Apparently, this Summer, I am to start with Winter.
Yes, I am somewhat disinterested in this ‘how to turn art into a money-making venture’ talk. This has never been my focus. My inner ‘Idiot-Savant’ (most definitely with the emphasis on the idiot part of that combination), or delirium has made me somewhat immune to what are generally considered necessities. I feel quite comfortable with my two cases and this wandering life, to a degree at least. Any hesitation would be that I miss the possibility of companionship. As one of my waggish mates in London reminded me: “who wants a boyfriend with a fatal disease and a ‘fatwa’”. I may have convoluted myself out of more than one market, more than one aspect of what is considered a normal life. I have a certain rule of thumb relative to comfort: If I have fine cotton, silk, or any natural fibres against my skin then I am comfortable. If I am neither too warm nor too cold, then I am comfortable. If I am not hungry or bloated through excess, then I am comfortable. If I am free to exchange ideas, both visually and through words, then I am comfortable. This last comfort has been sorely challenged. But I do somewhat realise that this was of my own doing. Profligacy, apparently, is barbed
At the moment I see no one really. I have been diagnosed with Proctitis (a relation of colitis, and Crohns, but closer to the source of all my woes), generated by immune disfunction. So am on major anti-biotics, necessitating that I forego alcohol and take it easy. This is not proving a major discomfort. I write and make images; I take refuge in art as I always have. It is my main comfort. It used to manifest that type of centre of my self-worth, but I feel that centre has shifted slightly back to me. This is out of necessity more than anything else. I see artists often putting all of their worth in what they produce, and when that work is rejected, it can generate extreme circumstances. I know this pitfall intimately. Maybe I should, but I do not stay awake worrying about how I might make money from my work. In fact, strangely, I don’t seem to have any trouble sleeping, even considering this mortality issue and this supposed ‘fatwa’. There is a small television here and I can watch endless cooking programmes on BBC2, now that the endless gardening programmes seem to have abated. At this point I could probably Heston Blunderbuss my way into ‘The Fat Duck’ without being challenged. Alternatively, I can watch young women take on three major climbing challenges somewhere in Blighty, or even save a baby elephant from crocodiles. I am sure they all make fabulous salaries and possess the man, the house, and car, of their dreams. I harbour no envy of them at all. My envy seems to have moved into dry dock. This might be a veritable tissue of lies.
As for Mr Banksy, he resides somewhere there between Heston, Saatchi, and all things Brit-Art for me. They are really of no interest at all. It isn’t that the ‘super-ego’ brooks no competition, how could it? I am nowhere near that exalted platform, that success, and never am likely to be. It is that it simply has no interest in any other, except in as much as the other might feed its own obsessions. This attitude might be why I never got anywhere near that pantheon, or it might just be a lack of talent and over-estimation of one’s own worth. Strange, I had always thought that expression was: ‘Après Moi, le Deluge!’ I realize that I am out there ‘on a wing and a prayer’ and that I could easily regret this as time moves on, but at the moment I cannot take the time to look down, or around, to consider where I am. I appear to have reached some ‘all or nothing’ stage, having made myself homeless. Whilst saying this I realize that the idea of there being ‘stages’ is an artificial construct, for whatever strange comfort one might find in that idea.
I am seeing a doctor in hospital today. I will see what is available to me. EMDR is not available in Ireland. I have no insurance here. I spoke to a Lawyer about this on Wednesday evening. He said that even if I managed to arrange residency here it would be very difficult to get any insurance company to accept me, with my pre-existing condition. A way around this would be to find a full-time job (without and Dutch this might prove difficult), where insurance would be automatically included. I could alternatively marry a Dutch man. My HIV situation and 'fatwa' make me not exactly a good catch. The lawyer said he would be interested in taking the case on as a type of 'reverse refugee', a refugee from Ireland looking for political asylum in another EU country. He said it would be a first and could be interesting considering the political climate, my slightly comical ‘Fatwa, and whatever. Gaining access to EMDR would be some distance down the road. I will ask at the hospital today anyway.
I am in hospital all day trying to inter-face with the Dutch health-care system here. This is a bit of an ordeal without insurance (What artist has insurance, except, perhaps, in the gloriously pragmatic Low-Countries?). If I don't get around to it, in the next few days, can you remind me again then. Relative to all being well, I seem to be experiencing a few minor health issues around this HIV thing. I am presently attending to these, whilst attempting to continue working. I do have, at least, that trusty GB/EU insurance card. It is somewhat useful, except it does not cover (very expensive) pre-existing conditions. It is more for emergency situations. The Dutch seem to have designed a way to circumvent this. They are basically very humane people. I will let you know how it develops.
