Dance & Drink & Screw

I was walking through Victoria Park Monday afternoon, on my way to Stratford to see Brüno, when I spotted someone familiar on one of the benches facing the lake. It was the actor Ben Whishaw, scribbling into a notebook. It was a scene I know well because that's what I often do when I leave work and get to the park if the weather is nice and the geese (who have tripled in numbers in the past months) are about to launch into the water.

He was starring in a play at the National Theatre when I first started working there three years ago, and ever since then I've seen him off and on about town (mostly on the South Bank). He once asked me for directions when I was in one of the NT's photocopier rooms. And I have a LJ friend, knacker_prince, who has a good friend that dated Ben and still holds a candle for him. I could see that happening. And the more successful he becomes, I suppose, the stronger that candle will burn. (Did I hear he might get an Oscar nod for his role as Keats in Bright Star? sprezzatoura, I think you and I need to check it out.)

It's the first time I've seen him in my neighbourhood. I wonder if he was doing some kind of brainstorming for his upcoming role in The Tempest. Or writing short stories that won't be shared with anyone he knows, kept hidden at the back of his closet.

Today, Kevin and I are seeing flats in a council block south of Mile End Tube which are part of a housing scheme for artists. In exchange for paying very little rent (620 pounds for a three bedroom flat, for example) you agree to inject your time and work into the community with art projects. The idea, a very American one I think, is that artists move in and regenerate the area. It's also a way for the housing association that runs these flats to stop them being squatted. Some are in a terrible state and need a lot of work done, and some are ready to move in. It's a bit of a lottery.

The artist is, of course, Kevin. I've described myself as a "writer" in the application - maybe I can write plays for the local primary school?

The council flats are not too far from Mile End Park so I could still potentially walk to work using the Regent's Canal, though it might make more sense to start using a bike. The only clincher is that they want people to take the flats immediately, which would mean paying rent in two places for two months (I want to give my landlady/good friend plenty of notice).

A few months ago, I joined my landlady's bookclub. The group lives on the same street as me and is made up mostly of women in their forties and fifties. Some of them are powerful members of Eastend councils; some are writers who have plays regularly broadcast on Radio 4 and in theatres across the country; and some are civil servants that know exactly what kind of work people do in Peter Mendelson's office. I'm the baby of the group.

Every month, one person picks a novel for the group to read. If you'd like the privilege of picking the next one, you offer to host the party the following month, which includes providing wine, cheese, bread, dips, crisps and olives. This month was Ali Smith's Hotel World, hosted by the playwright. We sat in her kitchen and disagreed about Smith's style while her husband and children sauntered in and out to stare at us with Saint Bernard eyes or whisk away bread sticks. When she found out I'd worked at the National Theatre, she got excited and asked me if I knew people in the Education department. Another weird coincidence: she went to Brasil with one of them, at the time I was in the department, and I later saw the photographs in the office. I also, at the time, created image galleries for her play on the National's website!

I'll be hosting the next bookclub meeting, in December, when we'll open bottles of champagne in Christmas' honour and I'll show them London's winter lights from my balcony. I need to buy wine glasses and fairy lights, think of what food to serve. We are now reading Wilkie Collins' No Name.

When it's sunny, I try to walk to work and take advantage of the free vitamin D available. Victoria Park's lake must have been unusually low yesterday because branches were poking out of the water, to the delight of the various birds that live in the park. It was like a tropical lagoon under cold, fluffy clouds. I wish I had brought pieces of bread with me to feed the swans.

My energy levels though have been very low and I haven't been sleeping well. It's as if I had vital organs removed overnight without my knowledge. This morning, I found many flowers and cards tied to a pipe underneath one of the train bridges east of London Fields. There were photos of a young beautiful man, and messages of love for his loss. One of them was from his sister; another one described that spot as the place where he "fell".

I sit on a bench facing the Thames, searching for a word to describe the water's colour. There's the sky's blue of course, faint as if from a desert mountain seen from afar, but also the light brown reflected from the old walls that keep the river from drenching London. These two colours alternate in the water's ondulation, only occasionally broken by speed boats. I'm reminded of the sea in how violent the waves suddenly become in one of these aftermaths. But there's no scent of brine, just that faint London whiff which doesn't really smell of anything once you have lived here long enough.

