manwe_iluvendil

Shortest "year" ever.

Hey, 65+ days ain't nothing. And now, my friends, the Mikey you know and love is truly back.

I had totally forgotten what sex is like when you're not depressed. Rock!!!

dickon_atom

http://dickonedwards.co.uk/diary/index.php/archive/that-new-york-thing-pt-1/

http://dickonedwards.co.uk/diary/?p=929

Above: my crew pass from the Liam Clancy concert, which was the reason for the trip.
Below: boarding passes. Note scribbled-on upgrade, ensuring I’m seated next to Mr MacG. Which was the whole reason for my being there.

I didn’t take any photos on this trip. Took the camera, charged it with batteries, cleared space on the inner hard drive (digital cameras lack romance: I really want to say ‘loaded it with film’), but once I got there I just didn’t feel like snapping away. Hence the scans. I wonder now if this is through some kind of guilt, that I was really there to do a job - escorting Mr MacG to NYC and acting as his assistant - rather than be a tourist. Or whether it was to do with the fact that everywhere Shane went, strangers came up and asked to have their photo taken with him, and my ‘other people are your stunt doubles’ mode took over.

Ah well. You know what I look like. You know what he looks like. There’s photos of us together in the Tangier entries (Feb 2007, Dec 2005). What more do you want? You want photos of the new thing. Oh, how Western of you! You know what a guide in Tangier said to me? He wondered why Westerners can’t believe anything till they take a photograph of it. When they get to a wonderful sight, their reaction is not to just see it and enjoy the moment for itself, but to put a camera between themselves and the sight, to compromise the moment, to only believe it by recording it. And now they go to concerts with phone cameras to film it, even though they have paid to watch the concert in person. They are not watching the show, they are watching television.

And somewhere in there is the connection between developed nations with imperial pasts, and the undeveloped nations at their mercy. Never mind the law: possession is nine tenths of Western history. The possession of those who write it down or - better still - take cameras. The Western connection between seeing something nice, and wanting to own it. I think of those huge rooms at the V&A full of Victorian plaster casts of statues, towering columns and even doorways, from visits to foreign lands. ‘What a lovely statue you have here. Excuse me while I take a plaster cast… ‘

British history is meant to start when Julius Caesar wrote down his invasion plans. That always seemed rather unfair to me. But then, that’s the reason why I started this diary myself - to try and get one over on my own life, and on the passing of time. Write about it, tell the tale. That’ll teach it.

I also resent the power of photos over words, that were I to say ‘I saw Amy Winehouse today strangling a squirrel’, it wouldn’t have a fraction of the same power as my taking a photo of the incident and posting it here - it would probably even end up in a newspaper whether I gave permission or not, given the current media obsession with every tiny aspect of Ms W’s life. Who the hell do photos think they are?

All of which is probably more to do with my being a rubbish and forgetful photographer than anything else. Look, I just forgot to take photos, okay? I’ll make sure I’ll get some next time, assuming there is a next time. You never know with Mr MacGowan.

One thing I have learned from this is how to get to New York or anywhere else you want to go, with no money whatsoever.

1) Always keep your passport up to date and somewhere easy to find.
2) Be contactable.
3) Wait. Maybe years. But you’ll get there.

It worked for me in Japan in 1999 (playing guitar with Spearmint). Then Tangier in 2005, and now NYC.

** *

This Tristram Shandy-style digression isn’t entirely straying from the point. One of my most abiding sensations once the initial excitement of arriving in NYC had worn off was the sense of sheer pressure. That you’re supposed to see the sights, and you’re supposed to take photos. To not ‘waste’ the experience. To do the things you’re meant to do.

Which really means, to do the things other people expect you to do.

So no, I didn’t go to the top of the Empire State Building. And no, I didn’t visit the Statue of Liberty. I didn’t want to. Not at the time. You have to also remember I wasn’t expecting to be in New York at all, finding out on Thursday night just after midnight, and catching the Heathrow Express at 9am on the Friday morning. People who properly ‘do’ New York tend to plan it months in advance.

