Stephen is in France. He was supposed to be staying there for an indeterminable amount of time, but since this pesky sconomic downturn is fucking shit up all over the world, he might be making his way back home soon.
I really wish I hadn’t heard from him so soon, especially saying that he might be coming back. I had plans to NOT contact him for at least two weeks, so that when we did talk again, via Skype or Facebook chat, it would be all the sweeter. Now I’m all wound up checking facebook constantly to see if he’s messaged me back, and to see if he’s coming home.
I want him to stay out there, and do what he wanted to do. He wants to get a job, a place to live and make a life, y’know? He has no plans this way or that, so he could always have been back in a week or gone for a year. So, he said he might be making his way back soon. I said he should stop by Paris:
“and find a squat (because you seem like the kind of person who just trips over squats) and hang out with some heroin chic filles et garcons. Find an oboe in a skip. Discover a hidden talent for wind instruments. Start busking. Get joined by a hobo with a washboard and a crack addict with a double bass. Start playing that little blues joint on the corner. Engage in a filthy affair with the patron’s daughter. Agree to do a slot on the local student radio. Get heard by 10’s of people, including a scout who just happened to be tuning through channels as you play. Refuse to record on anything but vinyl. Find yourself heralded as the New Old School. Suddenly find yourself swept into a whirlwind of media attention and recording studios. Develop a cocaine habit – if you haven’t already. Ditch the hobo washboard player. Take on a string section. Recieve critical reviews, but gain massive popularity with the Classical press. Ditch the string section. Beg the washboard player to rejoin. Cry when the double bass player ditches you. Give scathing interviews in all the blues magazines about both of them. Try and make it solo. Realise that the talent for woodwind instruments has been squandered on sex, drugs, rock and roll and now you can only make noises like a cat dying of being strangled by its own intestines. Watch more and more of your fans drift out the back of the club. Drown your depression in whisky and gin. Move back into the squat. Write a book about the whole experience. Die before it reaches publication.
Y’know, Paris stuff.”
I really, really want him to come back, because like, that would be awesome and I miss him. I also really, really want him to stay out there, because, gah!, living in France. I want him around because he talks to me like no-one else does ie. for purely selfish reasons. I want him to stay in France because it’s what he wants to do, and I’m jealous, so at least I can live vicariously through him? He gets to have this adventure, having thrown himself into a situation where he has no fucking clue what’s going to happen next. I absolutely love that in a person. I want him to make it work. Really, really. (Really?)