Yes, of course, in answer to your question, I worry about the possibility of aids dementia or even the possibility that the drugs themselves could have side-effects that effect the brain. However, this is an unknown quantity, so I have to continue with a degree of confidence and trust that I am still making some sense.
We will see how this new infection goes. I am also being tested for other problems, so I just have to wait for the tests to come back. A glass of wine would be a nice panacea, but I have been told not to have alcohol for the next three weeks. Today I bought some Indian Tonic and a little bottle of Angostura bitters, so I am treating myself to a non-alcoholic tarty treat. If I close my eyes, I could even imagine it is a Gin and Tonic! As for the Dutch Health System, they treated me with great dignity. I can see why they are world- renowned. One becomes used to a type of censure relative to this disease. It would seem the Dutch attitude towards sex, that it is a normal aspect of being human, in whatever form it presents itself, gives them a certain non-judgmental approach. I haven’t seen it lived out so completely anywhere else. The same health advice in Dublin would have been loaded with moralizing.
My small television still supplies occasional diversion but for the most part I do manage to make my own entertainment elsewhere. It is more like something I turn to when I need to collapse and vegetate, to turn everything else off. Strangely the most mundane rubbish can start the whole cogitation ball rolling again.
Gay relationships seem to me to have less clarity than straight ones. Men unbound are hideous. Women have a leavening influence on men which they need. Men together objectify each other out of existence. Women together, on the other hand, get on with nesting. Could anything else be more ‘stable’? This, of course, is challengeable, and I know you will.
Yes I see the Calvinist influences here, starkly even. In the same way as I am impossibly Catholic, with all the vulgarity that entails.
I am bleeding from the ass, seems I have 'come on', it is part of this 'condition'. It is sapping my energy somewhat, it might make my 'play' less rigorous for a while.
No, there is really nothing you can do. There is nothing I can do either besides keep clean and take the pills. It should clear up soon, I am on the second week of anti-biotics, and they do sap your energy. The HIV lunch was fun, I seem to have more energy than the lot of them combined. I am learning a lot. Tonight I will go to 'Poz and Proud' and meet some more pozzies. I will be getting more results over the next few days, so we will see how it is going after that. This stuff does not really phase me, it just saps my energy a bit. Things will become clearer. I like slow 'possible' solutions. I met an positive Nuclear Physicist over lunch, it was fun! Unfortunately this disease drives most people into early retirement and dependency on disability. I do not feel disabled yet! Don't worry, my bullshit detector is still fully functioning.
Survival of the fittest...evolution at work. religion tells us that other lie, that the meek shall inherit the earth, religion is lie on lie, as is power. Why do you think Duchamp was obsessed with chess? Who gets eaten first? The pawns do, of course, the rest is religion, power, and business shifting around behind them. The King and Queen, after the knight and bishop, are last to go. Duchamp was trying to create a chess game where there are no winners or losers, an egalitarian game.
Although I think I might be quite good with words relative to all this, I feel that I might possibly be better at generating images that talk about this stuff; so that is what I am trying to do. I only say this because I have the idea that words can too easily close things down, they are taken as a statement of intent or fact; images somehow remain more ambivalent, or ambiguous. I Like to, perhaps erroneously, console myself with the idea that my strongest suit might comprise of my penury, my disease, my sexuality, and my pig-headedness, and my gobbeldygook pseudo-scientific brain and an eye for detail, these somehow combined to make interesting images, at least in my fevered imagination. I recognize the possibility of delusion there, a certain minor madness generated by who knows what. I only say minor because it hasn’t, at least, congealed into my becoming an axe-murderer. For that I am thankful. Most of the damage meted out is directed towards the self, a small mercy, but a true one as well. Two of my greatest joys would be that I didn’t procreate and didn’t become an axe murderer. These small mercies make megalomania somewhat bearable. But here we are again, at that crux, perhaps, that one that says no child sets out to be a mass-murderer, a father (or mother), or a megalomaniac.
So, what happens, how does it happen, and what is the cure does it entail the lopping off of limbs, the clinical deadening of that upsurge of uncontrollable ideas, a sort of castration?
An addiction to hallucinogenic drugs helped enormously, most especially Ketamine, that drug being now touted by pharma companies as the new miracle cure for depression, and PTSD. I know what it does first-hand. It’s called a ‘dissociative’ for good reason, it disassociates you from your pain, from whatever ‘abuse’ you might have suffered from at some point. If I had a story to tell, it would be about that too, the healing power of dissociation, that letting go; that final relinquishing of childhood abuse.
