October 9, 2010
Fuzzy stars before morning. Beautiful and healing dreams before waking, metamorphic. Some power (I don’t know whether I was the power, or the beneficiary of the power) was turning people into the gods they would be (or had been) and gods in to the people they would be when all the world was divine. We were clanking about trying on our new powers and splendors. When I woke I had a flawless feeling of well-being, and so many ideas for creation I haven’t enough hands to carry them out.
Roses–all of them–and honeysuckle join the more expectable low cloud of asters as autumn coolness warns everyone of final chances. Took the truck shopping and bought azaleas and bulbs. Dug mightily to get them all into the ground. The front yard flutters with pale butterflies. My spider has grown perceptibly.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
October 7, 2010
Turbulent return. The flight from London seemed very long. I slept fitfully through it, and when I was not asleep the thoughts in my head were unquiet and disturbing. Very nearly the most disturbing thoughts I ever had. But I was sick and exhausted and uncomfortable, so maybe there was nothing to them. Delayed in Atlanta because Delta had not thought to secure a pilot, apparently. Came home to a new bathroom compliments of Matthew the Handyman. All green and cream as it was before, but without the cracks in everything, and the tiles seceding from the floor. He will appear in a few moments to tell me how much I owe. Went to choir rehearsal, and was glad I did, for there was something fresh and adventurous about it that reminded me why I joined in the first place. Discovered this morning that my computer had given up the ghost–or rather added some. Nothing would load, nothing would delete, nothing would respond. I tossed it with some vehemence into the trash and moved a laptop up to take its place, and it seems to be doing fine. So, this lordly morning I am fully home and caught up with myself, and Circe has acres to nap in where the fat computer tower used to be. A little stuffed panda bear sits on my desk lamp. It was lying on the cement path that leads to the Millennium Bridge, dropped or otherwise abandoned. He lived in my pocket fot a while, and now he lives here, plush against the plush back of the cat.
Turbulent return. The flight from London seemed very long. I slept fitfully through it, and when I was not asleep the thoughts in my head were unquiet and disturbing. Very nearly the most disturbing thoughts I ever had. But I was sick and exhausted and uncomfortable, so maybe there was nothing to them. Delayed in Atlanta because Delta had not thought to secure a pilot, apparently. Came home to a new bathroom compliments of Matthew the Handyman. All green and cream as it was before, but without the cracks in everything, and the tiles seceding from the floor. He will appear in a few moments to tell me how much I owe. Went to choir rehearsal, and was glad I did, for there was something fresh and adventurous about it that reminded me why I joined in the first place. Discovered this morning that my computer had given up the ghost–or rather added some. Nothing would load, nothing would delete, nothing would respond. I tossed it with some vehemence into the trash and moved a laptop up to take its place, and it seems to be doing fine. So, this lordly morning I am fully home and caught up with myself, and Circe has acres to nap in where the fat computer tower used to be. A little stuffed panda bear sits on my desk lamp. It was lying on the cement path that leads to the Millennium Bridge, dropped or otherwise abandoned. He lived in my pocket fot a while, and now he lives here, plush against the plush back of the cat.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
London Last
October 6, 2010
LGatwick. In my departure haze I gave the cabbie 70 pounds more than I meant to. Hope he can make use of that on his honeymoon in Las Vegas, The sickness turned out to be phlebitis, which I fought back with antibiotics, but which took Monday evening out of the schedule, and slowed down Tuesday. Monday night was the hateful miasma of fever delusions, Thought of Steven, sometimes in the midst of delusion, sometimes weith sweet clarity. Everything is lost, always, but somehow there is always something more. I did taxi to St. Paul’s and took the Millennium Bridge to the Tate. The Gauguin exhibit was sensational, and re-convinced me of his status as a major figure. Went to the play Lower Ninth at the Trafalgar Studio 2. It was the story of three men (one dead) on a New Orleans roof during the hurricane. It had dramatic occasion and great energy of language, and though it ended abruptly, as if somebody had suddenly called “time!” it was a good evening of theater. It’s hard to gather one’s thoughts in a space like this, but the basic thing to say is that I was not done with London. I had more to do, more to see. Since Dublin broke my heart, maybe this is the prime destination for a time. I have an hour before I have to appear at the gate. Maybe I’ll spend the last of my pounds.