When I arrived at this bench, a shave-headed butch girl was sitting in the middle of it, one foot nearly tucked underneath her ass. Her whole body language spoke of bench ownership, regardless of the hundreds of people walking up and down the South Bank, regardless of the other fully occupied benches, regardless of anyone who might need a little break. This attitude, like a red flag to a bull, challenges me to join her. She slides to the other end of the bench, surprised. A minute later, she's up and off, clearly pissed off.

I don't have the bench to myself for long. Four eastern european girls and a baby buggy join me; the little one needs a feed. The girls are barely out of their teens; they wear miniskirts that tease the men on nearby benches with their fluttering dance as they lean over the railings and gossip over the river's spray. Girls that don't wish to hide very much, and who speak loudly to each other, to the baby too. They leave me abruptly, back in the flow of people heading towards the Tate Modern.

Now a young office worker joins me on the bench. He's got a sandwich and a complete lack of presence. My attention drifts back to the waves, where I spot a football bobbing along, not too far from a soft drink bottle. Behind me, a busker in a tight blue polo shirt and red bell bottoms has set up shop and sings the first lines of a song I've heard before... but I can't put my finger on it. Neil Young? Bob Dylan? I'm searching for the song's name when a guy I know from the National Theatre crosses my field of vision. He's hunched over, smoking a cigarette, looking in my direction from behind large sunglasses. I bite my lips and look elsewhere just as he gives me a double-take and walks away. If he had stopped to speak to me, he'd have spoiled my day.

Five people performed Tai Chi this morning in the park outside St John's church. They held invisible suns in their hands.

My plane left London at 9pm, Thursday night. It flew over the city, following the river; I kept an eye out for landmarks and was slightly freaked out to spot the National Theatre. I looked in the general direction of my old office, the places I used to hang out, miles below me. I imagined the building busy, productions into their second halves, people milling about the backstage area. It felt weird to know so much from so far away.

A Dutch Pippi Longstockings sat beside me. Her blonde hair was tied up in a matted mass, crowned with a pair of sunglasses. She ate far too much sugar for her own good, then flicked through a heart-throb magazine. After much jumping and shuffling on her seat, I gave in and paid her attention. She gave me the best and friendliest smile in the world.

The hotel in Amsterdam wasn't too far from the airport. The bedroom was white and cold, and the whole place reeked of marijuana. A plastic bag was wrapped around the fire detector. Flicked through the channels and was not surprised to find porn, in full throttle. Slept for six hours and caught a bus back to the airport at 7am.

This must be the third or fourth time I fly with KLM. They are never a disappointment. Very friendly service; unlimited amount of drinks (including alcohol) and snacks; plenty of films, TV shows and games to choose from your own personal screen; and a wide variety of newspapers to read from. I watched Zodiac (excellent) and Little Children (disappointing); I read from one of the three novels I bought at Heathrow. Did you know airports don't sell poetry?

My grandma had gnocchi and country chicken ready for dinner when I finally arrived at the farm. We sat shivering in the dining room until someone had the bright idea to sit by the fireplace, under blankets. My mom brewed some tea and, by 10.30pm, I was in bed. Woke up today at 5am to the valley's roosters and cows.

On Friday, I'm the grass on the National Theatre's FlyTower. I've grown from clay and I hang on the side of the building like moss, for the whole of London to see. I spot Richard arriving and peruseing the second-hand books underneath Waterloo bridge; I see him text someone's mobile phone, and then that someone come out to meet him. They climb the stairs by the bridge and stare at me, talking about my creation and the few dramas concerning my presence in the media. Later, when they are inside the National, having a beer, I see Jane walk down the South Bank, from the direction of Tower Bridge, and join them inside.

