Picture this;
A crisp spring morning.
The sun sits low,
It’s rays dancing amongst frost crystals.
The air is sweet, dense & delicious,
Speech transformed to vapour,
Suspended close by, amongst cigarette smoke.
You discuss new albums whilst walking.
A spare headphone is gifted to listen.
Cables intermittently catching between bags and boards.
Not long now and you’ll be at the hill.
The tarmac shedding it’s pale blue cover,
As the sun traverses the sky.
You hoot and holler,
Posing for polaroid pictures.
Accompanied by the hum of urethane under ply,
You’re feet buzz as the tarmac passes below.
Hands gliding across the ground,
Tarmac nicking at finger tips.
In this moment you are carving across,
The face of a giant blue monster,
Hoping & praying it’s wrathful white waters,
Grant you safe passage.
The sun now decides to retire,
It’s brilliant red display, nestled deep,
Amongst the horizon’s tree line.
Your face, itchy and taut.
Hands so cold, they burn.
Buzzing feet, now quietly numb.
Blue hour has arrived,
Street lamps flick swathes of orange,
The reef has fallen silent,
Transforming to hill form once more.
You’ve just enough battery left,
to hear Plant sing;
“I wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.”
This is a hardwired memory from my teen years.
Sixteen years old, skating hills, hammering music, blasting polaroids.
A dreadlocked, high school drop out, slinging pizzas for a living.
This is the space I try to operate in when taking photographs, pulling from memories or trying to create something to fit a similar time line.
Forever trying to portray how this inner world feels.
I’ve never really shared this stuff before… It’s a bit… Dunno….
Cliche?!
I’ve always been a dreamer, but this feels more than just a day dream.
This is deeply rooted, almost as if it’s the fibres that hold my weary soul together.
Music, smell, taste, touch - They all trigger a deep sense of belonging. Similar to a movie of what life should be, projected onto the walls between my ears.
Sometimes, I have to seek such stimuli. Playing on nostalgia or trying to reframe uncomfortable situations.
Other times, I can’t avoid it, something will fit just right - my mind becoming awash with beautiful visuals and a feeling of belonging.
During these moments, I have no need nor wish to think. I just surrender to the overwhelming warmth of safety. Everything laid out beautifully.
I just need to trust that it can exist in reality and take the first step.
I lose hours in this state, not quite awake, not quite asleep.
Maybe this is what people mean when they experience flow states?
Ironically, I’m at my least productive in these moments, it’s only afterwards that I can focus on something.
It feels intuitive.
It’s something I’ve always done, it’s been there for as long as I can remember.
I remember being a kid in the playground, favourite toy motorbike in pocket.
None of the other kids liked motorbikes, so I’d spend most of my time alone, perched atop old victorian steps.
However, these were no longer steps. These were jagged cliff faces.
The dirt spilling from cracks, tell tale signs of looming landslides.
Pinning the throttle, the only way out.
However, when I learned my Dad’s cancer treatment was no longer working, this inner world really took over.
I guess looking back, it’s always helped me reframe a situation.
An optimistic distraction if you will.
I remember those days having an uncomfortable weight to them.
Constantly reminded that nothing was safe.
The lump in my throat constricting my breath.
It was here that this inner world stuff evolved.
At first it was a feeling.
Like a warm hoody after getting out of the sea.
Certain songs could rip through it.
Certain places would overwhelm it.
However, slowly but surely,
It grew stronger.
Tuned in to the signal,
I began to picture a wonderful life.
A big house on the edge of water,
Often the sea, sometimes a lake.
Wooden panels, painted white,
Crisp with sun damage.
A huge front door.
A circular window on the floor above.
This is where I’d imagine my wife reading books,
on a window seat with worn fabric cushions.
There was no hallway to this house,
Just a huge wooden floor.
The type of floor that shows its age.
Wispy splinters hidden by huge rugs.
But the huge rugs, beautiful as they are,
Are worn through from everyones shoes.
A huge fireplace,
Sink-in style sofas,
Patchwork arm chairs.
A kitchen island,
Kitchen table - cluttered and stained.
Copper pans, Belfast sink.
Huge oak tree in the garden.
Complete with rope swing and squirrels.
This house/home is the anchor to any decision I make.
It’s a warm, safe home.
Years ago, I’d hide there.
Now, I visit when I need to reset.
At the risk of sounding woo, it feels like some form of guide, something bigger.
I say this because, whenever I’ve gone against it, I’ve been left miserable.
So what’s the point?
Why keep you here for ages reading overly descriptive sentences?
Because it feels necessary.
I’ve not spoken about this inner world properly until now. Keeping it quiet feels wrong. It’s such a huge part of who I am, and continuing to play it down for fear of being judged or coming across as a bit eccentric…
Well it doesn’t fit. It makes me miserable.
A lot of the artists and creators I admire, always talk about finding their voice. Their visual language. What they want to share with the world.
I’ve spent the last year forcing myself to come up with ideas and trying to discover my “voice”. And the daft thing is, every half cooked idea or snippet of inspiration, passed through the walls of this home.
I just hadn’t connected the “reason” to the process.
A few nights ago, I watched an old surf movie - one of the ones I’d imagine starring in whilst skating big hills. I’m not sure if it was a heavy hit of nostalgia that got me or possibly the grip of a mid life crisis.
But it reminded me of what life used to feel like. Safe. Not in the boring sense, but really secure. Like knowing, if you fall, you’ll be caught…
And even if you’re not, you’re good to continue until something good comes of it.
The more I’ve thought this over, the more I realise, this is buried grief and trauma from losing my Dad. When he left, nothing felt safe again. I have this memory seared into my mind of Mum and I having to choose a new hose pipe. This hose pipe felt like my first “big” decision without him. Mum no longer worked and I was on minimum wage.
So… Buy once, cry once? Hoping the higher price meant better quality and longevity? Or buy cheap? Hope for the best and save money, just in case.
We bought cheap… I’ve no idea how long it lasted. But after that, every decision has always felt heightened.
Make or break. The next loss lying in wait. I’ve been terrified ever since.
Death has followed me since a young age, Accidents, cancer, overdoses & suicide, to the point I’ll mention a name and my son asks; “Are they on the roof?”.
Death, to me, isn’t just a loss. It’s a subtle, unspoken chaos. Similar to moving furniture and being hindered by muscle memory,
Each death I’ve experienced has presented a conflict, between an unsettling urgency & deafening silence.
When we lost Dad, I chose the urgency.
Every decision had to be immediate and final.
I let the loss of safety rule me.
Nothing mattered - Scorch the earth, I too could be dead by morning.
However, in moments where the urgency should subside, I’d find myself in silence, as if the world around me was suddenly put on mute.
My hands would tingle, my heart would race and throat would tighten. This is when I’d visit the house, the inner world.
This is where I felt safe.
During those years, Abi hand made a book for me. Inside contained page after page of everything I love, curated and collaged in a way that says “I see you”.
The surf movie I watched a few nights ago reminded me it was buried somewhere, deep beneath my desk.
Flicking through the pages flooded me with emotion.
What she thought to include reflected the same things I’d feel in that place of safety.
(Which existed first is now my new brain tease)
From now on, this place of safety, this home, anchor, inner world.
This is what I wish to share with the world.
This will be my voice.
Over the last few days, I’ve been looking at work where I’ve let this voice speak freely and it brings me such joy - 16 year old me would really dig it.
They are moments of freedom. Little snippets of feeling really good. Taking deep breaths of sea air. Moving with no real direction.
They possess that same serene feeling of security.
So after a year of stillness, I think I’ve finally found my next move.
