I Don't Know

Last night I walked out of a cinema into Piccadilly Circus at 10:30 pm, and it was absolute madness, of a sort that I forget is a part of this city, a mere seven tube stops away from the peace and quiet where I live. There were drunks and crazies, tourists, families, teenagers, beggars, and regular folks like me coming out of theaters. A skinny man with no shirt sat in the middle of a square beating his chest and laughing wildly. A young guy walked in circles with a megaphone and a bible, shouting hellfire, a few stragglers with Jesus signs meandered around him. Less than twenty feet away, not be outdone in zealotry, a handful of robed Muslim men chanted Quran verses.

I stood in the middle of all the movement just to see what it felt like to be still and quiet while surrounded with the swarming, throbbing force of people on the go. Lording over the melee, a giant digital onslaught of frenetic, flashing advertising, consuming megakilowatts of electricity. It felt like a symbiotic exchange of reconstituted energy between humanity and monoliths.

And in between LED billboards, the incongruous curves and arches of stunning Victorian and Edwardian architecture.

If anyone would have noticed me—fairly sure no one did—they would have seen me, a semi-gray haired scruffily elegant woman in jeans and Adidas, grinning the blissful smile of the village idiot. It’s a new shade of happiness to be alone and alive, in the middle of so much damn life on a Saturday night in Piccadilly Circus. I made my way, a bit reluctantly, to the tube, skirting the crazy, dodging bodies, keeping an eye for picky pocketers. I sort of wanted to wander but home and my little studio beckoned.

To be a part of something while simultaneously being so separate from it is a sensation I am becoming increasingly familiar with. Sometimes it’s almost as though I’m in rehearsals, practicing for a life that I’m not sure how I will be living—and yet I’m fully inhabiting my days, with a presence that is achingly acute.

I don’t know. This is where I always end up; where the complexity of uncertainty gets simplified and…acceptable. I don’t know what I am supposed to be doing, so I do what I’ve always done; write, play guitar, take care of what’s at hand, keep up with the people I care about, let go of what doesn’t serve me well. etc. I don’t know how to change or improve or even cope with the staggeringly insane actions of people in power, how to “do my part” in any meaningful fashion to apply the brakes, to slow down the destruction of mores, institutions, people, cities, nature. I don’t know how much is bullshit or how much is true when it comes to big pharma, big tech, big 5G, big food, big data, big global elite, big coverup. You name it. I don’t know so I err on the side of what doesn’t feel like a horrible existence, ie, not going through my days consumed with paranoia and fear.

I don’t know how much time I have, or what is going to happen to me, or where I am going to be living, or if I will be in love again, or marry again, or how my body will hold up, how it will change, as the parts start to wear out, or if all my career success is behind me even though I want to achieve more, or if I will get to finish the next book, or be a grandmother or run out of money or lose everything or get more. I don’t know.

Sometimes I check out. Last night, I went by myself to the movies to escape the not knowing, to take a break from my work that I don’t know if it’s ever going to have an audience but I do it anyway because I would be a crazy person if I didn’t.

I love the cinemas in London. There are so many wonderful, retro throwback quirky cinemas oozing personality and character. I really hope every single one can stay in business because they are an enormous comfort to go to. I highly recommend any trip to London that you include a couple of movie nights. It’s not like going in America. Visit the Lexi, the Picturehouse (both Central and the Gate,) the Prince Charles, the Curzon, the Olympic—there are so many and I hope to visit them all in time. Each is unique, even ones like the Everyman that operate several locations. They can feature dog night, toddler night, senior night, special runs on directors, genres, actors…the cinemas here go above and beyond to foster community and in the midst of all the I don’t know, one thing I know is that community is good. It is really good.

I saw The Invite, and laughed, a lot. Needed that. It’s remarkable: four actors, one location, a story moved only by great dialog and minimal action.

Mystery Adventure

(I don’t know where I’m going)

Like everything, like life, the warp speed of time already has my mystery adventure feeling like ancient history. I posted videos on my Instagram but here’s a nutshell recap: Last Friday, I flipped a coin to decide whether to start out at an airport or train station. I overrode the coin toss on the way to Heathrow, deciding I felt like a train journey. “My game, my rules,” I said. The next train out of Kings Cross St Pancras was to Amsterdam. I got the last seat on the train. One way, in case that wasn’t my last stop. I didn’t know.

It was exhilarating to step out of the station four hours later and be in Amsterdam, a city that I only visited in the 80’s, as part of the Go-Go’s touring. I was completely charmed by the people, the lifestyle, the ease and comfort of walking and exploring, the culture.

Many years ago, after untold museum visits and art gazings, I stood before a Van Gogh painting—I do not recall which one, or where it was—only that it was an unforgettable moment. For the first time in my life, I felt an inner shift. I was moved by a painting. I cried, not from sadness; just tears moving emotions out of my body I suppose.

Because of that experience, I knew I’d want to spend a long time at the Van Gogh museum. There was so much to process about his remarkable story, so much inspiration. I thought about how much I would like to convey life as I see it, with power, energy and simplicity. I reflected on his willingness to keep learning, and striving to improve. I was struck by the contrasting opposites that must have fueled his passion. His inability to connect in love alongside his deep connection and love for his brother Theo. His doubt and insecurity alongside his deep conviction that he was on the right path and doing work that captured exactly what he wanted to. And the tragedy of his mental and emotional issues sitting squarely with a work ethic that produced an extraordinary amount of art.

I also learned it was a woman, Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, his brother’s widow, who made sure Vincent’s life’s work became known. After both men died, she devoted her life to promoting Vincent's importance as an artist, despite being ridiculed and written off by critics. By publishing letters between the brothers, mounting shows, and gifting several works of art, she succeeded.

Walking in neighborhoods, browsing in second-hand and vintage stores, marveling at the quality of life the people of the city seemed to enjoy. The Kattenkabinet, a beautiful 18th century house filled with cat art, was a special find. A new friend with a photo studio in a landmark hotel, an even better find.

Amsterdam was fantastic. As it turns out, freedom is costly. Last minute one-way tickets is not an economically sound way to travel. But leaning into I don’t know; embracing it fully and framing it as an adventure, was good for me. So was coming home, which seems to be just where I am at the moment.

As always, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for your interest, time, subscription, attention. Whatever you can give. I will keep trying to give back and deserve it.