…most of the time I don’t know what to say. i look across from me and i see foo peering over the wall of technology, i hear him speaking to me, but can’t see his mouth, just his eyes and his voice, trying to connect. how do i, ‘i’, begin a story? a constant expressive block that spans all formats. mass insecurity dogs at every turn. i don’t want to come across, as…and i don’t want to be caught in the subjective maze. nor do i want a big brother reality tv diary type affair…
bbut splintered, between a thousand must do’s. like the woman who has so much to do that she does nothing. like the woman.
so here, perhaps is a story about me, who i don’t want to write, to say, to be self indulgent, because of the guilt. self absorption is a cardinal sin.but father, i am a sinner.
As i think this, I can hear a plane over head. the other night, as i lay in my barely there little studio, i could hear a chopper, searching through the nite. and i think the future has already arrived.
and as i write this, in secret, hiding my inner most self of fear, i hear my lover walking out the door. going to do the dishes.
my barely there little studio is in bow, in the deep east end of london. i love this part of london. it is dirty.
i am part of a generation who works, all day, every day. i don’t earn much money, mostly i work for data miners who want to steal my identity and sell it back to me. but i don’t want my identity. i want to break it. i build my bank in the capital of culture, while my bank in the capital of finance remains empty. and still i serve.
Largely, i live in my head. in my mind i can pronounce all the greek gods, playwrites and philosophers perfectly. but they trip from my tongue like splinters. my solace is reading. words, books, voices, to try to help me understand worlds that vanish through my monkey fingers.