Re-starting serious writing again, after a long break. Transitioning to think like an artist again. I’m at the great Chiltern Court. It’s odd to think that John Betjeman came here in a past era. If he was here now he’d probably mingle with the locals, he seemed a jovial type. People from the past sometimes … Continue reading 152. “Is there anybody clearing the tables because I don’t think there is anybody clearing the tables”
82. Watching, not joining. The Saturday before Christmas.
An announcement this afternoon that new restrictions are to begin tomorrow. This is the most urgent implementation yet, I believe. Stay at home, essential shops only to open, go out for a walk but only with one other person, and so on. This just reinforces the feeling of detachment, end, disengagement, empty time. The bookshop … Continue reading 82. Watching, not joining. The Saturday before Christmas.
104. Thursday afternoon at Cannon Street.
It was a last minute decision to come here. It’s okay. Spacious, screens. There’s a commotion about a group of young people. They’re arguing. That happens in groups of people, which is why I don’t function in them, or engage in situations with multiple people. The mixed race man with check trousers is here, not … Continue reading 104. Thursday afternoon at Cannon Street.
66. Friday.
At St Pancras. I do like it here. It’s more expensive than the other speakeasies I frequent, but more decadent, populated by continental travelling people. I haven’t stolen any plates for ages, it’s not really possible with the number of attentive people hovering. They’re mostly pleasant though. An attractive man opposite. Pale, young, comfortable face, … Continue reading 66. Friday.
Some text interventions.
86. Sunday afternoon. Murder, all bran and rape.
The first Sunday of the new year. Why do we call it the “new” year? Why not just the year? A cloud of irritability is settling in. It is still bitterly cold outside, with a dark gery sky and wet streets. Yesterday morning I cycled around the west end. I’ve been intending to do this … Continue reading 86. Sunday afternoon. Murder, all bran and rape.
45. Another day. Roughly the same place.
I’m maybe oversensitive to it but it feels as though the distancing and mask thing is loosing importance and momentum now. There’s a Hoggarth/Lord Of The Flies vibe of destruction abroad. I don’t want to waste energy gatekeeping it. There will be self-appointed expert authorities doing that for years to come. The Melvyn Hayes character … Continue reading 45. Another day. Roughly the same place.
126. The same place, the next day.
I feel so much more positive today. In control, content, not quite content or happy or satisfied, but accepting of the present state, knowing that I can’t change it at the moment, so I just have to tolerate it. Not accept it completely or absolutely. I’m not thinking about work when I don’t have to. … Continue reading 126. The same place, the next day.
42. Thursday.
Every morning begins the same way at the moment. I wake up at 6am, without reason. The body clock is set now, for the moment. Radio Three plays strange piano music. There are softly spoken words inbetween, I only listen to a few of them. I choose what to wear based on looking outside. Cloudy … Continue reading 42. Thursday.
29. Saturday.
Today is worse. Bleakness, purposeless. Winter wind and rain outside. I’m not sure if I can function much longer like this. Empty barren streets and alleyways. More photographs of disrupted earth, but why capture them, does anyone want to see? I want to paint the earth. Acrylic paint is flexible, plastic, merging, blending, fake. Tactile, … Continue reading 29. Saturday.
Andrew Stevenson 