12.06.14 (Day 172)
I’m back at the old writing desk, surveying the scribbles and doodles I covered it with when we were in the concrete bunker. Encoded messages for dates, addresses, post codes, phone numbers; memories of times past invoked by registration numbers of cars I owned. Quotes from former girlfriends:
“My gorgeous Staffie with the big brown eyes”;
“If you’re going to stick that in me, don’t think it means we’re together”;
“Good morning, morning glory, how the fuck are you?”;
“Because you’re you”.
Poker hands I’ve played; song lyrics; drawings, including Andrea and The Androids (one of many projects I started but never finished, due to prevailing circumstances).
“You don’t get letters on the lids of Smarties any more: does that bother you?”
And much more that is so well encoded, I can’t work it out; or remember writing. Much of it I wrote when I was drunk. The desk serves as a memory of times past and I’m sure there’s a photo of it as a work in progress from the bunker days in this blog but I can’t remember.
The caramel supernova is a candle wax stain, infused with coffee. There are others where apparently miniature spaceships landed. And they may well have done: a paradox. More memories: the night I had molten candle wax thrown in my face.
Something I’m determined to arrange (and finish) is an exhibition in a local gallery I know. It will be The Court’s photography and another of our youngsters’ drawings; like this:
Then I may display my desk (when finished) as a modern art installation. Or I may just take photos of where we live, to display and serve as indelible reminders of the journey.
Quite the supernova and visible from afar.