Gin and Xanax

Quiet today. Last night I had a friend round late for a restorative evening. It was lovely but involved a surprising amount of gin. I knew I wasn’t working today though which gave me the luxury of a slow morning, of which I took full advantage.

The best use of my empty day that I could possibly arrive at in my slightly impaired mental state at the moment was to go for a walk in the local area and get distracted by expensive kitchen implements in shops. I wasn’t feeling the writing. My head is full of ants. I went to Muji and looked at things I’ll never buy. Then I went to Peter Jones and did the same. Then I ran into a neighbour as I was aimlessly walking up and down the Kings Road coveting things. The next part of the plan was a trip to Holland and Barrett to look at things and buy none there too. I had it in my mind to get some 5htp. My friend intercepted me and seemed to think that a Xanax would do instead. It’s Chelsea after all. We can be 1950’s housewives. So I gave it a try because that’s what I do. I’ve never eaten Xanax before. I don’t think I’ll make a habit of it. It was a bit too floaty.

I then wafted into town for the early evening meal with Tristan and Tanya before he kicked off working in his late night hellhole of a job. We went to Dirty Bones in Piccadilly. I could’ve been anywhere for all I cared. I was surfing a wave of genial indifference by this time. I got lost in Piccadilly Circus and ended up in Carnaby Street confused and discombobulated in a familiar area by the Friday night drunk-or-bust lot who had just been disgorged from their vile offices where they trade happiness for curved televisions. They were seeing which of them could shout the loudest. I eventually worked out where I’d gone wrong and ended up in the restaurant I had been looking for. There I met a burger that had macaroni cheese inside it.

I shoved my new burgery-friend down my gullet which put paid to the remains of the Xanax incompetence, and I think I participated in some form of conversation. Then I decided to walk home.

On the way home my late night friend from last night panicked by text that she had lost her wallet – passport and all, and thought it might be in my flat. “Of course it’s in my flat,” I tried to assure her. We rendered ourselves incapable of anything but monosyllables and then passed out watching Harry Potter. Her stuff is likely to be everywhere.

But I was in no hurry. Beautiful evening tonight, and I wanted to look at pretty things so I did. I arrived home wondering what the hell I’d be able to put in a blog, found the wallet (and a packet of slims), felt like a hero for doing nothing, changed the cat litter and sat down to write this.

dav

Kiwi Christmas

I’m still wearing my festival armband. I think I need to cut it off. Normally you only continue to wear them if you’re 17 and you think it somehow makes you cool. I’m not 17 anymore, despite nth behaviour. And looking cool is pretty far down the list.

I don’t want to cut the thing off yet though. It’s a reminder of the sensation of all that weight falling away as I was bouncing around in that field. It makes me smile when I look at it. I need reminders of lightness in this heavy city. Especially right now when it’s so hot and sweaty and everyone’s short tempered.

It’s not like I overextended myself today. I phoned a few actors and booked them for a job. I got a bit of work for some friends and a bit for some strangers. Then I chanted with my neighbour. Now I’m off across town for Kiwi Christmas food and perhaps a bit of prosecco.

Tomorrow it’s June. The debt that originally sparked this blog has been paid. In the process there have been more than 500 of these blogs. Sometimes they’ve had structure. Sometimes I’ve discovered things as I wrote them. Sometimes they’ve made me chuckle. Sometimes they’ve just been dashed off so I can get back to living again.

Technically there is no reason for me to carry on. I could wind this up and go live in a forest for a year with no signal. I could get on the good ship Picton Castle and fuck off around the south seas for 6 months, hardening my body and getting much better at the accordion. I could do many things.

Or I could try something similar but new… Brian likes to set me challenges. He knows I like to have them set. On his birthday he suggested : Why don’t you do a month where you make the blog a vlog? He got me to shake hands on it. I’m a man of my word… “it might take me a while to get the kit sorted. June or July.”

I don’t really know how to edit video, what platforms or bits of software will help, how to sort out sound and lighting to make it look good and make it interesting. Maybe I don’t need to. I have a few ideas of fictional theme including one which has tickled me for a while. All recommendations welcomed re software, points of reference and cheap kit. I reckon June can be a month where I quietly learn and practice in my spare time. And then in July, God help us all, I’ll try and put something out there daily. God knows what. And I reserve the right to chuck it all in as a bad idea and get back to just scratching out these overly candid or entirely evasive daily journals with nothing more than word pictures and an arbitrary photo because they’re familiar and easy.

dav


And now I’m traveling home humming Christmas songs to myself. We’ve had a kiwi Christmas. The weather is right for it. And pleasant if odd to be immersed in that world of sounds, flavours and symbols without having to put the old sweaty nightie on and prowl around humbugging. Merry bloody Christmas. Seems it never ends.