I’ve entered a new phase, a very relaxed phase, no priorities, no pressure, different agenda, different occupations. No occupation. We’re about to start at the beginning again with a “lockdown” starting on Thursday. I wish there was a better word for it than that word. A “duration”, an “invert”? Perhaps more enigmatic, less mechanical and … Continue reading 72. Monday afternoon.
Author: andrewcstevenson
50. Sunday, a week later, in Greenwich.
Almost back to normal, in a good way. Lots of healthy young men about with their sturdy legs. The shop was too busy yesterday, too many volunteers, I don’t want to do it any more, not on Saturday. I felt awkward. Christopher with the amazing sculpted hair did too. He reminds me of Harry, child-like … Continue reading 50. Sunday, a week later, in Greenwich.
176. More of less.
Green Heart Hostel, Lisbon. Wednesday morning. Quite early. Yesterday was spent travelling. Trains, a plane, the Lisbon Metro. It has sensible Capital M signs at the stations in red, which are lit up at night, acting as guiding beacons to the stranger in town. My room is small, simple, basic, light. It has elegant European … Continue reading 176. More of less.
171. I’ll keep on fighting for the things I want.
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 … Continue reading 171. I’ll keep on fighting for the things I want.
105. Saturday, having lunch at lunchtime, in Wanstead.
I like it round here. I could consider living here, although I doubt I could afford it. This area is one of only a small handful of places where I have roots. I’m not sure I like that word roots, in this context. I don’t know of any alternative to use though, and much as … Continue reading 105. Saturday, having lunch at lunchtime, in Wanstead.
100. Thursday.
A grey, wet afternoon. This week feels null and void. Perhaps it’s another transitional period, which means the uncertainty is understandable and acceptable. I don’t know if it really is a time for imminent change, or if I’m creating that notion in my imagination just to justify or excuse the general wretchedness. I feel dysfunctional, … Continue reading 100. Thursday.
31. Friday.
A humid, moist, tense unsettled day. Another protest in Trafalgar Square. Prosecco on the train. Alone. Grey sky, dusk at 6.30pm. Noise outside, voices. Every day is like this now. Kim’s idea of Australia is appealing; an abandoned mining town in the outback with an artists’ colony. Resident for a year, with a slow trip … Continue reading 31. Friday.
158. Truth, festivals, freaks, living.
The following Sunday, the same place. The same unusual secret train service over the hill to get here. It even arrives at the hidden forgotten platform. I’ve heard in tedious online railway circles that train drivers are not certain they are allowed to drive trains in or out of it. That may not be true, … Continue reading 158. Truth, festivals, freaks, living.
70. Tuesday afternoon. Mid-luncheon at St Pancras.
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 … Continue reading 70. Tuesday afternoon. Mid-luncheon at St Pancras.
84. Wednesday.
Refusing to be creative isn’t a good place to be in for the long term. Did I mean refusing? I don’t think I did. Perhaps I was referring to external forces stifling my creativity, or making creative activity difficult, impractical. That’s always been the internal battle for me. I can’t imagine I would have ever … Continue reading 84. Wednesday.
