London Diary





Money, money, money! There's loads of it around in our parts of the world, and better still, every next day, the papers say, there is more, more, more. So why is it that as long as I live hardly any of it ever came my way? Is there something about me that repels it? Can't be my looks... I'm not bad looking at all, folks, do ask the girls! Can't be my talents... Got plenty of those. And I don't even bury them, like the guy in that too often misused story from the Holy Book, who in the end gets blamed so badly for merely carefully having held on to what he had been given to start with.

three melissas's

Is it a lack of order & design in the stream of things pouring out of me? These past ten days, in a state of utter euphoria, I dropped everything I was meant to do, and produced this series of Melissa-tryptiches. I simply couldn't stop them, couldn't help them appearing, one after the other. Deaf and blind to anything else I was. Worst of all: to Melissa herself, who was mad as hell that I used these huge blow-ups of 'intimate' - that's what she called them, I just thought they were beautiful! - pictures of hers without even asking, and in the process turned her bedroom into a kind of panopticon.

And then suddenly the whole thing stopped again. Found myself this morning emptied out. Without a clue as to what to do next. M. left two days ago. Said she'd stay with a friend until I would have calmed down again.