LGatwick. In my departure haze I gave the cabbie 70 pounds more than I meant to. Hope he can make use of that on his honeymoon in Las Vegas, The sickness turned out to be phlebitis, which I fought back with antibiotics, but which took Monday evening out of the schedule, and slowed down Tuesday. Monday night was the hateful miasma of fever delusions, Thought of Steven, sometimes in the midst of delusion, sometimes weith sweet clarity. Everything is lost, always, but somehow there is always something more. I did taxi to St. Paul’s and took the Millennium Bridge to the Tate. The Gauguin exhibit was sensational, and re-convinced me of his status as a major figure. Went to the play Lower Ninth at the Trafalgar Studio 2. It was the story of three men (one dead) on a New Orleans roof during the hurricane. It had dramatic occasion and great energy of language, and though it ended abruptly, as if somebody had suddenly called “time!” it was a good evening of theater. It’s hard to gather one’s thoughts in a space like this, but the basic thing to say is that I was not done with London. I had more to do, more to see. Since Dublin broke my heart, maybe this is the prime destination for a time. I have an hour before I have to appear at the gate. Maybe I’ll spend the last of my pounds.
London 5
October 4, 2010
The west gleams peach and gold, deepened by blue-gray, the great round tower with the revolving purple band at the top stabbing through. It is early Monday evening, and I have arisen from a sleep that accompanied some kind of sickness, though I don’t know what. Flue-like symptoms, maybe flu. Arrived back in London in the midst of an underground strike, which didn’t affect me as I was walking anyway, but Kings Cross was apparently the epicenter of discontent.
Took the train yesterday To Cambridge. Steve can’t drive because of a series of DUIs, so I was picked up by his girlfriend Karen and driven out to Willingham. I assumed she was his mother, so I’m glad she introduced herself first. The back of the car, and indeed everything in their lives, smelled sharply of dogs, specifically three versions of a ratty terrier I forget the name of. Steve has two of them, with much too much personality, and a certain amount of time needed to be spent learning to keep them under the level of hysteria. Willingham is a quaint and scenic Fens town, the kind people put in TV shows, but the old town is surrounded by council housing, such as Steve’s, heavily subsidized by the government for people in various stages of ill luck. I did a riff on “Willingham”– reluctant pork, eager bacon, etc– which Steve didn’t seem to understand. Steve and I cooked an elaborate curry, and then headed out to the local in Willingham, the Black Bull. The Black Bull was joyful, friendly, and at the end of the evening four of us were left– the landlord, a man whose speech could barely be understood, Steve and I, the three Brits talked with surprising knowledge and interest about American comedians. Steve was broke, so I bought the drinks, which included samples of all five colors of Sambucco, which each taste mostly of anise, and are each a little more disgusting than the real thing.
What do I say of the visit? I came away feeling that my love for him is better informed and stronger for the weathering of contact with his actual situation. I looked at him watching TV, and I knew I have a friend for as long as circumstances allow. I had hoped for romance different from the kind that happened. It was romantic, but chaste and poor and sad. Steve cuddled me as he did his dogs, as a physical comfort, as a kind of living wall between himself and the darkness. Finally, one of us had nothing to give. It was all right. I might have gone to Willingham for the sake of both of us, but it turns out I went for his sake, and that is well. Any purpose is a purpose.
