Ch. 48: Existential Crisis: Done and Dusted

So in my last missive to y’all, from Greece, I alluded to a brewing epic existential crisis, which in hindsight is almost certainly why I haven’t been blogging in recent months. Who can write trivial amusing stuff, when major angst is eating away at your soul?

My question is this: who can write with the sound of champagne corks popping all around you? Basically, as my Summer of Fun wore on, I began to question what I was achieving, aside of course from having ten tons of fun and reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace. (Actually, finishing all 1433 finely typeset pages of W&P was quite an accomplishment, considering that it was such a damn dull book, but even so I was struck with the niggling anxiety that it wasn’t enough to read the classics and amuse my friends with my wit. I realized that I couldn’t just have fun, fun, fun, fun for the rest of my life. I needed, perhaps, to do something.

When you don’t work, you become aware of how people judge you. If you pay attention, you can observe how many people discount you in a general character sense when you don’t have a career. You can actually see the subconscious calculation in the recesses of their eyes: This Is Not A Serious Person. And after a while, I guess you perhaps begin to accept their judgment too.

My existential crisis was brought to a fever pitch by customs and immigration in the US, to be specific by the little box on their stupid form (the same one where they ask you if you’ve ever “committed genocide”) where you are asked to specify your occupation. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to put:

• writer? This seemed somehow arrogant, since firstly I'm unpublished, and secondly, I'd spent the last 3 months actively avoiding all forms of writing, even though I love writing.
• unemployed? Far too downmarket, like I’m actually looking for work, but am in fact too useless to be employed (which may, in fact, be the case). At any rate, I’m not lining up in some queue with ugly people waiting to collect my dole money, so I don’t feel strictly-speaking unemployed.
• banker? Ludicrous. I mean, I never ever EVER felt like a banker, even when I was one. But is a lapsed banker kind of like a lapsed Catholic? Lapsed, but still for the rest of eternity a banker/Catholic? There may be something in this. I wonder if bankers can be deprogrammed, like Moonies. I still read The Economist.)
• retired? Sounds so old, like I should have liver spots or something.
  

So, anyway, I really did experience a crisis of deep existential anxiety over the summer: What am I to do with the second half of my life? Where should I settle? Why am I still single at 42? (Ack, I can barely even say the number, without gagging.) What is my purpose? Why am I doing everything I can to avoid sitting down to write my deeply beautiful novel, when in fact I love the creative and intellectual process of writing?

Well, I’m happy to report that the crisis is over, more or less. I’m back in Sydney now, and glad to be here, even though it’s – sorry in advance for the profanity but it’s the only word that will do – fucking cold! I moved here under the delusion that this is a city which enjoys a summer. But I’ve clearly been sold a lemon.

The only way I can tell it’s spring outside is that the purple jacaranda trees are in bloom everywhere, reminding me so much of Johannesburg. But even though it’s the southern hemisphere equivalent of May, we have the heating on and it’s wet, grey, and windy. Though that doesn’t stop the multitudes of slappers from parading along Oxford street in nylon miniskirts, ugly stilettos and cheesy backless T-shirts, their faces bleary with too much beer and makeup smudged from snogging some pimply boy in the toilets.

But otherwise, all is going well. It’s great to see my flatmate Phil and other Sydney friends again – I’m reminded how many friends I have here, more than I remembered when I was away – and my lovely Max is coming to visit for a couple of weeks. Also, I’ve majorly hit the jackpot. A guy I was dating before I left now has promoted me to a different (and in my opinion far superior) role in his life: Massage Practice Body. Basically, he’s taking a massage course and he needs someone to practice on. (“You’ll be good” he said. “You’re very muscular. Free massage. As much as you want.”) I’ve been playing the golden dulcet sound of those words in my head, over and over again. Lalalala LA LAAAAAAAAAAAA. Free massage. I’ve landed with my bum in the butter. After the hedonism of the summer, I’m taking a total purity and cleansing break for two months until New Year's: no alcohol, no other recreational narcotics, no smoking, and lots of gym and good food.

And most importantly, I’m back to writing again, and enthused once again about my novel. I’ve rejoined my writing classes, and feel motivated and guided by them, rather than at constant battle with the instructor and the ethos of the course.