On the Sunday morning, I stayed in my hotel room and realised what I most wanted to do right then and there was watch the latest episode of Doctor Who. On my laptop, in my hotel room. So I did. Yet saying so seems a kind of obscenity, and one feels the need to go into a torrent (internet joke) of excuses. I didn’t watch anything else on TV while I was there. There was nothing on, anyway - just lots of endless news programmes about Mr Obama and Mr McCain  and some not terribly funny sitcom called How I Met Your Mother, starring the boy from Doogie Howser MD and Willow from Buffy. You’d have thought that turning on a TV in New York would mean instant access to the Simpsons or Curb Your Enthusiasm or The Wire, but they didn’t ever seem to be on.

If it helps, O cruel sightseeing-inclined reader, I WAS watching Doctor Who while eating breakfast. And it WAS at the Waldorf=Astoria hotel (note the double hyphen in the hotel name, often mistaken for an equals sign. Why do they have it? Because it looks nice.) And I DID have a Waldorf Salad, in the Waldorf. All while watching Doctor Who. That’s a stylish way of doing it, isn’t it?

Ironically, the episode in question - one of the most talked about TV episodes of anything this year, with a cliff-hanger that made the news - had Martha Jones phoning Capt Jack in Cardiff and saying she was in New York, confirming that the same apocalyptic goings-on in the UK were also going on there. ‘New York? All right for some,’ he replied wryly. Except of course, it wasn’t really New York. It would have been somewhere in South Wales, where they film the series, plus a bit of computer trickery. I, however, WAS really in New York. Watching people on TV pretending to be there. When I could have been going out and exploring the city. All right for some.

But that aside, I DID go out and explore and see things, or rather do things. Of course I did. I’m not a natural sight-seer, that’s all. I’m more of a thought-thinker, or a thing-doer. So I went out. And I did some things.

(TO! BE! CONTINUED!)

manwe_iluvendil

So, this whole no men for a year thing has really been on my mind, and I get it. See the reasons are many.

1) At this early stage in recovery, one can cross-addict easily, and sex can be addictive. So can the attention one gets from relationships.

2) On the matter of relationships, getting into one is flat out stupid as even the best relationships require work, and that stress can take away from attention and strength that needs to be geared toward your recovery.

3) Who the fuck are you, fresh out of rehab, to be getting together with somebody? Seriously.

And there are more, which are variations on those basic three, but it comes to this. I know it's a bad idea. I know it. And yet, the thought of Richard has been really tempting. REALLY tempting. So, I've been kind of conflicted. And by kind of, I mean in every way known to man.

We spoke last night on the phone for a couple hours, and it turns out Jason is fucking with him even more now than when they were together. The worst part is Richard is letting him. And I'm talking to the boy, and I realize that he still needs to learn how to stand up for himself. He needs to become stronger to be the kind of man I need. I need someone who can fight with me, call me out when necessary, someone who can bring his own needs to the table and negotiate rather than just roll over, and Richard is still in a very delicate place. Now, could I, through my wisdom and experience, guide him to the higher ground? Likely. But that shit is a little too Pygmalion for my taste, and besides, his issues would be a full time job. Full time. And where would my recovery go?

To shit, that's where. And suddenly all the clarity I prayed for came to me. The answer was simple. This wasn't a question of me being ready, which for the record I'm not. He's not ready. He's not quite the man I want. He'll get there. I have no doubt, but he's not there yet, and I can be his friend, but I can't hold his hand through this. I've got my hands full with my own problems. If dropping my niece off at her friend's house last night was too much of a burden for me to reconcile with my schedule for that day, how am I going to manage a relationship? I can't. So, Richard -- in a romantic context -- is officially shelved until further notice. That being said...

I proved something to myself with this. I saw a potential threat to my recovery, looked at it from every angle, and chose wisely. I can spot a threat to my recovery a mile away, and I can resist things I want if I know they're going to hurt me or compromise my new lifestyle. I can identify those threats right away.

And fucking ain't one of them.

Relationships would be a danger zone for me, but sex? Nah. I know me pretty well. I know my limits my boundaries and my needs.

I need to stay in recovery. I need to stay out of relationships... And I need to get laid before the week is out or I'm going to bust a nut.

So let it be written, so let it be done. I've been celibate for over 65 days, and if that ain't a testament to my strength, I dunno what is. So, twelve-step program, you can take your puritanical, culturally-biased Judeo-Christian sex-negative dogma and shove it where I love to play, because you bitches ain't my type anyhow. Peace out.


Gone a-fuckin'