990925.1441 par station , cornwall
this is bleak . the rain is steady but lacks conviction . it barely raises a patter on the victorian roof , bulbous with a century’s grey gloss .
i sit on a wooden bench on which i already feel uncomfortable , though i have been here just a few minutes . in front of me is the asphalt platform . beyond that the rusting tracks , crowded with weeds , and a patch of dead land littered with old cable reels , palettes and concrete pipes . i hear a distant motor and the splosh of broken guttering . down the line a cluster of tall chimneys exhales pale grey vapour . a few transients loiter about me . nobody smiles .
perhaps i descibe myself as much as my environment ? if my state of mind were different would i find beauty here ?
the bristol train draws in , almost deserted . i board .
so this is to be another self-indulgent essay . i feel a growing frustration with my banal commentary . somewhere i lost the point of this exercise . when was the last time i tried to say something difficult ? how can i have spoken so little of my work ? there has been an occasional reference to a gloomy day , but almost as a formal exercise , a gesture . there seems to be little exploration , little creativity at work .
when i began this , back in the icy bluster of february , it was a simple matter . i was embarking on a new adventure and these despatches were a way of reporting back to a small group of friends , a thread between familiar and unfamiliar . i remember my excitement in those first weeks , returning from moonlit walks by the crashing rollers and struggling to convey the intensity of what i was feeling . no doubt the results would make me blush if i read them now , but my heart was in them .
then , as the audience grew and came to include people in the islands , the picture became less clear . i found myself growing circumspect and self-conscious , sensing constraints in what i could say . slowly i have caged myself in , become content with mundane reportage . until i find myself at this present point with nothing to discuss but the discussion . something must change . but i don’t yet know what or how .
.1640 virgin train , teignmouth , devon
the track runs along the red sandstone cliffs . far out at sea a beam of sunlight breaks through the heavy cloud and catches a solitary yacht’s sail , a brilliant white beacon between the lead grey of ocean and sky .
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991001.0126 bodriggy terrace , hayle , cornwall
five days since my last writing . it has been a hard time . the questioning continues , seeping through my thoughts and activities . i don’t know where it’s leading .
but i think i must try to describe my project .