Saturday, 27 November 2010


Perhaps it would seem awfully indulgent and somewhat wasteful to sit in bed all of Saturday. I have been here since the sun came up over there, and will stay until it completes its low winter arc over there. Ten hours sleep wasn't enough, so I have stayed here through three rounds of snacks and hot drinks, and I still am not bored. I decided as soon as I am bored (read dissatisfied, edgy), this must mean my normal level of consciousness is restored, and I am no longer ill. As it is, I am trying to shift the glitch so I can go dancing tonight.

Always so much pressure to perform on a spare Saturday. When 3 miles away in the metropolis, the minions are at work under heavy crowds and shouts, mounting our performance rites, twists turns, sorrys, yes it's too early to buy it for Christmas, there's nine people waiting do you want to wait, when the minions are at work and one is not, well, there is usually a feeling of utter redundancy. Not today. I learnt of the Ministry of Stories at the same time as reading it, I watched The Beauty of Diagrams, I pictured cinnamon pear cake, thought saving is a waste and spent time researching boat living. I scribbled and thought and basked, because overachieving is overrated. Like he said yesterday, 'not pursing a career (anything) at the moment' didn't used to be a bad thing.

I know I have lost the art of contentment. It takes foreignness to jolt this into me. With such a bombardment of options and choice, it becomes difficult to know what one truly wants. London is heavy, I saw it when I left the station on Thursday, when I clock-watched yesterday to Big Ben over the river in the afternoon's arc. The denseness becomes a metaphor for the affects on a person. I love leaving, because I love the comparison on return. London is not a pretty city, at least not to my pocket. I am not allowed historical steeping, a visual warmth, you would never say the east is good-looking. There is something to be said about the visual not being something that needs blocking out. Whilst I live in the best British city for me right now, it's not necessarily the best city.

I didn't intend to miss the second day of the Tino Seghal workshop. I wasn't sad to miss it, only to deprive another of the chance. Had I felt itchy last night I would've given up my place there and then, but the ills came on quite sudden. Almost a year to the day, bizarrely. It has got very cold. Hibernating shouldn't be a guilty thing. That word came up, the Danish one, this time in Dutch. From the German Gemütlichkeit, comes the idea of 'cosiness' not just as an adjective, but as a verb. Being. Belonging, social warmth, and the key one, quality time. I am all about the Gemütlichkeit from now on. I wrote a list in Le Pain Quotidien at St Pancras, in the last half hour of my holiday. I like to think a trip incites learned moments, maybe 'being busy' is not at the top of that list.

Monday, 1 November 2010


I was just hanging out my washing, and I re-realised it is actually one of the most pleasing visual things I do. After the unpleasant unfurling of twisted legs and arms, I take the mentionables outside, place the unmentionables on a chair for inside inside. I hook the heavy pile over my forearm like some borne offspring, and present them to the line. Our line is loose, so the first piece always billows too much, so I never choose a sacred first item. My display unfolds colour truths, decisions I don't even make, my week laid out in close-toned primaries: Red, yellow, blue. Mmmmm.

The fact that these shades are so me, so honest, must mean I constantly have to block out unpleasing shades. Think of all that warm blue, all that paled yellow, reds too hollow to clock. I'm doing my day on constant hue watch, step back, step back, with your wrong choices! My versions are ridiculously particular. I love that. I might even go and look at the line now, just to check, yes I do still like things. So long as they come in a red with a tomato undertone, a yellow that knows mustard, a blue of petrol slick or fly body.

I just bought some new glasses. It's a weird experience. Like buying a haircut but one which won't grow out. It's been difficult this time. Now that glasses are so fucking trendy, we don't even have the preserve of our own quirk. Obviously untrue out of London, take those rad frames out in the provinces, and well, you may as well have punk spikes or two noses. I forget this. Anyway London, London, everything is just a nod towards the ever-fading American Apparel. Most things I put on my face said Californian whore or Shoreditch twinkle. This is unfair, we can't even make our foible our own anymore? The fuckers.

Anyway I shot round it by not going to Cutler & Gross, or vintage, but going to local optician with good value handmade frames that felt right and looked minorly wrong. I like a problem. They're not oversized, they're not 'sexy', they're not London 2010, they're not lets-see-if-those-lenses-are-real-I-can-tell-they're-not-because-the-angle-of-your-face-is-the-same-when-I-look-through-them-how-dare-you. These ones are David Hockney. They are black with a keyhole bridge and you can see my eyebrows. They make me look like my mum, which basically means they make me look like me. Like I said, I like problem.

I have spent a while Googling 'girls in glasses'. I was thinking more Miss Moneypenny than Jenny Eclair. Annie Hall..? Er, I can't even name 5? The Wikipedia entry is full of cool men in history, but the only women mentioned are Anastacia, Dame Edna Everage (who is a man) and Deidre Barlow (who isn't even real). The girl in the shop said "you either go geeky or sexy", which I found fun, as surely you can be a sexy geek (but clearly not a geeky sex). Anyway I went for classic black rather than tortoiseshell, which I will own one day once the trend has blown over, and I can afford real ones. I just hope the black successfully dilutes those beloved primaries. And I never hear the words geek chic.