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unpacking my personal narrative for today

Feeling confident that I am just speaking to myself I going to unleash my demons, to see how unreasonable they are (to see part of my personal 2052 selves as defined by Virginia Woolf).

Can I write myself out of this feeling - this feeling, like an agitation inside that I can not move away from. Little iron filings magnetised and sharp under my skin - a toxic coating inside me. There is no possibility to move away from it just now. My crutch - or my absolution is to make work - make an art work to knock myself out of the sensation, to reclaim something - become a child again that simple hunger to be liked and included.

I think of the condition of all the artist’s - a world saturated with art schools and artists and how vulnerable we are particularly if introverted, prone to depression, unable to form associations easily and working class with no inheritance, a desire to be noticed and a terror of being noticed, scared of failing but working in a method that makes failing its best part - no family connections, and low in the hierarchy …

I could go and draw that would help if I could settle and shut my mind up.

I could go to the garden and try to decide what needs to be removed from the beds as a catharsis - but that seems like an odd injustice to plants.

So many parties, weddings, family gatherings, plays I booked tickets to, holidays cancelled for deadlines. Letting people down just to put work in a gallery that would often leave me working all night to finish their unfinished work, to the right standard; or be on undisclosed booked summer/Xmas/Easter leave during most of the install.  For what?

And so why do I want to be acknowledged as any good - I guess its because I have spent my life with hypertension working to the very end of my tether to make something any good - not just any good but using the technologies and forms in ways that have not been achieved before in art.  Absorbing months and years of experimentation often to dead ends.

I have prioritised this act of making art and have failed probably to be a decent friend or partner or teacher. Failed? Winners and losers, it becomes a game of winners and losers? I am feeling lost.

Churlish and to self obsessed to complain - like someone telling you they should have got a great result just by trying so (too) hard? I am drowning in the utter pointlessness of it all just now.

Then a message from my former step-mum, my Dad’s second wife of his three wives,  it would have been his birthday today (he died last April)- perhaps that is the real cause of the grief?