You should get to know me because I'm fun and interesting. I mean, come on, I don't think you are, surely. I am taking them by their words, literally, surveying their spelling, grammar, tone, humour; content, outlook and lyricism. I was doing it in the class today, reading strangers' words, sitting there thinking myself bigger than the room, judging them on their paragraphs, images, cliches. I came out after two hours, not glad it was over, but thinking it might be nice to scrawl some shit and get my ego stroked once a week on a Thursday afternoon. But a project about windows?
Next comes the photographs. I'm doing it in real life too, a chum-scan as it were. A quick flick up and down, or more likely, down to up. How are those shoes? If they're Vans, you can go back to the skate park yeah. You're either going to be as utilitarian as my one side, or as shiny as my other. I want beat-up old-faithfuls you trust with city showers, or shiny impractical beasts grand enough to build a rapport with that scary-cool shop assistant. A branded rain-saver of a coat, or something heavy and imposing with a nod to Joseph Beuys. Whatever it is, you mean it, and it does it.
I'm happy? I'm not laying that in stone. Maybe I fucking am. I'm happy(er). I had an amazing chat at The School of Life, felt like I just wanted to be there, like the feeling I get when I'm in Monmouth, a warmth of correctness and wholly appropriate-ness. I am right here. I am right, here. I'm not questioning why you won't give me the job, because you are letting me into your world, because we fit and I'm not faking. And I don't have to worry about my old pink converse being really really wrong for this interview, or why you won't give me a second chance, why I have to get a job in Jigsaw in Manchester because I can't frigging get one in Liverpool. No-one should have to question themselves as much as I did then.
I left the School trying not to skip to my Genius playlist. I'm glad you liked it enough to come back, said the seriously hot lindy hopper later on. I was so happy on the way home last week I was skipping down the street, I enthused. At least you're allowed to do that, he said hotly and I just couldn't really communicate what I was thinking. I didn't dance with him, but I watched him, almost as equally as everyone else, melting at their joy. A girl got a Send Off to America solo twirl, it was just joyous. A throng of men switching their way through the dance, her face pure pleasure, her shapes wide and wild.
What more can you do than really throw yourself into things you believe in, make you burn with belief. Everything else can fall into place. I'm wearing the perfect brogues, my monochrome matches the room. The new-old rollerblades I bought eight years ago, 1 1/2 sizes too big, now not only fit, but match my outfit and I live in a house I can skate in. I love these moments, sometimes accrued over many years, things you can't predict where things just shock and fit. He unlocked his bike at the same time as mine. I'd spied him lock up hours before, taken his money, wanting some Condor connection, and it came along. It meant nothing and everything at the same time. I burned a little.