haven't posted on of these in a while, this is my actual diary. Following us as we travelled down for my art school interview and the troubles that ensued. Please comment, i am very intrigued to hear what people think of this.
Thanks ^_^
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Been to Dundee and back again. 7:30 fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I’m late late late! Tightsskirttopshairmakeupbagticketsphonezenlunch. Everything? Folder too heavy to run.
Guy takes a while to answer the door. I worry. Is he awake? But sure enough. Bus. Station. My card is in with the tickets after all. Thank God. Get on the train.
Dundee, coming up to Dundee.
The man with the food trolley won’t move, can’t get past to get my folder, can’t get off the train. He moves, I get my folder and the train pulls away from the station, my hand still paused above the “open door” button. My mouth like a fish. And Guy comforts me, “You couldn’t do anything about it, don’t worry about it.” Somehow I manage to.
Next stop Leuchres. I ask the ticket man, he tells me the next train back to Dundee is at 11:05. I call, from Guy’s phone. “The train…” “11:30?” “Yes…thank you.” Brrrrrp.
Relief. This is a nice station, tiny, feels like it floats somewhere separate from the world. The platform like an island, grass in the wind on either side, clean and empty of people, just wide paving and a breeze.
I skip down past the shelter and into the sun, dangle my feet over the edge above the rail tracks as Guy finishes his smoothie Breakfast Thickie Oats Raspberry Yoghurt and Blackberry. Sorry, that’s just my DeathFlower clip. Other side.
“Your mum’s a death flower”
His hands around my midriff, pulling me back, sometimes I walk away from him just so he will drag me back.
Its windy and sunny, and I love every bit of this eye in the storm, being away from everything and everyone in the middle of nowhere, and this brief calm in the mess that is today.
This is what we call here.
We think he will call it over the tannoy, but I twist around and the train comes out of the bridge towards us. I run.
My bag and folder are on the bench, I get them fixed just as the doors open, Guy is behind me and we are on the train.
Finally, the stairs rise up and down under my feet, stuffing my ticket into my inside pocket. “Taxi?” No. Mecca meccameccamecca , where do I…? Ahhh. Aha. This way. This way, then left, past that French restaurant and on.
There are so many stairs, though I joke about the journey, this folder is so heavy, more stairs, and more. There are two women in there, one has an American accent, asks me to sit down and <cue interview>.
“Know who you are as a woman before you know who you are as an artist”
“Grow and develop as a person”
“Certainty of yourself”
“Gap year”
“Accelerated entry”
“Young, applicants of 21 or 22…”
“Don’t take this as criticism…”
I know who I am, thanks.
I have developed as a person. And will do more so in the future, with or without this course.
I am certain of myself, I know what I want.
I can’t afford to take a gap year actually. And I don’t want to, I want to learn.
And?
So I’m young. That’s going to stop me trying?
“Lady, I’m an artist. I can take criticism.”
She doesn’t get it.
I blew it. Didn’t tell her to fuck off.
“How’d it go?” I am so happy to see your face again. “Fine.”
He offers to carry, and we switch. Find our way into town. Somewhere to sit and eat, it starts to spit rain. I leave him on the bench with the stuff, run down various streets to find a place.
I strike gold, jump onto the bench behind him and pull his hood over his head, laughing.
“Come on”
“Where?”
“Just come on,” I grin.
It takes him a second, then “Yesss!!!!”, Kenny’s Music. There are banjos, resonators, painted acoustics, 50s style antiques, gorgeous the lot of them though I don’t understand them.
He tinkers on an out-of-tune acoustic/electric hybrid that he likes because he can play it in classical position. Gets midi cables, and plays around on a synth for twenty minutes and we finally move on.
Tea and Coffee. Dark, old wood, and intricate tins. They weigh things with old scales, let us smell Wild Grey, Egyptian Mint, Spicy Black Chai, Rose Black, Ginger Black, Cinnamon Black, Lapsang, Oolong, Gunpowder Green, Mango Green, White Put Thai.
There are all kinds of infusers, teapot shaped, house shaped, one spoon you pull apart, another with a spring loaded handle that screws open the colander top. I want to curl up and live here. Guy gets Lapsang Suchong, Oolong, Sencha and something else I can’t remember the name of, as well as one of the spring spoon infusers. I get Spicy Black Thai, Ginger Black and a teapot infuser that hangs from a little chain. I love that tiny teapot, it matches my pocket watch. We argue in Waterstones (and on the station, and on the train, and the places in between but that’s not the point) and wearily christen it Teabot. (which will later become Captain Teabot).
The train home is horribly full, no moments, just lurching from one space to the next, trying to find a seat, that guy looks like Calum’s older brother, and his brother looks like Dylan grown up with a crop.
The bus is lovely and empty, and I complain a little about the interview, holding his hand, and telling him that I don’t really think I’ll get in. His other hand over mine, and leaning in the crook of his shoulder I feel like a child again.
I stumble off, he alights, drop in past Asda for a baguette, then begin the drag home. I have his hoodie in my bag and he is still carrying my folder (I tried to adjust the strap and accidentally hit myself on the head with the baguette resulting in him taking it from me), so he just comes in.
Has to stand with weak traces of smiles on him as mum interviews me about my interview. When she finally lets us go, we stand in the living room, unsure. I know he has to go home so I am not sure what to do. He sits down though, solved, and through process folds into me, head bowed on my collarbone, he is so tired, I can see. I wish these stresses were finished.
Eventually, eventually, he gets up, puts on his hoodie, while I start to heat the oven and get out a chopping board and the sweet potatoes, and comes through to the kitchen.
We are saying our goodbyes, though I know he has to go, I want to fall asleep with him and have everything melted into place when we wake up. I waver, as usual, my feet are tooclosetogether and it gives me too high a centre of gravity. I dance, to stop myself falling over, and it works. It makes him laugh, and when I do it he kisses me harder.
I want to stay here. He lifts me up again, and I make noises that on reflection could be likened to a hamster, squeak my toes swishing the air above the ground. squeak “Are you done?” “No.” I want to stay here.
He leaves, though I have to entice the dog back in with beef, I wave through the trees and he is gone, home, and I want to sleep all the rest away.
Rating changed to R-- Juniper
