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 … Continue reading 178. Summer In The City
Tag: writing
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 … Continue reading 177. The George, Wanstead.
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 … Continue reading 159. Tuesday afternoon. Back at Victoria. Seeking inspiration, not finding it.
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 … Continue reading 172. Tuesday. Many weeks later.
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 … Continue reading 72. Monday afternoon.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Andrew Stevenson 