Steve is handsome and presentable and capable of suave conversation, and has an MBA, so it’s clear his present state of near-indigence is caused by something other than ability. He’s in the midst of a soul-quest, of which he speaks at length, but how can you tell someone the gods are speaking something other than he thinks they are? The book he is writing is fascinating to a friend, as it is autobiography and fills in the blanks of his conversation, but it has no commercial value–unless he were already a celebrity. He foresees a time, a few months off, when the money from selling that book puts his life back on track. I am powerless to say what I think, even though he asks me. And at then end of it, how do I know I’m right? Things may go exactly as he foresees.
He found the wishbone in the chicken, and we pulled it, and I won, but I did not get my wish. I’d be glad to relinquish it if I thought he got his.
Stopped between the hotel and the station to eat at a Greek restaurant. The tables were on the sidewalk, and I’ve become enough of a Brit not to be bothered by the mist of rain. A boy was singing at the next table, singing to the music of his headphones, loud and happy and oblivious. He was partially annoying and partially festive, and at last I decided that the festive won.
A bird sings on my balcony, a sweet small London bird singing in the gathering darkness.
The west gleams peach and gold, deepened by blue-gray, the great round tower with the revolving purple band at the top stabbing through. It is early Monday evening, and I have arisen from a sleep that accompanied some kind of sickness, though I don’t know what. Flue-like symptoms, maybe flu. Arrived back in London in the midst of an underground strike, which didn’t affect me as I was walking anyway, but Kings Cross was apparently the epicenter of discontent.
Took the train yesterday To Cambridge. Steve can’t drive because of a series of DUIs, so I was picked up by his girlfriend Karen and driven out to Willingham. I assumed she was his mother, so I’m glad she introduced herself first. The back of the car, and indeed everything in their lives, smelled sharply of dogs, specifically three versions of a ratty terrier I forget the name of. Steve has two of them, with much too much personality, and a certain amount of time needed to be spent learning to keep them under the level of hysteria. Willingham is a quaint and scenic Fens town, the kind people put in TV shows, but the old town is surrounded by council housing, such as Steve’s, heavily subsidized by the government for people in various stages of ill luck. I did a riff on “Willingham”– reluctant pork, eager bacon, etc– which Steve didn’t seem to understand. Steve and I cooked an elaborate curry, and then headed out to the local in Willingham, the Black Bull. The Black Bull was joyful, friendly, and at the end of the evening four of us were left– the landlord, a man whose speech could barely be understood, Steve and I, the three Brits talked with surprising knowledge and interest about American comedians. Steve was broke, so I bought the drinks, which included samples of all five colors of Sambucco, which each taste mostly of anise, and are each a little more disgusting than the real thing.
What do I say of the visit? I came away feeling that my love for him is better informed and stronger for the weathering of contact with his actual situation. I looked at him watching TV, and I knew I have a friend for as long as circumstances allow. I had hoped for romance different from the kind that happened. It was romantic, but chaste and poor and sad. Steve cuddled me as he did his dogs, as a physical comfort, as a kind of living wall between himself and the darkness. Finally, one of us had nothing to give. It was all right. I might have gone to Willingham for the sake of both of us, but it turns out I went for his sake, and that is well. Any purpose is a purpose.
Steve is handsome and presentable and capable of suave conversation, and has an MBA, so it’s clear his present state of near-indigence is caused by something other than ability. He’s in the midst of a soul-quest, of which he speaks at length, but how can you tell someone the gods are speaking something other than he thinks they are? The book he is writing is fascinating to a friend, as it is autobiography and fills in the blanks of his conversation, but it has no commercial value–unless he were already a celebrity. He foresees a time, a few months off, when the money from selling that book puts his life back on track. I am powerless to say what I think, even though he asks me. And at then end of it, how do I know I’m right? Things may go exactly as he foresees.
He found the wishbone in the chicken, and we pulled it, and I won, but I did not get my wish. I’d be glad to relinquish it if I thought he got his.
