Sunday 16 May
A texted me to end things. I felt a wave of relief. And then I felt sad. I left the studio and cried on my bed.
After dinner we spoke on the phone.
We discussed our problematic subconsciouses, and how gender normative our dreams were. We spoke about DARP, about my dramatic disposition (I had stormed out of the kitchen earlier because my housemates didn’t like my suggestion of incorporating a rice salad into the Sunday roast, which, in retrospect, I understand). We spoke about the rain that fell heavily outside, the word petrichor, the origins of the word petrichor (from ‘petros’, for stone, and ‘ichor’, the fluid that flows through the body of the gods). We spoke easily. A pointed out that a few of our more recent conversations had been shit. I understood. They had been stilted and disengaged. I thought about how easy it felt all this time though, how relaxed, how the tone felt similar to the early conversations we’d had when we were playfully getting to know each other. I thought about how much I valued his capacity to speak rationally and analytically about emotions. I told him there was so much about him I really loved. He became uncomfortable and changed the subject.
We decided to get drinks in London that Wednesday.
Monday 17 May
Woke up sad and slow.
I dreamt a big dream the night before with rich symbolism and places from my childhood. Initially, I was swarmed by a coven of women, their bodies elastic and churning, with features that grew into octopus tentacles. They reminded me of those elves everyone meets when they take DMT. And also, of the choir in Disney’s Hercules. My analyst told me the octopus was something to do with the mother. I looked up the symbolism further in my book of symbols; chaos, change, blah.
Then, I was in a dense forest on a hill with my family, my close friends, other people from Sahaj. A group of white stags with huge antlers were closing in on us, ready to attack. We grouped together tightly to protect ourselves. Police arrived with viscous dogs. The dogs and stags fought. My dream ego watched from the sky above.
My analyst told me the stag was often a symbol of the masculine. (And that antlers were about being horny).
Later, Yolande drove us to Derby so we could check out a gallery DARP might be working with. On the way there I sat in the back seat of the car like a moody teenager. The clouds were frothy, whipped up, churning. A bit like the limbs of the sea monsters from the night before. A texted me suggesting I read Ginsberg’s howl. I read the poem in the car and cried. Reflected again on my dramatic disposition. Questioned why A was texting me.
That evening WF made a surprise return back to DARP after a month of a walking from Bristol to Glastonbury. He looked thin, tanned and happy. Me, Yolande, Ilana and Natalie listened to Mariah Carey and flung our limbs around madly in the basketball court. I left suddenly to do last minute laundry, and later re-entered the kitchen later to find the others converging at the table around a demolished treacle tart. It was like a scene from an Enid Blyton book. I shovelled the last piece of the sticky cake into my mouth with my fingers and went to bed.
Tuesday 18 May
Frantically packed for my train to London, which was later that day, and my flight to Spain, which was on Saturday. Wondered why I couldn’t ever do things on time.
At the train station, spoke to A on the phone to organise Wednesday. Felt sad and lashed out. Apologised.
Wednesday 19 May
Cancelled all my gallery trips and stayed at my mum and dad’s to finish a drawing I couldn’t get quite right.
Met A in Soho. Sunk two beers quickly. Moved to a restaurant on Frith Street. Ate tiny plates of ceviche. Held hands over a cramped table. Drank too many large Peruvian cocktails. Moved onto a Japanese bar nearby. Thought about how good London looked, the streets dense with tables and chairs and people and life. Accidentally ordered a jug of what I can only describe as blue poison. Engaged in a very teenage public display of affection. Got a cab back to A’s in Canary Wharf.
(Some time ago, he’d asked me why I hadn’t pointed out that he was only living in a serviced living complex in Canary Wharf to make a film, for art, and if I really wanted people to think I was the type of person who earnestly dated someone who opted to live in a serviced living complex in Canary Wharf).
Thursday 20 May
A left me at around 6:30am to go to the gym. I made it back to home. Hungover. Ate eggs with my parents. They had recently watched some Miyazaki films together and had started addressing each other as Totoro, which melted my heart. I napped. Later, I gathered my portfolio of drawings and headed back out to Little Portugal, where I would have a beer at the Sunday Painter. Headed back to A’s again after. We ate a lot of FAGE TOTAL 100% yoghurt and tried to watch a BBC Imagine on Kazuo Ishiguru, but gave up and started watching The Big Short instead.
Friday 21 May
Whatever day. Boring day. Packing day.
Saturday 22 May
My flight to Spain was very early. I enjoyed Heathrow Airport. An elderly couple stood in front of me at the check-in for BA. They looked like North American hikers, with stiff, triangular hair, beige clothes and bony knees. A beautiful scene unfolded where they both helped each other put on their masks, their arms intertwining to caress the other’s face. They looked like Magritte’s Lovers or something. The funny thing was that underneath the new masks they were adjusting, they were both already wearing masks. I wondered whether this was like anything like condoms and if doubling up would render the activity ineffective.
I intermittently napped and sketched on the flight. I had needed to book an extra bag to be able to transport my drawing portfolio to Spain, and it was more cost effective to just book a business class ticket instead, which is what I did. The only difference I could note was that the attendant gave me unlimited coffee, a terrible omelette and small bottle of champagne, which I stashed for later.
Landed in Spain. Went outside and stood in the sun. Waited an hour for Pino to arrive, who would drive me down to Terreros. Broke our journey to eat fat oranges at the supermarket and watch a bike race. Finally made it to the finca.