No internet still, so I battled with the idea of turning the computer on v/s sitting in bed with a red book. I just felt my arms filled with words, ready to pour out of fingers, nothing to do with the tension of a pen on paper. It's a weird attention-seeking thing that writing onto a public forum let's call it the internet, feels, I don't know, somehow more hopeful than writing in a book using scrawl barely legible to even my own eyes. Worthy, useful. A record. Something that isn't immediately dead. Which is why it feels so strange here in Text Edit, one weird held up hinterland. I know, with a Muji, Parker, any other pen, the word hinterland almost certainly wouldn't have come.
Who's voice is it here? What is my means of communication? A conversation with myself it feels, an unknotting of daily, quotidian, concerns. At ease. We were just talking after an immense fish dinner, no small fish dinners here Georgio's, about socially acceptable moderation, the reigning in of one's true thoughts. I consistently feel I am watching myself act like an employee at Monmouth. I here my voice, a kind of mine, saying things that aren't me, wasting energy communicating over repeated issues that are no bigger than the moment. I am operating, but I'm bizarrely not doing anything. And I really want to say, your beard is the craziest thing that's been in the shop all day, and funny, you're the cutest couple, your noses appear to be able to tesselate in the most complex concave/convex manner when kissing! And I'm nearly saying this to your faces, because I almost forgot myself. Or should that be remembered myself?
It felt weird swapping between these two personalities, the School and Monmouth. I got a total Argos work experience '98 feeling yesterday, that inept newness. It makes me feel so nervous and awkward and generates it's own mistakes. I mellowed out so much in the class after the day at 'work', allowed my own responses and idiosyncrasies to out. Things I can't say out loud in the day, because I get looks of over-quirky and inappropriate, a bad case of moderation. I watched him give the talk, amazed at someone so whole and driven and purposeful and entirely appropriate. I wondered if I want to be working somewhere like the School, or whether I really want to be one of the Experts. She asked me why I was there, and I wanted to say to allow me time to think, be surrounded by thinking, a place where dialogue is worthy and thinking about thinking is actually a good wild thing. Not something that gets a funny look and a poke back behind the line, because, like, there's washing up to do and jolly to be looking.
I was looking forward to the comfy chair of coffee again today, but instead I just felt agitated and unused. I kept getting holiday flashes, sparks of possibility and achievement, the signs being not quite so jumbled. London is heavy, I even got stressed reading Time Out this morning, so much shit happening and no chance of seeing everything and being able able to enjoy it. One off double bills? Sample sales? New cafes? Dancing nights? Why suddenly do I feel so flaky and unconnected and bombarded by choice? I felt so weird, SO weird, last weekend, dancing 40s swing one night and 70s gay disco the next. I calmed myself with the fact of postmodernism, it's ok. But that feeling remains, I must choose a scene. I can't play two roles. Can I? Do I make my own scene?
We were discussing the virtues of solitude at the class last night. It was probably the most interesting part to me. I didn't speak as I hadn't yet found my feet, but I liked the idea of the solitude of traveling, and how I just feel so alive and unquestionable when I do these trips. However emotional I feel, I'm not a stone, at no point did I feel things were spinning out of control. Not once. I was reveling the whole time. But why is it, solitude in the everyday can meld into loneliness, an inability to see the right direction, a bombardment of choice, and a feeling of spinning.
POSTED BY ZOE LANGDELL AT 1:04am
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