I’ve been rickety all week. Struck down with the gentleman-flu – the galloping gentleman-flu.
I have generated mucous from my face-holes, low-or-no energy and savaged concentration.
That said, writing up my daily journal this morning (I didn’t, right over the days-of-sickness) I found myself drawing on memories from saturday morning as if I was squeezing out fiction. And you know what? It felt great.
But by and large, I’ve felt like shit ever since the weekend.
Which is ironic, as last weekend was the finest birthday I’ve ever had. Three days of baccanalia, suffering and rejoicing. And as it ended, I collapsed. A further three days of coughing, choking and rivers of snot.
I don’t even buy into the Judeo-Christian paradigm, that all pleasure must be paid for – with pain, with atonement, with sacrifice. Nope, I still smell shite when I hear that noise.
I believe – because experience has taught me – that pleasure is an end in itself. That not all sex needs to end in pregnancy, that not every pint is a signpost to your hangover.
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.