Back in London: dangerous games.

WEDNESDAY 5th SEPTEMBER

London – being back in the land of 99p pizza. Its weird to say the least. But never boring. I saw the fireworks kicking off the Paralympics a week ago. Stratford is jammers. I buy 10 dice in a headshop. Then a double vodka and cola. These things go together, with work and how things are…
Waking up at 10 this morning from a very strange dream, I only had an hour to prepare for Peters arrival at 11. Strange dreams lately, unsettling, dead kittens, crazy things. The walls moved. Paul had slept in too, we sleep with our doors open these days, yeah, thats good I guess.
In the photos I show my face, I m petrified, that much closer to being discovered and destroyed. I have to tell G. I think he d understand. I m not sure I do. Theres a difference between understanding and caring.
V sends me his writng, he s writing a girl-on-girl romance, its funny, I wonder how he gets into the mindset of a female narrator. Probably through vigorous masturbation.

Where is my bike? Where is my saxophone? Where is anything, really? 
After 12 years of being friends, did P just tell me he s in love with me? Did he really do it in the same breath he admitted to killing 4 men when he was 20? What do I do with that knowledge? Wouldnt anyone be confused? Why do I feel my life is in danger??
M throttled me with a bondage rope in the swingers club Saturday night. I didnt pass out but I couldnt understand why I was sliding down the wall and when I started coming round again I was just forcing my mouth between his legs. Dangerous games. He told me not to resist but that the club was not the place ot pass out. Dont resist – hah – just go limp and be carried away –
French maids who polish and dust with pink furry paddles, bums that turn black and blue from a firm caning, late night schoolgirls, being shown an awful, awful secret video of his 16 year old Swedish niece on the toilet and in the bath, I want to report him but he says I m the only person he s shown it to, I dont want to go on –
Juicebox.
Suicide.
Sushi.
The spider webs that exist in my brain conect and cover – the lingering aftertaste of PTSD – coats the back of the throat like a bad whiskey – Paddys, Powers – sharp and uneven like a badly honed blade –

The sun, the moon – the House of Atreus, Iphigenia, Electra – was there a bit of sibling rivalry? How did the survivor react when her father was murdered in his bathtub by his wife and her lover? Revenge, revenge, I still havent gotten revenge. Psyche, there, chained to the rock, saved by Eros who foolishly pricks himself on one of his own arrows – love in dark chambers –

Pipe dreams. O taking out her crack pipe in my room the other night. I didnt partake but, mother forgive me I was interested. Large eyes that dont stare like a Portuguese crone but shifting, unstable, wild –

I re-read my first entry in this diary the other day. A lot has happened in 10 years. Its such a pity the way things worked out between me and Red. He could have fixed it, if he wanted to, you know, and instead he said ‘Lets not talk anymore’. Broken promises. Like the promise that I was safe in my own bed. Sigh. I told G all this the other day and saw a tear fall from his eye.

Beliefs: the wee folk. ghosts. salvation.

‘The legends of Eros and Psyche is really the story of the development and maturation of feelings and the capacity to relate to another person.’

Communication with Silver Boy deeply unsatisfactory. i am suspicious that he is caning the Columbian Marching Powder. but although he s a stoner i dont know if he does those kind of things, its just he s all over the place with his contact lately. i told him i have a book for him, but part of me wants to keep The Silver Arm.

After a famine of books while travelling I now have too many, a Cornithian column of them growing beside the bed –