This morning,
I woke up wanting to share the beauty of the world with you.

The sun beamed through my window,
Warming my skin,
Gently waking me to this new day.

The song of birds eased me into the morning.

I opened the window and breathed in the spring.
I felt the fresh air circulate around my body.
Leaving me feeling new.

The world feels beautiful today.
The only thing missing was someone to share this with.
The only thing missing was you.

Time moves on,
People pass you by,
Things are forgiven
And in time forgotten.

What seems important now,
Will mean nothing then.

I can see them.
They could see me too…
…if they looked up.

But no one ever does when they are down there.
I’m in my own little world,
- Sound blocked out.
-they too are in theirs.

Yawning,
Looking around to check no one saw.
He thinks no one did,
- But I saw him
He’ll never know
- None of them will.

I wouldn’t feel comfortable if I knew,
- own time to think,
To reflect,

- No one else should disturb that.

I keep ignoring you-

-I'm sorry.

Sometimes you just seem like too much effort.

This sound –
I keep getting lost in it.
Feelings following sounds –
- Copying -
Maybe it’s because of the setting.
I’ve never really been bothered about sound art before,
But sitting in the dark,
In cinema seats –
It’s different.
I am lost in my own space,
Unaware of the others around me.
I wish I was here alone,
Just me and the sound.

He says he hasn’t got very good English, but its okay. It may not be that easy to follow but that might just be because I’m not particularly interested in most of the work.

You can tell he is struggling to get his words out though.

Makes me miss French.
I wish I had kept it up.
I wish I had kept my exercise books.
I’m quite annoyed with myself for throwing them away.
Maybe that should be on my list
- To relearn French.

*I feel bad that I haven’t been listening to anything he’s been saying.*

I’m not sure how or where to start.
The first line is always the hardest.
I'm past that now.

I suppose I should really start by explaining my work and where I am up to know. I know everyone has seen my cards – I have shown them before. But I’m not sure if they know what I’m doing now.
It’s all about the text,
The writings,
The accounts,
-oh and the odd (bad) doodle.
But this is what I feel comfortable doing.

Though I’m starting to feel really nervous now,
Just thinking about it.
About having to talk…

But I must carry on and get this done, leave the nerves till later – or at least until tomorrow. There is no reason for them to be here now, in my room, on my own- or so tell myself.

Presentation of the work – that's what I’m really struggling with.
How best to present the text. I wrote down lots of ideas but I’m not sure that I’m convinced by any of them yet.

I spent hours in the library yesterday.
Searching through books – a lot of it felt like a waste of time which was disappointing.
But I did find a page or two to treasure which I’m glad of.

I will show two Fiona Banner images.
One typed text,
One handwritten.
I have two books with slightly different images of the work I want.
I think I know which one I will use.
Eyes drawn to a word,
I read part of a line before my eyes scan
And are drawn away to another word,
A darker word.

See bad doodles -

Fragments as stand-alone pieces.
- I quite like that Idea, but then again I like a lot of ideas.
I’m just no good at making decisions. I hate them.
"Confused, bemused and I don’t know where I’m at." – That’s how Rich sums me up.

Anyway I’m getting off track.
Stephen Kaltenbach – I could talk about him.
But I’m worried I’m going to have trouble pronouncing his name which scares me. Silly, I know.
But his plaques – reminds me of all the benches and chairs I’ve been reading lately.
Small fragments of insight into someone else’s life.
Someone else’s interests and wishes.

I looked everywhere for the notes- but I can’t find them.
I’m annoyed at myself and the mess.
No wonder everything always goes missing.
I really wish I knew the name of the artist though.
Maybe one of the others will have it written down somewhere – ill ask them tomorrow…
…if I remember.

Interaction – not even sure if that’s the right word,
But it’s that thing I want in it somewhere
-that doesn’t even make sense.
I don’t make sense.

This idea – I want to do it,
But I don’t know if I will, if I can.
Scared.

I saw some daffodils this morning.
There is some hope

I like it up here
I know I’m probably not meant to stand up here

- Health and safety and all –
But I like it.

I can see out of the window
Onto the street below.
People passing by.
Mainly students.
To-ing and Fro-ing from uni.

I don’t know why,
I just had the urge to write on the brown paper,
I had only put it up to protect my work from the dust.
Actually I really wanted to draw or paint on it,
On the large brown paper,
But I can’t
I’m scared I’ll ruin it.