Stopped between the hotel and the station to eat at a Greek restaurant. The tables were on the sidewalk, and I’ve become enough of a Brit not to be bothered by the mist of rain. A boy was singing at the next table, singing to the music of his headphones, loud and happy and oblivious. He was partially annoying and partially festive, and at last I decided that the festive won.
A bird sings on my balcony, a sweet small London bird singing in the gathering darkness.
London 3, 4
October 3, 2010
Sunday morning. Skipped yesterday because I got home too drunk and wet and happy.
Strolled most of Saturday, to the National Gallery where I was stuck by painters I had never noticed before, and returned to old friends like The Shrimp Girl and Salisbury Cathedral from the Water Meadows. Sat a while in Trafalgar, realizing one could have a pretty full tour of London just sitting there. In the evening I went again to Covent Garden to see the Royal Ballet do Onegin. It was perplexing to me. By the end of Act II I was in to the story and the characters, but I must say that, though I love dance, classical narrative ballet has always struck me as superfluous. It’s about perfection of execution, and the execution was indeed perfect, but there must be something original and vital to be executed. In narrative ballets, good dancing is sadly coupled with very bad acting. I remembered from my days in The Nutcracker Ann’s admonitions to dress the stage and stay active and to stay in character, and I could not avoid seeing those things in Onegin. Is ballet acting deliberately bad–I mean, is it part of the form?–or is it that the dance takes so much effort they leave the rest to chance? I tried to push down the word “preposterous,” but it pretty much was. The Nutcracker is mostly fantastic, and for fantasy ballet works fine, but for anything that is supposed to be “real,” is just doesn’t. Unless your story is about swans or fairies, ballet is not your medium. The work dates from the 60's, but it seemed to have take nothing from a milieu within sixty years of its own time. I suppose that if one likes Eugene Onegin one might be interested in a dance version, but why, exactly? Without a great book shoring it up at every point, it is a very silly dance. Beautifully done, of course. Onegin was wildly handsome. Plus, I had a stupendous seat, At intermission, digging my ice cream out of its carton with one of those little spades they give you, I flipped a big dollop of chocolate onto a Japanese grandmother’s skirt. She was so polite she was going to pretend she didn’t see it happen.
Pouring rain when I left the opera house. Drank at the Freemason Arms, and thought of Jason. Drank at O’Neill’s on Long Acre, which was loud and merry, and where I met short dark Rick and tall red Bruce. I bought them a round of what they were drinking, and they bought me untold rounds of Sambucco, which I’d never had before. Bruce is an engineer and Rick was leaving for Japan in the morning, and had not yet packed. Bruce was a hugger, and soon I was being enveloped in drunk boy hugs and plied with Sambucco, and I was happy. Why does one leave one’s front door except for that? In the driving rain on Southampton, the Sambucco and the cider rose up in conflict, and I vomited lustily, but I was happy even while engaged in that. What did O’Neill’s have that the ballet did not, I wondered, seeing that one was a delight and the other had to be endured, considering what one had paid for the ticket? I suppose the answer is inspiration. On the stage nothing was new. In the bar, everything was.
Sunday morning. Skipped yesterday because I got home too drunk and wet and happy.
