clinging to the wreckage

She had magnetic lips. They simply screamed out to be kissed. I was unable to resist in any way. I’d pick up a take away from a restaurant in the street parallel to hers and then go to her apartment. As soon as I entered, I would be drawn to her like a moth to the flame…and a flame she was. And aflame I was. Such skin, such hair, such eyes, such athleticism, such beauty, such a mind. We’d eat and talk about our days, then we’d start to kiss on the couch and sometimes we’d make it to her bed, sometimes we wouldn’t. I was always concerned if we didn’t, because I felt the people across the street could see us, but she was convinced they couldn’t (I think this was because her vision was not the best and therefore she thought no one could see from such a distance. I always saw some weird guy staring across the street from his messy apartment). Sex with her was fantastic, as was conversation, eating, hiking, sleeping, and everything else. She laughed when I told he

With nothing other than my longing for you, I set off for New Orleans for the weekend. Feeling very little these days other than a certainty that love is dead, I was hoping to find something to awaken my heart and open my mind to the concept that romance may well be a possibility once more. I was feeling particularly afraid of the flight for some reason and so I arrived at the airport early. To find a bar, I had to walk to the far side of the terminal because the two bars near the gate were both closed for renovations (how can they close both bars at the same time?). I sat at the last seat and ordered a beer. The bar started to fill up and a guy sat next to me and rapid-fire drank three whiskeys. I had time to waste so I slowly sipped two beers. I paid and got onto the plane. Window seat… locked in by two large, tattooed guys. I had to get up and pee twice during the flight and both times I felt bad for troubling them… but getting older earns a certain level

In Madrid I met with the Spanish lady, a lady of tremendous power who cannot be named, and she said to me: ‘You are the origin of your pain!!!’ She was absolutely correct. My pain is self-inflicted. One by one I peeled off tales of my failed romances and my doomed and hopeless longings for those I could never be with (and wanted them probably only because of this fact). Mainly the French lady whom some refer to as my muse. It’s true, I suppose, she is my muse and, since I met her, exactly six years ago, on one of my first days in Madrid, I have thought of her every single day. Every night I go to sleep imagining that she is lying beside me and each morning I awake wishing that the first thing I could see is her face. The Spanish lady closed her eyes and sighed and cursed in Spanish as I poured out my emotional verbal diarrhea. I asked her if she has seen the other, the Bulgarian, but she told me that their paths do not cross. Life is wonderful… from 40…

This has been a week of intensities. But, as with many intense experiences that occur outside of the comfort zone, it was a week of great learning for me. Seniors from my organization traveled from France to the USA and then we embarked on a three-city trip in four days for intensive meetings and discussions. Boston on Monday, Portsmouth on Tuesday, and New York on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. It was heavy in terms of travel, stress, and focus… and was ultimately a fantastic learning experience that helped me to grow a little, both personally and professionally. Coming home, my flight was cancelled. I tried to get a train and they were sold out. I eventually found another flight and had to wait seven hours at the airport (the new flight was delayed) but I eventually made it home. I climbed into bed, fell asleep, then some pranksters set off the fire alarm in my building and we had to evacuate… but nothing could remove my happiness and sense of peace to be home af

The photograph shows you lying in a park in Madrid wearing a blue Suicidal Tendencies shirt (that I bought for you at a Madrid skate shop) and beside you is a copy of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre (that I gave to you) lying upon your cardigan, through the collar of which is threaded a flower that you picked in the park that day. The grass is green, the sun is bright, your black hair with a tinge of auburn is shining as you bite your bottom lip to slightly disguise a smile. I took the photo five years ago and I remember the day as if it were today. You said that if you were looking for marriage I’d be perfect… but you were looking to have fun, to meet as many men as you could, to party… experience life to the full. I had to respect this and let you go. It wasn’t easy. We had watched films and laughed at our own comments all the way through. On weekends we cooked breakfast together and watched Sherlock Holmes. We explored Madrid. We travelled to London and Moro

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