clinging to the wreckage

I had been awake since 4 or before. It was Valentines day. I knew I had to end things with one, spend the day longing for others, and then wallow in isolation and solitude. I watched a TV show in which Lucifer, who was British, of course, left hell to take a vacation in Los Angeles. The idea is actually quite intriguing, the execution is less so. Sometimes I feel as if I am living this role. I used to be this sweet boy who always smiled and looked for innocent and long-lasting traditional love. Over the years I saw people having fun all around me whilst I suffered deeply and internally. It happened relatively late in life that my marriage ended and my eyes opened. I felt a deep sense of relief and of freedom. Expecting nothing and living in the moment I had relationships with people who were in relationships and then I moved to Madrid. Life began at 39. I became so happy that I was sometimes scared. For the first time I started to do what I had always seen others do… I

It had been a long and difficult week in Miami. I’d arrived on Saturday night and, after a quick dinner in the hotel, I went to bed. In the morning I woke up, had breakfast at the pool, had a swim, watched some English football, then took an Uber down to South Beach. I wasn’t sure where to head to, so I set my destination as the Art Deco Welcome Centre right in the heart of Ocean Drive. The driver’s name was Jean-Christophe, originally French, but had lived all over the world, and was in Miami for some business reason that I couldn’t quite grasp. As we approached the art deco centre there was a lot of traffic, so I asked JC to drop me off right where we were. I hopped out and immediately found myself staring into a cool, dark, beautiful bar. I wanted to walk in and order a beer, but it was 11am and I was meeting a friend and his wife, so I thought it best to resist for at least one hour. I walked down Ocean Drive and back up through the bright colours and overwhelming s

In the dream we were in a swimming pool, surrounded by friends and strangers. You were naked and it was the most natural and beautiful thing anyone had ever seen. You were laughing and joking with me and our friends, aware of my love, were smiling. Suddenly, it changed, you started to shout at me as you climbed from the pool. You were saying that I had recently been aggressively flirtatious with you and that you never wanted to see or speak to me again. Our friends were sad, shocked, looking at me as if they were uncertain if I deserved pity or scorn. A few moments later I had moved onto the next nightmare in which swans were gathering at the major lakes of the earth in preparation for the end of the world as floods washed cities into ruin and people drowned in their hundreds of thousands. From watching this I was suddenly washed out to sea and the current was pulling me rapidly to an icy and lonely death. As I rushed out in the foamy water and ice I wo

Many Monday nights I would proclaim ‘Monday is the new Friday’ and, delighted to have survived the day, the alcohol would begin to flow. We’d flood into the Spanish streets and sip vast quantities of things as we tasted tapas and tried scruffy little bars in dark alleys. Thinking of those nights tonight I ask myself ‘who is this person?’ as I walk downstairs to our gym and start to jog on the treadmill after having pasta and vegetables for dinner with water. Last week was spent in sickness and it feels so good to be healthy again that I feel inspired. And yet it feels strange to write such light and healthy words, for I am often one with the dark… a lover of literature scribbled by the drunken pen… and music that flows from the bottom of the barrel. My Spanish doctor once proclaimed, ‘I know your life is good but please stop celebrating so much.’ One year later my American doctor told me that I was a high risk and that my lifestyle had to change. And, so, I raise m

So many people asked if I was prepared for the Boston winters when I was moving here from Madrid. I was born in Greater Manchester, England, and the winters in Boston are beautiful compared to what I grew up in. It is cold here but often beautifully sunny and blue. In Manchester we had cold accompanied by driving rain and endless grey skies. There is something of immense beauty in that too. There is nothing that can compare to going to an old pub that is hundreds of years old and has moss and the colour of centuries upon its walls. There is a smell in the air of freshness from a persistent rain wash. But yesterday, as I watched football from around England, I noticed that people were wrapped in thick raincoats and looked as miserable as sin as the rain soaked through to their bones. The inescapable wetness. I took a walk to the post office and was astonished by the brightness and the beauty of Massachusetts even at sub zero temperatures. My Massachusetts ID a

Sickness swoops in and slows down the day. The pace these days is incredible and guilt accompanies sickness or any time away.   Staring out of the window, across this crispy cold and clear courtyard towards the apartment in which Luna lives (Luna is the cat I take care of when her owners go on holiday) I see that there are no lights on and nobody is home. Someone once said to me ‘beware of cat people’ and I thought ‘what nonsense’. I asked why and she said ‘cat people have cats to be cool and then they are never ever home with their cats… and they justify it by saying “cats are independent.”’ Since then I have noticed that cat owners are never home with their cats. I owned two cats for eight years and I was a slave to their every whim, and I was almost always home with them. Cats love company more than anything (except food) but even food is a celebration of something that their humans give to them. If you have cats, don’t go out every single night. I have never understood people who

To my left sits a lawyer, telling his friends that he is being sued but that he will always have a Porsche in his garage. To my right is a punk rocker, drinking a beer rapidly as he watches the LA Kings Ice Hockey match on his cell phone. Before me, a cool Mexican guy nearly blows us all up as he torches the Orange whilst preparing an Old Fashioned for me. Outside, the kids ride motorized scooters along Ocean Drive and Santa Monica pier. It all fits into this image that I have always had of California, even as a child. For instance, my Lyft driver picked me up at the airport and was listening to a punk rock mix. So, inevitably, we spoke about punk rock as we made our way to the hotel at which I was staying. When I arrived there was a party underway and I jokingly thanked the hotel for arranging a party for my arrival. They told me that ‘shooting finished today and this is the wrap party.’ I didn’t have the energy to ask which film it was. Sleep is impossible. At the