It’s hot today. An autumn heatwave, one might say. The seasons are still unleashed, unfettered, unknown. That special time last year when all was quiet, paused, that time has gone now, forever. I remember observing that guy here who reminded me of Melvyn Hayes. It was enjoyable, stimulating then, I forget exactly when. I can’t really differentiate between different years, even, now. Now coming here is just a habit, a nuisance, a necessary distraction, an escape.
Meanwhile, work feels like a snowball gathering momentum. The other theatres are misfiring on all cylinders, ours is in a state of energetic disarray with bursts of fragmented communication. I want it to settle down. There is still too little certainty.
I’ve decided now, I’ll stay in the job for as long as necessary, for another 5, 6, 7 or so years, then its time to head away, study, sell books, serve wine, screen films, make films, write, exist somewhere else with nature, plants, cats, dogs. I’m thinking again about other countries permanently or for a long sojourn, just to do it. I don’t know if I’m emotionally strong enough to be alone though. I’ve said before recently I actually feel like I belong in London now, after years of dreaming of escape. 1970s New York was dangerous and alive. There was a squat scene, surprisingly. I wonder if London is heading that way. I wonder if it is worth me staying to find out after all. There could be communal guardianships in old department stores where I’d be at least 20 years older than anyone else, a wise sage with wine, books and films. Or maybe we’d all be very old. There could be thousands of displaced older people, economically challenged, as there were in the 1940s, dependent on family or friends for housing and companionship. It’s funny how possessions and surroundings matter more now than making art. Perhaps whilst there’s been so little to do socially, selfish consumerism has invaded. Yet I still don’t need much or want much. It all disintegrates eventually.
A bleaker alternative would be to settle for a functional studio apartment in a former factory in Letchworth or Nottingham, some landlocked hellhole anyway. Ed Reardon achieved that when he reached state pension age. It could be worse. I’d prefer it to be better.
Andrew Stevenson 