the end of the holiday, pt. 1

Santa Maria Navarrase, Sardinia, Italy.

We got it into our heads that our bus was at 9:30. We set an alarm, got our things together efficiently, arrived at the centre of town by 9:15. I read the schedule while we waited. Bus, it would appear, was at 9:05. This schedule must be outdated, I said. I traipsed up to the post office to check another schedule. I walked back shaking my head. You got yourself a beach day, I called out. Next bus not for five hours, and we'd checked out of the flat, clearing the way for the next guests. It's that strange feeling: If you told me today I could have five minutes on that beach — with its watchtower, green-blue waters and bar... But there we were, stranded in paradise, or anyway with uncertainty hanging over our heads. We needed to get back to Cagliari in order to fly the next morning. Could we rely on the next bus? What was our backup plan? We didn't have the key to a hotel room, a car, nothing except our flat back in London. Which suddenly seemed a long way away.

I thought back to the ends of dozens of holidays. They blur together. That feeling of transition, even displacement, melancholy. Back in California, when we had a car, I'd drive home, feeling dry and somehow bruised. Things like traffic jams and suburban supermarkets seemed so mundane. We were passing through other people's places, brushing up against their routines. On city breaks throughout Europe, waiting to go to the airport, it's as if a bit of the magic has disappeared. Some of the luster has worn off. You've already seen everything you wanted to, your options are limited by what happens to be open and nearby. Amsterdam was a good one, despite my killer sore throat: We watched The Red Shoes in a cinema in the centre of the park. In Hong Kong, we planned on going to the city museum. The owner of our flat emailed us that morning: Please be out by 10 and leave the key in the mailbox for the cleaner. You may want to be inside today. There is a monsoon warning. Thank you! Earlier, I'd gone out to get us something to eat for breakfast and our local coffee shop was closed. Now we took to the streets with our luggage and I realised pretty much everything was closed. The drops coming down were sparse but large. The signs above our heads were swinging dangerously. When we got to the museum, it was, of course, shut. The vegetarian dim sum palace was closed. So here we were, hopeless in Hong Kong, in its office lobbies and under its concrete walkways, anywhere we could find shelter and abate our boredom. Luckily, in Hong Kong you can check your baggage at the airport shuttle terminal in the centre of town, so we weren't lugging our overstuffed rucksacks. The terminal is on the ground floor of a large shopping mall, and eventually it was the only place we could think to return. We'd already spent so much time there: We'd waited there for our host to hand over keys to the flat, and then again two days later for a replacement set, because I'd lost ours — sorry! — on Macau. We'd watched Wim Wenders' Pina in 3-D in the mall cinema with my sister. She was long gone now. Everyone from our party was gone. And here we were in the shopping mall again, spending the day in various states of recline — on the floor, a bench when one was available — with the stores closed and a few random foreigners like us, looking through huge windows at the tempestuous bay.

The bay we were looking at now was calm and clean, and it sparkled. We debated going for a swim. There were only a few others on the beach. A male couple, or perhaps father and son, arrived with a beach umbrella. Surely it was the umbrella by the door of the flat we'd just vacated. We decided that these guys must be our replacements, and that they'd gone straight to the beach while Vanna finished cleaning. They've got the key to our flat, we thought. We decided we hated them. Except, Jamie squinted, the younger one is kind of hot. I was thinking the whole thing was creepy, like spying on the future. We were supposed to maybe picture this couple replacing us, heading down to the beach, starting their holiday, but that's how it was supposed to remain — an imagined vision as we rode the bus away through the mountains. We were never meant to actually see them. I don't like it, I said. It felt like tempting fate.

The day before, we'd discovered a spotted eel under the rocks. It fascinated and scared us as we swam above it. We proudly added the eel to our impressive list of animal spotting: goats, wild boar and, on the horizon, a whale. That was meant to be our last swim. But now Jamie was in the water again. I looked over at our replacement couple. As always, there were recurring characters on the holiday — the Swiss sisters who helped us get on the right bus over, the young cabana boy we saw every day who blushed easily. We nicknamed him Piano, a variation on the name of the cafe. But I didn't like this new twist — this bit of time travel. I had become convinced I was seeing our replacements, and it wasn't right. As I was thinking about this, I looked over and found the younger man was staring straight at me. I swear he's... Is he giving me the blow job gesture?

We tried to ignore what appeared to be the man's increasingly blatant stares. If you can get more blatant than a blow job gesture. But can I be sure that's what he was doing? If not, then what?, asked Jamie. Yawning slowly?, I suggested. Eating a handful of peanuts? In the end, I went into the ocean, and swam in the brilliant sea, which was the right thing to do.

It's a bit of a backwards purgatory, I suppose, the end of the holiday. You realise — despite saying the opposite for days — how desperate you suddenly are to return home. You want to return home changed, but the same. I thought idly about the cooper font on the beach cafe's lampposts. There's cooper font all over this town, I thought. It's rather sweet. Then it started raining.

sounds different in the sunshine

We woke slowly on a Saturday morning. We heard passing cars and idling trucks on the street below. They sound different, I said. We could feel the sun peeking around the edges of the blind. It had been grey for what felt like ages. Sounds different in the sunshine, I said. I know, said Jamie immediately.

