Epping Forest

Camping in epping forest, my bed for the night.

Excerpts from my journal…

close to the ground I can smell dank and slightly sour mould of dead leaves I wanted to sleep near one of the small ponds where the sound of rain crinkles like Rice Krispies in milk

Tomorrow if I don’t look at my GPS, how will I know which way to walk? How do you make such decisions when you don’t know where you are? I like this idea because it’s what I struggle with most when trying to make or do. I’m always planning the steps thus missing the point, the art of my labour. 

I’m sitting on a bench in a clearing, the clouds have cleared to reveal a baby blue canopy the tiny water droplets in the grass are shining so brightly I thought they were bits of glass. Richard spoke of this the other day, the dream to go somewhere far away and create a masterpiece. delve deep inside yourself. But wondering how much of a fantasy that is, a product of living in London, that now we want the opposite. I feel like I have the same fantasy in coming here in going anywhere.. based more on the desire to run away than to arrive. 

I’m sitting on the fringes of urbanity, and now I will descend this little hill and into the nearest town. I’ll take a train into the heart of chaos, the city of glass towers and banks. 

I almost cried I had to hold it back. It came from no where this swelling wave. I saw a young girl with her long bushy hair and pubescent pimpled face wrapped in the arms of the women whom with she was traveling. so nurturing. and I wanted to go home. but I know that feeling and it is always rewarded with disappointment when I return to a city and realize that home is not a place. Perhaps it is childhood that I want back perhaps it is not knowing that I want naivety and dreams. 

I realized that I was going to Epping to solve my problem of ‘artist’s block’ and to still my mind the answer I found, that sent me so swiftly back to Streatham Hill with an air of disappointment was one I found before. 

I thought London would be loud, but the din of traffic in Brixton felt as intrusive as a breeze through tree branches. In Epping the unseen traffic was deafening. Tore through the foliage and constantly ripped apart dismembered my surroundings. It’s interesting the unavoidability of urbanity. As a sound it is as much apart of me as my own hair or clothes. It lives inside my body at this point.  


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