“Everyone” is an artist..”

 

I had just arrived back from

Porto

,

Portugal

. I had spent four days there with Selfish c***. Why had I gone along?? I was invited by a very dear friend who is involved with the guitarist. I suppose the only other thing I should make clear is that I  am very into the band. And the opportunity of going to a part of

europe

I havn’t seen and see them play a major festival was too great to pass up. But there is a clear cut hierarchy when it comes to bands. The band and lead singer come first, girlfriends/boyfriends of band members somewhere after, friends of  the band float somewhere after that, and then regular fans, and then random screaming girls/boys. As for my position in the hierarchy I floated somewhere between the random and friend of the band. I hadn’t met most of them before this trip, and suddenly we were spending all of our time together for these few days.

 

 The amazing thing about bands, actors, performers, indeed anyone who is used to touring, is they master the skill of impermanent intimacy. Everyone understands that for this short period time, you will interact mostly with those around you, therefore great effort is made to get along and make the most of this time and this interaction.  Being with the band I could never be anything other than an outsider, but it was exciting to be the outsider in close quarters. It was like my own observational documentary.  

 

The highlight of the trip was seeing the band play the after hours stage at the massive paredes de coura festival. For many of the men in the audience, seeing the band in dresses (in a very “genderf**k way right, there is nothing about those boys that could even vaguely be construed as gay or effeminate) coupled with the in your face sexual glam androgyny of lead singer Martin Tomlinson was a little to much for some of these portugese boys could handle. There were many in the front row who truly looked provoked, angry, shakingly angry. But if they were so fired up, why stand in the rain and watch the whole set? Was it because as much as they needed to seem  against what saw like they were captivated?

 I’ll never know..

I’ll aways wonder.

 

As two couples were in our krew, being away from the lady was more than a little difficult. I see myself as being deeply in love but also fiercely independent. I was never prepared to miss the girl quite as much as I did. By the time I got on the plane to come back I could hardly bare it.

  It didn’t help that I was in the heaviest, most painful phase of my period. Or that this was in the middle of failed terrorist attack, stansted security panic hell. All I could think about to get through the physical pain, the weakness, and all the waiting around customs, was the thought of seeing my girlfriend again.

 

And then, barely able to stand, I am amidst a massive throng of people waiting with surprising patience, for the baggage carousel numbers to be revealed (we have at this point  waited for at least an hour). I called my girlfriend. She was sneezing relentlessly and there were noises in the background I didn’t understand.  She was at a festival at wales and wouldn’t be back until the following day. And because my hormones were by now severely unbalanced, and I felt like my body weight in blood was leaving me, I did what any self respecting young woman would do when told that her girlfriend/boyfriend would not be home to greet her on her return.

 

I cried.

 

Not sobbing screaming, bawling crying. More like quiet, can barely talk, lump in throat crying. The kind of crying where you make no noise, but the downpour from your eye sockets is downright torrential. I somehow managed to communicate to her that I couldn’t communicate just then, and turned off the phone. Through the watery filter of my tears I saw the number of the carousel I needed and ambled over. As I stood looking at all the luggage pass me by, my tears continued.

 

Groups in public places get really really uncomfortable when someone is crying. Particularly someone by themselves. The crowd knows they can’t comfort, and they probably wouldn’t want to.  They want to give the person a little space, and dignity, by ignoring them, but if the crowd is really dense this can be difficult. I don’t think this is a British thing, I’m sure it’s the same in

America

. Or perhaps it’s a big city thing.

Does anyone know?

Does it even matter?

 

All I know is standing in a crowded place crying is far more subversive to the crowd around you then you would think. When you cry in this kind of situation it means that you are beyond being able to keep up any kind of semblance of “ok-ness” even in front of a group of complete strangers. And you are beyond caring.. one by one I saw people around me notice my tears and nervously look away, up down, and quickly. It was as if it was all fine as long as I didn’t notice them staring at me. Small children however had no qualms about staring, and cocked their heads and pointed. Tugging at their parents sleeves.

 

“mummy the lady there is crying…”

 

only to be hushed by their parents, who would do their best not to look at me.

 

Why is crying in public such a big deal? What was everyone so scared of?

 

At any rate I got my bag, but as I’d missed my train I waited for some time for a coach. The coach was perfectly empty and perfectly dark. My tears could reach their natural end in privacy. When finally I reached

Liverpool street

I could not face taking the bus. Somewhat guiltily I waited in the cab rank. I convinced myself that I could justify this indulgence for today. As I waited many men running mini cab services hassled me for a possible fare until I dropped the guise of not being interested in a cab and said bluntly

 

“look I want a black cab ok, that’s why I’m waiting at the cab rank, please leave me alone”

 

and they did.

And then my cab driver arrived. At

3 am

he couldn’t have been more chirpy. He was the most well read cabbie I’d ever had in my life He started talking about Langston Hughes, somehow segue-wayed to Chekhov, and before I knew it we were bonding over the fact we both had the same favourite Orwell book (Down and out in Paris in London if you’re interested…)

 

this meandered into a topic much worked over by hackney dwellers, the development of the area. As he lambasted the ruining of his area by those urban professionals buying out loft conversions at he-could-never-afford prices. I kept quiet. He ranted until we reached the doorstep of my newish-build warehouse conversion and there was a lull between us. I got out of the cab and paid my fare.

 

You should really read this he said , pulling out a tattered copy of the book he was reading “memoirs of a nobody” an 1800’s comic novel. I told him I would and opened the front door. He smiled and waved as he drove off.

 

Empty flat or not, I was so glad to be back in

London

….