Strolled most of Saturday, to the National Gallery where I was stuck by painters I had never noticed before, and returned to old friends like The Shrimp Girl and Salisbury Cathedral from the Water Meadows. Sat a while in Trafalgar, realizing one could have a pretty full tour of London just sitting there. In the evening I went again to Covent Garden to see the Royal Ballet do Onegin. It was perplexing to me. By the end of Act II I was in to the story and the characters, but I must say that, though I love dance, classical narrative ballet has always struck me as superfluous. It’s about perfection of execution, and the execution was indeed perfect, but there must be something original and vital to be executed. In narrative ballets, good dancing is sadly coupled with very bad acting. I remembered from my days in The Nutcracker Ann’s admonitions to dress the stage and stay active and to stay in character, and I could not avoid seeing those things in Onegin. Is ballet acting deliberately bad–I mean, is it part of the form?–or is it that the dance takes so much effort they leave the rest to chance? I tried to push down the word “preposterous,” but it pretty much was. The Nutcracker is mostly fantastic, and for fantasy ballet works fine, but for anything that is supposed to be “real,” is just doesn’t. Unless your story is about swans or fairies, ballet is not your medium. The work dates from the 60's, but it seemed to have take nothing from a milieu within sixty years of its own time. I suppose that if one likes Eugene Onegin one might be interested in a dance version, but why, exactly? Without a great book shoring it up at every point, it is a very silly dance. Beautifully done, of course. Onegin was wildly handsome. Plus, I had a stupendous seat, At intermission, digging my ice cream out of its carton with one of those little spades they give you, I flipped a big dollop of chocolate onto a Japanese grandmother’s skirt. She was so polite she was going to pretend she didn’t see it happen.
Pouring rain when I left the opera house. Drank at the Freemason Arms, and thought of Jason. Drank at O’Neill’s on Long Acre, which was loud and merry, and where I met short dark Rick and tall red Bruce. I bought them a round of what they were drinking, and they bought me untold rounds of Sambucco, which I’d never had before. Bruce is an engineer and Rick was leaving for Japan in the morning, and had not yet packed. Bruce was a hugger, and soon I was being enveloped in drunk boy hugs and plied with Sambucco, and I was happy. Why does one leave one’s front door except for that? In the driving rain on Southampton, the Sambucco and the cider rose up in conflict, and I vomited lustily, but I was happy even while engaged in that. What did O’Neill’s have that the ballet did not, I wondered, seeing that one was a delight and the other had to be endured, considering what one had paid for the ticket? I suppose the answer is inspiration. On the stage nothing was new. In the bar, everything was.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
London 2
October 1, 2010
I was right about Waterloo Bridge making me feel better. I crossed it heading to the Cottesloe to see a new play called Why Don’t You Just Kiss Me? Like War Horse, it is a piece done with marvelous puppets manipulated by men in black, who are not invisible, but whose expressions are so concentrated on their work that yours is too, WDYJKM is in one sense not a very good play– the professional theater worker in me was fussing about its scripting problems near the beginning– but that magic which sometimes attends upon the stage was afoot, and by the end of the evening I’d had one of the outstanding theatrical experiences of my life. I fought off sobs at the end, until I could get out into the anonymous night. Re-crossing the bridge walking back to Russell Square, I realized that I’d had one of those experiences Aristotle talks about, which people think is just high-toned blather until they have one for themselves. I had transcended pity and terror. Catharsis wrapped me in his arms like a warm wind. The play is about ageing and death, and since my last birthday those have been on my mind. In the middle of the play I felt something I have never felt before. It is hard to put into words. I felt the actual power in me to take whatever desperate or transcendent steps are necessary to stave off what I fear and dread. I thought of the water under the bridge, and it seemed no longer cold and dark, but a radiant plenum, an open door teeming with life. People talk about taking these matters into their own hands– I talk about it–but the actual power to do so descended upon me only that night. With the power to do it comes the end of the obsession with it, and one can get on to the next stage of life with a free mind and an open heart.
Drinks in the hotel bar that night, surrounded by shockingly handsome American men, in the middle of their years, businessmen in loosened ties and expensive suits, with that air about them of men who have always been big and handsome, and assumed their words would be attended.
The Victoria and Albert in morning rain. I took a cab, and the friendly cabbie agreed to take me to Gatwick on Wednesday, and as I had got an internet connection long enough to contact Steven, anxieties were falling like nine pins. I hadn’t remembered the V&A being so gorgeous, all shining dully with cream and gold, full of delightful objects. I must have gone through the wrong entrance before. It has the best café, too, and I drank my jasmine tea and watched the Italian kids and their teacher take pictures of each other. Spencer the cabbie grew up in East London, and has never seen a stage play. I told him he should see Hamlet at the National tonight and get a good start, but he said the Missus wouldn’t stand for anything beyond the level of Sex in the City. I didn’t go into it, but Elsinore makes them look like schoolgirls. Met Simon from Melbourne at the White Horse, somewhere between Leicester Square and Covent Garden. I told him I would come back to see him today, but I am not at all sure I can find the way.
