Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Drinking is no longer an option.

In 2011, I did four shows a day. Usually, that would end up being five or six because I’d say yes to a variety of oddities. At 9am, I would wake up with a start. My body would briefly sigh, “not again, it’s impossible.� Then, I would shower, gather some science books and rush to start the first show of the day. At 11pm, I would walk off the stage of a tin-foiled lined room, sup the sweat from my lip and chin, and drink three pints of Guinness and have a couple of Whiskies. Repeat until fungus and dust.

In the last three days, I have drunk one bottle of wine, one bottle of beer and a pint of lager.

I need to concentrate.

Neither of my shows are hard-wired in my head, they probably never will be as they are changing every day.

My life has a pattern.

The last twelve minutes of dreams are rewrites and possibilities.

I wake up hoping it is late enough in the morning that it is no longer dawn.

My first thoughts, an extension of dreams, “are what will I do with my shows today?�.

Will I have the energy to do that?

Today, I allowed myself to read something that was not in any way connected to the show.

I know, cocky.

It was Eimear McBride’s The Lesser Bohemians, the writing is dense, rich, addictive poetry with a rhythm of hypervigilant thought.

I check my rucksack for VGA convertor, notebooks and my Penguin book of 100 Artists� Manifestos. I still put Salvador Dali’s Diary of a Genius in my bag though I have failed to read from his historical essay On the Art of Farting every day so far.

I sit in Coffee Project and think about scenes from Hal Hartley’s Amateur while adding and taking away from my keynote presentation and eating a date scone.

I walk across The Meadows early enough to have time to browse in one charity shop.

Only one…maybe two.

I chat to the venue staff who tell me about New Zealand art.

Plug in. Wait. Hope to hear chatter and footfall.

Listen to Nick Cave’s We Know Who U R.

Wonder if my mind will work.

Increasingly, performance feels like possession.

I have grown more intense, manic, committed and ridiculous with age, not less.

Show done.

Someone offers a badge.

Someone recommends a painting of the Virgin Mary knitting.

A coffee.

Maybe a cake shared.

75% of the time (current statistics), I do not beat myself up about the show.

I am walking four hours a day.

Back to my fringe residence lent to me by kind people.

I sit sock-less AND cardigan-less.

I write this blog post and eat soup and oatcakes.

Looking forward, I will read my notes for the evening show.

Put on clean socks.

Walk to Stand 2.

Listen to Nick Cave’s Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry and Savages� The Answer.

Fear the time writing this post may have eaten into when I should have been thinking about the show.

I am on.

Three hour break before Set List at Gilded Balloon.

Seek a show.

Drink one and half glasses of wine.

Dream of tomorrow’s show.

REPEAT.

My shows are . And will be on .

Go see Hannah Gadsby, George Egg, Gavin Webster, Ensongclopedia of Science, Mark Thompson’s Spectacular Science Show, Sarah Bennetto, Barry Crimmins, Sarah Kendall etc etc etc etc etc