In St Pancras. People are so noisy. I’m increasingly intolerant of sudden, excess unwarranted sound. Noisy people don’t understand the concept of public space and respect for others. I’m remarkably tolerant of certain other things though. Dirt and disease, rancid marginalised people. I’m trying to enjoy a last day of free time, I’m doing a week at one of the music halls starting tomorrow. It’s not especially exciting, but is necessary. That part of my life has to return. I am just indifferent to it now.
There’s a man opposite in a plain white tee shirt, chunky muscular form, not bad looking. Just diagonally adjacent, a thinner man in a black tee shirt, both with averagely dark brown hair. I expect they’re quite pleasant. Now a blond man in a white tee shirt with thin black stripes has appeared. They’re like different variants from a cloning machine. They’re clean, pleasantly mannered, smiling. Well refined examples of the human species.
I was followed this morning on a social medium by Birkbeck University’s creative writing department, which runs interesting arts and humanities courses, all of which are potentially under threat from a government which only values learning maths, science and business subjects. I took a look at their Masters courses, thinking that perhaps my writing is stronger than I’ve given it credit for. Ironically I’m now doubting that I’ve structured that last sentence especially well. I was listening to an episode of In Our Time, at the time, about George Orwell, commenting on his free spirited attitude, going where he wanted to go, writing whatever he wanted to write. Surprisingly, he went to Eton, but seemed to later reject the values nurtured and propagated by that echelon of power, corruption and obesity.
The entry requirements for the Birkbeck course seem quite restrictive; a portfolio should include an extract from a novel. As if I’d be capable of writing one. I should look at it again more closely. I could just submit something else and see what happens. I’m leaning more towards writing based courses now, away from the mess of fine art. My film works are turning into Rothko-like moving paintings, but they feel like a burden to make. I need to finish all the outstanding strands of film work, then stop. I would like to see them projected though, perhaps. I often don’t really look at the results after editing, so it will eventually be a huge, long, messy surprise. I could turn the studio lounge into a screening space for a while, maybe using that big canvas as a screen. I haven’t bothered painting on it. Painting is over for me now. Add spoken narrative. Film scenes of people walking past the text in public, inter-cut like Godard’s One Plus One.
A man opposite now, another pleasant clone, a trendy young variant, white tee shirt with a black stencilled image. The same average brown hair, hairy neck too. He’s talking to two young ladies, one quite refined, the other with a squeaky voice which doesn’t seem to stop. To my left, a neatly groomed man with healthy hairy arms.
I should start making coherent notes about work-related matters, and an application for the job. Somehow I’m not inspired to, not just yet. I feel detached from all around me.
Andrew Stevenson 