I’m unnaturally happy, and I don’t know why. I’ve been singing all the morning. I suppose I must be delirious. Drinking. I’m going to Lisbon sometime soon. I want to write more, photograph more, live more. Maybe I’ll find an MA in photography, or do the MFA at the former Cass art school but only work with photography. I’d like to exist in a studio again. Having to work for a living is such a nuisance.
I could live on a narrowboat too. It might be possible. Somebody already runs a bookshop on a boat, I’ve seen it near Hackney Wick. It’s one of those wider dutch style boats. I wonder if they are more difficult to sail. Are there any canals in Glasgow? The off grid self-sufficient life still appeals. There would be adjustments to make but that’s part of the process, the challenge. Plenty of possessions to give away or leave at the roadside for the street urchins. That is a positive thing. We don’t need most of the items we accumulate. We just have them and don’t know what to do with them. I don’t entirely know how the hot water and energy works on a boat, but people manage, so I guess I would learn.
On the train here today there was a surfeit of young, attractive, slightly geeky but healthy looking men. There are some here now. One has a large black case, possibly containing an instrument. Oh, in fact a few of them have instruments. That’s fine, then. That makes sense. Perfect sense. I need to see people around me. During my hospitalisation pestilence interlude I only saw people there, in an artificial context and in a state of psychedelically enhanced bewilderment. I had to sleep every afternoon too. I don’t think I want to stay here now but I don’t know where to go next.
I’ve moved on now, elsewhere. Starting to feel that post-euphoria tired spaced out wiredness. I miss these times. I want to stay up til sunrise, watch mist rising up from the river, going home dirty and full of love as other people are going to work. I’ll do that in Lisbon I suppose.
There’s a young man opposite with long dirty blond hair, very thin tattooed forearms. Here would be so much nicer if people didn’t speak. He looks a bit like Matthew Luxembourg Swithinbank of Jacksons Lane. I wonder what has happened to him. Where do people go? They all go eventually.
Andrew Stevenson 