For those that don’t know I am a (mildly) partially sighted performer and writer who has recently been rehoused in a block for the visually impaired after some mishaps and dodgy landlords. . It turns out to be a an exquisit dumping ground for addicts and severely mentally ill people. I can not escape the smell of urine and exasperated aura of lifelessness.
But I have a Plan. I wish to escape.
Don’t get me wrong, my little flat itself is lovely, a furnitureless space for circus practise and green view. But I am now stuck on benefits which unless I get the salary of a brain surgeon I will depend on forever.
So this is the glorious idea. At the least I hope its ludicrous ambition makes you laugh or at the most some of it may actually happen.
I want a boat.
Not just any boat but a narrow boat to live on.
Not just any narrow boat to live on.
I want to use its deck as a performance space, a floating theatre I can sleep inside. Instead doing street theatre we can moor up a canal theatre.
It requires some bank robbery to plausibly afford but I keep thinking more of a small army in the way that warehouse communities are formed.
Daft isn’t it?
But I have just spent 3weeks of no sleep listening to a mentally ill drunk puking and wailing without pause for up to 10hrs at a time, not a moments silence from wailing in baritone at his walls. The staff police and council all told me to put up with it until his eviction, blatantly ignoring a severe case of mental illness that required hospitalisation
The staff of this ‘charity’ block flippantly said after he moved’he’s someone elses problem now.
But while I listen to the fuzzy music of his schitzophrenic, recovering addict neighbour as I type, I see my ambition isn’t crazy. They are crazy. The old men talking to themselves and peeing in the elevators are crazy.
My idea is productive and sharing.
I want out.
I’m far from blind yet.
I want my boat, our theatre.