Articles by: mydadsjacket
B. 1984, Leighton Hospital, Cheshire. Moved to Hereford aged two-and-a-half. Painting on sugar paper. A Volvo named after Spot’s mum. Nice neighbours. Scrapbooks. A den in a hedge. My friend Jonathan and Transformers and hiding in the garden. Learning to cycle a blue BMX at the park. Bad clown in a box scared me.///Rising fives. Starting school, I can tie shoelace. Look I made a paper robot. Look Jane, look! Nadia is born in Hereford County hospital, 1988. “How do you like your new sister?” “Fine.” /// Milk and a Jaffa Cake every morning. Walking through the park with Granny. SATs. Kiss chase. Conifers and grass stains on grey. Name tags on jumpers. Carpeted coach seats. Conkers. A quarter-ounce of cola-cubes. Sing Hosanna, sing banana. See the headmaster. Mystery books read by torchlight. Learning to swear. School plays written by teachers. Recorder practice. Gappy teeth and chubby cheeks. Scratched violin. Racing raindrops. Sleepover philosophizing. Crazy golf. The zoo. Eurocamp. Judo. Skiing. Goldfish. White shirts and marker pens on the last day.///Entrance exams. A scholarship. Awkward communal showers. Posters. Kissing at parties. Playstation. Peel lullabies. A fight on the green. Compilation tapes. Leaving the Scouts. Awkward phonecalls. Skateboarding in car parks. Staying up to watch films. A half-grown moustache. Shaving. Masturbating. PGL and Panda Lemonade and Green Day. The first taste of hash on a park bench. Army Cadets. Scoring from a friend. Forgetting how to count 4/4 in piano lessons. Shooting toys with air rifles. Reading. Making up birthdays for bouncers. Trying to keep a diary. Drawing in a notepad. Volunteering at the hospital. Hiking. Eavesdropping on public transport. Poetry as obsessive and inefficient self-examination. Prizes for same poetry. Gatecrashing a party and playing table-tennis with someone’s drunk dad. Golf. Taking pictures without a good reason. Playing albums and making coffee at a photography shop. Black tie parties in village halls. Awkwardness and longing. Cycling a lot for a while. A burnt out car in a pond. Long walks around the outside of factories and through fields. Fleeting moments of joy. Swimming outdoors. Time in the darkroom. Mugs of tea. Washing my hands and trying to read the Koran. Albert Camus and Sartre speak to my frustrations. Thin and pockmarked. Wearing a gown to chapel and staring at stained glass. Recreational trespass. Relaxing in the bath with codeine and vodka. After lesson chats with my English teacher about Beckett and Buddhism. Opening a vein and being scared of blood. Playing squash. Walking with friends in the hills and feeling happy and free. A sad silence. Miserableism and the growing void. My body drawing in on itself. ///A failed Cambridge interview. Catering for invalids. Infatuation and happiness flecked with madness A lingering gloom. Medication. Crisis. Recovery///Art college. Hackysack on day one. Meeting some people. Getting stuck in. Sleeping in the car. Experimenting. Going on jaunts. Madness as a creative methodology. Overworking the photocopier. Justifiable vandalism. Sleeping in my car. Befriending the librarians. Flying kites, seeing bands. Acquiring new skills. Blagging. Watching films. Going to the pub. Getting a proper girlfriend at last, for a few happy weeks. ///Going to university properly. Leaving Hereford behind. A new place to live with a constant companion. Video games and newspapers on Sundays on the lawn. Mildew and rats and designed spaces. Disorder, ennui and a strange kind of contentment. A walk down the hill to uni. English and Journalism at Kingston. Reading books and talking about them. Not reading books and talking about them. Writing haphazard experimental essays. Writing occasionally for pleasure. ///Another stay in hospital. Apocalyptic visions and delusions of grandeur. Time travel and the shifting of dimensions. Art therapy and music therapy and talking therapy. Cooking and gardening. Relapse plans. Triggers. Breathing exercises. She visited every day, with cigarettes and a sympathetic smile. Playing six a side football. A trophy for most improved player. Routine against chaos. Starting Graphic Design and Photography. Resocialising, putting things behind me. Taking stock. Trying again. A break up. Out on my own then in a bedsit of increasing disrepair. Clutter that matches my mind and neighbours who frightens me. Erratic spells of near greatness and pits of shame and nothing. The Forge – where ideas are made, James said. Playing reed organ with Josh in a hushed basement in Camden. A lineage of excellent housemates, old faces and new. Finding a consistent creativity. Finishing with a 2:1 and feeling okay. Selling my final piece at the end of year show to a sweet couple who loaded it into a taxi. Writing for a living and commuting in reverse. Meeting someone new. Reassessing my future. Heading resolutely towards a long hidden horizon that was always there, putting one foot in front of the other and nurturing the dream, with trophy scars and a deep set shadow that strengthens the endeavour to continue and flourish.///2012

Being for Others – an Article of Bad Faith, or Why I am on Twitter

December 18, 2012 6:00 pm0 comments
Being for Others – an Article of Bad Faith, or Why I am on Twitter

Three years, eight months and twenty days ago is when twitter first entered my life.  That is when I began shouting my useless thoughts into a narcissistic void.  What impelled me to think the internet needed to know my innermost thoughts?  The question should rather be, who impelled me.  I […]

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