Being Here
21/01/07 18:21
I feel blissfully happy, blissfully and with relief
like I'm an artist.
When I was in London, for about 10 days, I felt panicked about what I might do there, how I could make art. It's not as though I know what I'm going to do, on this trip, apart from this trip, but I feel like I'm an artist. I'm asking questions which feel natural and healthy, as I hoped I would be.
Loch Broom
It has been wierd though, being here. I tried not to have too many cliched preconceptions of what it would be like, but if I'd allowed myself them, they wouldn't have been shattered by a man wearing a kilt waiting for the coach (who turned out to be my host); or this lovely little house, with its picturesque view over Ullapool harbour and the water of Loch Broom; or the mountains today, tipped with snow under a big bright cold blue sky.
Am I really here? Did I really escape London on that long mad northern flight? It feels unreal, like a dream. The illuminated fishing boats in the window could be a neon painting on my wall.
No, my computer, as it takes power from this house, reminds me that I am here, and connected to London by that long thin string of a journey. But the memory of it is fading.
When I was in London, for about 10 days, I felt panicked about what I might do there, how I could make art. It's not as though I know what I'm going to do, on this trip, apart from this trip, but I feel like I'm an artist. I'm asking questions which feel natural and healthy, as I hoped I would be.
Loch Broom
It has been wierd though, being here. I tried not to have too many cliched preconceptions of what it would be like, but if I'd allowed myself them, they wouldn't have been shattered by a man wearing a kilt waiting for the coach (who turned out to be my host); or this lovely little house, with its picturesque view over Ullapool harbour and the water of Loch Broom; or the mountains today, tipped with snow under a big bright cold blue sky.
Am I really here? Did I really escape London on that long mad northern flight? It feels unreal, like a dream. The illuminated fishing boats in the window could be a neon painting on my wall.
No, my computer, as it takes power from this house, reminds me that I am here, and connected to London by that long thin string of a journey. But the memory of it is fading.