Letter 2. The incomparable Notting Hill
31st of March
The last time I was able to access my Instagram was today in the afternoon. I last visited my page at 2:30 p.m. I tried logging back again at 8-9p.m. Today. The app kept saying that I'm already logged in through Facebook, when I'd press ‘OK’ it will send me back to the login page without letting me to access my account. I have originally linked my Instagram with my Facebook when I firstly registered it. I have registered with the email that I no longer have access. It was blocked.
5 years ago. I was living in the Victorian house with the man triple my age. He had polio, both secret-exhibiting obsession towards me. I just arrived and perhaps locked the door too obviously. He was unhappy he had to deal with the presence of the ‘Talking Heads’ in the house. Today there was a carnival in Notting Hill.
I was on the tube, no longer asking people where I was going, cause I’ve used it maybe four times now. He said I wasn’t an artist.
I started drawing, so badly, but I couldn't let the words hanging in my ‘talking head’ to disinterest me in drawing.
Occasionally I would look over at people sitting in front. He was right there. So far away, so present, and totally unreachable.
The next piece of music is really about when I met Ben. The first night that I stayed over. I slept in untypically late. I was in unfamiliar house and I went down the stairs and I heard this piece of music playing and I smelled breakfast being cooked and I thought…..and I thought I have finally met the person who will look after me.
He asked me if I was an artist, when we crossed Kennington separately. My response was wage, my self realisation was clear.
‘When i was fifteen I was afraid of men. One day in a restaurant, I chose a dessert because of its name: “Young Girl’s Dream”. I asked the waiter what it was, and he answered: “It’s a surprise.” A few minutes later he returned with a dish featuring two scoops of vanilla ice cream and a peeled banana. He said one word: “Enjoy”. Then he laughs. I closed my eyes he same way I closed them years later when I saw my first naked man .’
Motherfucker squashes the hopes and raises the aspirations with the carefully blended mix of arrogance and disdain and charm….
No, I don’t have the access to the bloody yahoo email, neither to that phone number ending with 32, nor to that 155 Bus to Balham. I ran out of money on my oyster, days on my visa permit, red shoes that’ve been repainted with acrylic spray too many times and the belief that the city will gravitate towards me, be my catcher in the Rye.
Tell me, what are we going to hear next!