Long overdue

Blogging, is dead, according to my secret online hero North Morgan, or more commonly known to those out there as London Preppy. Yet he continues, less for the growing following of those who 'come for the pictures, and stay for the words', but more because he wants to, and does it very well. He seems shy and retiring, but looks like he should be a model, and at the same age as myself, already has a book published, touted to be the next Catcher in the Rye.

He is one of those impossibly good looking people (in the sense of the gay asthete) who you wish you could meet, and dazzle them with your words of wisdom, or your (apparent) weariness in the world, coupled with anecdotes or throwaway comments (and have them adore you in return). Yet you realise that it is all an act, not just because you want someone else to find you interesting, but because you secretly hope to be interesting yourself.

In this case, myself.

Today I have come back from work after a weekend interlude in Venice with OH. It was nothing short of perfect: the scenic approach into Venice, the unstaged drop-off in front of lots of tourists at one of the busiest stops in Venice, the nonchalant strolling off the pier towards the hotel.

Together, OH and I had a wonderful weekend visiting the Biennale, catching exhibitions and dining out sumptuously. Good conversations were had, and laughs aplenty. However, at one point, amongst all the creativity and beauty and love, I felt a bit lost. I'd been carrying on towards my goal of success for such a long time, and now that I felt that I was almost there, I wondered if I'd actually lost focus on what I wanted to do ultimately. That, however, opened another can of worms, in no particular order:

1. Many moons ago I wanted to write, then the blog came along to indulge my fantasies. The vanity accompanying self publication, read by a few of your closest friends, and if perchance, someone else online, was euphoric. I'd sacrificed close friendship developed in the latter years of university with thinly concealed personas of my housemates, which led to some uncomfortable exchanges, especially the description of 'Medusa-like' hair. Words were had, the blog assumed a new form. It's had a few incarnations since, but nevertheless, its never really encapsulated what I really think or feel given those out there who do know me.

2. A restaurant has always been an interesting angle. Being, however, the control freak that I am, does not necessarily translate well. I want full control over front of house, and the dishes I create which, honestly, only my acquaintances know of and despite the exaltations, I am aware that taste is subjective. This leads to a memory of a situation where once I cooked paëlla for an ex, who declared it horrible and proceeded to make himself a ham sandwich. I threw the entire pot, including contents into the bin, and continue to regret throwing a thoroughly practical pot away. It was an indication in hindsight that the pot was a metaphor for the relationship, and that I should have jacked it in a long time ago.

3. I have in my apartment a number of black and white photos which I'd taken with an old manual camera, and developed myself. This was probably the earliest vanity project I'd ever embarked on, and to date has the most lasting presence. The grainy pictures staring back moodily, the subjects staring at me through non-focussing stares, the paper yellowing gently as a reminder of time. A friend once asked me why I'd stopped taking pictures. My reply was 'with a digital camera and photoshop, anyone can do it.'. This is the most defeatist statement to date but I still cannot get myself to combat the apathy surrounding it.

To rectify this dilemma, I have taken a quarter of a Xanax, which will provide me with vivid dreams, and no answer. I feel, however, that I will be lucid enough in the morning to focus on the pile of shite known as work to get me through the day, and the promise of more alcohol to get me through the rest of tomorrow night.

Rinse, and repeat.