It’s a good job this project is a work in progress and better still that I aimed for a style of transparency, as a way of illustrating step-by-step how we might go about turning up and creating some art that speaks to consumerism, illness, austerity, marginalisation and daring to have an opinion, even if you aren’t 100% sure what it is at the outset. Oh, and turning up. I heard this week about David Lynch’s weather report. Perhaps this is my own version.
Without the forethought I might have been tempted to abandon today’s project, given that I’m showing you a Perla can, that wasn’t photographed in South Front and that the picture wasn’t even taken today.
Forgive me, but we are going a bit meta and with luck I will be able to land this thing, if you could kindly bear with. Match day. At home to Fulham. At the end of a long week dealing with an upgrade and trialling a new sun tan cream. It’s hardly the ascent of Kilimanjaro, but it’s about as much adventure as I can handle. And we are on a deadline. Normal services resume in about an hour, as the end of my Day That Was All About Me looms to a close.
The Day That Was All About Me mainly involved laundry, washing up and cleaning the toilet, but years of single parenting and these are my go-to guilty pleasures. They get in the way of writing, reading and learning all sorts. I know enough to know that they are a lot easier than actually knuckling down to taking my writing seriously, but they are off the to-do list now so it’s scribbles all round.
I can’t go out before about 4pm anyway, so might as well shut down the brain and get some mindless house admin. done otherwise I might start to remember what it’s like to walk out in the sunshine, sit in the park under a tree, have a beer at a trestle table, watching the Isle of Wight ferry, catch a train to Winchester. That’s one way madness lies.
To be honest I am over-egging it when I talk housework. It’s not as if my hands can tolerate much in the way of hot water and cleaning products, so I guess we would call it ‘helping’, the way a toddler might ‘help’ mum (or dad if he were around) to get a job done. Marginally better than doing nothing and necessary now that there’s no carer, but don’t judge. Standards are no longer us.
The Factor 50 is very Curate’s Egg. Days 1 and 2 had me bouncing with joy and rocking up at a cafe 30 minutes earlier than usual AND STILL NOT BURNING. I thought I’d found the Holy Grail. By Day 3 one cheek was stinging like a bastard and the skin erupted the next morning. Day 4, even with a with retrenchment in terms of activity, both cheeks were Pikachu rose and hot as hell. My diary is now full of info about amount of time spent out and at which time of day, cross-referenced against date-stamps on my photos, but I can’t yet see the pattern. I’m hopoing for Leonardo da Vinci sketches and revelation, but I fear the journal pages may deteriorate into some Poe-esque descent into madness, if I carry on paying so much attention to the minutiae.
On the other hand I might actually solve something that has been bugging me for years. If the old suncream was part of the problem and I can get more out of life on this one (or, dare I say it, trial a third?), isn’t this worth the navel-gazing tedium? Wish I’d paid attention in science classes at school - my attempts at sound scientific process end up like those webs of acid-riddled spiders. Everything I do seems to end up here. Loads of energy and industry leading to another page of illegible scrawl with plenty of holes and laddersinthe middle.
Skin aside, managing the upgrade and new memory involved the computer being away from home for a night, which meant (oh horror) a few days’ worth of photos to add to the collection. Today’s narrative was going to be about the race into town once the football fans were safely ensconced in the stadium - an ideal time to trawl the offerings that Fulham’s best might bring to our door.
But the subway only had a couple of cans and I began to think these were the neatest away supporters I’d ever come across, if not the most respectful (much banter about where our team will end up next season). Seeing them in town, even out of team colours, you can spot them a mile off with their new casual trousers, jackets and trainers. They looked as if they came from a world where people still get wages and can afford to spend them on clothing. Very out of place in this part of town. Admittedly some of our lot do, too. But not as many. Almost seemed like a Billy Bragg convention with their haircuts and specs lighting the county ablaze.
The walk back home brought the bounty. South Front was resplendent with fancy beers and Golden Grove itself had a few alcohol-frees and some lovely smashed whisky bottles. A couple of new vitamin-type healthy options, too.
But of course there’s some URI recognition problem with the photos that I can’t resolve in the few minutes I have left, so I’ll vamp till ready and swerve back to the Perla, squashed for perpetuity beneath the security shutters to the bin room of one of the blocks. I like the way it tried. I think we’ve all been there. Bins are changed on Monday, so we’ll find out if it moves on or stays in the area.
I’m thinking this might be another subset. Found two bottles propping up shutters at another location close by. Wondered if there was a raid in progress. Not enough to get down on my hands and knees and check it out, though. Should I distinguish between the intentional (Unbowed/Bearing Up) and unintentional (Crushed) nature of this setup, symbolising as they might a range of responses to the pressure of austerity and neo-liberal politics on the everyday citizen? Probably need a few more examples before I can come to a conclusion about where the country is headed.
And what’s the point of any of this high jinx while children are getting blown up in Gaza by weapons probably made down the road by people who at least have a job and aren’t scrounging off the state and may even be able to afford a season ticket for the local football club as the league tables of acceptable behaviour change quicker than a Eurovision vote-rigging? While we scream at each other over a range of previously agreed subjects and let the world go to hell in the background?
What do you do when nothing makes sense? When nothing seems to hang together in the way you thought it might? I have no idea. At other crisis points in my life I have had to just put one foot in front of the other and hope that it takes me somewhere better. I’ll let you know if I get there.