I seek clarity, I always have. Clean, clear understanding of myself, of others and of the world. Not that I want to know everything, I don’t, can’t. I just want to know all I can. Know all that I about bound to know. Though I’m not talking about a factual knowing but a sentient knowing, a knowing with my body as much as with my mind. Such as why am I feeling this way? Why have my shoulders tensed? What is wrong?

Another rejection for my film. So be it. I cannot know if it is any good, or what others will make of it. I tried and the sending it off somewhere was just a means of giving myself a deadline. To get it made. To get something made. To make manifest what is in my mind. It’s OK. I just needed to know, to recognise that sinking feeling, that heaviness in my gut. To know it for what it was. I know it so well. Don’t we all? All of us who send out our ideas, our precious makings for judgement. But with the one rejecting email came another two possibles. So that’s OK. I try. I just try, and then let it go.

Understanding. I ask to be able to remember my dreams when I go to sleep. It’s sometimes like trying to catch hold of gossamer. I lie in the bath and reach for the wisps, forming something from the hints of landscape, a colour (I definitely dream in colour), a sound, a taste or smell. Last night I woke from a dream about a group of kids going to the theatre. I think it was to see a ballet. The theatre was an old one, ornate and spacious. I wasn’t with the party but somehow got involved. They’d been seated in an auditorium with no view of the stage. The performance, which they’d paid for, was going on without their being able to see it. They didn’t seem perturbed, keeping to their seats in that dark space, quite contentedly. I, however, was outraged and complained to the usherette on the door. She found the manager. We went into the auditorium together, she and I to see what they could see. I could hear the music but that was all. She offered me tea. I accepted and somehow we were seated at a table and I was pouring it, the handle burning my hand. We stared ahead of us and gradually, bit by bit we began to see something. Small traces of a performance, tiny figures, a puppet show at first, then other miniscule marionettes appeared. It was mesmerising. She understood my concerns (I’d hoped for some kind of compensation for the school) and was generous about it. But I had lost my anger finally understanding why the children were content. This was a special viewing, a unique experience. The dark had given way to a spectacular but intimate show.

There is so much there. Do I need to spell it out?

They’d promised forty mile an hour winds this morning. I don’t think so. I  was able to walk on the Prom. Can you walk easily into forty mile an hour winds? I don’t know.

My parents will sort it out, a boy voice shouted from outside the Why Not? club at 3.45 this morning. The wind has strewn rubbish everywhere. An oystercatcher shrieked in the dark. And now rain is battering against the window. Spring won’t last long they say. That’s OK. Then it is summer. Amen to that.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.