light amidst the blackness, and drag you into it. God, I can't wait for September. The thought of red Gillian Anderson dancing in black lace dress. Why can't May lead into September? I want Ruby, Sneaker Pimps, Placebo, Swiss gold, Chandos, Sunset Strip, models in Brewer Street warm boudoirs before football in the black Wednesday evenings.

This vampiric period has coincided with Batman & Batgirl! Purple & black.

Am I Blue? 1920s New York jazz club atmosphere, smoky, ferns, illegal drink. The orgasmic sexy intoxication of Tristan und Isolde is no greater than when a stripper's eyes meet those of a certain man's and they just steadily look at each other for a few prolonged moments. 

I felt like Oscar Wilde leaving his rent boys as I left the Astral (18th June 1997)

I felt like Oscar Wilde leaving his rent boys as I left the Astral, walking the streets back, everyone watching me. I suppose I just imagined it. The films were very good. Perfect Pair. Cliffbanger. Busting Out. Shock. The very tall blonde in pink swimsuit in Cliffbanger, she was fantastic. NEVER AGAIN. £8.80. 

I'm a writer. I'm like Vincent. I'm like F.G.Lorca. I'm like Franz Kafka. Weak pathetic creatures, can you imagine them sitting at a desk in an office? Keep them at arm's length as much as possible. I just want to be left alone, in my own little world, to write my stories. 

It's no good making me go against my nature. They won't accept me. You wouldn't either. I found it difficult. Like a homosexual for a long while finds it difficult to accept his own nature. You should help me accept it and make the best of it. Was this the end of Cuba? Maybe. Already I want to see the pink bikini tall Cliffbanger girl again. 

I'm ashamed of my sleazy life, but it's my nature. Control it. Put it into my writing. 

The necessarily secretive world of Victorian homosexuals. I'm beautiful like Federico. Fucked up like Vincent, writing pathetic helpless scribbles. Cowardly like F Kafka. 

Vampires get great pleasure from sucking blood, but it's a very lonely and empty life. Oscar Wilde's shame was his rent boys; mine is the Astral Cinema, and Sunset Strip. It is a nasty, unpleasant, necessary hygienic ritual, weekly it seems. It is my gutter. I'm a prince, in dark blue & black. 

They are all Fu Manchu films.