Victoria. Midsummer. I always come here to write. Well, I don’t. I don’t decide I need to write, and therefore come here. I don’t plan to write at all, I just write.
Today has been different, introspective, purposeless. At work with someone I have little connection with. Doing the work, taking control, no sense of pride or expression of gratitude.
Because of recent events, thoughts and feelings, and reading other people’s pieces, and, importantly, a storyline in The Archers, I’ve become increasingly introspective, and self-analytical. I’ve always been a loner, but right now I worry about and question the loner tendencies more. It was actually here that I made the connection between me and the “issues” plot, roughly a week ago. I felt personally affected by it more than is normal, but wasn’t sure why, until a connection suddenly connected in my thoughts. I don’t remember the thought processes exactly, but remember feeling overwhelmed by senses and emotions, unable to think about anything else. I was sitting at one of those high tables by the tiled wall, unable to move or think.
If I become too introverted and lost in my own self-pitying thoughts I will descend. I’m aware of what I became – a reclusive hoarding jobless hermit – in Halifax. I don’t want to – can’t – become that again.
I went walking with Péter on Saturday, to some deserted parts of Gravesend and the Thames Estuary area, all rocks, gravel, sand, decay. Quite beautiful. I took some cameras with me. The small Canon no longer works at all since it fell in the sea at Brighton. The Nikon should be good but the colours are weak and grey. I also took the 35mm SLR with expired colour film from ebay. I don’t know how to develop colour film yet. It will be some time before I’m able to do it, perhaps a few months. By then current events, feelings, motivations and concerns will have passed, so any resultant images will be one degree removed from the real event they were related to. I really wanted to tell Péter why I was feeling down, but I can’t burden him with it, or anyone else I know. I want close emotional contact, but not physical, at the moment. Maybe that will change in time, I don’t know.
Earlier on here I saw Simon at the top of the stairs under the diffused daylight through the grimy roof. The entire scene seemed grey and lifeless.
Every photograph is intrinsically a subjective representation of an event in history, informed by one person’s viewpoint. I took a really good “selfie” pic one time in Bournemouth, topless, outside the back door in the early morning light. I used it on grindr. I was, unusually, happy with being a slight whore, knowing I was in control of how real the whoring did or didn’t go. That picture isn’t around any more, it somehow got lost on a ‘phone, like a memory repressed. I’ve lost William now, even though I never had him. All I had was was a dream, a possibility. I feel almost ready to cry tonight.
When I was at art school a lot of my work involved self-invented processes of destruction, reconstruction, and deliberate astraction. I was continually asked why, what was I doing, and what I was trying to “say” through my work. I still ask myself that now, although I am now learning that I don’t need to justify what I do in this way. I do it when it is natural. I want to start painting again. Art school doesn’t teach you how to draw or paint. If you allow it, it teaches now how to think, about yourself and the world. You can think through the work you make. When I’m engaed in theatre ticketing I think about anything else.
A guy serving here looks a little like David G, tall, pale, dark hair, young, chavy, nice eyes. David and I enjoyed intimacy on the night of our degree show opening in 2017. Any subsequent occasions have been uncomfortable and abusive. 2017 felt so hopeful. Since then, two deaths, and a general drifting apart. I guess these things have to happen.