Spanners, 99s and the end of a strange old month

August 28, 2009

All I will ever be is a mediocre artist…but I could be a half decent writer.

That seems to be the general consensus on the matter. Isn’t it strange, the way you begin to plan your life out with such bravery and certitude only to come to the embarrassing realisation that you really don’t know your arse from your elbow and moreover, you probably never will. It’s especially embarrassing when you spend the vast majority of your time waxing lyrical about your hard earned self knowledge. You might even call it a decided spanner in the old works.

There I was, wistfully imagining myself with a paintbrush in hand, autumnal leave swirling –  high falooting notions of opaque tights, scarves and rosy cheeks only to have it pierced through on a humid evening in the tropics, 9800 miles from home. Funny how time and space bend so easily once you get past the certain routines of youth. 

In short, speaking to my friends has led me to the conclusion that I should just get on with doing my MA in creative writing and stop pissing about in the doldrums. Not sure which way I’ll go – if I study writing, well then I have to deal with the possibility of actually having to excel at something, I know I’m not going to be an artist in a commerical sense – not ever. I’m not good enough, but it would to be fun to flirt with it for a year. Not treading water per se…more like repeatedly riding the same water slide…but nonetheless a little too easy maybe. Writing, though, well that would involve actual effort and possible success which naturally scares the shit out of me.

So, 99s eh? No, no – not the English ice cream delicacy (pah!) but the number of days until my Amity tenure is officially over. I’m not saying I’m excited to be leaving. I’m not saying I’m sad though either. I’m just stating the numbers. The fact that we’re into double digits also heralds the end of the maddest month of my life. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried, prayed, hurled inanimate objects, uttered strings of obscenities or learnt so much about everything I am not with such militant enthusiasm. As bizarrely creative as these 31 days have been, I have to admit I would not live through them again if you paid me. Simply, being ditched is shit.  Too many sleepless nights spent staring out at the green Hiroshima nights, muttering to myself.

But on Monday, the year turns 9 months old and Autumn will be here and soon, very, very soon – I’ll be coming home.


Love loads,




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