We hit it off and she said she had a key to a flat. Didn’t realise it was yours.
—No problem, man.
And it really isn’t a problem. I don’t care anymore. About anything. I grab my running kit from the wardrobe. But for once even I am too tired. Too tired to run. I shower, change,
turn left out of my flat and just keep walking. My phone is buzzing with texts and calls. One of the texts is from The Boss. He writes:
—I hope you’re OK. I reply:
—Better, thanks. I’m out for a walk. Sorry about last night.
—I’m glad you’re OK but don’t ever turn up at The Club in that state again. Never ever.
—I won’t.
Then:
—Keep it real. Just keep it real.
As I walk through the early morning traffic, I have no idea what is real in my life anymore. Dean Street, Wardour Street, Brewer Street, Frith Street, Greek Street and all the alleys and dark
corners of Soho. These are fantasy streets. Places where imaginary people get lost chasing dreams they can never find. I pass an art shop on Broadwick Street. I stare through the window.
—Keep it real. Just keep it real.
I think again of my favourite painting,
A Bigger Splash
; all that serenity on the surface and a ferocious struggle going on under the water. And who or what is struggling?
Cars, bikes and people pass me by. All of them going somewhere, doing something, and I’m floating past them, no idea why I am walking these streets, watching reality fade in and out of
life like a flickering TV picture.
9 a.m.
I wander into Foyles bookshop on Charing Cross Road. I’m looking for a book about Hockney. I find a book by Paul McKenna.
Change your Life in 7 Days
. That
doesn’t seem too difficult. It’s Friday. A Brand New Life by next Thursday. I look at McKenna’s face on the cover. A Geek with Glasses. I feel an urge to smack him in the mouth. I
don’t buy the book. I don’t need to. 7 Days. Change my life. How difficult can that be?
How Difficult Can That Be?
The First Day
I think:
—I don’t need the book. It’s the Principle that matters. If a Geek with Glasses can change his life in seven days, so can I.
After leaving Foyles, I go to an art shop on Berwick Street. When I leave, Esurio is following me.
—What are you doing with that box of paints, brushes and a canvas?
—What do you think?
—I am, as you know, an art lover. Nothing moves me like a standing in front of
The Satire of the Debauched Revelers
or
The Garden of Earthly Delights.
I have actually cried
tears of joy when looking at
Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion
. But I feel that painting is not the correct thing for you to be doing right now.
—Why not?
—I saw you in the bookshop looking at that ‘change your life’ nonsense, and if painting is the first step on this new path of yours, Lincoln, it won’t work.
—You sure about that?
—Of course. Why on earth do you want to change when you are only now beginning to lose yourself in the pleasures you have worked so hard to enjoy? And it was only yesterday that you
achieved so much in passing what were extraordinarily difficult challenges.
—But I nearly fucking died. And I woke up covered in piss.
—As far as I can see, you’re alive now, and there’s plenty of dry-cleaners in Soho. And who, I ask you, was at your side when you woke up? Me, Lincoln. And who will always be
at your side? Me again. I understand you, Lincoln, and I know what’s best for you. The last thing you need is a self-help guru when you have me. Am I not enough?
—Enough? You’re too fucking much.
—I’ll take that as a compliment. I know that artists have a long history of abusing their nervous systems in the service of creativity, but I fear that your impulse is rather
different. You just want a break.
—Yeah, I do. I want seven days of doing something different, when I don’t wake up sweating, full of anxiety, waiting for my heart to explode.
—A break, Lincoln, can extend from days into weeks and
—No problem, man.
And it really isn’t a problem. I don’t care anymore. About anything. I grab my running kit from the wardrobe. But for once even I am too tired. Too tired to run. I shower, change,
turn left out of my flat and just keep walking. My phone is buzzing with texts and calls. One of the texts is from The Boss. He writes:
—I hope you’re OK. I reply:
—Better, thanks. I’m out for a walk. Sorry about last night.
—I’m glad you’re OK but don’t ever turn up at The Club in that state again. Never ever.
—I won’t.
Then:
—Keep it real. Just keep it real.
As I walk through the early morning traffic, I have no idea what is real in my life anymore. Dean Street, Wardour Street, Brewer Street, Frith Street, Greek Street and all the alleys and dark
corners of Soho. These are fantasy streets. Places where imaginary people get lost chasing dreams they can never find. I pass an art shop on Broadwick Street. I stare through the window.
—Keep it real. Just keep it real.
I think again of my favourite painting,
A Bigger Splash
; all that serenity on the surface and a ferocious struggle going on under the water. And who or what is struggling?
Cars, bikes and people pass me by. All of them going somewhere, doing something, and I’m floating past them, no idea why I am walking these streets, watching reality fade in and out of
life like a flickering TV picture.
9 a.m.
I wander into Foyles bookshop on Charing Cross Road. I’m looking for a book about Hockney. I find a book by Paul McKenna.
Change your Life in 7 Days
. That
doesn’t seem too difficult. It’s Friday. A Brand New Life by next Thursday. I look at McKenna’s face on the cover. A Geek with Glasses. I feel an urge to smack him in the mouth. I
don’t buy the book. I don’t need to. 7 Days. Change my life. How difficult can that be?
How Difficult Can That Be?
The First Day
I think:
—I don’t need the book. It’s the Principle that matters. If a Geek with Glasses can change his life in seven days, so can I.
After leaving Foyles, I go to an art shop on Berwick Street. When I leave, Esurio is following me.
—What are you doing with that box of paints, brushes and a canvas?
—What do you think?
—I am, as you know, an art lover. Nothing moves me like a standing in front of
The Satire of the Debauched Revelers
or
The Garden of Earthly Delights.
I have actually cried
tears of joy when looking at
Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion
. But I feel that painting is not the correct thing for you to be doing right now.
—Why not?
—I saw you in the bookshop looking at that ‘change your life’ nonsense, and if painting is the first step on this new path of yours, Lincoln, it won’t work.
—You sure about that?
—Of course. Why on earth do you want to change when you are only now beginning to lose yourself in the pleasures you have worked so hard to enjoy? And it was only yesterday that you
achieved so much in passing what were extraordinarily difficult challenges.
—But I nearly fucking died. And I woke up covered in piss.
—As far as I can see, you’re alive now, and there’s plenty of dry-cleaners in Soho. And who, I ask you, was at your side when you woke up? Me, Lincoln. And who will always be
at your side? Me again. I understand you, Lincoln, and I know what’s best for you. The last thing you need is a self-help guru when you have me. Am I not enough?
—Enough? You’re too fucking much.
—I’ll take that as a compliment. I know that artists have a long history of abusing their nervous systems in the service of creativity, but I fear that your impulse is rather
different. You just want a break.
—Yeah, I do. I want seven days of doing something different, when I don’t wake up sweating, full of anxiety, waiting for my heart to explode.
—A break, Lincoln, can extend from days into weeks and
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