I went backpacking at the end of the year before last and am still showered, every day, with memories than run deeper than veins.
One that just shook me, which had not popped up for a long time, was of when I accidentally walked into a porn shop in east London and somehow ended up chatting to the store owner, trying to excuse myself from having a cup of tea with her as politely as possible.
Quickly followed by that was the memory of this painting (William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Dante and Virgil in Hell), which I had never seen until I was standing before it in the Musee D’Orsay. I couldn’t take my eyes from it for what felt like hours.
A couple of months ago my life seemed, with melodramatic-laced torment, to be spiralling out of control. In an attempt to combat this and impose some self-constructed order on the arbritrariness of everyday living I wrote a list of twenty-five things that I would have to have done by the end of next year. Already, nine have been crossed off. Some events have occurred that have been so momentous that I did not even think to put them on this list, as my dreams did not stretch that far (a failure of mind-elasticity on my part, I think). And so I added them, just to have the pleasure of crossing them off. Now, I am adding this.
Violon d’Ingres, Man Ray, 1924. One day, inked on my back.