This week – a lot of firsts. Today, my first attack at work. (First seemingly unprovoked attack – no triggers as far as I can remember.) My first time shopping for art materials to make a dream map to sort out my head. Yesterday, my first class of a free writing course which I am rather excited about; it’s good to be back in a learning environment, especially at a real university this time, where I can glean as many new skills as possible. Also yesterday my first time with sole leadership of the drama group I now facilitate at a local mental health charity. Bumpy but acceptable; room to improve. As my head is really lagging tonight, I hope it will suffice to post the product of the Speed Writing exercises from the class. The first, we were given Corridor of the Asylum by Van Gogh as stimulus:
A man moves, and I wait. I stand, and wait, and long for sides. Shade. Frozen in the open. Perhaps if you close your eyes hard enough and actually believe you disappear, others won’t be able to see you. Like that trick in the book about the devil – invisibility via imagination – if someone doesn’t expect you there, they won’t see you. But somehow I know this man expects me. What then? Stand and wait, and let it happen. I start to hum to myself. No more point in caution. Always question whether it was my mistake, whether I could have overcome myself, but still just still. I wait, I stand. I open my eyes and he has turned to half-face me. His eyes still, they wait for movement, confirmation. I try so hard to give him absolutely nothing. His inner business can be felt, almost heard, but not seen. Whatever lurks inside that thing awakes today to taunt me. It will get me in its own time.
For the past couple of weeks I have felt the urge to write a short film about this feeling, this whole period in my life. Still watching lots of Imogen Heap on Youtube, I feel inclined to use ‘love love immi’ as the title, albeit just a sign-off. I like it, and I don’t like making sense. Logic is not for art, although sadly my writing teacher disagrees. Cue more painstaking analysis of poems, dredging up meaning from nowhere, digging into poems by people who clearly have no knowledge of Van Gogh’s life and definitely shouldn’t be writing double entendres, or what turn into double entendres in the eyes of farty professors, about a dead artist and his sexual life. Maybe he was lonely and had a wank every now and then. But that’s for him to say.