I’m trying to find my language again. It’s almost like re-learning to speak, to write. There is no right way, or right line but I know when it is – right for me, that is. I do get disheartened. I wait for the click (it’s the same when I right, or make work). It’s rare but marvellous when it comes. It was hard going on the Prom, everything is in motion. And my brain tells me I can’t do it. I am finding it hard to write and draw, the drawing or my need to get it right dominates. There’s that right again. I know what I mean. This scanning of them helps, I get outside of them and can survey with less judgement.
I noticed so many things that I didn’t capture – like the couple (he with a very large head) washing their feet after being on the sand at the public shower by the bandstand. He had rolled up his shorts. She wore a mohair cardigan. They both had dyed their hair, her’s was red and his brown. She fussed and he attended to her.
I dreamt of crocuses pushing through the soil and thought but it isn’t even September.