On Saturday, I'm the grass on Greenwich Park. Various goths congregate at the park's gates then find a spot in the shade for their picnic. They have a baby with them, dressed in a red velvet outfit. They lie pre-packaged food on me; they drink caffeine and juice, eat biscuits and wait for their late friends to arrive. The father spreads his jacket on me and places the baby in the centre of it. She keeps reaching for the biscuits, running her tiny fingers through my leaves as if they were hair. She hits me with her tiny feet, my dirt sticking to her soles. When the hyperactive hung-over American shakes her, the poor thing bursts out crying; what a bad man. As soon as the weather cools down, they leave me for a pub a few streets away.

On Sunday, I'm the grass that covers London Fields. Hardly anyone lies on me, despite the beautiful sun. Two young men sit on a bench, fighting the temptation to join me. They eat croissants and ham bought from the corner store; they drink mochaccinos and rip apart large oranges; they write in their journals and read from yesterday's paper. Finally, after the sun in their face has become too much, they choose a spot on my body shaded by the trees. But they don't stay long; either the ants running through my leaves or the desire to be back on their sofas gets them on their feet again, freed from my grasp.

Crowds walk up and down the South Bank, a prelude to the Summer. The warm sun touches everything. Boat horns. Pigeons. A duck lies on the thin strip of sand by the Thames. Spotty teenagers from France carry backpacks and mementos. Gay couples size me up, horned out on Spring Fever. The elderly arrive for the matinee show of The Rose Tattoo, at the National Theatre.

This morning, on a side street close to the Mile End tube station, a woman slammed a guy with her red bag. She shoved him against her car; he shoved her back. Screams. Shouts. They were both in their 20s. Their relationship most definitely coming to an end this morning (lovers? housemates? siblings?) 'Give me the keys,' she said. 'No. I want to get my bag in the car,' he said. She was shaking. 'You fucking bastard. You fucking bastard,' he called her. I thought about calling the police, intervening. Others must have thought the same; but we just kept walking, unnerved.

A long weekend. Predicted warmth and clear skies. Potential visits to the park, art galleries, bookshops, cinemas, coffee shops -- my schedule open and flexible.

Let's begin to live our lives
I want to see all my friends tonight
~ Morrissey

Good luck to everyone participating in NaNoWriMo, or similar-related events.

If you live in London, you must go see Faust. I saw it yesterday and it's hands down the best play/art project in London at the moment. I'm not even sure you can call it a play since it takes place inside a 5-floor warehouse, with audience members wearing masks, dark corridors barely lit by candles on the floors, a vast number of rooms to explore (many of which I never found), and all kinds of weird and wonderful events which leave you, after nearly 3 hours, wanting to come back for more.

( My trip to Hell - contains spoilers )

I must go back. I hear the run is being extended until March and I would like to know who in London wishes to come with me. Good walking/running shoes recommended, as well as stamina to survive 3 hours on your feet.

photo by teqkiller
liquification by sali_mali

***

By this time tomorrow I'll be on holidays. I'll be sitting in the Olivier theatre, watching Once in a Lifetime for a second time (with some old friends from King's College Nutrition Department.) I'll be making plans for my mornings, my empty Winter days. Until then, it's a matter of looking productive and letting time go by.

Kevin has a workshift from hell today: he started at 11 AM and will only be back home around midnight. I promised him dinner leftovers and a massage. He is working on Christmas eve and New Year's Eve as well. The pub is charging 8 pounds for NYE, though there's nothing really special planned. Kevin told Natalia and I to find something else to do that night since he would be too busy working to join us. Still, I feel as if I have to be there, if only to share a pint with him on his 15 minute breaks. Also, if we get drunk, it's only a block away from our apartment.

We watched Downfall last night. The movie was impressive, though I wasn't convinced in the end that Hitler's secretary was unaware of the extermination of the Jews. She was his secretary, after all. I had always been under the impression that nobody really knew what happened to Hitler's body, but the film (which appears to be based on the accounts of various people surrounding him) makes it very clear how his final days were played out. I was convinced.

My stomach hurts like gut cancer right now. I might have to visit the nurse downstairs for some peptobysmal. I read A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens these past two days; it was the first time I read something of his till the end. There was a twinkle of a tear in my eyes when Scrooge awoke on Christmas day, reformed and ready to bring happiness to the people around him. I had to quickly bat it away in case someone else in the Tube noticed it.