Well, another rehab memory was listening to a recording of some Sylvia Plath poetry whilst sat in the bath as the masseuse/reiki woman the rehab provided knocked on the door of my private cottage and came in for chat, much against the rehab rules. As I was dressing she mentioned maybe Sylvia Plath wasn’t the best thing to be listening to, as I was trying to shake off the deep depression that inevitably comes with a stint back on the booze, in my case after another naive year of sobriety. She stood playing with her hair by the stereo. Must have been the boredom of being on this exclusive island rehab, where she could only use the causeway to escape during the brief hours of low tide, and the long shifts, 7 days on, I think.. Well I wasn't up to the job that night, didn't even find out if she really was flirting with me. In a way that’s enough, nobody gets hurt with a flirt. It took my freinds to confirm what I’d merely suspected after watching the footy down the pub: that I’d pulled whilst I was in there. This fleeting symbiosis,, well, it takes a lively empathy to pull that sort of thing off properly. Affirmation of myself as being alive and attractive minus the hassle of ruining someone or several people's lives, marriage, kids, wasteland years, the regret and humiliation that follow the consummated flirt of your dreams.
One of the saddest moments of my life was when I was walking by a park, crying for a lost love and singing leo sayer's 'when i need love' to myself, sad mainly because it's such a shit song; the saddest part though was that I didn't have enough about me to realise where it came from; the dad of the drummer for the Strokes who wrote the song stole the melody from from The Master Craftsmen himself, sincerely L Cohen.. these days I cry to Leonard Cohen’s Famous Blue Raincoat with pride and the understanding that the intervening 20 years couldn't help but give.