July- 2017
Extracts from, It Fell From an Unknown Height


Dad left before I was born. In 1974. I have never met the man and the man has never met me. I know he must exist, but he has no idea that I do. His son. I would like to live in that world of not knowing and being unaware, too. But that's not going to happen. That will never happen. Sorry for putting a shitting downer on proceedings right off the bat, but I really want to talk to him. I am forty-two years of age. He will most likely be in his 60s I imagine. I came to know of his existence when I was eight years old. I haven't stopped thinking about him since - wondering who he is, what he looks like, what his name is. The older I get, the more I simply let it all go, but it has had some influence in defining and molding me into who I am today. I have always thought that fathers offer sons some structure, some leadership and guidance and also be the dude you become best friends with later on in life. That would be nice. So as I get older, and the anger resides and the feelings of missing out and all the other shit that manifests and carries along with it, I find myself letting go of it all more and more. Over the years I have developed this odd and strange fascination with men who are older than me. I immediately want to be accepted by them and if I am not or simple brushed to one side and ignored, for whatever reason, I am crushed, that is, until the next older man comes along.

I've written this journal for a while now, and whilst I omit a lot of personal things, those things away from my creative endeavors, parts of my life still trickles through and I don't mind that. In a way I like to fantasize that he's out there somewhere reading this, not knowing who I am. I know he was a creative person, completing an art degree here in England before leaving for home so far away. I don't feel any real sense of loss - I just feel that I've missed out on something special that most others have naturally. I'd have liked to have had that relationship. I imagine it's a cool relationship. And as I know, life can be filled with so much good along with the bad, but I also imagine that he'd have been the man I would have gone to for most things. Someone to look up to, to mold myself upon, to be like; to no longer be the me without him.

To let me know when I am going astray and to tell me when I am simply fucking things up. And not to. I have quite simply never had anyone to tell me not to.

I guess in some ways, these journal entries are written to him

I sometimes have the most wonderfully strange and hypnotic dreams. Oftentimes they are narrated with the voice of the man from old 60s documentaries about Canada and their bears and shit; oftentimes the dreams are a weird and wonderful journey thrown together in montage, where one thing may lead me to another entirely different thing and it's done in the most rudimentary way, as though the dreams have been compiled and composed by a child with some craft paper and scissors. Most always, the dream has a soundtrack. Last night my dream was a journey of photography and it was beautifully narrated by that 60s documentary man's voice-over. As I stepped from one plane and place to another, Pink Floyd played. It was a pretty fucking amazing dream. 'm an arsehole. Not always, but sometimes. I'd say for about two-percent of the time I'm a complete twat. That means ninety-eight-percent of the time I'm actually fine, I'm pretty chilled and none too perplexed, non-fussed - all the nons. It's just that little bit at the top there, the bitter froth of a pint, the scummy oily lining of simmering pasta sauce; the loose and incomprehensible manner and mind all escaping neatly by way of a wayward tongue. 
I don't want to be an arsehole. I don't wake up in the morning wanting to be an arsehole, with an unrelenting Arsehole's Anonymous urge to be one; I don't rise in the morning thinking, 'I'm going to be a complete and utter dick today.' Phoned a friend. Well, I say friend, he's more of an online photo-associate. At what point do these associates become friends? When I have countless online conversations with them? After how long though? In the exchange of ideas and gifts? Are they then my friends? I decide to telephone Frank. He's an online associate. The call lasts for about forty seconds. He ends the call quicker than I would have liked. It's the first time we have spoken save for conversing online. The older I get the more I think people have little interest in carrying a conversation with me. I politely hang up to save him the bother as he clearly wants to leave and I put it down to the possibility that I may just have a shitty sounding voice. This is what I tell myself.