This morning I began a journey into my usual bi-annual clearout (albeit a little late this time). That is mentally, and both physically, shifting the huge amount of paraphenalia that clogs up both my mind and room, in order for all the change that is on the horizon to move in smoothly. I created mental lists of people I’ve become acquainted with in the past year, their good points & bad points, and eventually marked their name with a cross or tick, denoting whether I wanted to cease contact with them or not. I have always had a small number of decent, close friends, as opposed to playing the socialite and revelling in huge circles of friends, and today, when I counted the ticks, I realised that nothing much has changed. I erased people from my phonebook who I no longer care about (and know this is reciprocated) and waded through papers from classes that I’ll no longer take, eventually dumping a knee-high pile in the crusty blue recycle bin. The whole experience was like breathing cold air on a humid summer’s day — that kind of refreshment that you just don’t find in day-to-day existence.

I’ve never understood why some people are so afraid of change, to watch life flow like water, coursing down a stream that’s forever changed with every eroding drop. I seem to welcome change, unlike many of my friends who prefer to stay in (what I perceive to be) stagnant situations. I’m chuckin’ out this year’s decay and welcoming the warm (but not scorching), mellow autumn of two thousand and three, with my scrawny open arms.

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France, life before, and Notting Hill Carnival

These are arranged in no particular order, and given with little explanation. I observe the people of society because most of the time, I feel like I’m living on the outside of it. These people are every thing I’m not, and perhaps I use the lens to understand their perception of the world.

seems like everyone’s an actor
or they’re an actor’s best friend
i wonder what was wrong to begin with
that they should all have to pretend

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This morning I woke up surrounded by my own vomit.

I wonder if Nice is nice.

Back in a week.

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The thought of a new beginning has me bubbling with excitement. The sensations in my skin feel as if they have morphed from scorching tingles of anxiety to flushed, cool water droplets forming on the surface. Term states on the 8^th of October (reasonably late, from what I can gather) and I received daunting information this morning about vague details. You will need to buy suchandsuch equipment … … … this course is very expensive … Which made me feel a little uneasy, considering my already straining financial situation. Of course, there is the student loan and £1500 overdraft that I’m investing in — ah, the beauty of credit.

I bought underwear for the first time in approximately three years, dropping off approximately forty prints for my neighbour (her husband is incapacitated, on the verge of death, and she asked me to take some photographs of her bustling garden) and a few for those that have ordered prints from my website. I’m going to follow in the footsteps of miss Caroline and try cross-processing Provia whilst away in France (the justification for me spending money on things I didn’t particularly need.) The reality of being hours away from landing in a different country always seems to be so distant and therefore, instead of packing tonight, I am indecisive of whether I should attend a gathering at my local pub of school friends that I have not seen for many years. Bumping into Jade, a foul-mouthed, plump girl whom I was with at school, she told me they would be there tonight and I was welcome to come along. The mere thought of it makes me nervous, my hands tremble. I am very uncomfortable in being in pubs in my local area due to every one being very racist and homophobic, which is inescapable when you are … me. Even when I worked at this local pub people directed racial slurs in my direction, and so if I am one of their fellow drinkers, I can only imagine what could happen. The ridiculous thing about me is that I am insecure at drinking in both predominantly heterosexual pubs, but also insecure when drinking in gay pubs (until I’ve had a few). I despise heterosexual culture here, and I despise homosexual culture. They mirror each other, subliminally, and I’m beginning to believe that it is the mere existence of men that makes me uncomfortable. Gay men are no different than straight men — they think with their cocks; if only their brains could rise to the occasion as much as their dongs. One day, I swear, I’ll find solace.

My dad is temporarily living in Groningen, Holland, at the moment and has offered me a place to stay for however long I want. As we’re not exactly well matched when it comes to personality, Rob and Catherine should be accompanying me so that I’m not left alone with him for a minute. His place is apparently out in the wild — a huge lake and forest surrounding his small chalet. This summer I want to find myself, spend time taking photos — because it’s what I love — and ultimately, be sure of who I am before I start something all over again.

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Last night I slept for a total of three hours. There’s a heavy, uncomfortable beating in my chest – the ferocity of anxiety. The opening of an envelope will decide my future.

if you haven’t already, take a peek at Catherine’s beautiful photographs from a month’s trip to Namibia. During this time she helped paint a school and worked with the cool children of Nabasib.

++ foalface.com

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As I stepped out into this bizarre island’s humidity, the pink sky lunged towards me cradling the soft pastels of this summer’s sun in its arms. Out of approximately fifty of my co-workers, only two wished me well, said good bye, and extended their arms in a warm gesture of a handshake. It’s good to know you’ve left a lasting impression in a place that you’ve frequented for three hundred and fifty five days. I’m officially free of being a corporate whore to Sweden, of Scrawny Dan and his sausage lips, and of irritating customers who decide that today, you are going to bear the brunt of their irritability.

This, of course, means that I’m also unemployed.

In a week Catherine and I are flying to Nice. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole voyage as I’ll be travelling with a family I’ve never met before (her Dad’s family) which includes two children (of which I’ve seen frightening photos of). My independence is very important to me and I hope that despite being accomodated with what I am assuming to be a traditional style family, I can still walk to the sea and explore foreign sands at 3am, etc. Unfortunately I’m going to miss Notting Hill Carnival — something I’ve been going to for a number of years with my own family, which is a little bit disheartening.

This weekend I learnt to love being by the sea. I learnt to dance in women’s clothing and compliment transvestites on their outfits, as they did mine. I re-initiated myself into liberation with beautiful people. I dragged my scorching body into the sea for the first time in a couple of years due to my growing fear of the water, the initial flurry of panic in my chest as I realised that I am just a mere dot, latching onto Him to stay afloat.

This weekend I evaluated my circumstances, made comparisons, and decided that if I lived here, I’d be a lot happier. Now all I have to do is wait until Thursday for my results (Brighton loves me, Brighton doesn’t love me…)

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