Last night it was the Royal Opera at Covent Garden, Niobe Regina Di Tebe by Agostino Steffani. The music was standard Baroque opera, and the libretto was, of course, idiotic, but the production was lavish and innovative, the singing excellent. The show was boring and delightful at once, as those things sometimes are. The boring part I got past by falling asleep and running a completely different opera in my mind to the music provided. All the male romantic figures were countertenor sopranos, Mars was a woman, and everybody wore poufy full skirts, so one gave up trying to establish any gender norms. I was in the fiftieth balcony, up against the roof. The two people behind me had taken their mother out for a night at the opera, and their ceaseless fussing about whether she could hear and did she see the superscripts and was this and that all right must have ruined any enjoyment she might otherwise have had. At the V&A I was in the tea line behind a gaggle of old ladies who- I swear–took two full minutes each trying to get out of the way so the other could be first in line. I wished I had a camera.
I can go out on my balcony and look down on the Square and whatever street it is runs in front of the hotel. Sore and stiff, but not too sore and stiff.
I was right about Waterloo Bridge making me feel better. I crossed it heading to the Cottesloe to see a new play called Why Don’t You Just Kiss Me? Like War Horse, it is a piece done with marvelous puppets manipulated by men in black, who are not invisible, but whose expressions are so concentrated on their work that yours is too, WDYJKM is in one sense not a very good play– the professional theater worker in me was fussing about its scripting problems near the beginning– but that magic which sometimes attends upon the stage was afoot, and by the end of the evening I’d had one of the outstanding theatrical experiences of my life. I fought off sobs at the end, until I could get out into the anonymous night. Re-crossing the bridge walking back to Russell Square, I realized that I’d had one of those experiences Aristotle talks about, which people think is just high-toned blather until they have one for themselves. I had transcended pity and terror. Catharsis wrapped me in his arms like a warm wind. The play is about ageing and death, and since my last birthday those have been on my mind. In the middle of the play I felt something I have never felt before. It is hard to put into words. I felt the actual power in me to take whatever desperate or transcendent steps are necessary to stave off what I fear and dread. I thought of the water under the bridge, and it seemed no longer cold and dark, but a radiant plenum, an open door teeming with life. People talk about taking these matters into their own hands– I talk about it–but the actual power to do so descended upon me only that night. With the power to do it comes the end of the obsession with it, and one can get on to the next stage of life with a free mind and an open heart.
Drinks in the hotel bar that night, surrounded by shockingly handsome American men, in the middle of their years, businessmen in loosened ties and expensive suits, with that air about them of men who have always been big and handsome, and assumed their words would be attended.
The Victoria and Albert in morning rain. I took a cab, and the friendly cabbie agreed to take me to Gatwick on Wednesday, and as I had got an internet connection long enough to contact Steven, anxieties were falling like nine pins. I hadn’t remembered the V&A being so gorgeous, all shining dully with cream and gold, full of delightful objects. I must have gone through the wrong entrance before. It has the best café, too, and I drank my jasmine tea and watched the Italian kids and their teacher take pictures of each other. Spencer the cabbie grew up in East London, and has never seen a stage play. I told him he should see Hamlet at the National tonight and get a good start, but he said the Missus wouldn’t stand for anything beyond the level of Sex in the City. I didn’t go into it, but Elsinore makes them look like schoolgirls. Met Simon from Melbourne at the White Horse, somewhere between Leicester Square and Covent Garden. I told him I would come back to see him today, but I am not at all sure I can find the way.
