A young man is sitting at the next table, boyish looks, slack grey sweater, smooth neck, we are close, physically, separated by a Perspex screen. The juxtaposition feels voyeuristic.
There’s a voicemail message on my ‘phone, but I can’t access it because of PIN number uncertainty. I wonder who it was. Normally I don’t worry myself about such intrusions, but it might be someone calling about a job, someone with ridiculous enthusiasm perhaps. I’m not sure I know how to find the PIN number. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. We once existed without voicemail, or telephones.
I’m suddenly feeling quite empty. It’s a feeling that creeps in at some point every day. I think that happened even in normal times. I’m here, thinking of going home, but I want to remain in the hope of seeing people I’ll feel connection to. I’ve had dreams lately about connections and affinity with people in real life situations. Usually in dreams I recognise people but lately I don’t. Is that my subconscious mind reacting to my general dispossession?
Earlier there was a man here talking on his phone to someone who I assume was an equally awful business colleague. It was loud and aggressive, they are involved in a recruitment situation gone wrong, they have to pay someone, there are issues of trust. The man is speaking in ways that would not be tolerated in most places “Don’t bullshit”, “If we all gave up that easily…”. Quite a repugnant person, probably quite sweaty close up too. He’s like a Hanif Kureshi character. They young man who just served me had an aura of dried sweat. He looked clean, well groomed, curly hair, young, enthusiastic, pleasant, glasses.
I’ve been conversing online a little with a Halifax punk poet about alleys, places, haunts, life. He’s mentioned lurking in corners being a writer. I still can’t really comprehend poetry. The rhyming and structure feels like an impediment to the text, it confines the words, stifles the flow. Keiron has a keen eye for details of life. I often daydream about a future life somewhere else, St Leonards, or Portobello, running a bar space where people like him could perform, and I’d be around artistic creative people, that’s what I’m missing. If I had a gargantuan Victorian house I could invite artists for residencies, to live in rooms with bare floorboards and open fireplaces, and event spaces to experiment in. A sculpture garden. Like Reggie Perrin’s commune in the third series, but for more avant garde drop outs.
I’ve been here longer than I planned to be. A man is at the table directly in front of me. Shaved head, dark, sharp penetrating eyes, very fit body, jerking body language, a little manic in energy. Short sleeves, tattoos on both forearms. A high neck accessory garment like mine. I don’t know the correct haberdashery term, I haven’t watched Are You Being Served for a while. To my immediate left, separated by the intimacy prevention screen, a young man, dark curly hair, dark eyes, maybe Mexican, mixed, thick solid arms, a snug short sleeved tee shirt, muscular body, tired, excitable. What do people do when they can’t go to clubs and do drugs? Do they grow vegetables, ride bikes, paint things? We’re all alone here today, and I suppose in general.
Andrew Stevenson 