We were like, open the blind.

Starved for sun. I told this woman, one day when the sun hit, I just stood there, like... A junkie, she said. I know.

On the bus, I was thinking isn't it funny that there's a pub called The Water Poet. Because you've got people who wouldn't normally say water poet saying water poet.

On the bus still, and pretty much every time I pass a crowded black hair salon open late at night I am jealous of that lifestyle.

One evening at Nelsons the bartender (the sexpot one, the sexy secretary type who has supposedly modeled for Richard Kern) smiled at us. Jamie had been saying to me, You were reading into that situation. I can tell you objectively. He went on, emphatically, I can tell you as someone who observed that objectively... And I think the bartender must have been smiling because we are always together, how could Jamie possibly be objective about me.

M and M were over and I was in charge of ordering Chinese. I was feeling desperate for Gourmet San. Potato hot pepper. I dialed and a recorded voice said, you have dialed an incorrect number. And I thought, have I? Or have I dialed a number incorrectly?

I figured it out. We ate Gourmet San with M and M. Jamie was showing them the wedding book he is working on for them. They are finally getting married. You're in for a treat, I told them. It is gorgeous, East Anglian, Sebaldian, rather opaque for watercolours, rather brooding for "wedding." They did like it, I think. We spent the rest of the evening mapping walks. When they left, I looked out the window and saw them walking away, holding hands.

The new Kurt Vile record is perfect for this turn towards spring. I have been playing it all day and it continues to grow on me. Initially, you hear certain lyrics and you think, is that simplistic, is that obvious. But the more you listen to it, the more context you have, the more you know its sprawl, the more those lines are like little gems. Pearls of wisdom. The album is my escape from England today. Cameron said, "We're all Thatcherites now." But the sky is beautiful.

This guy was walking in front of me today and he stopped suddenly, forcing me to a halt. BATTY BOY, he yelled, at me, I suppose. I thought, what have I done to look batty today. I was wearing my bomber which I suppose is a bit flash, and I was thinking about our forthcoming trip to Sardinia, which probably put a spring in my step. And it is, finally, spring. Unfortunately, doesn't it feel like trouble brews as soon as it gets nice out? When it gets brighter and springlike, that can happen: Someone gets aggressive. Wound up. Anyway, I haven't been called batty boy for ages. I'd thought about that fact recently. I thought, surely it's because I no longer look like a boy. But there you go. A backhanded compliment? I think not, actually. I hadn't even noticed that guy. I wonder why he bothered to notice me.

So back to the holiday. Holidays, like moving house and pregnancy, are a good chance to shop. And I managed to do this: Email the kind folks at Aiguille Alpine, an outdoor gear supplier in the Lake District, and convince them to make me a travel holdall to order. Can you do it in rust coloured canvas? Whatever you like, said the woman, humouring me. Not only did they agree to make me a rust coloured canvas holdall, but it arrived two days later. All this for well under a hundred quid. I don't think I've ever owned anything custom made. I'll show it to you some time.

This evening, I was chlorinated from the pool and had groceries on each shoulder, and people were drinking outdoors. Some had hats on still, sure. Put they were drinking outside. A couple was huddled together and I could tell they were attempting a last minute dinner reservation. "Two people?," she said into the phone hopefully.

The sky has gone from pink to grey. It's full of dragons. Cloud dragons. I am thinking back on the Japanese "outsider" art exhibition I saw with Rosie today at the Wellcome Collection. It was filled with wonderful work. It broke my heart. All of the artists are residents or day attendees at social welfare institutions. I thought of Norwegian Wood, the book. You have to read Norwegian Wood, I told Rosie. I am thinking about incarceration, in its various forms. I am looking at the sky freely. I am listening to Kurt Vile. I am thinking, stop incarcerating yourself, Jeremy. Perhaps it's the IPA.

I look again; the sky has gone black. It's warm in here, mellow.

