178. Summer In The City
A summer of fighting, fascism, rioting, looting. Teenagers are going to jail after stealing sausage rolls from Greggs. It’s hard to worry about small things like tickets when cities are on fire. Riots tend to be a summer thing, like Paris in 1968. We have a new labour government, but it doesn’t feel like a…
208. Sunday evening at the hotel.
I’m getting the hang of America now. It’s loud, brash, fun, tiring, large, egotistical. All the things we think of it when we’re at home on our tiny little island off the mainland or Europe in a disparaging smug way, but all things that I’m loving and embracing while I’m here. People are open, honest,…
177. The George, Wanstead.
One of my favourite Orwellian canteens. It no longer exists. Six months since I last wrote. I haven’t travelled since Lisbon in September. I must make time for both. Time and head space, but they go together really. I have a new job, that will be a good opportunity to re-evaluate time. Not the metaphysical…
159. Tuesday afternoon. Back at Victoria. Seeking inspiration, not finding it.
The sun is bright, my eyes are hurting. I had the oddest of dreams. I woke at 4.30am this morning, with visions of deformed mice, a washing machine draining water onto a field, some young men stepping awkwardly. I thought about getting up and going to the river, but I didn’t. The fact is I…
32. Friday. Entering the sustainability week, apparently.
Down at the river. The industrial deserted parts. I prefer this section. Even though well used it feels abandoned, accidental. Thames Water, who own the section around the temple of sewage, tidied, surfaced, repaired and opened the path in 2000, complete with visitor attraction style infographic boards. Their efforts twenty years ago are still present,…
172. Tuesday. Many weeks later.
It feels like I’ve been through so much in my mind lately. This is good. Things have to processed and put away. Thrown away, even. I feel free, light, happy. Work is changing, I’m applying for a different job. It has given me a new perspective on myself. I’m probably starting a coaching programme. It …
72. Monday afternoon.
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…
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…
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…
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…
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Andrew Stevenson 