A comment on a video I am watching reads...

"The whole point is that elitist people are missing out on real life. Let them have their luxury, they're wasting their lives!"

And this comment has two thumbs up. And I'm thinking about the dinner, a sixtieth wedding celebration, that I went to on Friday, or Saturday. How happy the hosts were, are. And I'm wondering if I'm wasting my life, if I should be married, settled, in love? And I'm wondering if I care.

And then I turn on DMAX and watch two episodes of LA Ink, which, for the record is so much better than Miami Ink.

The TV's on mute. And the presenters are faking smiles, and probably talking about snow, and Christmas. And I'm just watching them, lip reading.

And Don Henley, Boys of Summer, is playing out over the sound system. And

There was a heatwave that summer. My brother and I spent most days at the beach, with my mother. The heat so intense that that tar buckled, expansion gaps failing. The terrace, with its concrete tile so hot it scorched feet, skin.

Come late September the heat was forgotten, and almost every day were overcast. But still Grandpa would take us to the beach. From the deck we'd watch the surf. Whilst Grandma would cook inside. It often rained,momentarily, and you could taste the salt drifting on the wind. Grandpa would still swim, forced by the current, disappear under the surface and reappear hundreds of feet away, how the pebble would cut shins. And the smell of gas from the stove.

Several small boats were recovered from the mouth of the river that year, and I remember thinking why didn't their owners tie them up? The beach was broken, and by October only one flight of steps gave access to the lower level, the rest they said had be found washed up across the channel. Just like the shingle had been washed over the sea walls. Across the streets.

We never had holidays like that after that year.

I'm staring in the mirror, mounted on white tile. Just staring at myself, naked. The stubble on my face. And I should shave. And I'm thinking of things I need to buy, accessories for my dinner jacket. A tie pin, a new pocket square, a real bow tie.

I'm staring mainly at the location of my next tattoo, lower left peck. But it seems like such an effort to book an appointment. And I don't want to talk to anyone I don't know. Not right now. That's my thing this month. Reservation. Brogues.

And I've thought it for a while now, the comparability of myself and Clay,Hayden. And my mother calls, asking what I want for Christmas, and I tell her nothing.

'Nothing' I say
'Vouchers? Clothes? '
' I don't really want anything...someone to pay of my credit card? Nothing really.'

My spirit animal is Wolf. I remember a painting my mother commissioned of her spirit guide. She used to say we looked a like. But I don't think I could even guide myself. What is the snow fall like in Alaska? I want life, real life, outside of institution. And a wage. I want to be a capitalist, not a survivor nor parasite. Leather gloves. New outer coat.

When I leave on the Sunday the canopies of are still red, orange, intact. Come Friday the only remnantce of this is scatted across the drive, the road, the windshield of a Black VW Polo.

And I'm told that I look more European than before, and I feel pale. And I contemplate a spray tan, the sun bed, but decide otherwise. And I'm looking for a new three piece and the wind is slamming rain against the sash windows, and I'm thinking about summer. The Minack theatre, the north surf. Christmas. And I want to go home. Sell up. Leave this apartment. Live again, free from restrains. And I intend too.