Hello, he answered furtively. Hi, this is Zoe, you just tried to call me, I said, pretending I hadn't just Googled his 0208. I'M LOCKED IN MY HOUSE! he exclaimed. Brilliant. Absolutely terribly brilliant. A teacher of magic, locked in his own frigging house, told with inherent tongue-in-inherent-cheek. I've had this feeling twice in two days, this edginess where I'm all misaligned, I'm overslept for Powerpoint, I'm too artired (v.knackered feeling from over-exposure to art, crowds, bad air conditioning) for The Magical Consciousness. I'm operating under a pull which doesn't feel right, but I have to go to computer class, I have to go to mysticism, because not only have I paid, but surely my heaviness is just laziness or a temporary inability to see the optimism in things? 'It'll be alright when I get there'?
Yesterday, I scuttled out of bed and onto bike in 15 mins, all awkward and wrong, and made it into B4 for the 10am start. I was promptly told I had to leave the room due to 'funding regulations', having missed last week's class due to a second-hand cold. But I thought it'd waste less money if I came, I protested, quite half-arsed and clearly doing a really bad job of acting like I gave a shit about Microsoft Office. I swanned out into London (capital L thankyou) all pleased with myself, realigned and glad to be alive. Today, I got home from Tate Modern mania, verbally moaning about not wanting for any magic tonight, only to receive a call from the man himself telling me he was tentatively awaiting a locksmith. Ah I do feel realigned. So much so I had energy enough to dance round an empty kitchen to James Brown's Gettin' Down To It and a million versions of Stormy Weather, drinking a terrible indulgence that is Colebrooke Row rhubarb gin and apple juice. Don't tell anyone.
Ok, I admit it's now tomorrow. My wild freedom led me to sorting out speaker systems and re-sorting papers upstairs till 2am. Rather wild that. I thought again of heading out to a Cocktail Week bar, alone but not lonely, but decided against the success of the Boundary Rooftop. All of a sudden, I am super, make that hyper-conscious of my Londonitus. And not just due to my accounts. I know I've been ploughing through with extra-curricular activities for some time, but people have started to notice. Three times in the past four days. I look forward to hearing about your escapades, he said. You've always got so many options of things to do, she commented. London's perfect for you, he said, aren't you a journalist? I felt uneasy. Ugh, ugh, still now, ugh, still, again now. I am consuming, yes, I'm eating London thanks, tasty, but (I know/do I)* I need to process this information? Is re-hashing my experience denouncing it dirtily as fodder, a displacement activity for want of something truly creative? Does the experiential, unrendered version stay sweet, or just smack wasted purity into my face?
I've been bored for seven years, I said. I keep telling them but I'm telling myself. Let me indulge a while. I do worry I will skate the surface of things, become addicted to the art of cultural intake, but really, I know I'm just Enjoying Myself. I feel I do have to be careful that I continue to appease these treats, and not be in turn consumed by them. Canceled computers led me to tea at Bea's of Bloomsbury, pondering life as a baker, whilst reading The Gentlewoman, pondering life as both a journalist and 'as a Julia Davies'. In Selfidges bar, Tanqueray Man told cocktail histories that excited the gin joint landlady in me, Nars sparked my makeup artiste, and the basement graduate show twanged my art string. Too Many Things. Even that as a list feels heavy. Imagine it in my head on a daily basis. And I swear I'm being honest.
Skate on the lightness, but be wary of the heaviness. Let it up and in, keep it down. Have plans, have them broken, book tickets, turn up on standby, make dates, selfishly cancel, don't leave the house and get frustrated, chat to strangers if they'll let you, run into people, pretend to be someone, pretend to be you. In short, trust in the future of things a little. And if I am allowed to cite my own aphorism, Let problems evolve...
* I couldn't pick one, oh my democracy