A Sunday night of all times though becoming more Monday morning but a good enough time to update and fill in the missing gaps that some will know, some will have worried and some will have wished were more permanent than it is so obviously not.
The funny thing about re-inventing oneself is that when you choose a city and job, and choose a life that simply is not a patch on that of practically everywhere else, is that is is not really re-inventing. The same music, the same people and an a more so than I even remember or have ever encountered fuck up state of mind that seems to infect even within the months i have hidden within a city where literally nobody knows who I am anymore.
The simple day to day tasks of commuting from either the camera studded bleak environment of Bulwell and through central Nottingham which still remains a mystery to me, a gathering place for everyone, yet everybody seems nobody. Clifton happens to be my so-called home although it is as it always has been, well-kept for, community orientated yet really fucked up. Shameless for the masses and so much more. It is a total surprise there are not more murders here, riots, or just general civic unrest as it seems over-run by so-called shotters and wannabe gangsters - kids with attitudes and spots where morals should be. Its not so much a scary place as a funny place but for the neutral I am sure it is noticeable more so than ever before just how menacing a council estate set away from it all can be. Clifton is a so-called home, if only for convenience and obligation than anything, it is less of a stopping gap than prison of my own apathy. Things change though. The weather is. It is a start.
She is, as there is always a she is, another fucked up casualty of the wreckless nature in which some of us continue to live our lives. She has been a book within a week and yet still defies all literal description. I guess a forensic anthropologist and mortician as full-time professions really can define a person and with that i may well leave alone, scarred and tired, exhausted by the antics of a life I think I leave best for documentaries and late-night Channel Five television. It has been emotional as they say but some things, like lollipops have short runs.
It is a life of pointless endeavour but somehow amazing. Inspirational in all the dark places. A home that seems more like a haunting than ever a home. It is obviously inevitable that the big bang will happen and with nights like tonight, rock music, bite marks and blood one does wish massively for the bright lights and neon of a city I know rather than a city I hate. It is a peculiar city built upon the legend of a myth and one in which I may well be trying to tell a story from even as a brief guest, a sightseer, picture postcards from Nottingham.