Running around like a headless chicken,
Busy, busy,
I feel slightly better now I’ve got some of it done.
This morning I went to the corner shop,
The sun was shining,
There was a strong wind,
But it felt nice-
Cold, but fresh.
It felt like spring was on its way at last.
I do hope it is.


*- Gemma says it’s going to snow this week (
Apparently winter is back! -*

Ill, ill, ill, ill, ill, ill, ill, ill, ill.

I hate feeling ill.

It’s been too long, and I still feel so rough.

I think you should invent some magic pills for me,
Because the ones I have taken today have done nothing!

And I don’t mean magic pills that make a beanstalk – although that might be cool, if there is no scary giant up there.

And yes of course they would have to be pink!

New York Library

New York

Lampshades on Lamposts!!!

Empire State Building

Ikea – Nottingham

My parents are visiting.
We decide to go to Ikea.

We try out every sofa.
Sit on every seat.
Lie on every bed.
Go into every show room.

Mum found some plastic flowers. She brings them over to me. We decide to put them in a show room.
I go into one.
Take out a glass
And put the flowers inside.
Then I take out a card
And leave it next to them.

We collect flowers as we go along and put them in different places. In one of the kitchens, I put three flowers sticking out of the sink plughole. And leave a card in the sink next to it.

I really want to put one in the toilet. So I find a show room where the toilet is slightly secluded. I go in. But the seat has been glued down.

Instead I settle for leaving the flowers and card in the bathroom sink. But I don’t wait to see if anyone notices in any of the rooms.

We come out of the last room and there is a spotlight circling on the floor. It’s projecting some offer they have on. But as no one is around, we decide to use it as a spotlight to dance under. I dance in turn with my mum and my dad.

Who’d have known you could have so much fun in Ikea?

We sit side by side on the bed.
Still.
Too scared to talk.
Fear of what is to come.
…
I am feeling uneasy.
- I move to the other side of the bed
And try to make myself comfortable.
He does the same.

Silence…

He can’t take it any longer…
“Are we going to talk now?"
I dared not speak...
“I think we need to.”

I know he is right.
It can’t be delayed any longer.
I can’t delay it any longer.

It is me that has to speak.
He is waiting…
…
I look at him.
I see his eyes.

This is the hardest things I've ever had to do.
I don't know how to do it.

I keep searching for words,
Hoping for some to come to me.
But they don’t.

And all I can say is…
“I don’t know how to start.”

He sits,
Waiting,
Patient.
Waiting for the words to leave my mouth.

But they won’t come.
They have deserted me.

I ask him to start,
Knowing there isn’t much for him to say.
But hoping me would lead me to where I needed to be,
Bringing me closer.
Just as he always does when I struggle.

Like the good-hearted person he is,
He does what I need.
What he knows I need.

He leads me down the path,
Holding my hand,
Drawing me nearer to the edge with each word.

Then he speaks the words
That prepare me to take a step on my own.

“Normally it’s me who reassures you that it’s all going to be ok.
But I can’t do that this time,
I just don’t know…”

He has let go…
I am at the edge…

He looks at me,
Willing me not to speak the words we both know are coming.

And through a broken voice
- I speak them.

“I just don’t know that I can do it anymore.”

I take the final step.
I speak the selfish words.

The stillness returns,
This time disturbed only with teardrops.

Holding them back hurts more,
And so I let them come.

Here we lie,
Holding each other.
Never wanting to let go,
Never wanting this time to stop,

Our bubble,
Our moment,
Our time.

Weatherspoons, The Roebuck – Nottingham

Closing time draws near. We are planning where to go next.
The bar tenders start to clear the tables, closing down for the night.

One of the bar tenders has been wiping the tables next to where we are sitting. He is called away.

He has been gone for over ten minutes already.
He has left his cleaning stuff on the table so he will be back.

I pick out a card, and put it on the table.

We carry on talking, finishing our drinks. I forget all about it. Until I see him walk back over.

I watch him.
I wonder if he will pick it up,
Or if he will ignore it.

He goes to pick up his spray and cloth.
But stops.
He has seen the card.

He picks it up.
He reads it.
A small smile creeps across his face.
And in turn across mine.

He tucks it into his shirt pocket,
And carries on cleaning with a smile on his face.