Of course this doesn’t mean it’s easy. Oh, no! No, no, no! I still struggle to find self-discipline to sit down at my laptop. I find I can’t write on my novel unless (i) my room is tidy (ii) the refrigerator is stocked with food (iii) the laundry is done (iv) my tax papers are in order (v) my iPod has been updated and charged (vi) I’ve read and answered ALL my emails. (I won’t even begin to detail how The Devil Box distracts.) The other morning, for example, I couldn’t write until I’d reorganized my closet, and refolded my clothes. My constant battle with my conflicted writer-self is so damn weird. I need a major psychiatric overhaul I think.

But the main point is that I am back in Sydney, I am back to writing, and I am happy with both those things. So all in all, it’s good. I can’t really tell you everything that happened between Greece and my return to Sydney. First of all, you’d be bored. Secondly, I don’t remember. It was kind of a busy blur. I'll try to give you a little précis:

London: Sheet shock. I returned to London after Greece to stay with my ex-boyfriend Ian and his current boyfriend Jack. They are like family to me. Ian’s mother can’t understand how Jack and Ian and I can all be such good friends, but I think that one of the truly magical things about the gay world we live in is that because we have no rigid definitions for relationships, our feelings of love for one another are able to adapt and evolve with relative ease. Ian and Jack give me persistent love and hospitality and friendship, and I really give very little back to them, save for the occasional bottle of vodka. But they seem happy with that.

However, on this stay they must have resented me for my Greek tan (tawny, golden, the colour of caramel, perfection) because I didn’t get very clean sheets in my room when I arrived, and I had to request a change the next morning. Ian warned me that I was not to write about my sheet shock, but I can’t not write about it. Nothing is sacred when an artiste like me has a story to tell. Several times Ian gave dire warnings to me, but how could I take him seriously when the warnings were given as he danced in the living room in his underwear, glass of wine in hand, while we waited for the long-suffering Jack to finish making dinner. (I was going to write also that, to my jaundiced eye, Ian’s white underwear appeared none too clean, but on second thought, I think I better not write this, and so now I retract it. Herewith. Forthwith. So just forget about what I said about Ian’s grimy white underwear.) And then the silly goose went and cut his finger trying to use a corkscrew to open a screwtop bottle of wine.

NOTE TO READER: ARTISTIC LICENSE HAS BEEN TAKEN WITH THE TRUTH IN THE ABOVE TWO PARAGRAPHS. BUT I WON’T TELL YOU HOW MUCH.

I got to see my gorgeous god-daughter Ciara, and Max flew in to visit twice from Dubai, and it was lovely to spend time with him (See the pics below. I leave it to the reader to figure out which is my god-daughter, and which is Max and me.




























Otherwise I can report that I loved seeing all my London friends again, who really are my tribe, my family. Being back in London made me realize how much I have missed them in the year-and-a-half since I left, how much they inhabit my heart.

St Petersburg: Grim and Grey no matter what. I went with David Pagliaro to St Petersburg. I’ve always wanted to go. Here’s my verdict: I don’t care how much pastel paint you slap on the dozens of rococo wedding-cake palaces littering the environs of St Petersburg, Russia is still grim and grey. And a hideously expensive rip-off, everywhere you turn.


















Of course, we did see some nice buildings, such as Church of the Spilled Blood, with gorgeous golden mosaics everywhere.


















And it was pretty cool to go to the Hermitage and other museums and see paintings of all the characters from War and Peace, like Emperor Alexander II and Kutuznov (the Russian general who pulled Napoleon ever deeper into Russia until he got caught out by the winter) after having just read that great turgid brick of a book. Otherwise, the Hermitage was overrated. Finally, I did buy some pretty tasty Beluga caviar, which is delicious with crème fraiche over scrambled eggs. God, I could eat that stuff daily.

Madrid and Lanzarote: Kike and Carlos’s wedding. These two beautiful friends got married after many happy years together, and they flew the entire wedding party to a secret destination, which we discovered was Lanzarote only when we arrived at the airport, Lanzarote in the Canary Islands off the coast of Africa was the most amazing, barren, dry, volcanic surreal island. It had a blasted look – not a tree anywhere – which was quite beautiful in an austere Zen sort of way. The chartered jet itself was a party itself; everyone was so excited, and when we arrived at the Gran Volcan Hotel on the Friday they threw a White Party, that had the most gorgeous collection of euro-jet-set beautiful and glamorous women I’ve ever seen in one room. And then at the official dinner on the Saturday night, all 250 guests boarded buses and set off into the dark for a secret destination. We drove for nearly an hour, but it was worth it: dinner in an underground cavern, all lit by candlelight, with a grotto pool. Very special.