I saw the torch beam first. A strong beam that made me turn my face away. It moved about, following the line of the Promenade railing then down onto the sand. I was coming closer. A figure in black. A man, large build. No coat, a navy jumper. Morning, he said, how are we today? A policeman? I still couldn’t be sure, not in the dark. There seemed to be a kind of insignia on the chest of his sweater. A nice voice, a reassuring voice. I let go my fear. It must be a policeman. I was tempted to ask what he was looking for but held back. None of my business. None.
We’re doing fine, thank you officer. Well actually we’re not. That is we, as in me. Got maudlin last night. It’s the bleakness, it feels like it will never lift. Is it just a seasonal thing? It didn’t happen in Spain, he said, or in London. No he is right, it didn’t. But you see I’d escaped then. Run away. You’re always running away, she used to say. No I’m not. Am I? I want to. I want to live in hotels like the de Winters did. In pensions in the South of France. Free of ties, free of responsibilities, free of the need to be static, of me. And yet, what am I trying to escape from? I don’t have to go down the pit. I have enough food, money, I am warm, safe and loved. It is just this deep down innate sense of worthlessness. I cannot explain it any better than that. And yet, even as I write it I am ashamed. Others have such trials, so little. The radio is invaluable for us self-centred souls, it shows us other lives, other struggles, ones that are way beyond our present, or indeed future experience. Yesterday there were stories of those struggling on the new Universal Credit. One woman had only received something like £140 pounds over the last six weeks. Others talked about being in homeless hostels, where families are having to share beds in cramped conditions. And then there was the tale of the Sudanese boy who wanted to play football for Arsenal and was prepared to pay people smugglers to enable him to do so. He wants to travel to Italy but to do so must first traverse deserts and encounter numerous other hazards. I cannot know what it is to be him. Even when I too was low, I knew that there were people I could go to if all was lost. And it never was. Never entirely. That is the light in me. It flickers, it is down low at present, but it is there nevertheless.
Lots of kids about this morning. Must’ve been the mildness and the absence of rain. Music pounded from Pier Pressure. Thudded. A seagull sailed over a streetlight, a flashing of white.
She thought the medium was called Stephen Spender. Speed, I said. Spender was a poet, I think.
I felt in pieces. I feel in pieces, though less so now after a remedy. It calms me, detaches me. A not unpleasant feeling.
I can’t put images on Twitter. A frustrating occurrence and one that I cannot, as yet, resolve. I get het up over things technical that I don’t understand. It will have a simple explanation. I just need to get there. Shall I ask John L?
I think it is to do with sites. I need to place myself in sites, in situ. And then? Perform.
