You know, of course, what usually happens: because there isn't time at the moment to post the big bits of stuff (or the energy and attention span to do it with), I end up posting nothing. All the unborn posts pile up reproachfully and impede my access to the computer. The heap of shows and movies and exhibitions and whatever that I really should have posted reviews of has now reached my chin. My name is Thom Yorke and this is my fishtank. Or something. Also I really wanted to say something about privacy in relation to art and theatre, which perhaps I never will now. And to use Mark "Crass-for-pay" Ravenhill's wilfully idiotic recent Guardian piece about there being nothing left for a dramatist to say about gay life as a re-entry point into the ongoing blogospheric dialogue about political theatre and the sense I increasingly have about the insularity of current practice being specifically to do with metropolitanism. (If that's even an ism.) Perhaps I won't ever say any of this stuff. Perhaps this blog will eventually become entirely filled with extremely detailed accounts of everything I'd be writing about if I were writing it, which I'm not, and my entire output will attain a sort of transcendental subjunctivity of the kind so bracingly deployed in O.J. Simpson's If I Did It.
Insuffice it to say that after a really brutal trough last week, I am doing ok, and particularly enjoying being back at the chalkface chez Rose Bruford (though it's exhausting, not least the two-hour rush-hour commute at each end of the day, to the like of which I feel sissily unaccustomed). The new MA intake is an entirely different kettle of ballgames from last year's: it's a smaller group and much more manageable just for that; and they're more harmonious, less excitable, perhaps less directly challenging (so far... I guess it's still early days for us...). In two weeks flat we're making a big piece about a commune (of some kind) and an earthquake (also of some kind). Or something. There are going to be live bunnies. It's an odd job, sometimes, this, but at no point today did I lose 25 million child benefit records, so I guess we can say it was an all right day at the office.
What I can sort-of usefully do while I'm here is just make sure you know about some interesting stuff that's coming up. Forgive me for not saying much about any of what follows, I'll just point you to the web sites and leave you to it. So, in chronological order (but not necessarily order of urgency):
The sixteenth annual London Musicians' Collective Festival of Experimental Music runs at the Cochrane Theatre towards the end of next week, and i.m.h.o. it's the best line-up the festival has had in years. Opening night Thursday boasts Yasunao Tone, Taku Sugimoto and the very interesting sound artist Bob Levene, as well as a trio featuring the estimable Angharad Davies; Friday has Charlemagne Palestine (who I first saw on my first LMC Fest trip, nearly a decade ago), Norbert Moslang (ex- of Voice Crack) and an enticing duo of Robin Hayward and the brilliant Matt Davis; Saturday has a couple of good-looking trios featuring, between them, John Butcher, Tony Buck of The Necks, and Steve Beresford. Every time I've tried to book online, the Cochrane Theatre web site has been down, but it may be up again by now, or there's a booking number at the LMC web site.
Next month I'll be squeezing the last juice out of my ICA membership card (not too sure about renewing) with a visit or two to the first UK survey of work by the American photographer Peter Hujar, who was one of the standouts in the Barbican's recent punk show. And more or less as excitingly, there's also going to be a looping gallery showing of Emily Wardill's wonderful film Sick Serena and Dregs and Wreck and Wreck, which I saw last month as part of the 'Anagogic Chamber' programme of experimental shorts at the London Film Festival. It's funny and weird and creepy and poignant and it's not afraid to be cheap. Do see it if you can. It only lasts about ten minutes or so.
And finally there's a whole season of Frenchest living person Jerome Bel's work next February at Sadlers Wells. That may sound like a long way off but if you don't book now or nowabouts, you almost certainly won't get a ticket. Irritatingly I'm going to be in Plymouth in the week of Shirtologie and The Show Must Go On, but there's plenty more where that came from. Also Tanztheater Wuppertal are at the same venue (though the big shop, not the little studio) in February and I think I read somewhere that Pina Bausch herself is going to be performing in Cafe Muller, which is easily worth selling your own or somebody else's children to get to see; they're also doing The Rite of Spring, which will be fascinating in the light of the recent Michael Clark outing (which, notwithstanding my admiration and affection -- which is as bottomless as his erstwhile leotards -- for M.C., got pretty comprehensively pwned by the Raimond Hoghe version, not that it's a competition &c &c). ...And in May there's a new piece from Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui, greatest living theatre-maker. But I don't expect even you to get all excited about that, at least not quite yet.
Back at the weekend, I hope, for Deposit Box #1 (at sodding last) if nothing else.