around the house, pt. 2

around the house

the dance

Boys, legs spread, sitting on the floor against the wall, waiting. A classic pose: I picture a picture of boys waiting for Morrissey or The Smiths. I picture a picture of Patti Smith sitting like this in front Situationist writing on the wall. Here we are in the Turbine Hall. I had been greeted by a guard who acted more like a bouncer than a host. I'm going to The Tanks, I said. No, he corrected me. You're not let in until ten 'til. Ok, so you want us to wait over there? Or you could wait outside, he stated firmly. I couldn't help but laugh in his face and shout no! It's cold out tonight. So I wind up sitting across from the four sitting boys: three of them, plus one standing, who eventually slides onto his bum, playing footsie with the one with the wide gappy grin, soft bumps of leftover acne, herringbone overcoat: He is surely the leader. They all seem to play up to a trope, new twist tropes: He in the manner of Derek Jarman, perhaps. His friend the newly seated, whose bleached hair, ear plugs and coloured patterns spark a bit; he's a bit faggy. Then there are the quiet two: The unfussed type in his North Face, all faded black, slight and economical, and his partner in conversation, who resembles a young Alan Bennett. They're in matching safety coloured Nikes. Alan Bennett is also holding a Starbucks. The leader now sits with legs widest, beating old North Face and his unselfconscious spread. He sits playing footsies with the faggy one. Between his knees his backpack is large, ropey and cavalier. A very chubby girl in a tight wool coat and backpack comes towards him. It's as if she's backing up, practically spinning, as if she plans to accidentally bump into him at a crowded party. But there is no crowd between them, just the awkward space of her own dance floor. Oh, hi! she shouts. Oh, hi! he echoes sedately. She reaches out to hug him. He makes no effort to get up. Am I gonna have to... she says. She leans into him, careful not to topple over. Am I gonna have to... she wiggles onto her knees, careful not to split her seams. I'm thinking, I can't believe this lad is letting this girl bow down between his legs, on her knees, for a hug, barely a hug, that kind of patting you do when you're reaching across a table, or in this case, a cavalier backpack. Later, the boy and his crew are behind us in the queue. I overhear him a) refer to Nicolas Serrota as "Nic" and b) prattle on about "working outside the institutional framework." I think, when I still had leftover acne, surely I'd just say fuck the man. I glance back and he glances at me sideways in that curious way boys look at an older male. Like it makes them think for a moment about growing up. I imagine he's wearing mismatched socks. He is now talking to a pretty girl. Unlike the chubby girl, she's been given the signals to stay. How was your day? she is asked. It was ok. I was working on this project. Your coat is like a smock, the boy says. It's a coat, she confirms. But it doesn't button all the way down, he points out. This leads to an involved conversation, which draws in the other boys, even North Face who was previously obsessed with borrowing lip balm from someone. They're all listening as she describes the routine of how she takes off her smock coat. Another pretty girl joins the group from the other side. Oh, hi! everyone says. I was practically on a first name basis with Nic, the leader was saying. You should of come out to that thing last night. I wasn't in the mood, says the girl in the smock coat. Next time. A middle aged woman in front of us turns and spots the leader. Oh, hi! she shouts. She practically knocks us over to go stand with the boy, who obviously is a magnet and will surely be just fine inside the institutional framework.

reading material

At my bedside: The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard and Selected Poems by Frank O'Hara. Old favourites.

In my backpack: To The River by Olivia Laing and Maiden Voyage by Denton Welch. Liquid prose, glorious little discoveries, wanderlust. See also: Robert Walser.

On the laptop: Danse Macabre: A Scandal at the Bolshoi Ballet by David Remnick for The New Yorker. Drama! It makes you want to see the movie version. And I learned the word terpsichorean.

On the coffee table: The Pot Book by Edmund de Waal and Ends of the Earth: Land Art to 1974 by Philipp Kaiser and Mi Won Kwon. Earthenware and the earth. Feeling homey for now, and thinking ahead to the landscapes of summer road trips.

In the loo: The Economist. Too much information.

On the go: The London Review of Books; most recently, Owen Hatherley on Jonathan Meades.

pebbles

Sometimes I think, could there be a lovelier song than N.I.T.A. by Young Marble Giants, and a phrase that flips around in your mind more than "nature intended the abstract for you and me." It makes me giddy that the band chose to take that lyric and make it into an acronym for the song title. It's like this odd way of re-codifying the whimsy of the phrase into something stark and institutional sounding. Like a wistful bookworm in a military surplus jacket. Shape up your body "Let's be a tree" Visual dynamics for you to see What is the best time of year to listen to Young Marble Giants? I always thought it was the dead of winter. We watched a couple of the 1970s BBC ghost stories last night. Neither made any sense, which actually made them less scary. You know when you're just like what. Jamie kept repeating "there's only ice in the ice house" after we watched the one called The Ice House. What songs sit alongside N.I.T.A.? A Forest by The Cure, I'd say. Maybe something by Erik Satie. Or maybe something bombastic for the contrast; strings. I've been thinking again of the pebbles at Kettle's Yard. That's the way I'd like to write; the way Jim Ede curated... A few found pebbles next to a Ben Nicholson. Isn't there something reassuring about someone who pays attention to pebbles? It makes me relax. When someone's got some flotsam in their home; rather than random things purchased at some shop of unnecessary things. Just shopping at the beach. Although, my mom taught me about nature: take only memories and leave only footprints. So I always feel guilty collecting. Sometimes you think it's meant to be yours because one incredible thing somehow came into your view. What constitutes the view exactly, what makes it yours. Did nature intend anything explicitly for you? Yesterday, I overheard a couple of different people longingly speak of getting out of London. One man's idea was Weymouth. Not very ambitious. But anything; I think that was the point. After this grimness, this dirty London, these are the things people are saying; just wanting a breath of fresh air.