Last night it was the Royal Opera at Covent Garden, Niobe Regina Di Tebe by Agostino Steffani. The music was standard Baroque opera, and the libretto was, of course, idiotic, but the production was lavish and innovative, the singing excellent. The show was boring and delightful at once, as those things sometimes are. The boring part I got past by falling asleep and running a completely different opera in my mind to the music provided. All the male romantic figures were countertenor sopranos, Mars was a woman, and everybody wore poufy full skirts, so one gave up trying to establish any gender norms. I was in the fiftieth balcony, up against the roof. The two people behind me had taken their mother out for a night at the opera, and their ceaseless fussing about whether she could hear and did she see the superscripts and was this and that all right must have ruined any enjoyment she might otherwise have had. At the V&A I was in the tea line behind a gaggle of old ladies who- I swear–took two full minutes each trying to get out of the way so the other could be first in line. I wished I had a camera.
I can go out on my balcony and look down on the Square and whatever street it is runs in front of the hotel. Sore and stiff, but not too sore and stiff.
Friday, October 1, 2010
London 1
September 30, 2010
Hotel Russell, London. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t sleep on the flight, but played trivia on the viewing screen with other passengers, known by seat numbers and nicknames, and kept playing because I kept winning by thousands of points every round.
I keep coming back to this hotel because of its Victorian splendor, but in many ways it’s primitive and inconvenient, no water pressure, ludicrously complex plumbing, no WiFi in the rooms. It’s a lot to pay for ambience, a cozy bar, and the beautiful park across the street. Everything between landing at 7 AM and now was pretty grueling. The lines at British customs must be to some end, but it’s hard to see what, that cannot be better served in some other way. Trains and the underground to Kings Cross, then the walk to Russell Square. About half way here I felt the smile begin to creep over my face, joyful to walk again on the streets of London, but by the time the before-check-in exile had ended, the smile had gone away. I phoned the Barkley’s Card people to tell them I would be here, but still, on the very first use, they shut down my card. Drinks at the Cambridge, a tour through Soho, a couple of hours at the British Museum. I head to the National Theater tonight. Let’s see if that puts us back on an even keel.
London, unlike New York, is a place where I would be happy to live. Every time I sit down for a coffee or a rest I wonder, “What if this were my usual spot, and everybody knew me?”
A bright clear day is clouding over. I’m frantic about the difficulties of reaching Steve–most of them unnecessary and therefore provoking. I think that’s the root of my present bad mood. I’ll walk across Waterloo Bridge and all will be well,
Hotel Russell, London. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t sleep on the flight, but played trivia on the viewing screen with other passengers, known by seat numbers and nicknames, and kept playing because I kept winning by thousands of points every round.
I keep coming back to this hotel because of its Victorian splendor, but in many ways it’s primitive and inconvenient, no water pressure, ludicrously complex plumbing, no WiFi in the rooms. It’s a lot to pay for ambience, a cozy bar, and the beautiful park across the street. Everything between landing at 7 AM and now was pretty grueling. The lines at British customs must be to some end, but it’s hard to see what, that cannot be better served in some other way. Trains and the underground to Kings Cross, then the walk to Russell Square. About half way here I felt the smile begin to creep over my face, joyful to walk again on the streets of London, but by the time the before-check-in exile had ended, the smile had gone away. I phoned the Barkley’s Card people to tell them I would be here, but still, on the very first use, they shut down my card. Drinks at the Cambridge, a tour through Soho, a couple of hours at the British Museum. I head to the National Theater tonight. Let’s see if that puts us back on an even keel.
London, unlike New York, is a place where I would be happy to live. Every time I sit down for a coffee or a rest I wonder, “What if this were my usual spot, and everybody knew me?”
A bright clear day is clouding over. I’m frantic about the difficulties of reaching Steve–most of them unnecessary and therefore provoking. I think that’s the root of my present bad mood. I’ll walk across Waterloo Bridge and all will be well,
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