An ague named after a light coloured bottled beer is spreading around the world, like a plague. I like to think it will exhaust itself in due course, and be thought of thereafter as a minor side story in modern history, a laughable quirk, like that bizarre Japanese dance craze that people got excited about, then bored with, a few years ago. The plague of 1666 is often thought to have been stopped by the Great Fire of London, but in fact it was already exhausting itself, coming and going quickly as all these fads do.
This time, it being the 21st century, we are, typically, responding to media hysteria and assuming the worst, losing all sense of reason and balance along the way, resorting to panic buying of everything, assuming, based on nothing at all, that supplies will be running out within days. Supplies are starting to run out, simply because people are panic buying, empty shelves are encouraging more panic buying. Aren’t people stupid? I sometimes think about buying in supplies of consumable household things like shower gel and laundry liquid, but I need to have room for storage, and spare cashflow to buy it. I like the idea of knowing I won’t run out of certain things for many months or years, but it just seems odd when there is an infinite sized Sainsburys nearby. It’s empty shelves are infinite at present though, so maybe I should have stocked up on supplies, just for this moment. My strange Bournemouth grandparents used to have freezers in the garage full of sliced bread, enough to see them through each winter, perhaps in case they were ever snowed in. Bournemouth is on the English Riviera, of course. My Canvey Island grandparents were probably a bit more normal. They had a grapevine growing inside a lean-to conservatory. My grandmother was a little like Maggie Steed in Shine On, Harvey Moon, and had a large industrial sewing machine in a spare bedroom.
Travel to or from international “danger zones” has been suspended for now. I think those zones are the parts of the world where the ague is at its worst. Medical advice here is if symptoms are noticed to “self-isolate” for two weeks, ie remain at home, avoid work, school, study, any other contact, arrange for food and other supplies to be delivered. Will the delivery people have reserved supplies of hand gel, or will they be exposed to pestilence every day? I do like the idea of self-isolation for sanity and mental well-being. I like the idea but I struggle to do it. I can stay at home contentedly until a certain time, then I get a restless urge to go somewhere. That’s when the map of known places becomes prominent in my mind. But the time spent travelling and dwelling in places feels uncertain and unproductive. I am at such a place now. I am writing, but I will have to go home soon. The journey is not appealing. I used dislocated trains as an excuse to come here. If I can resist that urge and find ways to occupy myself I will eventually find the time rewarding. It should be complete isolation of the mind though; external stimuli through the wires of the internet will be limited. Contact will have to be maintained but contained, planned, measured too. Going out will be structured, with purpose, otherwise the inevitable happens, I end up here, and later regret the indecision, the wasted time. Blank time is valuable, necessary, but unproductive filling of time can become an addiction. This place here is a place for interlopers, I now need roots, foundations. Where I live is the most stable home I’ve had for a few years, even though it will sink into the marsh eventually, and the sky has been grey for a week. I’m not sure whether to reconnect with the art world. This is probably a common feeling but I don’t know if I have anything to offer that world, or how to measure against opaque standards. I don’t actually really know how to connect with that world, my ideas for making work are around furtiveness, hiding behind printed matter on walls, not being the main character. That’s okay though, isn’t it? Or I could go to Jamie’s drawing classes and do the opposite of what he says.
The following morning. The sun is out, shining brightly. I can feel its warmth inside. I feel more positive. I’ll go out and buy paint and start painting the walls. Breakfast is bacon and cheese. I’ll buy potatoes later.
I’m having intermittent memories of last evening. In the city, on the tube, crods, anger, tears. I can exist on the marsh with light and air. I’d like to be able to live like this all the time.
I have some acrylic paint. I’m afraid to use it though.
Andrew Stevenson 